#country pubs in Sussex

[justrainandcoffee]

The sun always rises again (Farrier x fem!oc) Part I

Dunkirk

Farrier Masterlist

Summary: Farrier is in Sussex visiting his grandmother who is sadly dying. In a local pub, he and his best friend, Collins, met Marguerite in not the best circumstances. What started as a nice gesture quickly became in an inevitable attraction. || Collins plays his best cards trying to persuade his best friend to do something about the girl that he clearly likes and, maybe, he succeeds.

Warnings: Misogyny, sexual harassment. Mentions of war. Fluff. || Collins is the MVP.

Words: 3k.

1932

Marguerite Sarah Lewis was born in 1910 in London but when she was four years old, her mother and older brother moved to Sussex. Although French, her mother met her husband there and for the woman it was a special place.

1914 meant the beginning of one of the greatest wars that Earth faced until that point of the history and Mr. Lewis answered the called. And that's why Elise Lewis, the wife, took her kids and went there. The sea, the view, allowed the woman to imagine that one day soon she was going to see him back.

But that day never came. Nor in 1914 nor the next four years. In 1918, Marguerite was eight years already and his brother twelve. Both of them old enough to understand that their father was never coming back. Yet, Mrs. Lewis stayed there waiting for a ship that didn't exist.

Theodore Lewis jr, her brother, moved again to London when he was old enough to do it but she remained there in Sussex where she was still studying.

Her mother died when she was 19, in 1929. Maggie always knew that the poor woman never accepted her husband's fate. And now that she was older understood a bit better what she was feeling. Probably if Mr. Lewis had survived the war, then his wife wouldn't have died at the age of 43. But that was something that the Lewis siblings will never know.

The only thing that Maggie knew now was that she was the owner of her own destiny and needed to live in that world called adulthood.

She found a job in a local library first, where she worked for two years until she started to work as waitress in a new pub. The salary was higher and the tips were all for her.

In 1932, when she was 22, her life changed completely when she met him.

The pub was crowded as always. Men going there to relax after work was something that happened every day. It was full of loud men, laughing, chatting and making jokes while they were drinking beer.

Among them, two friends were having a conversation too. Their blue uniforms indicated that they were soldiers probably out of duty for a while. One had blond hair and the other brown shorter than the first one.

"Hope your grandmother can get well soon, Farrier."

"I don't think so. Until this point we're expecting the inevitable, but at least I'm here to be with her. Thanks for coming with me, by the way."

The blond, Collins, smiled "That's what friends do, Will."

Farrier nodded raising his pint of beer. "How's Sally?"

"It didn't work. But there's plenty of women in this world."

"And if men keep creating unnecessary wars soon the planet will be just populated by women. And humanity will be doom."

"Humanity is already doomed. But, if that's the case, then better I hurry up to get one before my death. And you should do the same."

Farrier shook his head "I don't have time for that. I always promised myself to be a good husband and father, not like my old man. If I get a girl, then it has to be for life."

"Sometimes you took life too seriously, William. Go Farrier, fuck some girls and you'll be fine."

William Farrier just hummed.

Collins decided to changed the subject and both men started talking about the new pilots that both of them were training. Young but smart men, ready to fight if the country needed it. Although both of them really hoped that it would never be necessary.

Maggie was praying in silence for the end of her shift. Sadly, she was used to men being rude and sometimes puting their hands on her body, but this time one in particular was crossing the line and she was quite uncomfortable. His friends were more drunk than he was and the only thing they managed to do was to encourage him to be nastier.

"Hey, doll, bring your pretty ass here, sweetheart! My mates and me want more beer. And unbutton your dress a bit more, love! Those two precious tits of yours want to know me."

The four of them of laughed so hard that Farrier and Collins that until that moment weren't paying attention at all, looked at them and both exchanged glances then.

Maggie looked at her both co-workers and friends, who same as her knew the consequences of working in that kind of jobs. They were young women in 1930s there wasn't much they could do there. Maggie just breathe and walked to them carrying a new tray and left it on the table but she wasn't quick enough and the man grabbed her by the waist and sit them on his lap, against her will.

"I have to go," she said trying to get up "I have work to do."

"Pretty sure your friends can cover you, love."

"No, they can't."

"Come on, sweetheart. I saw you looking at me. Let's have fun."

"I said no."

"She said no," mocked him, smirking at his friends who laughed again. "The little bitch, said no."

"She said no."

This time it was a deeper voice and the man in question turned around to see both pilots behind him. His friends looked down and pretended to be drinking their beers. The man let her go.

"We're just having fun."

"Get your ass out of here. Now."

He thought for a moment about starting a fight with them. He and his friends were four and the strangers were just two, but something in them make him reconsider his options. The blond was taller than him and the other seemed to be stronger. Not to mention that they were trained men. The group just recoiled and without further words, they left the place.

"Are you okay?" Farrier asked to Maggie.

"Yes. Thanks, sir. And you too," she said looking at Collins as well. "Usually I know people here, but those were new."

"Probably they won't come back."

"I hope not. You're new too."

"Temporary living here," Farrier commented. "My grandmother is sick and I'm just saying goodbye."

"That's sad, I'm sorry."

"Thanks, miss…"

"Marguerite Lewis."

"William Farrier, miss Lewis," the man said kissing her hand.

At their side, Collins was smiling and was waiting for the perfect to start teasing his best friend.

The days that followed, Farrier visited the pub every night. Sometimes with his friend, sometimes alone.

There was something in Marguerite that Farrier found fascinating. She had a pretty smile and his brown eyes and dark red hair made her even prettier. He had the chance to speak to her and discovered a good young woman. Maggie loved to read same way she loved yo bake. Once, she offered him one of her cookies and Farrier could testify that they were indded delicious. And even without knowing everything about him, she sent flowers to his grandmother's funeral when she knew about the sad news. Something that Farrier took as signal that she was really a good person.

They even spent a morning in the beach, talking and walking by the seashore. Her reddish hair shone in the sun and William wondered if the hair was really as soft as it looked. Or if her lips were.

"I used to play here a lot when I was a kid," she said unaware of his thoughts, "despite everything, I had a good childhood."

"Despite everything?"

"My father died in the Great War. I don't really remember him, I just know him because of the photo my mother kept."

"I'm sorry, Marguerite. That sounds sad."

"It was for my mother and maybe my older, he remembers him a bit more. You can't really miss someone you don't remember, right?"

"I guess. But still is a sad situation. No kid should grow up without a father."

"And yet…" Maggie looked at him and smiled softly "but it doesn't matter. That was long ago."

Not long ago for Farrier's liking. He was also a kid back then, but he remembered his mother talking about the mutilated soldiers she saw in the hospital were she worked as nurse. And the sadness in her eyes when years later her son told her that he was now part of the air force. But she never opposed to his decision.

"Do you like the sea, Mr. Farrier? I guess watching it from the skies is quite an experience."

"I do like the sea, yes. And it is, it's big and infinite. Indescribable."

Maggie looked at him for a moment and saw him lost in the memories of an experience she was never going to feel.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked. So he told her about the sky, the clouds, the cold air in his face. The feeling of parachute jumping.

His life, Maggie thought, it was extraordinary and there was no way that a man like him could find interesting the life of a town girl whose more fascinating experience of the week was to find a pound in the street. Or that beautiful ring that found one day walking through the beach. And yet, Farrier was ready to hear about her same way she was about him.

.

"You like her," Collins finally said at the end of their second week there, "I highly recommend you to do something because someone else can take advantage of your slowness."

"Like you?"

"I'd never do that to you. I know I'm more handsome but she's with you. I heard that there's a place where you can eat and dance nearby, invite her to go with you, William. I don't think she refuses the invitation considering how she looks at you."

Collins was right.

Maggie couldn't deny that she was captivated by the pilot from almost the beginning. He was handsome, attentive and a gentleman. William was the kind of man that her mother said she needed to find but that until the moment she knew him, she thought didn't exist.

Danny, one of her co-workers and friends, borrowed her one her dresses. Danielle's sister worked in a textile mill and she usually gave her sister clothes that the factory rejected despite their impeccable condition. The dark green dress that Maggie was wearing that night

So of course she said yes.

.

Danny, one of her co-workers and friends, borrowed Maggie one her dresses. Danielle's sister worked in a textile mill and she usually gave her sister clothes that the factory rejected despite their impeccable condition. The dark green dress that Maggie was wearing that night was one of those. Marguerite also allowed her friend to do her makeup.

"He's so handsome," Danny commented, smiling at her "and you're very lucky, Mags."

"Do you think I have a chance? I really like him."

"I think, you are the luckiest girl in whole Sussex."

Marguerite smiled. Never before a man paid attention to her the way Farrier did those days there. Sure she flirted innocently with some of young men in town, and kissed some of them years ago, but never did more than that. Never felt confident enough to do it because all those boys didn't seem to be looking for a serious relationship. But William wasn't a boy, he was a man and he acted like one.

Maggie looked at her in the mirror, when Danny finished her job, and smiled. The final result was better than she imagined.

Collins didn't tell Farrier who was the owner of the car that was parked in front of the house that belonged to William's grandmother, but somehow his friend managed to get one so he could go with Maggie to their date.

"Are you going to get in trouble for this?"

Collins snorted "please, have a bit of faith in me."

Farrier raised an eyebrow, suspiciously, but after looking at him several seconds let it go. "Okay then. Give me the car keys."

"Have fun, Romeo," Collins said throwing the keys at him.

.

Maggie didn't expect to have a good night like that one, although she dreamt about it. Feeling a happiness that didn't know it was possible to feel and her heart pounding by just looking at him. For a moment she felt stupid smiling at him almost all the time but she couldn't help it. Dinner was delicious and they spent the time to know each other a bit more. She even let him take her hands in his.

Maggie knew French because her mother used to talk in her native tongue in the house. Farrier asked her to taught him the language, if she wanted, because in his own words "you will never know when you're going to need it."

"But for that, you need to stay here, William, I can't teach you from the distance."

"Maybe I found a reason to stay," he answered. And for someone who, as his best friend claimed, took life too seriously felt as a personal achievement that flirty but also true line.

Dancing with William was lovely. Several other couples were doing the same with their partners while a singer sang and the orchestra accompanied her beautiful voice.

Maggie had her head resting on his shoulder and his hand was on her waist. Farrier could feel her perfume invading his nostrils. It was sweet with a delicate aroma of roses.

Your slowness.

Collins' words resounded in Farrier head. Fucking Collins. Who was he calling slow? His hand left her waist carresed her cheek. Both pair of eyes stared at each other before he leaned towards her a press his lips against hers.

Maggie put her hands on his chest and let him guide her. Despite his appearance, at least with her in that moment, Farrier it was gentle. When they pulled apart, he caressed her hair.

"I like you," Farrier confessed.

"I like you, too, Will."

And to confirm those words, they kissed again.

.

Farrier had only two weeks left before returning to work and he spent every moment with her. Even if she was working, William was there. He became part of the landscape of that pub and everyone there, even the owner, know who he was now. And when she wasn't working, they were in the beach or in her house.

The last night, she let him enter in her bed for the first time. He was her first time and Farrier, if that was possible, fall in love with her even more.

"I'll be back soon," he promised her while she was in his arms and she was holding her against his body.

"I'll be waiting for you."

William kissed her again and Maggie knew, no matter what would happen in the future, that he was the most correct decision she ever took in her whole life.

The months they spent separated, they communicate through letters and some calls when they had the chance to use a phone. Collins attributed his friend's new behaviour to him and in part, he was right.

Of course William returned to Sussex, this time alone, and he did with a ring in his pocket. The same night they saw eachother again, he asked her to be his wife and feeling a happiness that it was hard to describe, Maggie accepted his proposal.

Farrier sold her grandmother's house and the one his own old flat and moved to Sussex with her.

Marguerite Lewis became Marguerite Farrier just weeks later. The wedding in the church in that town was a celebration for the people living there, her brother that went from London to there and, of course, Collins.

His life those first years there were the happiest that Farrier could remember. His wife gave him two beautiful kids that he swore to protect with his life, same as her.

"One day I'm going to be a pilot like you, papa," his firstborn called Edward, said.

"Will you?"

"Yeah. Flying the skies in my own plane!" the boy exclaimed opening his arms and running around him simulating he was indeed flying. William caught his son and lifted him in the air and Edward started to laugh, still with his arms wide open like plane.

From the kitchen window where she was cooking, Maggie couldn't help but smile looking at them with pure love. Once, Farrier commented her that he always promised himself to be a good husband and father and it was clear now that he was fulfilling that promise.

While Ed stayed outside playing with his toys and their little girl, Clara, was sleeping on the couch, William went to where his wife was.

Marguerite smiled when she felt his strong arms around her and his lips on her neck.

"It smells delicious, Maggie."

"Thanks, honey. It will be ready in no time."

William placed a new kiss on her skin before opening the cupboard to search the plates and cutlery.

Life was good for the Farriers in that little corner of the world.

Sadly, it was already 1938.

_

PART 2

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

But one thing for certain - the story of William being spotted popping into a local pub for a beer with Carole really poked a lot of holes into Harry's claims that the UK isn't safe. If The Prince of Wales can go out for a beer with a friend and no one bothers them, his irrelevant little brother can certainly go out for a church service.

He doesn't care, neither does the world poke holes in his stupid claims, haven't you seen the photos from polo where they're flanked by security? they just love to show off

Oh, no, Harry cares. He cares a lot. He cares only about which makes him look important and equal to William, especially as the Americans perceive it. That's why he's surrounded by security all the time; because it makes him look important and it makes him look equal to William, who's very protected and rarely without security in the photos/images that get published here in the US.

What Harry and Meghan are trying to do is gaslight Americans into thinking they're as important as the Prince and Princess of Wales so that we'll fight for them when the BRF strikes back.

Which is why it's so damaging when stories like William going to the pub for a drink or Kate popping out to a music festival for spicy margaritas or the two of them grocery shopping together get out and start circulating around the US. It contradicts Harry's messaging that being the son of The King is so dangerous that he can't do ordinary everyday things despite all of his PR claiming he's just like us.

So when this does happen, when William does show that Harry's security concerns about the UK are overblown, Harry reverts back to his military "I fought the Taliban" self which he thinks will get him bonus points in the US because we love our military and we love our veterans...right?

Wrong. Let me show you a little perspective. In 2010, the National Academy of Sciences published a study conducted in April 2009 that determined 1.9 million US military members deployed at least 3 times to Afghanistan and Iraq for at least 30 days each deployment. Of the 1.9 million, 582,733 of those people were active-duty US Army soldiers; another 125,595 soldiers were Army Reserve; and another 295,336 soldiers were Army National Guard. That's a total of 947,664 US Army soldiers deploying to Afghanistan and Iraq at least three times between 2001 - 2009.

In 2010, the British Army was 142,000 people: 113,000 active-duty soldiers and 29,000 reserve soldiers.

