#going into the England World books and there's only TWO of them. not even three anymore

[hussyknee]

I finished all the Will Darling books and want to cry. I NEED MORE OF THESE CHARACTERS. I need more Charm Of Magpies. I need more Sins Of Cities and Lillywhite Boys. I need more Society Of Gentlemen. I NEED 75 BOOKS OF EACH OF KJ CHARLES'S SERIES. IT'S LIKE DEVELOPING A DIFFERENT DRUG ADDICTION EACH TIME KNOWING YOU'RE GONNA GET CUT OFF

[justrainandcoffee]

“Good Morning” (Tom Hardy x fem!oc)

Part 1 of the series: “Only for tonight”

Summary: It's 2012 when Hannah received a call from an important executive to work with them. She's a great musician only until that moment she didn't have the chance to really show her natural talent. The BBC offered her the opportunity to finally do it and at the same time the opportunity to meet him. || Three years later, everything is very different. Two different realities linked by the same phrase: “good morning.”

Warnings: None. Although there's some angst towards the end. || This is pure fiction. All names are made up except his. Even in future chapters all filmography named here was invented. || The story is divided in past (2012) and present (2015)

Words: 2.7 k. || Remember that English isn't my first language. Please, consider leave a comment or reblog considering this is the first time i post this and still don't know what I'm doing 👉👈🥺.

Three years ago.

Hannah Murphy was born in London a morning in middle of May. His father was architect, her mother owner of a several beauty centres and her eldest brother was a neurosurgeon now working in Boston, United States.

Big things were expected from Hannah. Maybe being a doctor like Eric, her brother, or having a PhD in Economics like one if her cousins because first and foremost, the Murphys were successful people. Her grandfather, Mr. Andrew Murphy, was the one who designed the building for one of the most important corporations that existed nowadays in England. So, considering that everyone had their eyes on her, even as kid. But Hannah W. Murphy wasn't born with numbers and theories in her veins, she was born with music.

"You're wasting your life," her mother said when she was 10 and her father accepted to take her to a conservatory of music to learn to play piano. "Look at Eric, he's reading books that are for advanced students! And you're nothing compared to him, Hannah. Music! What kind of shit is that?"

But Hannah knew, even when she was 10, that music it was going to be her life. And she was right.

"Your daughter has a gift," one of her teachers said not longer after she started to study there.

But Greta Murphy, her mother, insisted on study something that could give her a name in the future and her brother thought the same as her. The only one who supported her was her father, Andrew Murphy jr, who was also the only one who went to her first solo in a theatre when she was 15.

Hannah was 16 when one of her plays, composed by herself, was part of a local play. Small, but it gave her some money and the hopes that her dreams could be possible.

Yet, when she finishes school, to stop hearing her mother for once, she decided to study engineering.  During those years, she didn't stop writing music but she just kept it to herself.

At the age of 23, she finished her career and threw the diploma in front of her Great. Hannah never worked as engineer.

Teaching kids and offering her music to different people who was interested in her talent, she was able to earn enough money to rent her own apartment and lm have her the freedom she was craving for.

Seven years later Hannah Murphy, 30 years old, was about to face the biggest change of her whole life.

She was walking Solomon, her black staffy and the most brainless dog in the whole world, when her phone on her pocket started to vibrate. It was an unknown number but she answered anyway.

"Hannah speaking."

"Ms. Murphy?" A female voice on the other side of the line made her stop walking.

"Yes?"

"Good morning, Miss Murphy I'm calling you in name of Mr. Henry Atwood, he wants to have an appointment with you, miss Murphy."

The first Henry Atwood that crossed her mind was the director and executive producer the BBC had and the brain of one of her favourite tv shows the last years. But the idea of someone calling her and saying that  that Henry Atwood wanted to see her was ridiculous.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. Who's Henry Atwood? and how did you get my number?"

"Mr. Atwood, the tv producer," by her voice tone, Hannah believed that the girl considered her stupid. "I'm his secretary and I got your number because he asked for it to one of the directors you worked with."

"Scott?"

"Mr. Scott, yes"

If it wasn't because she was in middle of a park, Hannah could've screamed.

Travis Scott was a director working on a play and he asked her to help his team with the music. Finally after several failed meetings she ended up working alone and the final result in Travis's words was "the best fucking thing he ever heard."

That was four months ago but she didn't know that he knew Atwood and even less than he was going to receive a call from him. Or his secretary to be more specific.

"Ms. Murphy?"

"I'm sorry I'm trying to understand what's happening… I- the answer is yes! If he wants, yes of course I can. I just need to know when."

"Great. I'll make an appointment, then."

.

Two days later a very nervous Hannah was waiting for Atwood in the waiting room. It was perfectly tidy, with magazines on the glass table, some flyers prompting the movies and TV shows to come and some from previous months. The tiles shone reflecting the lamps on the ceiling.

Hannah felt stupidly nervous. Most people there arranged things thanks to secretaries or managers but she didn't have any of those. She had a dog without brain cells and she was sure Solomon didn't know how to talk. Although she did know that the staffy was the best to calm her and right now she needed his comfort.

Hannah would remember that day for the rest of her life. It was 20th of June, 11:30 am and it was a  guy talking about the European football league on the radio sounding in the background when he saw him for the first time. He was wearing a white shirt and jeans. He'd have been any other man but he wasn't.

"Good morning," Tom said to her who was sitting in the chair next to the office's door, so still that she wasn't sure that was even blinking.

"Good morning," she managed to say.

Don't be awkward.

Tom smiled before walking towards the elevator "call me, okay?" he said to the other man.

"I will."

Both him and Hannah look at Tom go. "Quite a character," he said. "You are Hannah, right? I'm Henry Atwood."

Hannah was still seeing the corridor where he disappeared from their sight and Atwood couldn't help but chuckle.

"Tom Hardy," she said "It was him?"

"Yeah, it was him. We hired him for future our project. And I have an offer for you, too, But please first, come in."

Hannah called Betty, her best friend, as soon as she left the building like if everything was a dream. All was so surreal that she needed something to drink and to eat to process what just happened. Both women went to a pub, ordered beer and fish and chips.

"The main theme?" Betty asked. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No, I'm not!"

"Oh, my god! Your mother is going to freak out and probably pass out. Imagine her telling her friends about this."

"She's going to say that the BBC isn't Hollywood and no one outside England is going to see it. And probably she's going to say that the music is horrible."

"She doesn't know a shit about music."

"But she does know how to destroy people. Believe me, I know."

"Then fuck her. Don't tell her a word, better that way."

"I won't."

"But you already signed the papers?"

"No. I mean I said yes, but I need to make it official. I'm going to read it tonight and then sign them. Fuck me, I can't believe it."

Betty smiled at her Hannah couldn't help but imitate her. That was a good day.

Good morning.

Hannah was very tempted to say to her about her seeing Tom inside the building, but suddenly she felt really silly.  What she was going to say? Do you know I saw Tom Hardy today and he said good morning to me? Besides, it was something so random and something that Hannah believed that wasn't going to happen again that she felt unnecessary to say it.

Next week, Hannah returned to the BBC building with the papers signed and her hopes higher than ever before. Hannah was happy and it was good. Not long ago she ended a relationship that left her with debts, without her motorbike but with Solomon. The only good thing the bastard did was abandoning the dog in her house. Solomon was just an eight-month puppy, playful and sweet, but according to his ex, he was just a waste of money. As if he himself wasn't a waste of money and oxygen.

So these unexpected good news was exactly what she needed. And her first salary was more than welcome.

"There's a meeting this Friday. The whole team," Henry Atwood said. "Including you."

"Including me? But I have nothing to do with the cast."

"That's the point. It's not just the cast. There are always new ideas to add or to erase from the plot, suggestions, new plans. Etc… maybe you can create something even more great if you know what it's this about. Can you come?"

"Yes, I'm free, so… yes!"

"Good then!" Henry offered her a big smile and his hand to shake it "Welcome aboard, Hannah."

Hannah preferred to be one of the firsts to arrive there instead of being there late. It was her first meeting and officially it was also her first day at work. It'd be considered rude to be there late. Not to mention that the idea of people looking at her was something she wasn't used to. Not without her piano as shell, at least.

The meeting office was big and chairs and tables were in a circle so everyone could look at the rest.