Let me louder for the people in the back. The entire British Army, in which Harry served and deployed to the War on Terror with, is FIVE TIMES SMALLER than the number of US Army soldiers that had deployed three times to the War on Terror by 2009.

Here in the US, Harry is not the special apple he thinks he is. He wants a ticker tape parade here in the US for his military record but what exactly has he done that's worth it? We don't care that he was the some other country's head of state's grandson when he deployed. But he doesn't get that, the same way he doesn't get that we don't like a foreign immigrant trying to become our military's ambassador. He thinks the work he did and the status he held in the UK is automatically transferrable to us over here here in the US.

It's not. He thinks it is, and Meghan thinks it is, but it's not. Which is going back to your original point, Harry does care. He cares a lot about optics and making sure that if he's not seen as equal to William, he's seen as better than William. So when William does these very normal, very average, very everyday things and gets praise for it, it's discombobulating for the Sussexes. They don't understand how being so common is so likeable, which makes the security fleet they surround themselves with look so tone-deaf and outrageously narcissistic.

[celestial--sapphic]

Get to know Evelyn Caddel: Auror

Read below the cut for my VERY LONG brainrot about Evelyn and her career as an Auror 💥

You can read more about my MC in general HERE 🐍

I also wrote about her love of Quidditch 🧹

She signs up to Auror training with Natty as soon as they get their N.E.W.T results in the summer after they finish their seventh year.

It was a pretty nervous wait for her exam results, knowing she needed at least Exceeds Expectations (E) grades in all her subjects to meet the entry requirements needed to get onto the training programme. Thankfully she comes out with Outstanding (O) grades in Beasts, Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts and Exceeds Expectations in Potions and Astronomy.

They officially started their training in October 1893 and Evelyn's dream of being Head Auror by the time she was 30 is underway. 

She and Natty shared an unassuming Georgian terrace house in Cannonbury Square in Islington, London alongside three other trainees during their training period. You can see an 1896 map of the area here and a picture of what Islington was like in 1899 here. 

The property faces out onto the green space in the centre of the square and Evelyn enjoyed sitting on one of the benches after a particularly difficult day, closing her eyes and listening to the noisy chatter of the magpies in the trees. 

Sebastian was a regular visitor to their house in Cannonbury Square. Sebastian, who was training to be a healer at St Mungo’s, often conveniently stopped by around dinnertime and always graciously accepted Natty’s offer to make him up a plate of whatever they were having and join them. After a few weeks of this Natty realises it is not the food he is coming for but their pretty blonde housemate who he always found a way to sit next to at the table. Evelyn can’t help but laugh at Natty’s wounded expression when she says “I thought he just really enjoyed my ifisashi and rice”. 

Poppy stays at the house for a few days at a time every other week before heading back to gran’s cottage in Sussex – where she is living whilst undertaking an apprenticeship in Beast Division in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Poppy spends more time out and about on assignments than in the office – which suits her just fine – so she didn’t see the point in moving to London full-time.  

It is a bit weird for Evelyn and Poppy not to have access to the complete privacy of the Room of Requirement anymore and be sharing such close space with four other people. It is particularly embarrassing when they thought they had the house to themselves one afternoon only for Natty to awkwardly ask Evelyn when they make dinner that evening if she and Poppy could use a silencing charm in future, as she had been trying to have a nap. 

As a pretty determined person, Evelyn throws everything she has into the training course but does not realise quite how much of a toll it is taking on her – and how little she looking after herself – until she passes out during a stealth exercise. Poppy is, of course, frantic when she gets an owl from Natty telling her that her girlfriend ended up in St Mungo's and asking her to return from her work trip in Cornwall to talk some sense into Evelyn about making time for rest and relaxation. 

After that, Natty makes sure she sees Evelyn eating both breakfast and dinner and drinking water every single day. 

The intensity training programme combined with Poppy's apprenticeship sending her all over the country put a serious strain on Evelyn and Poppy’s relationship and they briefly split up in the spring of 1894. They get back together after a few miserable weeks where Evelyn mopped around the house and only left to go to training at the Ministry. 

When they qualify, Evelyn and Natty are disappointed to find they are often given the department’s paperwork to fill in and file and when they are given assignments they are low level ones  – pub fights in Diagon Alley and the like.  

“You can’t expect them to put newly qualified Aurors on the hunt for the most dangerous witches and wizards in the world, Evelyn.” Poppy tells her, which Evelyn just grumbles at. 

Evelyn’s first big assignment comes 18 months after she qualifies as an Auror. She is part of the team covering the security of the French Minister for Magic during a diplomatic visit to the British Ministry. She knows something is wrong when she is one-on-one with a colleague who opens the door for her with his left hand, a hand he had injured a couple of weeks prior and lost much of his grip strength in. One skirmish and calls for backup later revealed her colleague was actually a known dark wizard using polyjuice potion to moonlight as her colleague – who it turns out had been captured and was being held hostage. The wizard planned to assassinate the French Minister for Magic and pin the blame on the British Ministry for Magic; no doubt which would have caused unparalleled diplomatic fall out.  

She praised by both Ministry’s for her initiative in halting the assassination and The Daily Prophet and French newspapers both front page interviews with her. 

Evelyn doesn’t meet her teenage goal of being Head Auror by the time she is 30 but is happy enough working as a Lead Auror and oversees a team of 10 junior Aurors. Uncovering secret poaching and beast trafficking rings and seeing those involved punished is a cause she is particularly passionate about; owing to her wife’s work with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

In her late fifties, she steps away from her work as an Auror and takes up the position of professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, often telling her students stories of her most dangerous and thrilling cases.

[aisphotostuff]

South Down's Link West Sussex. by Adam Swaine Via Flickr: There are multiple walking trails near Henfield, West Sussex that pass over or near the former railway, including the Downs Link and the Henfield River History and the Rise of Henfield Heritage Trail:A 7.1 km circular trail that's suitable for all levels and is open year-round. The trail starts at the Old Railway Inn, a family-run country pub, and follows the Downs Link and the River Adur. It's a good trail for birding.

[zerolawrence]

Have you met ZERO LAWRENCE yet? They’re the THIRTY-ONE year old BARTENDER that lives around SWINDELBROOK ST. APARTMENTS. I think they’ve lived in Seattle for ELEVEN MONTHS. From what I’ve heard, they’re ASSERTIVE, but once you’ve known them long enough you’ll find they can also be FICKLE. When I think of them, I usually think of THOROUGHFARE by ETHEL CAIN. 

name: zero lawrence.

gender: cis male.

sexual orientation: bisexual.

age: thirty-one.

birthday: december 14th.

zodiac: sagittarius.

birthplace: rye, east sussex.

neighborhood: swindlebrook street.

time in seattle: eleven months.

occupation: bartender.

HISTORY.

with a name like zero, it was hard for strangers not to have low expectations of him growing up. though the same could never be said about his parents — despite the fact they only named him zero due to being told that was their chances of having children on several different occasions by medical professionals.

even with their ironic and unusual choice of name for him, zero's parents only ever showered their little boy with love and affection, encouraging and supporting his every endeavour. zero was always taught he could do anything he set his mind to, a mindset he still carries around with him to this day.

zero's childhood was spent running up and down cobbled streets, begging his father to bury him up to his head on the beach of camber sands during summer holidays and staring outside his bedroom window wondering what lay beyond his small town's tiny borders

as much as zero loved his parents and his small town growing up, by the age of seventeen he knew small town life would never be enough for him. he wanted to travel, meet new people, experience the kind of love his father had for his mother and go on an adventure. when he was twenty one, he finally left his parents and east sussex behind with only one destination in mind — america. zero had spent his childhood obsessed with american sitcoms, falling in love with cities like the big apple, the windy city and the emerald city.

he purchased a one way ticket to new york with the money he had saved from his job at his local pub from the age of nineteen, leaving behind everyone and the life he knew. zero had left home with enough savings to last him several months before he would need to start looking for work. when his funds finally did start running low, he picked up a job in a diner where he would eventually meet the first great love of his life — or so he thought.

zero fell for this person fast and he fell hard, before he knew it they were making plans to drive across the country and exploring every nook and cranny together and for nine months that's what they did; driving across the country, sleeping in the back of their pick-up truck when they couldn't afford a motel, eating at every 24 hour diner they could find. it was the exact reason zero had wanted to leave home for in the first place. everything was perfect between them — or so he thought.

one morning zero awoke to learn they had disappeared and so was every dollar he had to his name. when he tried calling their cell phone, the only voice on the other end was one to inform the caller that this number was no longer in service. what he thought had been a whirlwind romance for him, had been a long-con for them. the only thing they had left him was their old pick-up truck, which zero immediately hopped in and headed further out west to texas — only for his truck to breakdown in albuquerque. with no money to take it to a repair shop, he decided on making alburquerque a pit stop so he could find a job and save up enough money to buy a another car and hit the road again.

it was between the ages twenty four to thirty that zero spent bussing tables in dallas, bartending at dive bars in nashville, working on a ranch in wyoming, spending some time in montana to see the rocky mountains and yellowstone national park and working blue-collar jobs in oregon. zero doesn't stay anywhere for too long, he's always searching for his next adventure, chasing that next high and his latest has lead him to seattle, washington. where he's spent the eleven months bartending at a strip club named the doghouse. out of all the jobs he's worked over the years, bartending is his favourite despite the unusual work hours. it allows him to meet people from all other the country, sometimes even the world and learn a piece of their story.

PERSONALITY.

+ assertive, captivating, dexterous, maverick and resilient. - airy, fickle, reticent, soft headed and opinionated.

TIDBITS.

his favourite song to workout to is confident by demi lovato.

this is one of his genuine messages from grindr, he still hasn't emotionally recovered.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

ROMANTIC flirtationship / situationship / tinder matches / unrequited love / will they/won't they? / ex boyfriend/girlfriend / one night stand.

PLATONIC building neighbours / drinking buddies / work buddies / ride or dies / bromances / patrons / people he's met on his travels across america / the doghouse family.

ANTAGONISTIC noisy neighbours / drunks from the bar / exes / frenemies / rivals / the first great love of his life ( this would need to be plotted / discussed further but their name/gender/etc is utp ).

CURRENT CONNECTIONS.

cousins by blood / sunshine and grump duo by fate @howlettbaz

doghouse bros / casual friends with benefits @budddywells

swindlebrook neighbours / @mikaylatilly @howlettbaz @budddywells @thaddtilly @murphyaltman

the doghouse family / @budddywells @mikaylatilly @murphyaltman

nashville drinking buddy / @henryxmonroe

hiking buddies / dad joke victim @rafacarreno

doghouse patron / trades shots for secrets about her life.. or at least tries to @estestrauss

[travellingexcursion]

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In minibus hire trowbridge, the county town of Wiltshire, a minibus hire service provides a convenient way to explore its rich heritage and cultural landmarks. Whether you're visiting the historic Trowbridge Museum, exploring the scenic countryside, or enjoying a night out at the local pubs and restaurants, a minibus ensures that you can travel safely and comfortably, allowing you to focus on enjoying your time in this charming town.

Heading to minibus hire winchester, the ancient capital of England, a minibus hire offers a hassle-free way to discover its fascinating history and architectural marvels. From the iconic Winchester Cathedral to the medieval Winchester Castle, the city is steeped in history and culture waiting to be explored. With a minibus at your disposal, you can embark on a memorable journey through time, visiting landmarks and attractions that showcase Winchester's rich heritage.

Finally, minibus hire chichester, a vibrant market town in West Sussex, a minibus hire service opens up a world of possibilities for exploration and adventure. Whether you're visiting the renowned Chichester Cathedral, exploring the picturesque Chichester Harbour, or indulging in some retail therapy at the city's bustling markets and boutiques, a minibus ensures that you can travel in style and comfort, allowing you to make the most of your time in this charming town.

In conclusion, whether you're planning a day trip, a weekend getaway, or a longer vacation, minibus hire services offer a convenient and reliable transportation solution for exploring Yeovil, Weymouth, Trowbridge, Winchester, Chichester, and beyond. With comfortable vehicles and experienced drivers at your service, you can sit back, relax, and enjoy the journey as you create memories that will last a lifetime.

[devidpaul41-blog]

Secluded and Charming Properties for Sale Near Chichester’s Quaint Villages

One of the key priorities many buyers ask for is a blend of privacy and tranquility without sacrificing convenience. The West Sussex region delivers beautifully, with a number of characterful and charming villages that remain close to major transport links, outstanding schools and universities, and amenities such as shops, theatres and restaurants.

Living in a village is often aspirational, with a sense of community, safety and seclusion that can be difficult to find in larger towns and cities, and with traditional cottages and stunning rural heritage properties that offer a superb lifestyle for any family.

Let’s look at some of the most popular villages within a short distance of Chichester and why they remain some of the most sought-after and prestigious places to live in our wonderful part of the country.

Exploring the Villages around Chichester and West Sussex

Many of the villages nearby are set against the backdrop of Chichester Harbour and the coastline, steeped in ancient history, and often with properties, church spires and monuments that have stood for hundreds of years.

The attraction isn’t solely the pace of life or the appeal of living in an area that feels peaceful and quiet but the access to nature, green spaces, wild beaches, and dunes. There are countless activities that are accessible to villagers of all ages and abilities, including:

Water sports, sailing, fishing and boat trips.

Birdwatching, walking and cycling.

Horse riding on the Wittering beaches.

For more relaxing weekends, the village pub is always a great gathering spot, with multiple award-winning eateries and tucked-away restaurants which feel warm, inviting and a real hub of the local community.

Villages like East Wittering blend old and new perfectly with vibrant boutiques and independent shops. Fishbourne is a draw for nature lovers, where the stream is brightened by kingfishers, and locals watch the birds migrating over the harbour.

Itchenor is another highlight, with Chichester Harbour Conservancy based within the village. It offers harbour tours from its eco-friendly catamaran and is a perfect location for property buyers looking for private mooring or berths and those hoping to join a high-quality sailing club.

The Benefits of Family Life Within a Charming Village

A semi-rural lifestyle provides an environment without pollution and more spacious properties and green spaces – with a complete absence of overcrowding or traffic jams. Many people relocate to a bustling village for the slower pace, where a visit to the park, beach or café is an easy walk rather than a drive away.

There is an array of properties for sale and housing options depending on whether you’d like a large family home with ample accommodation, a property with a studio or annexe to provide a quiet working space or guest accommodation, or a truly rustic cottage with all the quirks and original features that make them so special.

Over the years, many villages have remained largely unchanged, with quintessentially English market squares, memorials, churches, cobbled streets and village greens – with the essential duck pond.

However, the appetite for premium housing has also meant there is a wealth of larger estates and homes set away from the roads and with incredible panoramic views over the hills and stretching to the South Downs or overlooking the harbour and coastline.

Buyers can select from contemporary, airy properties for sale with immaculate landscaping and mature gardens, traditional farmhouses, modern barn conversions or listed properties built from original Sussex stone.

Finding Your Ideal West Sussex Village Location

The featured villages below provide a brief snapshot of the unique places to live within the West Sussex countryside and what they offer in terms of comfort and privacy.

Bosham

Bosham is a picturesque village thought to be the final resting place of Harold II. Bosham Church is depicted within the Bayeux Tapestry, and today, the village is considered one of the most photogenic locations in Southern England.

 Boxgrove

This tiny village and civil parish is home to Boxgrove Priory – with parts of the original building still standing almost 1,000 years later. Boxgrove has a distinctive architecture and natural beauty, with a village hall, school and local shop.

Itchenor

Situated on the harbour and served by the Itchenor Ferry, which sails to Bosham, Itchenor is an exquisite setting and one of the most prestigious locations in West Sussex. With a population of just 500 people, the sailing club, Ship Inn, memorial hall, and church remain central points within the village.

Waterfront properties are always in extremely high demand, with homes available that offer fantastic living space, spacious gardens, harbour views and storage space for boats and sailing equipment over the winter.

West Wittering

A captivating village, West Wittering is just to the east of Chichester Harbour and boasts a pristine Blue Flag beach, calm seas and a warm microclimate owing to the shelter provided by the South Downs and the Isle of Wight just across the water.

We can recommend properties for sale within walking distance of the beach with south-facing gardens, al fresco dining areas, ample parking, storage and entertaining space.

Assistance from the West Sussex Property Professionals

These homes, among many others, are available to view through our selection of properties for sale, with comprehensive image galleries, floor plans and maps to ensure you see exactly what each residence has to offer and whether it meets your requirements.

If you wish to arrange a viewing or submit an enquiry, you can do so directly through our property pages or by contacting the Tod Anstee team at your convenience.

Our sales consultants are available via phone at 01243 523723, by email at chichester@todanstee.com, or by completing our enquiry form. We circulate a regular property bulletin highlighting new listings that may be of interest or welcome you to visit us at our Chichester offices at The Old Coach House in the heart of Chichester.

Living in a secluded, charming village property offers an incredible opportunity, and we would be delighted to discuss your needs and help you find the ideal property for you and your family.

Resource URL: - https://todanstee.blogspot.com/2024/01/secluded-and-charming-properties-for.html

[ingek73]

Analysis

Prince Harry v Mirror Group: key findings of the phone-hacking case

Haroon Siddique

Legal affairs correspondent

We examine the outcome after royal wins a substantial part of his case against the newspaper group

Fri 15 Dec 2023 16.36 CET

Prince Harry has been awarded £140,600 in damages after winning a substantial part of his phone-hacking case against the British newspaper group Mirror Group Newspapers (MGN). We look at what was decided and why the case is significant.

What did the judge find?

Using the civil standard of proof, which requires a decision on the balance of probabilities, Mr Justice Fancourt found that out of a representative sample of 33 articles about the Duke of Sussex examined during the trial – out of a total of 148 cited by Harry – 15 were the product of hacking of his mobile phone or unlawful information gathering. The high court judge concluded that there was “extensive” phone hacking by the company – which publishes the Daily Mirror, the Sunday Mirror and the Sunday People – from 2006 to 2011.

In a 386-page judgment, he said: “The duke has been one of the most important storylines in town for much of his life, and remains so. The idea that MGN carefully eschewed in his case what had become a primary journalistic tool – which it otherwise used on a widespread and habitual basis – is unconvincing.”

Which stories were found to have been obtained through unlawful means?

The stories which Harry successfully complained about included those about him smoking cannabis at a country pub near the royal residence Highgrove and his father’s reaction to learning about that; a disagreement with his brother, William, about whether they should meet Paul Burrell, the former butler to Diana, Princess of Wales, to seek to stop him selling secrets relating to their late mother; and several articles about his relationship with his then girlfriend, Chelsy Davy.

Harry was aged 17 at the time of the cannabis stories and 19 at the time of the Burrell one. With respect to the latter, the judge found that “it is probable that this private information was obtained by VMI [voicemail interception] of messages between the duke and his brother or other associates. The [Sunday] People therefore probably had the duke’s mobile phone number by this time, at the latest.”

With respect to a 2007 story about rows between Harry and Davy, Fancourt said: “In the absence of some plausible explanation, this article was obtained by VMI of the duke’s or Ms Davy’s or their associates’ telephones, and by obtaining telephone call data. It seems likely that whoever was charged with obtaining information about the duke and Ms Davy at each of the three newspapers will have been active following this publication, to see how the storyline developed over the following days and weeks.”

Why is the judgment so significant?

Since the Guardian broke the UK’s phone-hacking scandal, which led to the closure of the tabloid newspaper the News of the World in 2011, there have been a number of payouts by media companies to victims of the unlawful practice but few cases have come to court. This has meant the perpetrators have largely managed to avoid a public dressing-down of the type handed out by Fancourt.

After a seven-week trial, when Harry became the first royal in 130 years to appear in a witness box, the judge said: “It was not just out-of-control editors and journalists who were causing serious distress by invading his privacy, but that this conduct and its inevitable consequences were being accepted, and profited from, by those who should have stopped it. As a result, the conduct was encouraged to continue and did continue, for years longer than it should have done.”

Damningly, the judge also found that there was “hacking even to some extent” during the Leveson inquiry into media standards, which was supposed to draw a line under past practices and herald a new dawn.

On the Mirror’s use of private investigators, he said MGN had concealed the extent of its use of them “not just from parliament and the Leveson inquiry but then from the court too [in a previous phone-hacking case]”.

Which individuals at MGN came in for criticism?

Fancourt was clear that this was not a case of a few journalists who were bad apples and that those culpable included senior executives.

“A significant amount of the duke’s claim relates to the period after 2006, by when Mr [Paul] Vickers [MGN’s then group legal director] and Ms [Sly] Bailey [its then chief executive] both knew that there was at least a strong likelihood of illegal activity at MGN,” he said.

Among others who will be sweating are the talkshow host and former Mirror editor Piers Morgan, given that the judge said he accepted an account by the journalist Omid Scobie that when Morgan asked a journalist how they were sure about a story about Kylie Minogue, Scobie heard the journalist tell Morgan the information had come from voicemails. Fancourt said: “I found Mr Scobie to be a straightforward and reliable witness and I accept what he said about Mr Morgan’s involvement in the Minogue/Gooding story. No evidence was called by MGN to contradict it.”

Harry also named Morgan in his statement after the ruling.

[cd1984]

Pubs #11 and #12

A couple of pubs in a couple of days.

Pub 11 - Well House Inn

I’ve been here before but I’ll count this as a new check-in as the first visit since getting the Good Beer Guide. It’s a very pleasant country pub and I went in order to take advantage of the excellent £10 Fish and Chip deal they had on a Friday. To wash that down I had two pints of London Pride which seemed to be well kept.

Pub 12 - Half Moon Inn

I went for a walk around Balcombe on Saturday 4th February and visited the Half Moon Inn towards the end of that. It’s a fairly small village pub which had a couple of handpumps on when I was there, and I had no complaints about the Sussex Best. They also have some keg lines with local Balcombe Brewery beers and so I had a pint of their Winter Stout. This was a good pub, nothing amazing from a real ale perspective but a very homely village local.

[chl0writes]

Bringing the Sarah characters to England.

Listen, I have NEVER written a headcanon in my life but I had a lot of fun! This is literally such a random idea I had but I couldn’t get it out of my brain so here we are. I hope you enjoy :)

Billie Dean Howard.

Billie Dean had travelled to London once before to film a special for her show.

She always talks about how amazing that trip was and how much she would love to return with you.

While you love living in LA, sometimes you find yourself feeling homesick. So when Billie Dean mentioned how much she enjoyed England, you just knew you had to fly home with her.

In London, you see all of the sights from Buckingham palace to the Tower Bridge.

You take bus tours and you take the boat to Greenwich.

Picnics in Hyde Park.

Listen, this lady cannot stand Primark. Far too rowdy and far to cheap for Billie Dean’s taste.

She will drag you around Harrod’s for hours.

She takes one look at the wetherspoons and it’s an immediate no. This is a lady of class, it’s dinner in The Shard or no dinner at all.

West End shows every night!

Billie Dean downs ginger shots from Pret like a PRO.

Lana Winters.

England wasn’t ever really a place that Lana had wanted to visit.

But, she soon changed her mind once she heard how passionately you spoke of your birthplace.

Lana had just published her fourth novel, and the idea of a long two month vacation seemed like the perfect way to celebrate and unwind.

You hire a car and you travel to different parts of the country.

You stay in London for the longest period of time as Lana enjoyed the culture and the diversity of the city.

You take her to as many quaint little book shops you can find and she falls in love with each and every one.

Seeing how much Lana enjoyed the city, you take her to places like Manchester and Liverpool.

She falls in love with Liverpool almost immediately!

The Beatles are one of Lana’s favourite bands so she particularly enjoys seeing all of the memorabilia and The Beatles themed pubs.

Lana’s next book would definitely be set in England.

Cordelia Goode.

Cordelia had always wanted to travel, but the coven and her supremacy kept her tied to New Orleans.

You have it all planned out, the girls are in on it. In October, the two of you would fly to England for her birthday.

You took the Supreme to York. She would love the sights and the scenery of Yorkshire, you were sure.

You went through the notorious ghost walks and she did not bat an eyelid. You on the other hand left clinging to the blonde for dear life.

Lunch in Public Gardens!

Driving out to pumpkin patches.

Is definitely disturbed by kebabs.

Cordelia spends hours picking out individual gifts for her girls. She wants to bring the coven here.

DESPISES the tales of the Pendle Witches.

Bette & Dot Tattler.

Bette jumped at the idea of travelling with you. Dot on the other hand, took quite some persuasion.

Big cities were a no-go for the twins, and growing up in a more secluded corner of England, you know the perfect place to take them.

The three of you were to spend the week in a log cabin in the countryside, far away from everybody.

Upon finding a cookbook, the twins practically made every single recipe in that book. It took several shopping trips but you were not complaining.

Every night ended by watching the sunset, and laying underneath the stars until the chill became too much.

Sally McKenna.

Being stuck in the Cortez, Sally can’t go anywhere.

There was not a chance in hell that you would travel that far away from Sally.

She is a complete sucker for your English accent.

She asks you so many questions about the places that you have been and the things that you have seen.

She could listen to you talk for hours.

Audrey Tindall.

The trip was pretty much inevitable considering you were both desperate to return to the UK.

What you don’t expect is to arrive and really impulsively buy a house in Sussex.

Did you both decide to uproot your life to England? Yes.

The first few months are complete chaos to be honest, but you expected nothing less.

Once settled, you did everything and anything you could. Theme parks, cinema trips and bowling.

Audrey LOVED the beach, so trips to places like Brighton and Blackpool were frequent.

You ate at all of your favourite restaurants and shopped in all of your favourite shops. The ones they didn’t have in the states.

Ally Mayfair Richards.

While Ally isn’t plagued by phobias anymore, she still feared flying. Like, a lot. It took a while for her to come round to the idea of travelling so far away, but she eventually did.

Oz would come along with you both.

The hotel has a spa, if Ally disappeared, that’s where she would be.

Ally doesn’t understand why there are no plug sockets in the bathroom. It winds her up.

Would be glued to the television screen when Come Dine With Me came on the hotel television.

You took Ally and Oz to different pubs and restaurants and she was not impressed by the quality of the wine in said pubs.

Is deeply disturbed by beans on toast.

The pair of you would take Oz to theme parks and the beach.

Wilhemina Venable.

You just knew that Oxford was the most perfect place to take Wilhemina. So much history, so much art.

You hired a car as you didn’t want Mina to be in pain after hours of endless wandering.

You went over the winter, the weather was not great but it made it all the more cozy when you were both cooped up in a cafe with a book and a cup of tea.

The pair of you spent hours in museums and art galleries.

You could see Mina’s face light up as she admired the architecture of buildings that had to be centuries old.

Appalled by tesco meal deals.

She could not stand English television, it was a sort of humour that she could not seem to grasp.

[go-scottishgal14]

from Taki’s magazine...

The End Game

Bruce Antonio Laue

March 09, 2021

The wedding was marvelous, the weather superb. Crowds ten deep along the mall to Windsor Castle. An American bride for the warrior-prince. The pubs rang out with cheers “To the Royal Couple”!

A breath of fresh air; the Brits are always up for a breath of fresh air. They gave us the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, and the miniskirt, for heaven’s sake. And here she was, young, beautiful, American, an actress, Catholic, divorced, and biracial. Perfect. What could possibly go wrong? Meghan Markle was about to enter a life of luxury, glamour, and deference the likes of which few people can imagine, let alone aspire to, a life she craved but did not understand. The latest fashions, the finest entertainments, the love of a besotted young man who, with a little encouragement, might mimic the career of his kinsman, Lord Louis Mountbatten of Burma. All this, and at so little cost to the bride.

In exchange for all this, the British people expected her to try to stay awake while visiting the gluten-free gumball factory as the plant manager explains how the little suckers are produced. At times a plaque must be unveiled on the side of a post office, hospital, college, railway station, or army barracks. Occasionally little school children need to be patted on the head, no problem; the Duchess likes children, or so she says. And then there are the trips, lots and lots of trips; to Fiji, Lesotho, Tonga, Tuvalu, and many more places that Her Highness has never heard of, and there will be gifts and dinners and more gifts and more little heads to be patted. And then there are men standing in straight lines all wearing the same funny suits, carrying rifles because they have sworn to defend you and your family with their lives, if need be. All you have to do is walk past them down the line and smile. When you have a child, people will cheer and artillery will sound and bells will ring and there will be happiness everywhere. That’s it, that’s all that’s expected.

“To refuse to do your duty is a selfish impulse the British cannot understand.”

And it was unsurvivable. Unsurvivable.

There were some early clues; the toothless smile at the Trooping of the Colour (it was almost a smirk). The reticence in allowing photos of her newborn son Archie to be published. The move to Canada—well, all right, grandmother’s profile is on every coin so we’re not really that far away. But then California, bumming off friends or business contacts. Then Megxit—an act so shocking that it was easily compared to the 1936 abdication crisis. To refuse to do your duty is a selfish impulse the British cannot understand. It goes against their basic concepts of personal identity; it is akin to cowardice. Your duty is something you knew was expected of you when you were born to a specific role in society or took an oath to uphold certain principles or values. To dishonor them is to dishonor yourself. It is a way of thinking Meghan Markle cannot grasp.