Hannah couldn't help but felt nervous. The idea of working for them suddenly hit her in her face with fury.  On her first day at work, she had to leave the office and find an empty place to calm herself. She felt sick and she was hyperventilating. Her mother's voice in her head didn't help at all "You're going to fail, because you're a failure."

"Look at your brother, head of the surgeon committee of Boston."

"Your music is quite mediocre."

"Shut up! Shut up!" she said to herself resting her forehead on the cold window that was in that corridor. The last thing she needed that special day was her mother and her awful vibes with her. "Please, go away."

Hannah closed her eyes and tried to think about good things. Her dog, her best friend, her piano… she imagined herself sitting in front of it and tried to breathe normally again.

"Are you okay?" A male voice brought her again to reality.

Hannah gasped and back off surprised by the unexpected company.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry," he said.

It took Hannah few seconds to recognise that Tom was in front of her, but when she did it, she rushed to reply. "Yes, yes. I- uhm, I was nervous and I felt anxious. I needed to clean my mind. It happens, from time to time."

"Are you sure?"

Hannah nodded as Tom walked to the water dispenser and offered seconds later a glass of water.

"Thanks," she said smiling briefly.

People tend to see celebrities as deities, not humans. Because of course they're people but also, they're beyond of what could be considered approachable. Not everyone could be near one. And suddenly Hannah was few inches away from a famous actor that seemed to be concerned about her. Like, indeed, any good person in the world could be worried about another. Famous or not.

"I started today," Hannah said "I think my brain felt I couldn't do it."

"It's normal, a new job make everyone feel nervous. You'll be fine. You'll see. What's your name?"

"Hannah Murphy."

"The composer," Tom said. His voice denoted surprised and he smiled at her "Henry talked a lot about you. You're a little celebrity here."

"Oh, please, no! I'm just- I'm not. I Just play the piano."

"It seems to me that more than that. Were you in the meeting?"

"I tried to be there before feeling sick."

"Come on, Hannah. They'll love you, don't worry about it."

Tom smiled at her again and something in his reassuring made her feel better. Together they entered in the meeting room.

___

Now. Three years later.

The apartment was still dark, the windows were closed despite the morning was a reality. She could hear the cars, people… even birds. Everything was the proof that outside those walls nothing changed.

Hannah didn't sleep in the whole night in that bed  that now semeed to be awfully big for her. The empty spot.

She didn't want to cry again, but new tears appeared in her eyes.

Where was her morning kiss on her shoulder? The beard tickling her skin? The "let's stay five more minutes"? His morning coffee, too strong for her taste, but whose smell was synonymous with the beginning of a new day?

It's not like Hannah didn't break up with another person before… but never before everything hurt that way.

Tap tap tap.

Solomon was wagging his tail against the wooden floor because he saw her moving in bed. Against all odds, she smiled briefly. She pat the mattress and the dog didn't waste time to jump and snuggle with her in a single motion. His big head was now on her chest and she caressed it with her hand.

"You're hungry, aren't you?"

The animal looked at her. He didn't know anything about broken hearts, empty beds and tears. But he could feel her sadness. He'd wait for his breakfast until she felt better. Solomon settled closer to her.

It was 10am when she finally decided to go out of bed. The sun was shining, the city was indeed awake long time ago. Looking through the window she'd say that everything was the same. Only it wasn't.

Her phone was full of messages from her family and friends. Especially Betty. But Hananh didn't have the energy to deal with them, especially not her mother that for sure was ready to say that she was nothing but a disgrace, not even smart enough to keep a relationship with the best man she ever found. And for the first time in her life, Hannah hated the feeling that her mother was right.

She sat on her couch with a cappuccino mug in her hands and some toasts on a plate. On a chair on the opposite side of the living room still was one of his T-shirts, one that she stole from his wardrobe and ended its days as her pyjamas. She didn't use it for a while and she didn't want to touch it now, afraid that it'd smell like him.

The memories of the previous night overwhelmed her. It was her fault, she knew. For being too weak. Her mother was right, she wasn't like the rest of them, never was.

The sound of a new message caught her attention. She didn't need to see who it was. That was his ringtone, she personalized it long time ago.

Hannah took her phone and read the message.

[Can we talk? Ily]

Hannah pictured Tom in his house with his own dog next to him. His phone next to his nose because probably his glasses were somewhere where he couldn't find them.

She ruined it.

She received a new message from him.

[Pooh, let's talk]

Hannah broke into new tears when she read her nickname. No one before him ever called her Pooh. And everything started the moment he knew her second name was Winifred. Winnie. Hannah hated the name and she always used just the W, as reference for it. But with Tom, Hannah learnt to love her second name, even before dating. Or maybe it was because it was him.

Hannah called Tom.

He answered before the second ring, for a moment no one talked until he did "Good morning, Pooh."

[alittlebitofsainz]

a place in this world (carlos’ version)

Chapter 2: Enchanted

an invite to dinner with team 55, a weekend where your driver doesn’t even start the race, a late night hotel room visit to lift both your spirits. life is a rollercoaster, as they say.

pairing: carlos sainz x f!reader, slow burn colleagues to friends to lovers, angst/comfort if you squint

warnings: the usual swearing

a/n: yes I know the sainz family would probably never rent a holiday villa on villaplus dot com, I just needed a quick link to fit the texts in the story

masterlist | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

13th August, 2020

three days to the Spanish GP

two weeks. that’s how long it had been since carlos sainz had last texted your number. well, one week and six days. not that you were counting, or anything.

you’d seen him in between, of course, for the 70th anniversary grand prix at silverstone, and this weekend for the spanish gp, which had gone markedly better than the two in the uk. he’d scoffed when he’d seen his name in your phone: cs55? is that all I am to you, a pair of initials and a number? it had been playful, of course, but you wondered whether there was a part of him that had been genuinely hurt - you could swear you’d heard it in his voice. but then it was your turn: y/n engineer? what, in case you mix me up with other other y/ns you know? and that was how you’d ended up changing each others contact names (and, of course, carlos had insisted on taking a photo of you to add to your contact details, and you felt obliged to reciprocate, so now you were greeted with his goofy, lop sided smile every time you opened your messages app. a fact you weren’t exactly mad about).

you weren’t exactly mad about the message which confronted you right now, either - surprised, confused and once again intrigued were more appropriate words that sprung to mind. your mind was going into overdrive. dinner? with carlos? like, out in public? surely the rumour mill would go absolutely mental: carlos sainz spotted with mysterious brunette at restaurant in barcelona. but if he seemed to think it was a good idea…

one week and six days, that’s how long it had been since carlos sainz had felt that feeling of relief, of letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, when she texted him back.

as he’d reread his text over and over after sending it, he realised that it very much sounded like he was asking her on a date, god forbid. In reality, he was going out with a group of mates from his team at mclaren, and seeing as she’d mentioned that she’d never been to barcelona before, he’d only wondered if she’d wanted to join them so she could see some of the city. he was starting to wonder whether perhaps he should’ve lead with that fact.

but it hadn’t seemed to have phased her, thank god, although carlos would’ve given a pretty penny to know what was going through her head right now. in fact, he seemed to wish to know what was going on inside her head most days recently, her paradox being that she seemed so straightforward yet complex at the same time. how could a girl who was such an open book still be such a mystery to him?

a group meal. of course. of course! that made so much more sense, a thousand times more sense in fact. why had your mind immediately leapt to some weird, intimate, romantic dinner date with carlos when the obvious explanation was staring you right in the face? do you want to come for dinner with me and the team, seeing as you are in fact part of the team was so much more normal than hey, I’ve known you for five months and I’m a world famous, very wealthy formula one driver, would you, a regular degular race engineer from the south east of england, like to go on a date with me? yeah, no, you’d been a grade a idiot for that one. was there a small part of you that was disappointed? you decided that now was not the time to overanalyse your own feelings; now was the time to find an outfit.

carlos couldn’t hide the grin on his face, all the way to the restaurant. it only started to falter when they arrived bang on 8 o’clock, and then waited, 8:04, and waited, 8:07 and waited, 8:11. it reappeared again when she rounded the corner, slightly flustered and breathless.

“god, I’m so sorry, I got lost.” she apologised with a deep inhale, trying to get her breath back. carlos shook his head and chuckled, the sound low in his throat.