And then the interview, complete with background music. Oprah, to her credit, said it was “your truth,” not “the truth.” Markle’s ridiculous contention that her son would not receive security protection or that he would not be provided a princely title is for an American audience not familiar with the workings of royal etiquette. Harry could have bestowed his subsidiary title of Baron Dumbarton on his infant son immediately but refused in an act of petty narcissism rare in British society. His whining about money, as if fully expecting his countrymen to finance his lifestyle after he objected to carrying out his royal role. And he spouted a lie that he thought the public might consider—that his father and brother were “trapped” in their roles, that their duty was thrust upon them as it was on him, that some devious entity had hijacked their true life paths. What garbage. It was a disingenuous ploy to escape the contempt merited by his failure of character.

In its totality, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex engaged in an act of pure selfishness that bespoke a lack of respect for their family, their country, and the service they had pledged to perform.

One can envision the reaction of the millions of women living in tiny houses or “council housing” trying to lovingly make them into homes for their families, clipping the 99-cent coupon for the roast beast Sunday feast, their mouths agape at the sheer nerve. One can only imagine the murmured comments at the Cavalry and Guards Club or White’s or the Victory Service, as everyone stood around the television in the library sipping single malts; “Well, no more balcony time for them,” “I’ll be damned,” “I wouldn’t have believed it if you had told me.” The pubs must have been silent, pints quietly poured as the Duchess described her awful royal existence from the garden of a nameless estate in the warm sunshine of California as people in London, Cardiff, Aberdeen, and Belfast continue to die from a pandemic in the cold, damp air of a British spring.

Prince Henry Mountbatten-Windsor, Duke of Sussex, seems consigned by his wife or by choice to a life of poolside parties, discussing the finer points of child rearing with his good friends Kanye and Wendy Williams, sipping pinot grigio while passing the appetizers to Fergie (the rapper, not his aunt), discussing the plight of the Ndebele with Lily Cole, and “making shapes” on the dance floor with the rest of the Beverly Hills bric-a-brac. It makes the life of his great-great uncle, the Duke of Windsor, and his wife from Baltimore look absolutely disciplined by comparison.

In Henry V the Bard has the King proclaim outside the walls of Harfleur, “The game’s afoot!” But in Prince Harry’s case, one might be forgiven to suspect that the game has ended.

[bopbopstyles]

Residue

RATING: R/smut (cw: emotional and mild physical abuse mentioned) 

WORD COUNT: 8.5k eek

CATEGORIES: friends to lovers, camping!harry (?), sleeping in the same bed

NOTE: this is for the Sex Bucket List Fic Challenge from @berrynarrybanana​ - prompt was in a tent while camping with friends....and then I just kind of created this mess. check out the other fics and the amazing creators!!!!

I ENDED UP WRITING A PT.2! Read Endlessly here.

pls reblog and share with your friends 💕

“When are you going to tell Y/N?”

Harry looked down at his feet. His boots were scuffed from walking through the rocky terrain to the lake earlier when they’d gone swimming. The image of you in her bikini flashed through his mind, and he restrained from groaning--he’d known you for years, swam with you for years, and yet seeing you in that bikini still did things to him, no matter how much he tried to tell himself you didn’t feel the same way about him. “She doesn’t feel the same way.”

Mitch let out a heavy sigh and stood up. “You can be so fucking daft sometimes, you know.”

“Y/N tells me all the time.”

“Well, she’s right,” he replied. “Tell her how you feel, Harry. She feels the same way.”

Harry looked up and met his friend’s eyes. “How do you know?”

“I can see it in how she looks at you. You’re blind if you don’t see it too.”

Harry paused. “How…”

“It’s the same way you look at her.”

or 

Harry and Y/N go camping with their friends and the fact that they’ve been in love with each other comes out

The drive out to the country was peaceful. Harry put on a podcast about music on the way and you listened as they analyzed Beyoncé’s Lemonade, pausing it occasionally to ask Harry questions about the technical parts. With the sunshine and Harry’s commentary once the podcast episode ended, the drive to the campgrounds in West Sussex passed quickly. 

Harry had booked your camp site last weekend, their trip a last-minute decision. You, Mitch, Sarah, and Nick had all been at Harry’s for a cookout and he’d mentioned wanting to get out in nature before the tour started, and Mitch threw out going camping. Nick took some convincing, but eventually he agreed. You and Nick had managed to get the time off from work, although Nick had to head back a day earlier, and it was settled. You had all left the particulars to Harry and when he texted a link to the campground in their group chat, you had fallen in love. Wooded, no power, cooking over an open fire--it reminded you of camping with your family when you were young. 

“Excited?” You asked Harry when you pulled into the parking lot at the front office. You threw the car in park and turned off the ignition, looking over at your best friend. 

He grinned back at you, eyes gleaming. You knew he’d been looking forward to this ever since you had first talked about it--he’d been calling you every day to go over the plans and picking out their meals for the weekend. “Psyched.”

You both climbed out of your car, stretching from the drive, and you inhaled the sweet smell of English oak trees, the sound of birds chirping making you smile as widely as Harry. Nick, Sarah, and Mitch were waiting by their cars, and Nick seemed to be animatedly telling a story about who knows what. 

“Is Nick being annoying?” You asked, throwing your arm around Nick’s shoulders and ruffling his hair. 

“He’s telling the story about the Brits. Again,” Sarah said, reaching out to hug you. “Save us, please.”

“Oi, you’re being mean.” Nick said and Sarah just laughed and shook her head. 

Mitch gave you a quick hug and you smiled at him--they’d all been working a lot lately in preparation for the tour. You had barely seen him, Sarah, and Harry, and you missed their presences more than you had realized. “Let’s go see what Harry got us,” you said.

“Spoiled you lot rotten,” Harry said, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto his nose. 

“I’d hoped so,” you replied, and Harry chuckled softly before leading the group inside the office. 

“Reservation for Y/N,” Harry said to the receptionist and you looked at him in confusion. “Didn’t want anyone finding us,” he explained and you nodded immediately in understanding. After years of friendship, you were used to it, though it always tugged on your heart. You wanted, more than anything, for him to be able to be normal at some point. You knew he craved it too--anonymity. 

The receptionist clicked some buttons on her computer before pulling some folders out of a drawer and turning back to you all. “I’ve got three yurts reserved for you all--is that correct?”

Harry’s eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “I had requested four over the phone.”

The receptionist--Martha, according to her badge, frowned. “Oh, I’m so sorry about that. Unfortunately, though, we’re all booked up this weekend. Is there any way three could be made to work?”

That meant someone was going to have to share. Harry looked at you, and then at Nick. “Nick, you good to bunk, mate?”

Nick groaned and you rolled your eyes at him. “Fine, but if you kick me in your sleep I’ll lock you out.”

“I don’t think they have doors, Nick,” you told him.

He looked at you and grimaced. “Zip him out then.”

“How threatening,” Harry said, before looking back to the receptionist. “That’ll be fine.” She nodded and explained the rest of the check-in and check-out policies and the amenities on the site. It seemed perfect--a pub not too far from the grounds, camp fires you was most definitely going to take advantage of, and actual showers. He truly was spoiling you all. 

You walked back to the car with Harry to drive to their yurts, swinging your keys around your finger in thought. “H,” you said when you sat down in the driver’s seat.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for bunking with Nick. I know you like your own space, so I appreciate it.”

He gave you a wide smile and you couldn’t help it--it warmed every part of you. It was moments like these you struggled to remember that Harry was just your friend. Nothing more. You’d dated people, he’d dated people, and you two were just friends. But then he’d look at you like this and you wanted more. “‘Course, love.” He reached across the console and gave your hand a quick squeeze, and your heart flopped in your chest. 

You were starved for touch--it’d been months since you broke up with your asshole of an ex and you were desperate to be touched, even if it was someone holding your hand. Usually you could count on Harry for some cuddles and tight hugs, but he’d been so busy practicing for tour that you hadn’t seen him much. Just FaceTime and the occasional meet-up at the café by your office on your lunch break and it seemed to be showing. 

You started the engine and prayed to the Gods that they would help you get through this weekend in one piece. 

The yurts were in a quiet part of the campground, secluded and in a thicket of trees. All you could hear was the sound of wind whistling through the leaves and the chirping of birds. After living in London for the past two years and barely leaving, it was a relief to be able to hear nothing but nature. 

Nick let out a whoop when he opened the door to his car. “God, this is gorgeous, isn’t it?” Sarah and Mitch pulled up a second later and you all wandered around the campground, deciding where you would put your chairs (around the campfire, obviously) and what you wanted to eat for dinner. Then, you started to unpack. You claimed the tent closer to the woods, wanting not to be awoken in the middle of the night if cars drove by and to get away from the group if you went to bed early, something that you had a tendency towards when Nick and Harry were together. 

The sound of the yurt being zipped open caused you to look up from where you were checking to see if there were bed bugs. After getting them when you were 13 on a family trip, you always checked. “This going to be okay for you?” Harry stood hunched over, his head poking into your yurt. His shirt was unbuttoned, the beige linen flowing in the soft breeze, and his hair flopped into his face. His green eyes were gleaming, a look he only got on break or on holiday, and it was your favorite look on him. He looked just unperturbed and blissfully happy. 

“Come in, silly,” you said, turning around and flopping down onto the bed. “It’s perfect, H.”

Harry grinned and dropped down next to you. “Comfy, eh?”

“Very.”

“I should plan every holiday at this rate.”

You whacked him with the pillow. The last holiday you had planned and the hotel had ended up being bad and their reservation for their yacht trip fully did not exist when they showed up. It was a disaster and Harry had yet to let you live it down. “Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

“What? I like planning!”

“And you like being complimented.”

Harry huffed and you just smiled at him. After knowing one another for years, not only did you know everything important about Harry, you also knew how to push his buttons. Calling him out for what you had longed believed to be some kind of praise kink (you’d asked him about if while drunk and he’d looked so confused and embarrassed you dropped it) was the number one way to get him riled up. 

“How’s your tent with Grimmy?”

“He’s already asleep.”

“It’s noon.”

“Apparently he didn’t sleep last night.”

You laughed because it was classic Nick. It happened on almost every holiday you went on together, of which there had been a few. He’d get to wherever you were staying and immediately fall asleep for usually the rest of the day. You all usually just left him where he was and went about your business, but he also usually had his own room. “Were you able to put your stuff down at least?”

Harry shrugged. “Just dropped my suitcase on the ground and left him. I’ll wake him up eventually.” He turned his head and looked at you, his head so close that if you turned your head up ever so slightly, you could probably kiss him. 

“Fancy a swim?” You asked him, sitting up suddenly and trying to push the thought away. 

“Fuck yes,” he replied. “Let me change into my suit.”

The sun was out in full force when you jumped into the lake, your towels and clothes abandoned on the edge of the water. You were lying on your back, eyes closed, basking in the feeling of sun on your skin. Mitch and Sarah were swimming around--you could hear them chattering about how Sarah wanted a dog and Mitch wasn’t into the idea--but you didn’t know where Harry was. You couldn’t hear him. Maybe he’d swam a little further away?

You pushed the thoughts from your mind and focused on not thinking about anything, which somehow took a significant amount of effort. Work kept trying to drift into your head--had the office finished the pitch that you had left for them on Thursday? It was a big account and you had put your all into it, but you hadn’t finished the final touches on Thursday before you had to leave the office, so you left it for your coworkers to wrap up on your behalf. Hopefully they didn’t half-ass it. 

Suddenly, fingers wrapped around your waist and you were being flipped onto your stomach, water immediately filling your nose and mouth. You snapped up, water flicking from the ends of your hair, and blinked the droplets away so you could see who had done it. 

Harry. 

“You bastard!” You screeched, shoving him. His skin was slick from the sunscreen and water, and you tried not to focus on the feeling of his arm muscles under your palms. “I could’ve drowned!”

“You were a competitive swimmer, Y/N,” he reminded you, chuckling. “You weren’t going to drown.”

You sputtered, slicking your hair back, and then gave him a death stare. “Still. You’re an ass.”

“That’s not news,” Sarah piped up from where she and Mitch were treading water and laughing at what had just happened. 

“This is true.” You gave Harry another look before shoving a wave of water in his direction, splashing water into his face. 

Harry gasped, wiping water from his face, his hair, which had grown longer in the past few weeks while he’d been on break, sticking to his forehead. He looked like a little kid, despite how muscular he’d become in the past year or so. You tried to not linger on it, but when he was in front of you without a shirt on, sun-kissed skin just begging to be looked it, it was quite difficult. “This is war.”

He shoved water at you, and suddenly you were splashing one another like children, both of you screeching as water got into your eyes. Your feet collided underwater, arms hitting each other as you twirled around each other in the water, trying to surprise one another. 

It was all fun and games until Harry’s hand reached out and accidentally hit you right in the boob.

“Harry!” You called out, swatting him. “You just hit me in the boob.”

“Fuck, sorry,” he said. “You okay?”

“Just sore,” you said, swimming a bit farther away from him. “Meanie.”

Harry gave you his puppy dog eyes, lashes blinking at you, plump lips sticking out ever so slightly. You hated when he did this because you always fell for it. Years of friendship and you still couldn’t hold anything against him when he did this because he just looked so goddamn gorgeous. You hated it. “Sorry?”

“Fine,” you said, “but you’re carrying me the whole way back to the campsite.”

You all ended up grilling burgers over the fire, Harry surprising you with some hidden skills over the open fire, and together the four of you drank beers as the fire glowed between them. Nick had never surfaced and Harry didn’t have it in him to wake him, so he let him be. Harry, Sarah, and Mitch had started playing music after dinner and you kept yourself entertained by requesting old One Direction songs, which made Harry stare daggers at you but amused you, Sarah, and Mitch to no end.

It was a chilly summer night and you were cuddled up in a sweatshirt of Harry’s, having forgotten yours at home, and a pair of leggings. You could feel your eyes drooping, your entire concept of time gone without the ability to check your phone. It could’ve been 9pm for all you knew. After a rendition of Landslide, you yawned and stretched your arms above your head, and decided to call it a night. 

“I’m going to turn in,” you said, standing up from the chair you’d been in for the past few hours. “Which way’s the bathrooms?” 

Sarah pointed to the right, and you nodded. You had to brush your teeth and pee before you could go to sleep, and you had no desire to traipse through the woods at night to pee in the brush, so you started off in the direction of the bathrooms, your toiletries bag tucked under your arm.

“Wait!” You turned to see Harry walking after you, his own bag tucked under his arm. “Didn’t want you to walk alone.”

You gave him a sweet smile and waited for him to catch up with you. “You ready for sleep too?”

He shrugged. “Probably be up for a little while longer, if that’s not too disruptive? Mitch and I thought we’d work on a song I’ve been thinking about. Thought I’d go ahead and brush my teeth, though.”

“I like listening to you play as I go to bed,” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you thought about them. 

Harry’s eyebrows knit together and he studied you. “Never told me that before.”

Probably because it’s embarrassing, you thought to yourself. You loved listening to his music before you went to bed, especially the voice memos he’d sent you over the years of bits of songs he was working on before they were fully mastered. They were more raw, less produced, the stripped down Harry that you loved. “You never asked.”

He filed that information away for later and you climbed the steps to the bathrooms, both heading into the same free stall. You’d stopped caring about peeing in front of one another a long time ago. You went first, listening to Harry prattle on about a book he was reading that he thought you’d like as he washed his face. When you finished up, you switched places and you started brushing your teeth, stealing his toothpaste because it tasted nicer. 

“You should just buy some for yourself,” he commented.

“But I can use yours for free.”

He didn’t reply, just let you be, and you brushed your teeth next to one another, Harry knocking his hip against yours to make you smile. 

“Glad you came,” he told you when you exited the bathrooms. 

“Me too. Needed this, I think.”

“Same. Missed you, too.” 

You studied his face, barely visible in the moonlight. His stubble was growing in, but he had a peaceful expression you rarely saw in him. You saw it in moments on tour, sometimes--when you were cuddled up on his sofa watching a film after a show, or after a morning run on a day off. But here, this was the purest form and one you wished you saw more often. You didn’t tell him, though. You’d had that conversation before--how you were worried he was overworking himself, believing that he was able to work so much after years in 1D, working with barely any breaks. You wanted his solo career to be different, but Harry had a tendency to find work even when he wasn’t touring or recording. He loved it so much that it was all he wanted to do. “Missed you too,” you replied simply, and leaned into him when he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. 

Mitch set down his guitar and looked at Harry across the fire from him.

“What?”

“When are you going to tell Y/N?”

Harry looked down at his feet. His boots were scuffed from walking through the rocky terrain to the lake earlier when they’d gone swimming. The image of you in her bikini flashed through his mind, and he restrained from groaning--he’d known you for years, swam with you for years, and yet seeing you in that bikini still did things to him, no matter how much he tried to tell himself you didn’t feel the same way about him. “She doesn’t feel the same way.”

Mitch let out a heavy sigh and stood up. “You can be so fucking daft sometimes, you know.”

“Y/N tells me all the time.”

“Well, she’s right,” he replied. “Tell her how you feel, Harry. She feels the same way.”

Harry looked up and met his friend’s eyes. “How do you know?”

“I can see it in how she looks at you. You’re blind if you don’t see it too.”

Harry paused. “How…”

“It’s the same way you look at her.”

With that, Mitch turned and went to where Sarah waited for him in their yurt, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. It was quiet, aside from the crinkle of the fire. Harry couldn’t remember when he fell in love with Y/N--there wasn’t some specific moment like they say in the books. It just...happened. The more time he spent with you, the closer you got, the more Harry hated leaving you. And when you dated other guys, it made his stomach turn to be around them. He tried to pretend like it didn’t, he tried to be nice and polite as you were to the girls he tried to date, but he knew he never was. He hated the way you would look at him when he’d make some snide remark, and he could feel the disappointment radiating from your stare. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to let you go.

He’d tried to bury himself in work, in touring, in women. He’d lived in LA for months to try and get over you, he’d even dated Kendall fucking Jenner to try and get over you. Nothing helped. Camille had been the closest he’d gotten, but there had always been something holding him back. When he’d found out she cheated on him, it was a relief more than heartbreak--he didn’t have to be the one to break up with her this time. And he always went back to you, pretending to be more broken hearted than he was just to get you to spend days on end by his side, eating ice cream and watching films that you thought helped him. In actuality, it was you who helped him. It was being by your side, it was laughing with you, going on walks, even fucking gardening with you at his house in Hampstead. Anything with you healed him. 

And he knew it wasn’t fair, using you like he did. But he couldn’t help himself--it was the time when he could almost pretend you were his. It was when you ignored everything else and focused on only him and that attention is what he craved. You, together, no distractions. It’s what he wanted this weekend to be, but then you suggested inviting friends, and how could he say no to you? How could he tell you he just wanted to be with you for the whole weekend, the rest of the world forgotten?

Mitch’s words, though, were a stab in his heart. He’d always convinced himself that there was no way you could feel the same. You had fallen in love, you’d told him. With Tom. Bloody Tom. You’d met at some networking dinner and he’d asked you out, and from then on it was Tom, Tom, Tom. You had dated for a little over a year and Harry despised every second of it. Tom treated you like dirt--belittling you in front of your friends, in front of Harry, even, controlled your time and your friends. Boxed you in like you were some animal just there to please him, no life to speak of. It had happened while Harry was on tour and then in LA, so he hadn’t been there in person for most of it, and when he had been around you two together--whe he came home for the holidays and saw you, you had played it off. Said it was nothing, just a joke. 

But then her college roommate Jordan had called Harry, worried out of her mind about you. Told him how Tom treated you, all the things he’d done, how he’d manipulated you--hit you one time. Jordan was in New York City and work wouldn’t let her leave, but she knew Harry could go. She told him it was getting bad and he had to get you out. And so he did. He took the next flight out, barely packed a suitcase, and went. He went to your apartment and told you that Jordan had told him what happened, and you two had a massive fight over it, you defending Tom, Harry trying to convince you he had manipulated your thoughts, your emotions, your feelings, and you both ended up in tears before you finally let him take you to his house to stay for a few weeks. And together, you’d pieced his fierce Y/N back together. 

And all that time, he had never thought...He never thought you’d loved him. Not as he did, at least. You’d told him so many times that you loved him, but it was just as a friend. You’d made that clear in the ways you touched him and introduced him to people. He was your Harry, but just your friend. Your best friend, but friend all the same. It broke him, as much as he tried not to let it show. But for you to feel the same way? All this time?

And what did Mitch expect him to do? Bust into your tent and admit his undying love for you, you to admit you felt the same way, and for you to ride off into the night together? This wasn’t some romance novel (which Harrry knew Mitch read, even though he tried to hide them). This was reality, and in reality, it was just Harry, writing songs about you that you’d never understand the true meaning of, and a yurt shared with Grimmy. 

He stood up, his guitar held tightly in his hand, and put out the fire before heading into the yurt. Nick was spread eagle on the bed, still somehow asleep--Harry had never understood his ability to sleep literally all day--and snoring. Loudly. Harry sighed and went over to his suitcase, tugging off his jeans and sweatshirt and folding them neatly into the case. He pulled a henley and pajama pants on, knowing if Nick woke up to a half naked Harry in his bed he’d most definitely not let him hear the end of it, and walked over to the bed. He tried to shove Nick over and make space for himself, but the man was most definitely stronger than Harry had realized. 

Had he been working out lately?

Harry gave his arm another shove, but Nick didn’t even flinch. “Fuck you, Nick,” Harry said. “Do you have to seriously sleep like the dead?”

He looked around the room, trying to see if there was anything he could fashion a makeshift bed with. But there wasn’t even a spare fucking blanket. 

Maybe Sarah and Mitch would have one? Then he pictured walking into the couple’s yurt and immediately decided against that idea. That left you. You’d slept in the same bed before, albeit usually while drunk--maybe you’d let him sleep with you? Just for the night? 

Harry slipped on his flip flops, grabbed his flashlight and made his way over to your yurt. It was quiet except for the sound of your soft breathing and he immediately felt at peace, despite what his mind told him. He unzipped the front of your yurt and stuck his head in. It was dark and he could barely make out your figure, curled up tightly under the covers, hair strewn across the pillow. 

“Y/N?”

After a beat, he saw your body shift and your head stick up from the pillow. “Harry?”

“Can I sleep with you? Nick’s taking up the whole bed and snoring like a train.”

You giggled--and Harry’s heart started racing--and then said, “Of course. C’mere.” You lifted the edge of the blanket and Harry toed off his flip flops before walking over to the bed. “What time is it?”

He laid down next to you carefully, not wanting to brush up against you and make you uncomfortable. “Dunno. Late.”

You reached out for him, fingers brushing against his henley right over his stomach, and Harry’s heart seized. Did you know what you were doing to him right now? “Why are you lying there straight as a rod? I don’t bite, you know.” Probably not, he realized. You had no idea what the mere touch of your skin did to his heart. 

“Don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his voice quiet in the silence of the yurt. 

“You don’t, silly. Now c’mere.” 

He moved closer to you and you turned onto your side so that your back rested against his chest, and he wound his arm around your stomach loosely, holding you to him. You’d laid like this before, after your birthday earlier in the year when you’d gotten quite drunk and he’d brought you home so you didn’t choke in your own vomit. You’d snuggled into him then, just like you did now, and he tried to think of anything to get his dick to stop from plumping up under his pants. 

“H?”

“Yeah?”

“What was your song about?”

His breath caught in his throat. Had you heard it? It was so obviously about you, so unabashedly telling you how he felt. God, every song was about you. Even when he tried to make them less specific, when he tried to remove the details that would make it about you, you still left a residue. 

“Harry?” Your voice broke his thoughts, so sweet in his ears. He opened his eyes, which had closed while he thought, and looked into your hair. He could smell the remnants of your perfume mixed with the fresh smell of oak from the woods and the essence of smoke from the fire. He wanted to bury himself in your smell, in you. 

He should tell you. He knew he should. It was the perfect time--you were giving him the prompting. But he didn’t have the courage. “Did we wake you up?”

You rolled over and suddenly your face was mere inches from his. He could see your eyes in the dark, bright blue in the night. The ones that were painted in his dreams, echoes of you that never let him go. “Thought I heard something in the woods. Heard you instead.”

How much had you heard, he wondered. Had you heard his conversation with Mitch? You had been asleep when he had come into the yurt, so you had to have fallen back asleep. “What’d you think of it?”

You stared at him, your gaze searing through the protections he tried and struggled to keep up. “It was sad,” you said simply. 

“Hmm?” He mumbled, not really knowing what else to say to that. Of course it was sad, he was in love with his best friend and he didn’t have the balls to tell her. 

“The opening lines,” you whispered. “Put a price on emotion/I'm looking for something to buy/You've got my devotion/But man, I can hate you sometimes,” you sang it, perfectly in tune, hitting every note as he had around the campfire with Mitch. Your voice singing his words broke him in two, for some reason. They were the most honest ones of the whole song, he thought to himself, and the ones he was least likely to change. “Who is it about?”

Her question had changed. When you asked the first time, it was what. Now it was who. He studied you in the dark, searching himself. Could he muster the courage?

“Camille?”

“No,” he said, his words immediate. “No, not Camille.”

There was a rustle of the trees, but your eyes didn’t leave his. “Are you seeing someone new?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

He took a deep breath, and then, he pulled the words from the depths of his heart. “It’s about you.”

It was silent in the yurt. He couldn’t even tell if you were breathing. But your eyes didn’t leave his. He watched as your brain processed his words, pieced them together, matched them up with the song. 

“Test of my patience/There's things that we'll never know/You sunshine, you temptress/My hand's at risk, I fold.” You said the words, no song to them, just words, flowing from your lips as poetry, not lyrics. “You...Me. Things we’ll never know--that’s us?” 

He nodded, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a strand of hair behind your ear that had come loose. 

“You've got my devotion,” you whispered, the opening lines coming back around. “That’s about me?”

“Yes,” he said, the word simple, soft, quiet in the dark. But it took every ounce of his courage. It was worse than when he’d decided to go solo, it was worse than going out on stage alone for the first time, worse than stepping on the X-Factor stage. The hardest words he’d had to say. “Y/N,” he whispered, summoning the last of his courage, “the songs are all about you.”

That made you go quiet for longer. You stared at him, taking inventory of every part of his face. He could feel your eyes and he didn’t even squirm--it felt different than it did when you usually looked at him. It felt like you were seeing him for the first time. Like a veil had been lifted between them. 

And yet, you said nothing.

“Do you want me to go?” He asked, the words breaking him. “I--I can go.”

But you pressed your fingers to his chin, instead. “Don’t go,” you whispered and this time it was him who stared at you. “I--I’m scared.”

“I know.” Your eyes blinked at him, eye level, so close he could see nothing but the rim of the blue, your long eyelashes he’d always admired. “I just...I can’t pretend anymore, love.” The nickname, long used between them, suddenly took on a new meaning in this moment. He could feel the shift in the air, the way the word landed between them. It slipped from his lips without him thinking about it, but he meant it in every which way. 

You ran your forefinger along the edge of his jaw and Harry’s breath caught in his chest. “Me either.”

And then, you pulled his lips down to meet yours and it was like Harry’s world bottomed out. Your lips were soft, just like he’d imagined them, and you tasted like sugar and the watermelons they’d had for a snack after dinner. The hint of toothpaste lingered and it made him smile, remembering how you’d spoken in the bathroom. His fingers wound their way into your hair and you let out a soft moan that set Harry’s skin on fire. 

Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip and Harry rolled you onto you back with a groan, begging for more, for anything you would give him. The kiss was deep, passionate, without end. You barely pulled away to breathe, wanting to never stop touching him. Your fingers crawled up his arms, across his collarbones, fire left in their wake. 

Harry balanced above you on his forearms, head dipping to meet your lips over and over again, his fingers curled into your hair that was spread out on the pillow. Your legs tugged apart, letting him slot himself between them, leaning into you. It was like a dream he didn’t want to wake up from. 

“Y/N,” he said, pulling back from your lips just an inch so he could speak. “I--I don’t want to do anything if you don’t--”

“I want you,” you said, your hands drifting from his shoulders to cup his face between them. He leaned into your touch and you smoothed your fingers across his cheekbones. “I’ve always wanted you. H, you’re everything to me.”

His lips found yours again without a second beat, and you pulled every ounce of his heart from his chest with your lips. The sheets rustled under their bodies as they moved, begging to get more and more of each other. Your hands wound under his shirt, tugging as he leaned back, pulling it off, the chilly night air nipping at his skin. You sat up, Harry balanced precariously on your lap, and pressed kisses to his skin, licking over his swallows. 

Harry let out a moan, not being able to hold it in, but didn’t stop her as you made your way across his skin, claiming it as your own. He couldn’t hear anything but you--it was consuming, the feeling of being this close to you. Your teeth bit into the skin on his collarbones, sucking a bruise he knew would be there tomorrow, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He wanted the world to know he was yours, that he loved you with every fiber of his being, unashamedly. 

“I’m yours,” he said, his voice edging on a moan as you licked across his nipples. “Yours, Y/N, I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours,” you replied, and leaned back, tugging off his sweatshirt, which you’d worn to bed. You were bare underneath, and you could feel Harry’s eyes on your skin, learning you. Usually, you felt studied under the gaze of a man, but now, with Harry, you felt admired, adored, loved. His hands kneaded circles into your breasts and you arched into him, moans leaving your mouth in breaths. 

You felt his tongue on your nipples, just as you had done to him, and your fingers gripped into the curls of his hair. “Fuck, H.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, pressing kisses to your sternum. “So, utterly beautiful.”

You leaned back onto your hands, chest rising and falling as he made his way down your body, inching farther and farther back on the bed until he was on his stomach, lips hovering above the waistband of your sleep shorts. His eyes met yours in question, and you nodded, words failing you.