“don’t worry about it. we haven’t been waiting long.” he reassured her. it almost surprised him; usually he would take any opportunity to tease her, especially for being late like she so always was. But there was something about the way her cheeks were flushed that shade of red that gave away that she’d been rushing, and the way her eyes flicked nervously, apologetically, from person to person, that made him feel almost guilty. and when she offered him the warmest, sweetest, most grateful smile he thought he’d ever seen, carlos’ face lit up like a christmas tree.

he pulled her seat out for her when they reached their table, making sure to choose one next to him. an expression crossed her face as she whispered a ‘thank you’ that carlos had never seen before from her - was she nervous? shy? he couldnt put a finger on it. perhaps it was the fact that she didn’t know the rest of the people at the table that well - yes, that must be it. so why, when he knew everyone at this table, and very well he might add, was he feeling the exact same way?

“woah, this place is gorgeous.” 

a marbled kitchen adorned your phone screen, and you swiped to the next photo to see a similarly tiled, much smaller room. wow, even the bathroom was fancy.

“and you go here every year?” you continued, swiping again and again to reveal several photos of the master bedroom, all from different angles. you and carlos had been discussing family holidays whilst you all waited for your plates to be cleared, and he’d decided to show you, rather than tell you, about the holiday villa that he and his family often frequented on the costa blanca.

“not every year. as often as we can get out there, though.”

his breath tickled your neck as he leaned over your shoulder to watch as you continued to flick through the photos, the glistening aquamarine pool so large it took up the whole screen, the pale blue glow reflecting on your face. you both leaned back for a moment to allow the waitress to clear the empty dinner plates, before returning your attention to your phone. there was a loud laugh from down the other end of the table, clearly a hilarious conversation was happening between the rest of the group - you both seemed oblivious to it.

“well, it’s no costa blanca, but we love it there.”

carlos’ eyes crinkled at the edges as he grinned, now swiping through pictures on his phone. he let out a chuckle at her comment, as he swiped to reveal the kitchen, a tiny little alcove with slightly dated wooden cupboards and curtains on the windows that were covered in pictures of farm animals.

“where did you say it was again?” carlos asked, fingers swiping again, this time showing a picture of the dining area. his eyes were focused on the french doors at the back of the room, leading out to a patio and a small garden, but beyond that was absolute nothingness - just trees and open sky as far as the eye could see.

“north yorkshire. it’s like, five hours north of london.” she explained, knowing that london was really the only point of reference carlos had when it came to england. she reached out a finger, swiping on his phone to reveal the next picture.

“and that-“ she pointed to a railway line, a large, old fashioned steam train in the process of chugging up the hill, frozen in time by the image. “- is why we go there.”

“and that’s right outside the cottage?”

“and that’s right outside the cottage.” she repeated back to him, an almost proud smile on her face. it was the little things that made her smile. 

“that’s really cool.” carlos replied, almost surprising himself by how genuinely he meant that. since when had he been impressed by a tiny two bed cottage in the countryside, with nothing around but trees, hills and a steam train? but when her eyes lit up, her face cracking into a grin, he understood what had changed.

“really?” she asked, the same hint of surprise lacing her voice.

“really.” he replied, glancing up to meet her eyes. “I never got to explore much of the english countryside, and now I’m moving to italy I guess I probably won’t be able to.”

“I always saw you as more of a city guy.” she picked up her wine glass by the stem as she spoke, giving it a small swirl before tipping the wine glass back and taking a final sip, finishing the drink. carlos mirrored her, considering his reply.

“I don’t think I could live in the country.” he explained, “but it’s a nice escape from everything.”

“yeah,” she set her wine glass back down, a small, imperceptible sigh escaping her lips, “I know exactly what you mean.”

30th August 2020, Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

Belgian Grand Prix, DNS

you stared into the mirror on the wall of the bathroom you were getting changed in, and found your scowling face staring back at you. in the past four races, your driver had had rotten luck in three of them, and you could tell how frustrating it was getting for him, and you.

which was why you were surprised when you took out your phone from your pocket and read his message. you were sure he’d leave as soon as he could, which was half the reason you’d disappeared off to the bathrooms to get changed out of your overalls and into a pair of jeans, grand ideas of heading back to the hotel and catching the latest episode of love island going round in your head.

but carlos was staying? you loathed him for it - you now felt you ought to stay too, pulling your top on over your head and combing through your hair in the mirror before grabbing your things and heading out into the corridor. but as you stalked back towards the garage, a thundercloud still hanging fairly low over your head, you realised that you also admired him for it. not everyone would stick around after failing to even start the race. heck, the majority of drivers probably couldn’t be out the door fast enough. but there was something about carlos sainz. 

she was there before he’d even had time to pull out his phone, all fake smiles and an ingenuine spring in her step. faint, fading creases around her eyebrows were the only indicators that she’d ever been frowning, ever let herself be unhappy about the situation, now being replaced with new lines from forcing her lips to curve upwards just like that. how come carlos had only known her, what, five months now, and yet he felt like he knew her so well?

“hey.” he greeted simply as she made her way over to the monitors where carlos was stood, a pair of orange headphones around her neck, the same as he had round his. as she came to stand next to him, he threw an arm round her shoulders, squeezing her into a side hug. was he imagining things, or did she lean oh-so-delicately into his touch? the next moment she was pulling away, looking him square in the eye.

“you okay?” she asked softly.

“not really, you?”

“no, not at all.”

and then they were both smiling, almost laughing, all curved lips and sparkling eyes, nothing fake or ingenuine about their expressions. how did she always manage to do that? turn such a shitty situation on its head, leave carlos smiling when all he wanted to do was crawl into a dark hole and avoid everyone for a very long time? as he looked at her, really looked at her, he was beginning to understand that maybe, just maybe, he had the same effect on her.

you’d used that phrase a few weeks ago, after the second race at silverstone, the second thirteenth place in a row, and now carlos couldn’t stop using it. you’d noticed him picking up a lot of your phrases and mannerisms recently, his friends teasing him whenever he pulled out a ‘swings and roundabouts’, or god forbid a slap on the thigh and a call of ‘right!’ to announce that it was time to leave. they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

it was several hours after the race had concluded; you were now bundled up in a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, splayed out on your bed mindlessly scrolling through instagram when his message came through. you were becoming increasingly less surprised every time carlos texted you, a level of understanding developing between you that you enjoyed each other’s company, and you wagered that you could both do with some cheering up round about now. 

it had been a bit of a long shot, carlos realised. the two of them had never hung out one on one outside of the events of the race weekend, but right now there was no one else he’d rather speak to, rather while away the hours of the evening watching all the trash tv they’d spoken about over dinner a few weeks ago. no matter how frequently he messaged her nowadays, he still always got butterflies when she texted back.

it wasn’t even five minutes before she was knocking at his door, the orange of her mclaren sweatshirt picking up the flecks of amber in her eyes, still somehow shining through even in the low light. since when had he started to take notice of things like that?

her presence lit up the room immediately, both metaphorically and physically.

“anyone would think you’re a vampire, considering how many times I’ve found you sitting alone in the dark.” she chastised as she flicked on the lamp in the corner, adding a soft warm glow to carlos’ hotel room. he chuckled.

“can you blame me?”

his tone was light, a soft smile across his lips, but there was a hint of sadness to his voice which gave him away. her own smile faltered, as she went over to join him sitting on the bed. she sat shoulder to shoulder with him, as she had done on the pitwall earlier, watching the remainder of the race in companiable silence; the warmth seemed to radiate through carlos’ body from the spot where her upper arm met his, as it had done then as well.

“no, I suppose not.”

she sighed, brushing a stray strand of hair off of her forehead. carlos turned to look at her; she appeared to be thinking before she finally spoke.

“you know, I admire what you did today.”

“what, not start the race?”

that earned him a playful bump to the shoulder and a small, musical laugh.

“no! no, I mean staying around to watch the race. not many drivers would do that in your position.” the corners of her mouth still twitched with the remnants of the way he’d made her laugh, but he could sense some sort of sincerity behind her words. he shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to shrug off the swelling sense of pride he was feeling as it sunk in: she admired him.

“I’m sure many drivers would have done the same thing. I’m not special.” he replied, feeling suddenly very humble under her gaze. she shook her head, the movement almost immediate.

“you are special.” her voice caught in her throat slightly at the first word, causing the other two to come out quietly, her voice almost a whisper. if the room hadn’t been completely silent, carlos might have been able to convince himself that he hadn’t heard them, that he’d imagined it. 

they spent the rest of the evening as he’d imagined it - talking about anything and everything whilst netflix took them through episode after episode of selling sunset in the background. it was nearly midnight by the time she returned to her own room, latching her arms round his neck as she said goodnight to him with an embrace. her hair tickled his nose; he swore he could still feel it now, even when he was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, several hotel rooms separating them. her words were still going round in his head. he reckoned they probably would stay there for quite some time.

you are special. you are special. you are special.

taglist: @itsjustkhaos

message/comment if you want to be added!

[callmesel]

Am I the only one who wants like a survival game with percy as the mc?

Like, I think he would survive and do pretty good, like, I think he would win.

I don't know how to like explain it but I kkep having this mental image of Percy hiding in the forest and shooting arrows at the other contestants.

I just have a general idea of this in my head.

the wizarding world makes this game every 20 years or so, it's for entertament but it comes from a tradition of sacrifices. It's mainly in wizarding Europe and they select 5 contestant from each country as a "team" but they don't really have to play like one, they are a team for their country but can make alliances with other countries. They can team with whoever they want but the public will see it and they can see them as a traitor to their country or something. In my head, there is a floating device that follows each contestant until their death, following everything they're doing. Maybe this is a rip off of hunger games but there isn't any district nor a organization whose doing it, like, the contestants are chosen by a magic book that the bc wizarding society created, or something like that.

They cannot bring their wand but they can make their own wand inside the arena if they want. The area is like a giant forest full of creatures, becuase they also play for some reason but they are more sacrifices that willing contestants. Who are they sacrificing them for? Idk. Merlin? To keep the magic society going becuase they feed of young souls of wizards and witches?

I would like that England's team were the golden trio, but i think they deserved a break. So maybe Percy is in there with the twins and other two randoms. That would be a fun dynamic.

There is a post floating around about a survival game with just the weasley where it said that Percy would sure win and that his siblings would gang up on him so the others have a higher chance of survive. And that probably Percy would hunt one by one, except Ginny because he has a soft spot and that is why Ginny would win. If I remember correctly it also talked about each of the siblings traits but I just focused on Percy, what a suprise.

But anyway, I think that getting the twins involved in this wold be really fun, all three of them are really good at strategizing, the twins because they have to be good at planning ahead to pull those pranks and Percy because he thinks ahead of everyone and seems as someone who is alwasy prepare for anything tbh. The other teammates could be use for plot convenience, maybe they are older than any of them and are scare of death so they make agreements with other teams to not kill them and they would let them known essencial info about the other teammates or something like that of bride them with materials.

It can also use af love interesed if you want, like idk, or like someone, it doesn't matter if the weasleys or the extras and there is a conflict in the team that will make them separeted. It would be fun if the twins and Percy would be splitting and then they all regret and can't sleep knowing that they may just sentence their brother to death.

I feel that Percy would regret it faster, as it's his little brothers who we are talking about. He loves them even if they annoy him. The twins would really mind until they idk, discover that Percy got badly injured.

I also think that the twins are really handy, they have created prototypes products for their joke shop. I think that they have knowledge to make things from scratch. Percy would have a harder time but he would be find. I think he knows how to use different weapons but he hasn't really properly used them until know.

I want them to be about to win but in a last minute thing Fred gets injure and they don't get to win or something. Idk but I want someone dead and so there is a revenge saga and there is a murder spree and they win, but at what cost.

Or make just one of them win.

Either way, someone important to the winner has to die. Death makes it so much more fun.

[holdupjack]

The Captains Princess

——————

Part 2

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fem!Reader

AU: Pirate/Monarchy

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE/SEXUAL INNUENDOS

——————

Third Person P.O.V:

September 18th, 1655

Hermione Granger was part of a well-known and very respected royal family that looked after the island country that fell under Danish rule.

(A/N: I'm talking about Iceland btw, or Islandia if you want to be technical. If I read my history books correctly, which I probably didn't, then Iceland should have been under Danish rule at this point? I'm not sure, just go with it lol)

The island held a Volcano in the southwest, the land around it was now uninhabited, after a horrible tragedy ten years ago.

The mountain had suddenly come to life, spewing ash and molten rock onto the people below. Everyone at the edge of the city was able to evacuate at the time, but most were lost under the hardened rock or simply melted away.

Hermione was eleven at the time, and she remembered watching the smoke pouring over the mountains from her window.

Her mother had ushered her away, closing the window and cooping her up in the library for the entire week.

Yet, she saw what was happening at night.

The sky had gone dark, the lack of the sun and stars caused by ash as it was carried by the wind and into the main city. It covered everything like black paint, forcing everyone to cough and heave as they shoveled everything into wagons, sending it back into the outskirts of the destroyed town.

It took months, but eventually, Hermione was free to roam the city once more. Later did she learn how many of the people had died from the ash and eruption.

The number was staggering.

Now she is twenty-one, well almost, and the population had doubled in size since that day.

Her coronation was to be held tomorrow, on the day of her birth, and where she would take over the kingdom for her father and mother. It wasn't something she was excited about, but she knew it needed to be done.

In all honesty, she wanted to see the world.

She wished to explore the structures of Egypt and the booming colonies of America. Everything she had read in books and newspapers fueled her intrigue to extreme measures, but she had a job to do. Whether she wanted to do it or not.

Hermione now sat in the city garden, the smell of the Lupine flower filled her nose as royal guards stood close by.

Seagulls called over her as she heard the yelling of men and women near the docks, the shade of the Aspen Tree above her made it easier to read the newspaper in her hand.

'Virginia Blockaded By England After Declaring Allegiance To The House Of Stuart'

Hermione knew little about what went on around the world, but it still shocked her with the decisions people made.

"Come on Cap! Why did we even stop at this god-forsaken place?"

The Princess's eyes flickered up to find a group of three walking down the sidewalk nearby.

A woman around her age stood in the middle of them with a wide grin. Two tall men walked on either side of her, they seemed to be twins. One had long hair that was up in a ponytail, while the other kept it almost like a guard's military cut.

"I told you two, we need a new navigator since the last one died in the battle outside the British seas!" She replies as they made their way into one of the pubs. Hermione raised an eyebrow as the group disappeared into the building, the door shutting loudly behind them.

Her curiosity peaked, she wondered how this girl became a captain so young, and had so many questions about the lands outside of her own.

"Excuse me Princess, but we must get you back to the castle. Your mother wanted you to help pick out the last bit of details before your celebration tomorrow" A guard states as he had somehow snuck up beside her.

"Oh yes, let us be going" Hermione mumbled as she stood up and folded the newspaper under her arm. Her eyes stayed on the pub door a few moments longer before she ripped them away.

Yet, she thought back on the Captain.

Only had watched her for less than a minute, but now she seemed to hold her curiosity by the neck.

Maybe she would see her tomorrow?

It was an 'everyone invited' event after all.

——————

September 19th

Hermione sat on her father's throne, wearing a beautiful pure white dress that had originally been her grandmother's coronation dress. The Royal Tailor had taken in it for Hermione to update it to the current times of fashion.

She felt like she was getting married.

Well, she supposed she was in a sense? She was vowing her time, love, and dedication to her country.

The main hall was filled shoulder to shoulder with everyone around the land. Children, adults, and elderly alike all talked amongst each other as servers passed out food and drink.

The coronation wasn't till later in the night when they would crown her at exactly twelve, so she may begin her reign as queen immediately.

Hermione looked down at her lap and sighed softly, she felt as though her life was slipping through her fingers.

A soft whistle cut through the crowd.

She looked back at the party, no one else noticed the call for her acknowledgment, but it wasn't hard to find the whistler.

The Captain from the day before stood at the edge of the crowd, looking up at her with the same grin she wore in the street.

Instead of the normal attire that the women wore, she sported a nice white shirt and some black pants. Hermione could see the passing judgment people gave her as they walked by.

The future Queen raised an eyebrow, to which the Captain nodded her head over to the open balcony near them.

Hermione gave a small smile in return as the Captain disappeared back into the crowd. The royal stood up to follow after, but her mother walked up to her with a puzzled look on her face.

"Who were you eyeing in the crowd? A future husband?" She asks with a slight tease in her voice as Hermione chuckled at the question.

"A new friend, maybe" Hermione replies as she started to make her way into the crowd, her mother raises a brow at her retreating form.

"Getting some air?" She calls after, but Hermione was already too far by the time she did.