“Need to hear your words, love,” he said, kissing your bare skin just centimeters above the bow on her shorts. “Want to make sure that you’re sure.”

“Take them off,” you said, struggling to speak as he licked your skin. “Touch me, H, please.”

And he did. He tugged your shorts down your legs, underwear coming with them, and pressed kisses to the inside of your thighs, nipping love bites into the skin there. “You know, I dreamed of you last week,” he said against your skin. 

“What?” You squealed as he sucked on the sensitive skin at the crease of your thighs. 

“Of you, like this.” Then, he licked a stripe up her clit and you buried your hands in his hair, holding him there. “But in the dream, I couldn’t smell you.” He sucked on your clit, and you struggled not to scream his name. Your friends would hear and the last thing you wanted was to deal with that in the morning. “I couldn’t hear you,” he said, licking you again, and your head flailed to the side. “And I woke up before I could do this.”

And then, he dove his tongue inside of you, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, holding in the moans that begged to fly free. It was heaven, his tongue. Delving into her like it was made for you, curling inside of you and rubbing the front of your walls delicately. 

“Harry,” you said, trying to keep your voice quiet, “more, please.”

He wasted no time pressing his finger to your clit and rubbing you in circles, causing your chest to arch from the pleasure. You could feel a knot building in your belly, begging and begging for more. 

“Please, H,” you let out in a moan, and that’s when you felt his own moan against your skin, the vibration of the stubble on your skin causing you to shake against him. But his free hand anchored your hips to his lips, and he continued his work, licking in and out of you, then up and down your folds, drawing soft moans from your mouth over and over again. 

“Wanna hear you,” he said softly against your skin, “please, love, wanna hear you.”

“Don’t want to wake them,” you replied, struggling to look down at him. But when you did, the sight of his head between your thighs, hair a mess, eyes gleaming up at you in the dark, it ripped a moan from your chest that you couldn’t contain. 

“That’s it,” he said. “Don’t give a fuck about them. S’just us, yeah?” He kneaded circles into her skin with his hands and sucked harshly on her clit, your hips bucking in response, but he didn’t let go. “What d’ya want, love?”

His words were rough, broken from pleasure. You loved the way he sounded, having never had the opportunity to have him this way. “Fingers,” you said. “I’m close.”

“Yeah?” His one hand left her hips and circled your entrance, drawing your wetness around his fingers. “Fuck, love, you’re so wet.”

“H,” you breathed out, “please.”

That’s all he needed. He dipped his forefinger inside of you, your tight walls gripping him like a vice. But to him, you were virtue--you were everything to him, everything good in the world wrapped up in a single person. He curled his finger, brushing against a spot that made you squeak and he smiled before adding a second finger. “Come for me, love,” he said, sucking on your clit. “Wanna taste you.”

And that’s all it took. Your orgasm washed over you like a wave, your hands gripped in his hair, keeping his face there as he licked your clit softly, drawing shock waves from your body over and over again. You struggled to keep your eyes open, wanting to watch him as you came, and he held your eye contact as you did. When he pulled his fingers from you and sucked on them, you just stared at him, wondering if this was real. If he was real. 

“Taste sweet,” he said, crawling up your body, pushing you down onto the bed with the weight of him. You loved it, the feeling of his skin on yours, of his body on yours. “With an edge of sourness.” He pressed his lips to yours, and you licked into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue. You hadn’t been this turned on...ever, you realized. “Tastes good,” he said against your lips. 

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “Felt good too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re good at that, you know.” 

He chuckled at you and pressed a kiss to your cheeks. “Can’t wait to do it again.”

You captured his lips again, arms winding around his chest, pulling him into you, closer and closer until you couldn’t find the space between you. And then, you rolled, taking him with her, leaving him on his back and you flush to his chest. “Some other time,” you said softly, drawing back. “I want you.”

“Fuck,” he let out, gaze travelling up your body as you sat back on his hips, bare center brushing over his pajama pants. “Want you too, baby.”

You smirked at him. “Baby?”

He blushed. “Sorry, it just--”

“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips. “I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.” You rolled your hips over his erection and he bucked up into you, not being able to stop himself, drawing groans from both of them. “Wanna hear you, H,” you whispered, tossing his words back at him. “Hmm?”

“Take ‘em off.” He bucked his hips again, and you smiled down at him. Your fingers curled around his pants and his underwear, and crawled back, pulling them off together in one motion, just as he had done to you. 

You held him in your hand, brushing your thumb over his tip, the pre-cum slick against your skin. Your tongue licked a stripe up the underside of him, drawing a moan from his chest as you laved circles around the tip of his length. 

“Y/N,” he breathed, “Not gonna last if you keep doing that,” he said. “Need--”

“I know,” you replied. You pressed another kiss to him and clamored back up his body. “Wouldn’t have happened to bring condoms, would you?”

“Fuck,” he said, “no, wasn’t exactly planning this.”

You pressed a kiss to his chest, trying to calm the panicked look in his eyes. His hands ran up and down your thighs, his touch consuming you. “I’ve got the implant,” you said, “if that’s ok with you.”

“I’ll pull out,” he said, leaning up on his elbows. “Promise.” Then your lips found each other’s and you rocked your hips against him, the slick of you dripping down onto his length. He swallowed your moans and you did the same, the dark of the night wrapping around you, encasing you in a world that was just the two of you. 

You reached down and ran your fingertips along his length, brushing his tip against your slit, the feeling sending tingles down her spine.

“Please,” he begged beneath you, fingers digging into your hips to where there would probably be marks tomorrow, “please, Y/N.”

When you slid down his length, your eyes shut from the sensation of him stretching you. You didn’t stop until he had bottomed out, you hips flush against one another. You could feel his eyes watching as you adjusted to his size, to the burn of him inside of you. It was surreal to have him like this, to have him so close to that you couldn’t find where you ended and he began. To have his lips find yours as you began to rock back and forth on him, open mouths meeting like old friends, begging for more and more and more. It was heaven, you decided, this was heaven on earth, this feeling. Your head snapped back when he bucked up into you, hitting a deep spot that made your arms shake. And then he ran his tongue down your exposed neck, nipping and biting into your skin, whispers of your name like an echo around them. 

You wanted all of him. Every single part of him, you wanted to have his laughter and his smile and his words and his thoughts and his love. You wanted his body in the morning and the night and across the distance. You wanted him to hold you in his arms always, to care always. To you, he was hope, he was a bright spot in a sea of darkness. He was the antithesis of your exes, of Tom, of the men who had used you up and left you in a bed of nails. Harry built you up, stoking your fire with actions that showed you how much he cared, never wavering from your side, always running back when you called. No matter how far he went, the residue of him never left your mind, body, or soul. 

Harry’s arms caged you in and suddenly you were on your back and he was above you and inside of you and everywhere. His fingers danced across you skin as his hips snapped into you, moans drying in your throat because you could barely think from the pleasure zipping through your body. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he said, words darting through the fog, “I love you.” He was holding you so tightly in his arms that you wondered if he thought you would run. As if you wanted to be anywhere else but here, beneath him, close to him, breathing him in and out. 

“I love you too.” The words left you without hesitation and you pressed your lips back to his as you chased your highs together, his hips never stopping. He pulled one of your legs high on his hip, reaching a new depth inside of you, and you scrabbled at his back with your fingers, leaving marks in your wake. “Right there,” you whispered against his shoulder, biting softly into the skin there. 

He pistoned his hips in and out, hitting the spot over and over again. “Yeah? Right there, baby?” 

You had always joked he had a praise kink, but now that you had him, you knew you were right and good lord did you feed right into it. “So good,” you mumbled, “so good Harry, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, tongue darting to the spot under your ear when you turned hyourer head, choking on a moan when he thumbed your clit. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N. Gonna tell you every day. Never going to stop now that I have you. Finally.”

You dug into his ass with your heels, keeping him deep inside of you. Hands grabbed skin, and you basked in the heat that surrounded you, the sweat that stuck their skin together. It was perfect--he was perfect, he felt perfect, it was as if you were made for one another. Somehow, every movement he made was better, he navigated your body like he had the only compass and it was carved into his heart. 

Every part of you ached, ached for him and for release. You could feel it rising inside of you, taught like a string, begging. “Oh my god,” you whined, spasming around him. Your hand gripped the back of his neck and dragged his head back to you, fingers digging into his warm skin. Your lips met as he pumped into you over and over, drawing moans from them both that never stopped. You loved that he made noise in bed, that he told you how good you felt, that he made sure you knew how incredible it was. Every kiss pressed to your clammy skin was a reminder of how much he loved you.

“Fuck.” A guttural moan escaped him when you clamped down on his length, your orgasm threatening to rip through you. “Not going to last, baby.” His forehead rested against yours as he dug into the sheets with his fingers and toes, using every ounce of his energy to bring you both to the brink. Your fingers scratched against his shoulder blades, gripping him close as you arched into him. 

“I’m close,” you said, words ragged, “so close.”

“Come,” he breathed out, “please, Y/N.”

You pressed a kiss to his brow, the salt of his sweat against your lips. “Come inside me,” you whispered to his skin. “Want to feel you.”

His head turned, eyes meeting yours. “Sure?”

You dug your heels into his ass in response, gripping him like a vice to you. A moan ripped through him as he dug deep inside of you, pulling every piece of your love from her chest, just as you did to him. Then, he kissed you again, your name a mantra against your lips, and with that, your orgasm ripped through your body. 

He chased it with every brush of his hips, running after you as you soared and fell. You held him close as you came down, struggling to find your breath. But you didn’t want him to move. You wanted to feel him, to see him, to hear him finish. And when he did, it was the most beautiful sight you’d ever seen. His eyes bore into yours, teeth dug into his bottom lip so deep it probably drew blood, fingers curling tightly into the sheets on either side of your shoulders. Slowly, his hips came to a halt and you could feel his cum inside of you. The air was silent except for your breathing as he rested his body against you, not pulling out. 

You two laid there together, your arms wound around his waist, running your fingers up and down his back, his fingers threading through your hair. It was as if you were waiting for the words, because neither of you had them. What do you say after that? 

Harry moved to pull out of you, but you held him fast. “Please,” you whispered, “just…”

He shushed you, knowing what you meant. You wanted him close. After denying your feelings for so long it was like they were consuming every inch of you, overwhelming your brain and your heart. Having him close helped tether you to the ground and you couldn’t let go. Not yet. 

“Love you,” he said softly into your hair. “Love you so much, Y/N.”

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Love you too.”

“Think they heard?”

You giggled against his skin and you could feel his smile. “Probably. Don’t care that much, though.”

“Me either.”

You were quiet for a second before mustering the courage to ask the question swirling through your brain. “You’re not going to leave in the morning, right?”

He lifted his head and looked at you. “Never.” Then, he pressed a soft kiss against your lips and tucked his head into the space between your shoulder and your neck, his breath even against your skin. 

And you both laid there, adjusting to what it felt like to finally have the one person you’d always wanted, praying that when the sun rose nothing would change.

talk to me about camping!harry here | masterlist here

[1122deactivated2211]

The Black Horse Inn in Nuthurst, West Sussex, England in October. X

[venicepearl]

Mary Ansell (1 March 1861 – 30 June 1950) was an English actress and author. She was born on 1 March 1861 in Paddington (London), the third child of George and Mary Ansell, who ran and lived over the King’s Head pub in Paddington. Ansell’s father died in 1875 and the family moved to Hastings, in Sussex.

Her first stage performance was in 1890 in a play called Harbour Lights. She met J. M. Barrie in 1891, when he was looking for an actress for a role in his play Walker, London. She was introduced to him by their mutual friend Jerome K Jerome.

Barrie and Ansell developed a friendship and she nursed him when he fell ill in 1894. After his recovery, they married on 9 July 1894 in a simple ceremony in Kirriemuir, his home town.

The couple first bought a house at 133 Gloucester Road, Kensington and a few years later, in 1900, moved to Leinster Corner, a house at 100 Bayswater Road overlooking Kensington Gardens. In the same year, Ansell bought Black Lake Cottage, a country house in Farnham, Surrey where they would go at weekends and in summer.

During her honeymoon in Switzerland, she and Barrie adopted a St. Bernard puppy, Porthos, marking the start of her lifelong love of dogs. After Porthos’s death, they took on a black and white Newfoundland, Luath, who was the inspiration for Nana in Peter Pan.

In 1897 Barrie met Sylvia Llewelyn Davies and her sons, first George, Jack and Peter, and later Michael and Nico and enjoyed a close friendship with the family, to the detriment of Ansell who felt neglected. To fill her time, Ansell developed a strong interest in interior design and gardening which kept her occupied at both Black Lake Cottage and Leinster Corner.

She wrote about her passions in three books, Happy Houses, The Happy Garden (1912) and Men and Dogs (1924).

In 1907, Ansell met Gilbert Cannan who aspired to be a writer and came to work with Barrie on an anti-censorship campaign. Cannan had been courting sculptress Kathleen Bruce but was heartbroken when the latter accepted Robert Falcon Scott’s marriage proposal. He turned to the Barries for comfort and became very close to Ansell, leading to an affair, despite the 20-year difference in age.

When Barrie learned of the affair in July 1909, he demanded that she end it, but she refused. To avoid the scandal of divorce, he offered a legal separation if she would agree not to see Cannan any more, but she still refused. Barrie sued for divorce on the grounds of infidelity, but in the course of divorce proceedings, it was revealed the marriage had been unconsummated. The decree nisi was granted in October 1909. Ansell and Cannan married the following year and in 1913 they moved to a disused tower mill in Hawridge, Buckinghamshire, Hawridge Windmill.

Her marriage to Cannan was not a happy one as Cannan suffered a mental breakdown and was unfaithful; he had an affair with their maid Gwen Wilson, who became pregnant. In 1917, Ansell left Cannan and found herself in straitened circumstances. She was working for the war effort rolling bandages and packing medical supplies when Barrie came to find her and offered financial help, giving her an annual allowance which carried on until his death in 1937. She was left a bequest of £1,000 and an annuity of £600 in his will.

In the 1920s, Ansell moved to Biarritz (France). Barrie paid for a villa to be built for her, the Villa La Esquina, rue Constantine, where she died on 30 June 1950. She is buried in the Cemetery Sabaou, in Biarritz.

[hlupdate]

In a never-before-published 2012 interview, Harry Styles and Niall Horan talk about their childhoods, the future of One Direction, and much more

In the spring of 2012, I spent a few entertaining days hanging out with the five young members of a British boy band who were just breaking big in the United States. The guys from One Direction were unjaded, unguarded, totally charming, and a puppy pile of optimism and energy. On April 8th, in a New York City hotel room, an 18-year-old Harry Styles and 16-year-old Niall Horan sat down with me for a joint interview, published here for the first time. (The reporting was intended for a Rolling Stone cover story that never ran.)