The music from the small string band seemed louder on the main floor as people greeted and smiled at her.

As she got to the doorway of the balcony, a guard stopped her with his arm.

"Do you know the woman that is standing out there?" He asks, as she peered out into the night, she could see the back of the Captain's head.

"Yes, and I would like to talk to them in private if you don't mind?" She replies to which he drops his arm and nodded.

He quickly opened the door for her and closed it as soon as she stepped out into the cold air.

"It's nice to finally meet you Queen Granger" the woman speaks as she turned around and smiled again.

"I'm not Queen yet, and please, call me Hermione" she replies as she stepped to the edge of the balcony and looked over the almost vacant city.

"Greetings then Hermione, my name is Captain Y/n Y/l/n. At your service, of course." the woman greets as she held out her hand for her.

Why did that name sound familiar?

Hermione watched her with a playful intrigued stare as she let her hand be taken and kissed upon by the sailor.

"What may I do for you, Captain?" Hermione asks as she felt goosebumps raise from the skin the women had pecked.

The Captain smiled again as she watched the Princess stand at the parapet with her.

(A/N: a parapet is a wall-like structure around a balcony or terrace, saved you guys a Google search.)

"Well, a little birdie told me that you're a prodigy at navigating and that you have helped map out this entire country with your expeditions," Y/n says and Hermione chuckled.

It was true, when she wasn't forced to be cooped up in the castle, Hermione was out mapping and exploring the country. She had journals upon journals in her room filled with sketches of plants, animals, and landmarks.

As you could guess, she had learned from the guardsmen how to use the stars when a compass would fail them in their endeavors

(A/N: btw, didn't know that compasses were invented so early. The first one ever recorded was in 1190. Omg we're learning so many things in this imagine, I love it.)

Her parents were always so worried about killers and thieves when she would plan a trip, but it wasn't like she wasn't being sent out with a small army with her.

"Yes, may I ask why you wanted to know?" Hermione questioned as she stared up at the beautiful night sky. Millions of stars poked through an inky abyss.

"I'll reveal that later on, but before I do, it seems you have questions to ask me" Y/n replied as she smirked at the beautiful royal.

Hermione hummed and thought for a moment, she had many questions, so she had to play her cards right.

"Are you part of a fleet? Or are you a...freelance type of Captain?" the Princess asks discreetly as she heard one of the Guards talking behind the glass door.

"Let's just say I have more fun without a boss around" Y/n replies as Hermione chuckled.

Great, she was talking to a Pirate.

"I'm surprised you haven't recognized me, I've been in the paper recently" the Captain states, causing Hermione to turn to get a better look at her.

Y/n poses as it clicks in Hermione's mind, no wonder her name sounded familiar.

"Wait, are you that Captain that stole almost half of the treasury of Venice?" she replies as Y/n began to snicker quietly as the Princess stared at her in disbelief.

"Ah don't look at me like that! We gave almost all of it back to the people!" Y/n says as she continued to grin at her, to which Hermione just chuckled in astonishment.

"Have you come to steal our treasury then? Distract me while your friends pillage us dry?" she asks with honest questioning, which caused Y/n to laugh softly at her conclusion.

"That's a smart idea, I might have to try it sometime, but no. We didn't come to steal any money from you." she replied as she turned her body toward the Princess, who didn't even look concerned at the fact that she was standing shoulder to shoulder with an enemy of many cities

"Then why did you come here?" Hermione asks as she turned herself towards her mysterious company.

Y/n's eyes travel down her body slowly, the royal felt hot for some reason, it wasn't foreign to Hermione to feel men undressing her with their eyes.

Maybe because it was a woman this time around that she felt...different.

Yet, it wasn't an uncomfortable feeling.

"My crew and I came here looking for the best navigator in this country since we're on a hit list in the other ones," Y/n says as she gazed back up into Hermione sight. The Captain's intrigue in her past time now made a lot more sense.

"Before you even ask, the answer is 'no'." Hermione states as Y/n rolled her eyes.

"Aw come on Princess, I've been watching you at this party all night, and you have been miserable!" Y/n sighs, which sort of reminded Hermione of an annoyed child trying to prove their point.

"I've made a promise to my country-"

"Not yet"

"-and my parents! I'm not going to run off with some pirate Captain that thinks of herself as a modern-day Robin Hood!" Hermione whispers with her own annoyance laced in her words.

"Who said you have to take over anyways?" Y/n asks as she stepped closer, forcing Hermione to take in the sea salt aroma she carried on her skin, which wasn't a surprise.

"No one said! I'm just doing my due diligence to my family-" she was cut off again by the captain's eye roll.

"You know what? Why am I even arguing with you? The answer is 'no'." Hermione whisper yells as she turned on her heel and went to step back into the party.

"When was the last time you did something for yourself?"

This made the Princess pause and turn back around. Her mouth fell slightly at the question that was just asked to her. She has never been talked to like this, and it ticked her off to see that Captain's face was still grinning.

"Excuse me?" She laughs out in disbelief as Y/n jumped up onto the wall around the balcony, and sat down.

"It's a fair question, you seem like you've had all the fun sucked out of you since you were little" Y/n hums as Hermione slightly tripped up on her dress, but walked up to her nonetheless.

"All have you know, I am very fun" she protests with a pointed finger as Y/n just playful smiled at her, trying to keep the conversation going between them.

Why was Hermione even trying to defend her personality from some grinning criminal pirate?

"Also, stop smiling!" She whispers as Y/n looked her over again, letting her lips fall from her toothy grin to a subtle rise of the corners of her mouth.

"I'm sorry Princess, I just find you very pretty" she admits, which caused Hermione to be struck dumbfounded.

Who just admits that after asking a Princess to join their gang of murderous pirates?

"Well, uh, thank you," Hermione says as she cleared her throat, and smoothed down the front of the dress. Her embarrassment from her outburst started to set in, she never got this upset with anyone, and she has sat down with political parties.

"But flattery won't get you anywhere" she states as Y/n picked at a loose string on her pant leg.

"Listen, my ship is docked at the east bay. I'll have one of my men holding a lantern on deck during his patrols, in case you want to visit me before your crowning." Y/n says as she jumped back into the floor and dusted off her pants, pulling out a pocket watch.

"You have two hours before you get crowned and we head off to some new land that people are calling the 'West Indies'. A friend of mine was even able to send us a map of its location, we'll get there with or without you." Y/n states as Hermione's interest seemed to skyrocket again.

"You said that you needed a navigator? Won't you get lost?" She replies as Y/n stuffs the device back in her pocket.

"I'm not just a ruthless Robin Hood Captain with a small army of society rejects, but I'm also a decent enough Wayfinder!" Y/n hums as she went to step towards the door, back into the party. Hermione quickly stopped her with a hand to the Captain's chest, she burned her eyes into Y/n's.

"You'll be lost within a day" Hermione states as Y/n leaned closer, causing their noses to bump slightly.

"Maybe, or we'll be right as rain" she replies as they stared at one another with glares that held different meanings. It's quiet between them as the people in the hall began to sing a drinking song.

"Too bad you'll be marrying yourself off to some child-like man" Y/n mumbled as she let her harden gaze drop, Hermione furrowed her brows at the statement.

A questionable time to bring that up.

"Why do you say that? Do you think you could do better?" She asks with a scoff as the Captain took her arm and began to move them to a secluded corner.

"Much better" Y/n whispers as they hide from any prying eyes in the main hall. Hermione hummed as the woman stepped even closer, their heads tilted to the side as their lips ghosted one another's.

"You say that, but you probably have a different girl in your quarters every night," the Princess says as her hands grasped Y/n's hips in an attempt to steady herself.

Hermione started to question her own intentions at this moment, trying to figure out how their argument turned so scandalous in a matter of seconds.

"I haven't been to bed with another in many voyages, but when I saw you in that garden yesterday, I knew that needed to change," Y/n admits as her body pinned Hermione to the wall behind her.

"You saw me?" Hermione asks as the sailor hummed and pressed a kiss to the corner of the royal's lips.

"My crew thinks I'm just asking you to be our navigator, but I have had my own intentions from the start," Y/n says as she left a trail of kisses down to Hermione's neck.

She should push her away, Hermione knew better than to let a random criminal kiss and nip on her skin like this, but in all honesty...she was enjoying this Captain's touch more than she would like to admit.