It was late morning, and they had both just rolled out of bed. Styles wore a hotel bathrobe; Horan, with braces still on his teeth, was in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a Dallas Mavericks hat a fan had given him during a recent trip to Texas. The conversation was casual, full of laughs, and focused on their formative years.

What did you do at the gym last night? Harry: One of our security guys, his friend’s over, he’s a personal trainer, so I was working with him, and he ripped me to shreds.

In 12 hours, you have to do Saturday Night Live. Are you ready? Harry: Yeah, I think so. I think it’s going to be a fun day. It’s just really exciting, obviously. The show is so huge. For us to get the opportunity to be on it at all was just amazing, and to us, to be performing and just be involved with the show is amazing.

Have you seen whole episodes of it? Harry: I’ve watched a lot of clips on YouTube. They don’t show it in the U.K.

Growing up, when did you realize you could sing or that you wanted to sing? Harry: I sang in primary school, like the school productions, plays and stuff.

What was your first one? Harry: The first one was…I was five, and there was a story about a mouse who lived in a church, and I was Barney, the mouse. I had to wear my sister’s tights, and a headband with ears on it, and I had to sing a song all by myself. I remember it was just like, whatever…in the second, I was Buzz Lightyear in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, so you know when they run and hide in the toy shop? Buzz Lightyear was in the toy shop, so they just created my character. The last one, I was in…you know Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat? I was the pharaoh, but I was an Elvis pharaoh.

Did you have a sense that this is what you wanted to do in your life? Harry: I think in school, I was OK, I wasn’t a bad student. I think I just knew I wanted to entertain people and stuff. I was a bit of an attention-seeker at school.

Niall: Me, too. I just talked too much, sang too much.

You were onstage as a kid and were like, “This is what I like”? Harry: I knew it was fun, I had a lot of fun doing it, and I stopped when I started high school, and then I didn’t really do anything, I just sang at home, in the shower, in your bedroom, that type of thing. I guess it started again when my friends were in a band and they wanted to do this battle of the bands competition that was at school, and they needed a singer, and one of my friends asked me.

What did you sing? Harry: We sang “Are You Gonna Be My Girl” by Jet, and “Summer of ’69.” We did it more towards the Bowling For Soup version.

How about you, Niall? Niall: I always knew I wanted to sing. I was academic…I was one of those people that if I’m not interested in something, I don’t really care. If I’m not interested in school, I would have never trained or done my homework or anything, I’d have just gone outside and played football or whatever.

Harry: [helpfully translating] Soccer.

Niall: So I always wanted to sing. I was singing here and there, not gigs or anything, but I always sang around the house or whatever, and I played Oliver in a school play. And then I just did that, and people told me I should do something…I was only 10, what could I do at 10? I just did a couple of gigs, and when I got to high school, they told me that I should just try out for The X-Factor.

Who told you? Niall: My French teacher. We used to do talent shows and stuff at school, she was like, “You should do it,” so I did it.

What did that entail? What were the steps from being a kid in high school to getting on the show? Niall: It was the final of The X-Factor the year before, and at the end credits of the final, it says, “If you want to apply for 2010, go online,” so a couple of weeks later, I said, “Right, I’m going to do it,” and I filled in the form online, we were sending emails back and forth, going to this place at this time. The first one is at a big stadium, then if you get through that, you come back the next day. Is that the way they did it with you?

Harry: I had to wait a little bit, I think.

Niall: I was there at five a.m., I got seen at 12, and I was out of there by quarter past 12, and the next day I came back at 10 in the morning. You get through the first round, then they do a round where they don’t tell you if you got through after that.

Harry: They film it.

Niall: The producer and someone from the label. They film it and show it to whoever. Then if you got through that, it takes about two or three weeks until you find out. I was in Spain. Then you just go through the audition.

Harry, how did you wind up on X-Factor? Harry: I basically said, the same as Niall, I was watching the year before, and I remember looking at the young guys on there, and I was kind of like, “I’d love to have a go at it just to see what happens,” and that was kind of it. My mum actually did the application, and then three weeks later, I walked upstairs and she said, “Oh, you’ve got your X-Factor audition Sunday,” and I was like, “OK.”

Niall: In England, it’s the biggest thing ever. It took a while to build.

Harry: The two or three years were steady, and third or fourth, it just blew up.

Niall: It works that one in three people in the UK watch it. There’s 60 million people in the UK, and 21 million people watched the final the year we were in it.

Harry, your band also played at least one wedding right? Harry: Yeah. We actually said that we’d do the wedding gig, and…

Niall: You get paid for it?

Harry: Yeah. 160 quid, between all four of us. 40 quid each…we said we’d do it, and then we found out it was the weekend coming up, and we hadn’t done anything for it, so we asked the bride what kind of stuff she wanted, and she said she didn’t mind, but she wanted some Bob Marley songs. Literally in three days, not even three, probably two days, we learned like 25 songs. We might have known like three of them before. I was 16, maybe 15, singing these Bob Marley songs. There was a girl a couple of years below us, and it was her mum, she said she wanted us to play.

Niall: Can you imagine you’re at a wedding and you have 16-year-old kids up on the stage?

Maybe you were really good! Harry: Yeah, the drummer is one of my best friends from school, he’s a sick drummer, he’s so good.

Did you think the band could be something? Harry: A bit. My friend’s mum was a radio presenter, and she did a radio show  for a bit, so she was trying to sort us out a little bit of studio time, we were going to go in and record.

What do your parents do? Harry: My mum is a PA.  My dad is a financial adviser.

How about you? Niall: My dad works at a supermarket, he’s the head manager, general manager of an area, not just one, and my mum is unemployed now, so I try to help them out whenever I can.

You probably can. That must be nice. Niall: Yeah, it’s nice, it’s good.

Plus, now you can tell them what to do. Harry: [laughs]  “Now you go to bed.”

Were you happy as kids? Did you have adolescent angst and stuff? Did you go through depressed periods? Harry: Not really. I think at one point, I started acting like I was…I had a phase of listening to really heavy music.

Niall: I never went through that.

Harry: Not stupid heavy, but a bit… just because I thought it was cool.

Like what? Harry: Like Nirvana T-shirts, wore black all the time, pretty much.

Were you pretty happy go-lucky? Niall: Yeah, I was always happy. I think me and Harry were lucky. Our parents got divorced quite early, didn’t they, when we were really young. I was four, I didn’t know much, so I was always a happy kid, always up for a laugh, very carefree, and I’m a bit like that now.

Did you both grow up in your moms’ houses? Harry: Yeah.

Niall: I went between both, my mum moved to the country and I didn’t have any interest in it. I always felt like the country is for when you’re older. I was with my mom for a while but got bored, all my friends were in town, I went to school in town and all that stuff. It was more like that.

Harry: I lived with both parents, and then moved with my mum, and we owned a pub for like five years. I remember the first night, it was like a night where a band was playing, and I just thought, “How am I going to get to sleep?” I was three stories up, I was like, “How am I going to get to sleep with this noise?” I was next to a road in Sussex in the middle of nowhere, and by the end, I could fall asleep next to the band, I was so used to the noise.

Was it imprinting your brain? Harry: Maybe. One of the guys who used to play every so often, he used to be in Deep Purple or something… He started teaching me guitar when I was like 10, I think 10, maybe nine.  I loved it. I was 10, 11, all of the regulars, I got on with them. I’d walk behind the bar and my head would barely go over the bar. It’s still going now. We sold it to my best friend, we go in all the time still.

People say you come off as more mature than your age, you come off wiser. Did hanging around all those people as a kid help you mature?

Harry: I don’t know, maybe.  I moved when I was seven or eight from Cheshire, and it was still Cheshire, but half an hour away, but in terms of not driving and stuff, all my friends lived near my school, so that was a bit further out. One of my friends there was my sister’s age, he was 16 when I was 10. It was so tiny, they were the only teenage boys…we’d ride our bikes and go to the driving range and stuff. It was good, it was fun.

You both wanted to entertain – if it hadn’t worked out, would you have been really unhappy? Harry: Yeah, I think it would be kind of like…one of the reasons you go for X-Factor in the first place is that you want to do this, and it kind of helps you get out of the life that you were doing before. I worked in a bakery for two years. Obviously, I didn’t want to do that for ages!

If you’d asked people at school, would they have said, “Yeah, they’re probably going to be famous,” or would they never have guessed that? Niall: My aunt, I was in the back of her car. We used to go across Ireland to go to the beach for a couple of weeks, and I remember we were in the car, I was singing, and she thought I was the radio, and she told me, I never forgot it, that she thought I was going to be famous since I was six, seven. She was the only person who told me that, so I always remembered that.

Harry: My dad said it. I used to listen to a lot of the music he was playing, he’d play Elvis Presley to death, the Stones, I’d sing along to that and he’d say, “You’re going to be famous,” or whatever. He came on tour with us for a few days out here, he came to the Radio City show. He just said, for him, it was so educational. Obviously, he hears about what happens when I call him, but to see it and see it actually happen and how everything works was so good for him, he really enjoyed it. So that was nice.

So you grew up on Elvis and the Stones? Harry: Yeah, pretty much. My dad was a massive Stones fan, so it was pretty much Beatles and Stones in terms of what my dad played.

People say you kind of look like Mick.

Niall: He gets that a lot.

Harry: I get it more here, probably, than I do at home. It’s because of the British thing.

What have you learned about life from the last few years, what didn’t you know? What advice would you give yourself? Niall: How much more independent we actually are – me, anyway. Your mum attends to your every need and does your food and washing and gives you somewhere to live. Then you go into the real world, as you’re told as a kid…

Harry: We’re living on our own now.

Niall: We just started living on our own in the last six months, really.

Harry: I’m moving when I get back.

Niall: We do our own washing, we make our own food, we rent places, we’re out on our own now. You mature so quick, you’re dealing with big businessmen every day, you’re not dealing with school, people your own age. It’s a bit different.

Harry: You seem to learn so many life lessons, but in such a short space of time. If I speak to my friends and they’re having problems with girls, whatever it is, now I seem to just have the answer. I don’t know, it’s just different. Or I think I have the answer. In terms of…one of my friends was trying to decide what to do with school, stuff like that, and I would have had no idea what to say to him before.

The last two years must feel like 10. Harry: Yeah, but at the same time, it feels like six months, it’s weird. X-Factor was two years ago, but it seems like five years ago, but at the same time, it’s gone so quick. It’s a really strange dynamic of how it feels.

Do you have a sense of how this is going to go? Does it matter if it’s two years, five years or forever? Harry: I think how much we all enjoy it, because we love what we do – if you have to call it a job, it’s an incredible job to have, and we love it. We’ll all want to do it for as long as possible. If we have the opportunity to have a Take That kind of career, I don’t see any reason why we wouldn’t want to do that. If we don’t, I don’t know…we’ve done some amazing things already, but we don’t want to stop there, we want to keep going. I guess if we didn’t, I think we’d probably want to still be involved in…I’d just write, I guess.

Do you want to act? It feels like you could have your own TV show. Harry: I think it would be more of a documentary, because obviously, we’re not actors.

People must want you to try. Niall: Watch tonight, tell us what you think. Watch SNL.

Will you all make solo albums? Is that inevitable? Harry: No, I don’t think so.

Niall: Let’s do a swing album!

Harry: [laughs] We’ll all do swing albums. We’re just so focused on this, we all feel so lucky just to be part of this opportunity that we’ve all been given, it’s incredible, we’re just loving it. It’s sick.

People make a lot of assumptions about people in your position. They think you’re puppets and do what you’re told. What do you do when people make those assumptions? Harry: When you look from the outside, especially if you’re a skeptic of groups made through TV shows, which is fair enough, people don’t see what we do on a daily basis, people don’t see…I think from the outside, it looks so glamorous, they see us do TV performances every now and again, see us doing an interview every now and again, but they don’t know that we work seven days a week.

Niall: If there was eight days, we’d fit it in.

Harry: It’s not as completely glamorous all the time, of course it’s not, it would be stupid to think that it would be, but it’s hard work.

Niall: You’ve got to remember that you’ve got people on your team that have been doing this for many years and have been through the mill. You have all that experience around you, even from our tour manager, who’s been doing this for 20 years, they know what’s right, but at the same time, we want to have creative control, because at the end of the day, it’s us stepping out onto the stage of SNL tonight and have to sing these songs. We want to be singing what we enjoy, as we said last night. The music we all listen to is what we try and blend together to make this One Direction sound.

Harry: We obviously want to make it authentic and have our say without going, “People say we don’t control it, so we need to take control.” We’re not…we haven’t been writing songs for 20 years, we’re not producers. We’ve got an incredible team around us. Luckily, we’ve been given a lot of freedom, so we don’t go, “OK, we just need more and more control,” because we have a lot of control already. I think we find a really good balance in the way we work with our record label and our management, and it’s just how we work together, I think.

In any case, it’s probably better than the bakery. Harry: Yeah. But I don’t get a nice bun on my break anymore, that’s the thing.

Did you wear an apron? Harry: Oh yeah, I wore a white polo shirt and a maroon apron with white stripes. “What would you like? 78 pence, thank you very much.”

Were you behind the counter? Harry: Yeah, I was behind the counter. It was good. It was Saturday morning, I started at five and finished at four in the afternoon and got like 30 quid, it was a joke.

Niall, did you have a job? Niall: No, never.

So this is your first job. Niall: Yeah, not bad at all. I was chilling, I was being a kid.

Harry: I had a paper route before that. It gave me a bad back, bad posture. It was a heavy bag.

I interviewed some fans downstairs, and asked if they knew who you were six months ago, and they all said yes, and a year ago…They were all early adopters, heard you from the Internet, watched X Factor on YouTube… Harry: It’s the internet. People have friends over here that might tell their friends and look on YouTube and show their friends. It’s insane how it’s blown up. We’ve had the opportunity to come over to America and do shows, and release our music over here, which is amazing. Through the power of social media, we already had a bit of a following before we’d ever been over here, we hadn’t done any shows. We had some fans out here, which was amazing, but weird, really strange. I don’t know, it’s gone crazy. We don’t really see loads of it. We do the shows, then we’re in hotels, then we fly somewhere else. We don’t see massive amounts of it, we just go with it. This whole thing has gone on, and it’s sick.

Do you ever feel anxious through all this? Harry: Yeah, I think, obviously, just naturally, you think about what’s going to happen in the future. We’re 18, 19, 20 years old, we’re young. I wouldn’t say anxious, we’re just excited most of the time, and having so much fun, that if stuff were to finish and you were to look back on your time and all you did the whole time throughout this amazing stuff was shitting yourself about what’s going to happen next, then it would just be…I think you have to enjoy it while it’s going on. I think you should be wary about the future, but not worrying about it all the time. We still enjoy it and have fun, but obviously, you do think, “What am I going to be doing in 20 years, 30 year?” I’ll have kids by then.