"Come sail by my side, be my Princess" Y/n whispers into her ear, sending a shiver down Hermione's back as goosebumps rose onto her arms and her hands gripped the woman's hips.

"I don't know you, or your intentions" Hermione replies as Y/n kissed her jaw, but she ultimately hummed in agreement.

"That's true, you don't know anything about me" she states as she backed away to look at the flushed girl, who looks as if she had dipped her face in red paint.

"But, we have a little bit of time before your crowning, so what would you like to know?" Y/n asks as she stepped away and jumped back to sit on the balcony again.

They could now be seen again by any snooping partygoers and patrolling guards.

Hermione stood up straight as she pushed down the wrinkles on her dress, and brushed away any lint or dirt she saw.

"You!...you should know better than to push yourself onto a Princess!" She whispers as Y/n's grin made its reappearance, almost teasing her to come closer and make it disappear.

Whether from a slap or a kiss, Hermione wasn't certain.

"You could have pushed me away" Y/n replies, making the young Granger pause and try to come up with a valid excuse.

"You caught me off guard"

"Mhm"

Y/n began to quietly snicker as Hermione just huffed and crossed her arms against her chest. She was making herself out to be a stupid bratty princess, and she was not.

"You know that asking someone you find pretty to join your crew and leave her country behind, isn't a very good way to ask them on a date" Hermione chuckles as she started to relax slightly, now finding her smile less irritating as time went on.

"I've never asked a woman on a date before, I use to only pay for their company when I was younger," Y/n says as she shrugged her shoulders and looked down at her dangling feet.

Hermione noted the embarrassed behavior she exhibited, almost like she was insecure that she had to pay for a woman in her bed at night.

"I understand when it comes to society on land, with their prejudices about two women being together." Hermione starts as she thought back on the people who had been run out of their city because of silly ideals.

"Yet, I thought Pirates didn't care? As long as they got their drinks, money, and partners out of it." She asks as she heard a clank of beer mugs and cheers from men inside.

"Of course, they don't care, it's just hard to date another sailing woman, especially if they are part of another ship" Y/n answers with a sigh as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You must have girls on your own crew then?" Hermione questioned as she took a step closer. Y/n look back at her with a laugh and shook her head in quick succession.

"They're like my sisters!" Y/n states, which made Hermione chuckle as well. She guessed that made sense since probably being on a ship for months on end would bring them all closer as a family more than anything,

"Also, all of my crew has lads or lasses back home waiting for them to return" Y/n continues as she laid down on the parapet, one leg swung over the edge while her other foot was planted on the stone, and her knee pointed to the sky,

"Be careful, we're high up" Hermione stated as she stepped closer, her fingers twitched as she stopped herself from grabbing ahold of the girl.

They were just one story up, but it was still high enough to break something.

"I've fallen from the crow's nest of my ship, multiple times! This is nothing." Y/n chuckles as she locked her fingers and puts them behind her head as a makeshift pillow.

"I'm guessing you drank one too many pints?" Hermione asks as her eyes scanned the Captain's body.

"See? You're getting to know me so well already!" Y/n replies as they chuckled together.

"Did you land in the water each time? Or have you somehow not died from that yet?" The Princess asks as her hand finally grasped the hem of her shirt.

"Almost all were in the water, but last time I hurt myself real bad" Y/n replies as one hand snuck out from under her head and hooked a finger around the fabric between Hermione's breasts, pulling her closer again.

They weren't hiding anymore, this was a dangerous position to be in, but maybe that was the point.

Was Y/n trying to get her shunned from the castle for engaging in scandalous behavior with another woman?

A fucked up way to force her to join her crew?

Hermione suddenly backed away and cleared her throat, pushing down her wrinkles again.

"As entertaining as this conversation has been, I must go back to my party" she sighs as her chin went back to being high and mighty, and her back as straight as a wooden beam.

"Do you have to?" Y/n asks as she sat back up, causing Hermione to smile. Her childlike questions were almost begging, like she truly didn't want Hermione to walk away.

"I must, it is my birthday party after all" she replies and Y/n hums as she thought of an excuse for her to stay just a little bit longer.

"Just answer one more question," Y/n asks to which Hermione raised her eyebrow in return as the Captain stood back in front of her.

"Will I see you tonight?"

They stared at one another for a few moments, the air around them was chilly, but a slight heat seem to burn between them.

Hermione then just walked away.

That told Y/n that it wasn't a 'no', but it wasn't a 'yes' either.

She wondered what went through that beauty's mind, and if she knew that she had easily gotten a stoic sailor on her toes.

——————

When Y/n had arrived back at the port with no one in tow, Ginny gave a loud sigh from the deck of 'The Morrigan'.

"Captain on deck!" Ron yells near the bow of the ship.

"Is she-" she starts but the Captain quickly raised her hand in a 'stop' gesture and grabbed the lantern that hung near the entrance of her quarters.

"She still has an hour until her crowning, which I told her we will leave at exactly then also," Y/n says as she handed Ginny the lantern, and smiled at her irritated expression.

"What does that even mean?" the ginger replies as the sounds of her twin brothers echo from the crow's nest.

"Look at that whale Freddie! Looks like your ex-girlfriend!"

It was funny to think that half her crew was just the entire Weasley family.

"Just keep this lantern lit as you do your patrols around the deck" Y/n states as she patted the girl's shoulder and disappeared into her quarters.

As the door shut behind her, a soft groan came from her lips as she grabbed her hat from the hook on the wall.

Placing it on her head, she took a seat at her desk and began looking at the new inventory report.

Molly has requested more fruit cabbage for her kitchen, while Draco has asked for a new pair of boots. Harry needs new glasses, and Blaise needs to go to the blacksmith and sharpen his swords.

Y/n felt a headache begin to form as she tried to figure out a way to get everyone these things. This kingdom had almost everything, but she would have to dig through the old navigator's journal entries to find out where they got Harry's glasses the last time he broke them.

She needed help, and she didn't know how to ask for it without looking vulnerable in front of her crew. Y/n was only one person, and she needed someone as sophisticated as Hermione.

Granted, Y/n still planned to make Hermione hers, but that would have to wait.

Minutes went by quicker than she had realized as she scanned through the reports of everything below deck. She eventually noticed that it was ten to twelve.

"Come on Hermione" Y/n whispers as she stood up and walked back onto the deck.

"Begin preparations for departure!" Y/n yells out as a chorus of 'Ayes' rung out around her.

Ginny still stood near the walkway with the lantern in hand as she stared out into the town, which seemed devoid of life if it wasn't for the castle that was lit up like a fireworks display.

"I don't think she's coming" Y/n whispers as Ginny just hummed.

"You've always been so quick to judge" she replied as her eyes flickered towards different corners of the streets that stood in front of her.

"Ready Captain!" Percy states from his post as he stood at the stern with his hand on his pistol.

Percy always seemed to know when trouble was headed their way, it was almost like a gut instinct for him to grab his weapon.

"There she is" Ginny chuckles as she tapped Y/n's chest with the back of her hand.

Y/n's head snapped to find Hermione bolting down the street towards them, she now wore pants and a shirt instead of the beautiful white dress she had been given earlier in the day.

The Captain quickly made her way to the walkway, but soon noticed that she wasn't just running to get to them in time. Y/n heard the yelling of guards and began to smile.

"Once she's on the ship, time to go!" Y/n called as Draco took ahold of the wheel, and barked orders at the boys on the deck.

Hermione caught the Captain's eyes as she dashed down the dock towards them, and smiled at her, to which Y/n broke out in a grin in response.

"Come on Princess! We don't have all night!" Y/n teased as she held out her hand for her to take across the board between land and ship.

As soon as their hands grasped one another's, Y/n yanked her on deck and let Ron and Harry quickly pull the wood onto the ship as well.

"Full sails! Get us out of here!" Y/n yelled as the woosh of the sails fell and took in the wind of the sea.

Tens of hundreds of footsteps pounded on the dock as they pulled away, one guard had managed to jump and grab the side of the ship, but Pansy was able to just lean over and wack away his hands with the butt of her sword.

He didn't fall into the water at first, but her threat was able to make him choose his fate.

"Let go, or I'm chopping them off"

He quickly dropped into the cold unforgiving ocean.

Y/n darted towards the stern as The Morrgian began to take speed and drift off into the night.