Harry, I saw a tabloid with pictures of everyone smiling, and you were looking thoughtful. Do you get down sometimes? While everyone else is having fun, do you start drifting off? Harry: No, I think I’m naturally…not everyone is happy all of the time. I think you always have times when…like when you’ve just landed off a really long flight or miss home or something. They got a picture of me where I wasn’t smiling. I usually smile, but they got one where I wasn’t smiling and used that, and then said I wasn’t happy. They did that for a few days, that’s when we were in L.A. last time. It goes with the morbid voice.

Ringo would say, “It’s just me face.” Niall: “Who’s that little old man?” [quoting Hard Day’s Night]

Harry: “That’s Paul’s grandfather. He’s very clean.”

Sometimes you can drift off, that’s just your thing. Harry: [laughs] I’m just soulful, man, I try.

Harry, do you mind when you’re singled out for attention? Harry: I don’t know. I don’t really…I don’t know. We’re a band. Everything we do is together. I don’t take much notice of it.

So you’re not the Justin. Harry: No.

Niall: J.C. was popular, too, wasn’t he?

It’s not like that for you guys. Harry: Not at all.

There was an imbalance in that group. Harry: I think we find it important that people get to know all of our individual personalities, because…

Niall: I think that’s what’s good about it, people see us as individuals as well as a band, we all have our own personality, and we all give something to a band. Previous bands, they go around and can never explain themselves, they can explain the band, but as individuals, what we bring to the band and stuff…

Harry: We all know that we all have our roles, and we all know that without one of us, it wouldn’t work.

[lailoken]

“Ash (Fraxinus excelsior).

In the nineteenth century it was believed that if ash trees failed to produce fruit — keys — disaster was foretold.

In Yorkshire:

Some people every summer examined the ash tree . . . to see whether or not they had produced any seed; for the barrenness of the ash was said to be a sure sign of public calamity. It was a tradition among aged and thoughtful men, that the ash trees of England produced no seed during the year in which Charles the First was beheaded. [Jackson, 1873: 14]

In East Anglia:

The failure of the Crop of Ash-keys portends a death in the Royal Family . . . The failure in question is certainly, in some seasons, very remarkable; many an old woman believes that, if she were the fortunate finder of a bunch, and could get introduced to the king, he would give her a great deal of money for it. [Forby, 1830: 406]

ROWAN Or mountain ash, an unrelated tree which has leaves similar to those of ash, was widely considered to provide protection. Occasionally ash itself was also believed to be protective.

Rowan and ash sticks were used to drive cattle . . . believed to be 'kindly' and both trees were believed to be endowed with properties that ensured no interference from harmful influences. [Larne, Co. Antrim, October 1993]

In rural areas 'even' ash leaves-those leaves which lack a terminal leaflet and therefore have an even number of leaflets-were used in love DIVINATION. In Dorset:

The ash leaf is frequently invoked by young girls as a matrimonial oracle in the following way: The girl who wishes to divine who her future lover or husband is to be plucks an even ash leaf, and holding it in her hand, says:

“The even ash leaf in my hand, The first I meet shall be my man.’

Then putting it into her glove, adds:

‘The even ash leaf in my glove, The first I meet shall be my love.'

And lastly, into her bosom, saying:

‘The even ash leaf in my bosom, The first I meet shall be my husband.'

Soon after which the future lover or husband will be sure to make his appearance. [Udal, 1922: 254]

According to a 52-year-old woman who described how she used ash leaves for divination during her childhood:

Start at the bottom leaflet on the left-hand side and say:

“An even ash is in my hand

The first I meet will be my man.

If he don't speak and I don't speak,

This even ash I will not keep.”

As each word is said, count a leaflet around the leaf until the rhyme is completed (this probably entails going round the leaf several times). When the rhyme is finished, continue by reciting the alphabet until the bottom right-hand leaflet is reached. The letter given to this leaflet gives the initial of your boyfriend. Two or three leaves may be used so that you get a greater range of letters. [Thorncombe, Dorset, June 1976]

In many parts of northern Britain ash was known as esh. In north Lincolnshire:

There is a widespread opinion that if a man takes a newly-cut 'esh-plant' not thicker than his thumb, he may lawfully beat his wife with it. [Britten and Holland, 1886: 170]

Burning the ashen faggot — a faggot made from young ash saplings — was a widespread Christmastide custom in Devon and Somerset during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. According to a late nineteenth-century writer, it was:

an ancient ceremony transmitted to us from the Scandinavians who at their feast of Juul were accustomed to kindle huge bonfires in honour of Thor. The faggot is composed of ashen sticks, hooped round with bands of the same tree, nine in number. When placed on the fire, fun and jollity commence-master and servant are now all at equal footing. Sports begin-jumping in sacks, diving in the water for APPLES, and many other innocent games engage the attention of the rustics. Every time the bands crack by reason of the heat of the fire, all present are supposed to drink liberally of cider or egg-hot, a mixture of cider, eggs, etc. The reason why ash is selected in preference to any other timber is that tradition assigns it as the wood with which Our Lady kindled a fire in order to wash her new-born Son. [Poole, 1877: 6]

Ashen faggots are still burnt in a few West Country pubs, and miniature faggots are occasionally prepared for burning on domestic hearths.

On the evening of January sth ('old' Christmas Eve) at Curry Rivel, a Somerset village situated on the southern edge of Kings Sedgemoor, the wassailers go visiting' around the parish with their wassail song and the ashen faggot is ceremoniously burned at the King William IV public house. The faggot is made from young ash saplings and bound with bonds ('fonds,' 'fronds,' 'thongs,' or 'bonds') of withies (osiers); bramble has been used occasionally in the past. The number of bonds is variable but since the bursting of any one during the burning is a signal to ʻdrink up,' decency and country logic demands a 'reasonable few'. Either five or six are normally used. At the appropriate moment the faggot is placed on the fire, traditionally by the oldest customer-one villager can recall the fag- got being brought in a wheelbarrow as was 'right and proper'-and as each bond bursts there is much cheering and a general clamour for drink. The landlord, Mr John Cousins, prepares a bowl of hot punch for the occasion to augment the barrel of beer usually provided by the house Brewery. Until quite recently cider was consumed in large quantities; the 'brew' of cider and perry donated by the (Langs) Hambridge Brewery in 1957 is particularly remembered. [Willey, 1983: 40]

In the first half of the nineteenth century:

Some towns in Somerset held 'Ashen Faggot Balls'. The one in Taunton on January 2nd, 1826 was 'most respectably attended by the principal families of the town and neighbourhood'. It was still held twenty years later, but by then the event was losing its appeal. [Legg, 1986: 54]

In some parts of southern England ash twigs were carried by children on ASH WEDNESDAY.

In villages around Alton in Hampshire, and as far away as East Meon, near Petersfield, at Crowborough in Sussex, and doubtless in other places, children pick a black-budded twig of ash and put it in their pocket on this day. A child who does not remember to bring a piece of ash to school on Ash Wednesday can expect to have his feet trodden on by every child who possesses a twig, unless, that is, he or she is lucky enough to escape until midday. [Opie, 1959: 240]

I was born and lived as a child in Crowborough . . . On Ash Wednesday it was always the custom to take a piece of the [ash] tree around with you. The piece had to have a black bud, without it it was void. If you were unable to produce the piece when asked the rest of the children could stamp on your toes. I remember one day whan I was playing about with it in school and was told to take it to the front and leave it in the waste- paper basket-and all the way back to the seat had to dodge the stamps! Ever prudent I had another piece for play time! This all stopped at 12 mid-day. [Pershore, Worcester shire, October 1991]

[At Heston, Middlesex, in the 1930s] on Ash Wednesday we all took a twig of ash tree to school and produced it when challenged or risked a kick-and we had to get rid of it at 12 noon. We even risked the wrath of the teacher by rushing to an open window to throw out our twigs as soon as the mid-day dinner bell rang. [St Ervan, Cornwall, February 1992]

A widespread cure for HERNIA involved passing the patient through a split ash sapling, preferably one which had grown naturally from seed and had not previously been damaged by man. The tree was then tightly bound up and as it grew together so the patient would be healed. A full description provided in 1878 by the wife of a Sussex clergyman demonstrates how this cure, which required communal cooperation, was considered to be quite normal:

A child so afflicted must be passed nine times every morning on nine suc- cessive days at sunrise through a cleft in a sapling ash tree, which has been so far given up by the owner of it to the parents of the child as that there is an understanding that it shall not be cut down during the life of the infant that is passed through it. The sapling must be sound of heart, and the cleft must be made with an axe. The child, on being carried to the tree, must be attended by nine persons, each of whom must pass it through the cleft from west to east. On the ninth morning the solemn ceremony is concluded by binding the tree tightly with a cord, and it is supposed that as the cleft closes the health of the child will improve. In the neighbourhood of Petworth some cleft ashes may be seen, through which children have very recently been passed. I may add that only a few weeks since, a person who lately purchased an ash-tree standing in this parish, intended to cut it down, was told by the father of the child who had some time before passed through it, that the infirmity would be sure to return upon his son if it were felled. Whereupon the good man said, he knew such would be the case; and therefore he would not fell it for the world. [Latham, 1878: 40]

Similarly:

A remarkable instance of the extraordinary superstition which still prevails in the rural districts of Somerset has lately come to light at Athelney. It appears that a child was recently born in the neighbourhood with a physical ailment, and the neighbours persuaded the parents to resort to a very novel method of charming away the complaint. A sapling ash was split down the centre, and wedges were inserted so as to afford an opening sufficient for the child's body to pass through without touching either side of the tree. This having been done, the child was undressed, and, with its face held heavenward, it was drawn through the sapling in strict accord- ance with the superstition. Afterwards the child was dressed and simul- taneously the tree was bound up. The belief of those who took part in this strange ceremony is that if the tree grows the child will grow out of its bodily ills. The affair took place at the rising of the sun on a recent Sunday morning, in the presence of the child's parents, several of the neighbours, and the parish police-constable. [Bath and Wells Diocesan Magazine, 1886: 178]

An example ofan ash thus used can be seen in the Somerset Rural Life Museum at Glastonbury. A similar practice could be used to overcome IMPOTENCE.

In Wales the similar ritual was to split a young ash or HAZEL stem and hold it just fastened at the top. This made a symbolic vulva into which the impotent male introduced his recalcitrant organ. Binding up the tree again enabled it to heal, during which the impotence faded. [Richards, 1979: 13]

In Cheshire a cure for WARTS

was to steal a piece of bacon and push it under a piece of ash-bark. Excrescences would then appear on the tree; as they grew, the warts would van- ish. [Hole, 1937: 12]

In Wiltshire sufferers seeking a cure from NEURALGIA were advised:

Cut off a piece of each finger and toe nail and a piece off your hair. Get up on the next Sunday morning before sunrise and with a gimlet bore a hole in the first maiden ash you come across and put the nails and hair in; then plug the hole up. [Whitlock, 1976: 167]

In many areas 'shrew-ashes' were used to cure lameness in cattle and other illnesses. In a letter dated 8 January 1776, Gilbert White of Selborne, Hampshire, wrote:

A shrew-ash is an ash whose twigs or branches, when gently applied to the limbs of cattle, will immediately relieve the pains which a beast suffers from the running of a shrew-mouse over the part affected . . . Against this accident, to which they were continually liable, our provident fore- fathers always kept a shrew-ash at hand, which, once medicated, would maintain its virtue for ever. A shew-ash was made thus:- Into the body of the tree a deep hole was bored with an auger, and a poor devoted shrew- mouse was thrust in alive, and plugged in, no doubt, with several quaint incantations long since forgotten. [White, 1822, I: 344]

In the nineteenth century a particularly well-known shrew-ash in Richmond Park, Surrey. According to the park-keepers' tradition ʻgood Queen Bess had lurked under its shade to shoot deer as they were driven past’ [Ffennell, 1898: 333]. This tree was closely observed by Sir Richard Owen (1804-92), first director of the Natural History Museum in London, who lived near the tree, at Sheen Lodge, from grew 1852.

Either the year he came to live in the park or the year after . . . he first encountered a young mother with a sick child accompanied by 'an old dame', 'a shrew-mother', or, as he generally called her a 'witch-mother'. They were going straight for the tree; but when they saw him, they turned off in quite another direction till they supposed he was out of sight. He, however, struck by their sudden avoidance of him, watched them from a distance, saw them return to the tree, where they remained some little time, as if busily engaged with it; then they went away. He was too far off to hear anything said, but heard the sounds of voices in unison on other occasions. He heard afterwards from the keeper of Sheen Gate... that mothers with 'bewitched' infants, or with young children afficted with WHOOPING COUGH, decline, and other ailments, often came, some- times from long distances, to this tree. It was necessary that they should arrive before sunrise . . . Many children were said to be cured at the tree. The greatest secrecy was always observed when visiting. This was re- spected by Sir Richard Owen, who, whenever he saw a group advanc- ing towards it, moved away, and was always anxious that they should not be disturbed. He could not tell me in what year he last saw a group approach the tree to seek its aid. He could only say he had seen them often, and thought they continued to come for many years. [Ffennell, 1898: 334]

During a recent survey [of Richmond Park] the site of the old shrew ash was identified. This proved to be . . . the spot where an ancient ash still stood in 1987. A sucker from its roots was still alive, although the tree itself was passé. The storm of autumn brought the trunk down. A railing has now been erected around the remains, which are to be left in the ground, and a young ash is to be planted alongside the stump. Presumably it will eventually replace the old tree, but it means that the site at least will remain identifiable. [Kew, Surrey, February 1994]

There uses included curing EARACHE, RINGWORM, and SNAKE BITES.

The sap of a young ash sapling was used to cure earache. A sapling was cut and put into a fire so that when the stick started to burn the sap came out the end and was caught on a spoon. This could be put on cotton wool and put into the ear. [Daingean, Co. Offaly, January 1985]

Ringworm was more common in my childhood . . . a remedy resorted to was to burn ash twigs in a tin box or similar container and allow the smoke from the smouldering twigs to envelop the affected part—usually arms, neck or face. [Larne, Co. Antrim, October 1993]

Ash leaves are used to combat viper bites. When an animal has been bitten farmers boil ash leaves and give the animal the resulting liquid and place the boiled leaves as a poultice on the bite. Works on people too! [Dorchester, Dorset, February 1992]

Ash sticks were used as weapons.

The Joyces are tinkers . . . they are wary and row among themselves. They do have some fierce fights in which the women join in. When they have each others heads well cut with ash plants they settle down and are as friendly as ever. [IFCSS MSS 750: 242, Co. Longford]

Stories relating to Ireland's past tell of fair-day brawls where ash plants were used and blood flowed freely. [Ballymote, Co. Sligo, May 1994]”

—

The Oxford Dictionary of Plant-Lore

by Roy Vickery