She watched as hundreds of guards stood at the docks watching as their future queen ran off with one of the most hated pirates in the seven seas.

"I'll kill you Y/l/n!" A man yells from his place in the troops, from the crown on his head, she hadn't had to guess that he was King Granger.

"Well, that's one way to make a first impression on the crew!" Ginny snickers as she greeted Hermione on the deck.

"It would have been a lot calmer if my father hadn't caught me sneaking away" she replies as she put her back into a ponytail with a few hairpins she had left in her pockets.

"We'll have an introduction party tomorrow, right now Hermione and I need to begin setting a course for the West Indies" Y/n joked as she made her way back to the deck, Hermione stumbled slightly as the ship swayed side to side.

"Don't worry Princess, you'll get your sea legs eventually" the Captain snickers as she gestured to her quarters, and held out her hand for Hermione to take for stability.

As she took it, Blaise began to sing a chantey proudly, to which the crew joined in as well as they began their Mundane chores around the ship.

Y/n shut her door behind them, muffling the ruffians, as Hermione took in the beautiful books and maps that were scattered around.

"These are beautiful" Hermione whispers as she walked around the space with so much intrigue.

"I would hope so, since you'll be living in here" Y/n states as points to another desk that face the window that looks out into the sea behind the ship. A small bed lay next to it, almost looking untouched since its last owner as many books and papers were scattered around the space.

She could see her home fading away as they drifted away further.

"Wait, the Captain and Navigator share the same room?" Hermione asks as she turned back to find Y/n suddenly standing almost face to face with her.

"Of course, you're my right hand now" she mumbles as her eyes flickered around Hermione's face.

"If there wasn't already evidence of this cot being lived in, I would think you had done this on purpose" Hermione chuckles as Y/n brushed past her and took a seat at her desk.

"We could always push our cots together? Make this space very lived-in" Y/n suggests as Hermione stood in front of her, the only thing separating them was the desk of the captain.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" the former royal asks as she leaned down and restart her hands upon the wood.

"Certainly, I like to have my treasures close by me" Y/n whispers as she herself leaned closer, and like earlier in the night, they stared at one another intensely.

Hermione smirked and brushed her nose against hers in a teasing manner.

"You think of me as one of your treasures?" she replies in a hushed tone as she heard a soft shudder come from the sailor.

"Yes, I've caught myself a princess after all" Y/n mutters as Hermione pecked the corner of her mouth.

She was using her tricks.

"Did you? Or did I catch myself a Captain?"

Y/n's grin found a home on her lips once more for the night, before being wiped away with a kiss from Hermione.

The captain saw stars behind her eyes that were more beautiful than the ones in the sky.

The poor Captain tried to chase after another one as she backed away with a mischievous smile.

"As fun, as it is to fool around with you, we do have work to do" Hermione states as she walked towards her new desk, her hand squeezing Y/n's shoulder as she went by.

Hermione could feel eyes burning into the back of her head as she sat down and took a book from one of the piles.

"If you want more, you have to woo me, my Captain," she says as she whispers the last part in a sultry tone.

Even though her decision to betray her country was almost just for the fact to see the world, she also knew a part of her wanted to see how a flirty Captain would treat her during their months at sea.

She knew sooner or later she would allow herself to be taken into the Captain's arms and ravished behind closed doors.

Yet, she still wanted to be treated like a proper lady, and it was going to be fun to watch an urchin like Y/n try her best at it.

Hermione could only chuckle as she heard Y/n walk out to the deck and begin asking questions about dates to her crew, having left the door open slightly.

This is going to be fun.

[ninyard]

so, answering the questions about posthumous (after death) trials!! prefacing this with the fact that i am 10000% not an expert by any means

so, some reasons why there are posthumous trials is because 1) prove that the defendant did indeed commit those crimes 2) to provide closure & justice to society/the families of the victims 3) to exonerate (free from blame) someone who was wrongfully convicted. let’s go over them all, and which i think is the most likely reason for nathan to have a posthumous trial. trials like these are only ever performed under pretty extreme circumstances, and are typically to prove someone’s innocence.

this is the one that i’m personally leaning to with nathan, just based off of what i remember from the text and how neil described the fbi questioning. the fbi was building up a case against nathan, and even with him now being dead they have proof that “the butcher of baltimore” will no longer be putting anyone in the ground. since nathan seems to be a pretty prolific serial killer, it would likely be important for the public to no that he’s no longer at large.

this one kind of connects with number one; the fbi wants to calm the public down. nathan’s been consistently murdering people for over two decades. that’s a reign of terror the likes of which has never been seen in the united states, that we know of. the country, or at least the new england area, would be completely stressed out over him. not to mention the fact that nathan and his lackeys definitely left a trail of bodies behind them as they globe-trotted behind neil and mary. the trial would help ease public consciousness

i can kind of see number three happening, as in there were likely a few people wrongfully convicted as “the butcher of baltimore” over the years (especially since nathan had the baltimore police in his pocket). i do doubt it would be the main reason for a posthumous trial though!!

that’s the end of my rambling!! i hope that i answered some questions about posthumous trials

one example from the real world of a posthumous pardon is about three years ago, in virginia, seven black men were pardoned 70 years after they were wrongfully executed after being accused of raping a white women. if you’d like to know more feel free to look up the martinsville seven. i don’t know any examples from the modern day of anybody actually standing trial after they’ve died, but considering nathan was at large for more than 20 years i can see why they’d make an exception.

-🐏🐏

This is so interesting thank you so much for this!!!!

I’d be real interested to see if it’s something Nora is going to explore in the next books but I don’t think she’ll go into detail even if it’s included. It’ll be like a “the trial happened” and not like… the trial as it happens if that makes sense

[lumosandnoxwriting]

tis the damn season || Fred Weasley

Title: ‘tis the damn season Pairing: Fred x Reader Summary: and the only heart I’m breaking is my own Warnings: NSFW - mentions of vaginal sex. A/N: a muggle AU b/c something like this isn’t really plausible with the whole apparition thing and i love this song too much to not write a song inspired by it. I started this over a year ago and have just recently gotten back to it to finish! It didn’t quite end up the way I imagined it but i kinda just let the words take me where they wanted to go. Hope you enjoy!

He can’t remember the last time he was back.

His old life always feels so far away down in London. Like his memories of growing up in Ottery belong to someone else, and Fred’s just watching them on film. 

London is just so different. Busier in a way that Ottery never will be, with its barely populated town center and handful of businesses down Main Street. If you put the whole village together it would probably only span three blocks of London, including all the scant cottages that are just barely considered to be part of the village; the piece of land The Burrow is situated on included. 

The joke shop and his friends and life in general barely give him enough time to give Mum and Dad a call, let alone pop down for the weekend to visit. Not to mention retirement is treating the Weasley parriarchal well, allowing them to split their time between all of their children and the various parts of the world life has taken them. 

But it seems a grapple with nostalgia has led all of the Weasley children back to Ottery St. Catchpole this Christmas. Bill and Fleur took over the helm of hosting the family celebration years ago, when they decided traveling back to England with a baby was harder than hosting a slew of Weasleys at their cottage in the French countryside. So it caught Fred by surprise when his Mum called last month, letting him and George know not to bother booking a ticket to France, since they’d be doing Christmas the old fashioned way this year. 

At Molly’s request they’ve all taken the next two weeks off from work and made the trek back home, for one more Christmas at The Burrow. Fred would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit disappointed in the change of plans this year. He spent so much of his life trying to find a way out of Ottery, so driving back up here has left him with a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Which is why he left George at home as soon as they’d pulled in the driveway, needing to take a second for himself. 

He doesn’t realize he’s been sitting on a bench in town square, staring into the abyss until a quiet voice calls out to him. 

“Fred?”

Despite the time that’s gone by he’d recognize that voice anywhere. Y/N.

“Hey,” he greets casually, turning to look at her as he tries to pretend his heart hasn’t plummeted into his stomach. There’s a beanie pulled down tight over her hair and her cheeks are rosy from the cold, but she’s just as beautiful as the last time he saw her. It’d been right in this very place, he’d given her one last look through the rearview mirror as he and George left for good. 

Back then her face had been red from the tears she’d shed as he said goodbye, her eyebrows drawn together in frustration. The look on her face today is indifferent, and Fred can’t tell if he should be upset or relieved at that. 

“You’re home,” Y/N states, voice even. 

“Yeah,” Fred replies simply.

Their words hang in the air around them, both of them just looking at each other while they try and find something to say.

“Well, I’ll see you around, I guess. Unless you’re just stopping through?” Y/N asks, the tone of her voice curious, with just the barest hint of hope.

Fred nods, gesturing down the road with his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m in town for a bit. Staying at Mum and Dad’s for the holiday and all.”

“Ah, okay. Cool. Cool,” Y/N responds, rocking back and forth on her heels for a moment. “See you around, then.”

In the next second she’s gone, walking past Fred without a second glance back his way. 

Once Y/N has disappeared Fred heads back towards The Burrow, unable to tell exactly why that funny feeling is still there in the pit of his stomach.

-

“Freddie, Georgie! Long time no see, Lads!” 

The pub is loud, but somehow Dean’s voice overpowers it all and the boys easily find the table their old friends have commandeered for the evening. It’s tucked away in the corner, close enough to the bar that they’ll have no problem getting drink refills, but far enough away from the general rowdiness that they’ll be able to have a conversation without having to shout at each other. 

All the lads stand up as Fred and George approach, each one taking a turn to pull them each into a hug - as if no time has passed at all. Fred’s embarrassed to admit how long it’s been since he texted one of his old hometown friends, let alone sat down to catch up with them. It had been easier when they first moved to London, they were all young and carefree and it was normal for Fred and George’s living room to be taken over by the lads every few weeks for a Boy’s weekend in the big city. 

But as time went on Fred and George got busier, their dream had started to become a reality and investor meetings and paperwork became their priority. And it’s not like things only changed for them either. It seemed like one by one their friends started to find serious partners, and time with the boys started to take a backseat to time spent with their significant other. And now Fred and George are the only two of the group who aren’t married with a kid or two. 

“Look at our big London boys, taking time out of their busy ol’ schedules to slum it here up north with the rest of us,” Lee teases, toasting his beer to the boys before he takes a long drag. “We’re honored you could fit in some time to see us, truly.”

“You’re all a bunch of prats who don’t deserve our time,” George shoots back, winking as he drinks from the beer Tom had pressed into his palm. “And truly the honor is ours, I know changing diapers and feeding babies is important work and we appreciate you sacrificing your time to sit here at the pub with us.”

“You can laugh all you want now, boys - but just be ready to get it back tenfold once you degenerates decide to finally settle down and become family men,” Dean chuckles. 

Fred takes a long sip of his beer, letting the cool liquid run down his dry throat. Because sure there have been plenty of girls since Y/N. But they’ve all been short term, casual - some of them so brief he doesn’t remember their name or what they look like. There’s only one girl he’s ever imagined that kind of life with, and he’s sure that ship sailed the second he left town without her. 

“You boys ready for another round yet?”

Fred swears he must have done something epic to piss off whatever cosmic being exists out there, because for the second time today he’s blindsided by Y/N’s sudden appearance. He keeps his eyes downcast, suddenly super thirsty as he takes another long drink in order to avoid interacting with her again. 

“Do you even have to ask?” Lee answers with a hearty laugh. 

“Some things never change,” she responds with a lighthearted eye roll, collecting the empties from the table. “I’ll be right back with those.”

Fred finally looks up, his eyes following Y/N as she disappears back into the crowd. He feels like he can breathe again, and he finally sets his empty beer bottle back on the table. Their interaction earlier is still fresh in his mind and despite how uneasy their short interaction left him - he would be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping he’d run into Y/N again. He just didn’t imagine it would be so soon. 

“She teaches year one, over at the primary school.” Fred’s eyes meet Dean’s, his cheeks flushing at the realization he’d been caught. “All the kids love her. Daisy has her this year and I swear everyday when she gets home all she does is gush about Y/N. She works here on the weekends to help her Uncle out.”

Fred finds his eyes trailing back to where Y/N had disappeared to, hoping he might catch another glimpse of her. He’s happy to hear that she’s teaching, that him wrecking their plans of a future together didn’t deter her from following her other dreams. He looks back to Dean then, forcing a smile onto his face. 

“Daisy’s already in first year? You’re a proper old git aren’t ya, mate?” he teases in an effort to move the conversation in a direction that doesn’t involve the feeling of regret that’s suddenly started to creep up his throat. 

-

“Are you stalking me?”

Fred turns around at the sound of her voice, goosebumps shivering down his neck. He’d come down to the creek for some solitude, already getting tired of having his siblings and their families crammed into the Burrow after only three days. But of course, this had been their spot, so he’s not all too surprised that Y/N had found him here. 

“Are you sure you’re not stalking me?” he teases, breath catching in his throat at the smile that takes over her face. “I was here first, and I was at the town square first the other day too. Seems to me like I’m the one being followed.”

Y/N shakes her head with a quiet laugh, taking a few steps down the embankment so she’s closer to Fred. “And what about the other night at the pub, hm? What about then?”

“Happy accident,” Fred answers with a shrug, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s not like there’s other pubs in the village to hang out at.” He can tell he struck a nerve based on the way Y/N’s eye twitches, and silence grows between them as his brain scrambles to think of something else to say.

“All those years in London and Ottery is still too small for you?”

There isn’t any anger or resentment in her voice, and Fred takes that as a win. In the few months before Fred and George finally took the plunge and moved to London he and Y/N had been fighting more than ever, and like an idiot he forgot that most of those fights revolved around his need to get out of their hometown. While he found Ottery’s size suffocating, Y/N found it charming and more than once she’d made it clear to Fred that the only place she could ever imagine raising a family was the little village they’d grown up in. 

So instead of making her choose between her own dreams and his, Fred decided to leave. It broke something in him that day, watching Y/N get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror as they drove away. But he knew moving to London would have broken Y/N too, and he’d rather die than see her become someone she isn’t. 

So, he left with no intentions of ever coming back. 

And yet here they are again.

“What can I say, I’m a city boy now through and through.”

Y/N hums, giving Fred one last glance before she starts to walk along the creek, and it only takes a moment of hesitation before he follows. She’s walking slow enough that it only takes a few strides for Fred to catch up, and before he knows it they’re walking side by side, arms just barely brushing as they move. 

“It’s everything you ever wanted then?” Y/N inquires after a few quiet minutes. Her eyes are downcast, and Fred is thankful that she can’t seem to look at him. He’s not sure he’d be able to handle it. 

“It is, yeah,” Fred answers honestly, swallowing thickly. “The store is better than everything George and I ever dreamed of. And the friends we’ve made are amazing. It’s better than I ever imagined.”

“That’s good,” she responds, voice curt. “So  you don’t regret leaving everything behind to start a new life?”

“Not everything,” Fred answers honestly again, his voice laden with remorse. 

She stops in her tracks then, turning to finally face Fred. He stops too, barely able to bring his eyes to meet hers. He can tell by the way she exhales that she’s upset, but he can’t find himself feeling sorry for what he said. Because all of it is true. 

He realized it the other night, after they got back from the pub and he couldn’t sleep. That weird feeling in the pit of his stomach was still there, and he couldn’t figure out why. He thought seeing his old friends would ease it, that he was nervous about seeing them again after so long and it wouldn’t feel the same as it used to. But the night couldn’t have gone better, they all picked right back up as if no time had passed at all. 

And yet the feeling had only gotten worse. 

When he fluffed his pillow for the hundredth time his fingers brushed against something under it, and when he pulled it out his stomach dipped even further. It was a picture from high school that George took of Fred and Y/N. She was wrapped up in his arms as she smiled for the camera, but Fred had been looking at her. He’s looking at Y/N with so much love you’d think she’d hung the moon and the stars and in that moment Fred realizes that she did. She was the universe, and Fred was a mere mortal lucky enough to be caught in her orbit.

And it’s in that moment that he finally realizes what that funny feeling in the pit of his stomach is.

Regret.

“Fuck you, Fred,” Y/N finally responds, voice full of anger. “I stood there in the middle of town square crying as I begged you not to leave. As I begged you not to leave me behind like everything we had meant nothing to you. And now all these years later you have the audacity to stand here and tell me that you’re only regret in life is leaving me behind.”

She turns on her heel and storms away, and Fred immediately follows. “Will you just let me explain?” he calls as he catches up. He grab’s Y/N’s wrist, stopping her in her tracks so he can pull her back towards him. 

Suddenly her body is pressed up against his, and Fred’s heart feels like it might beat right out of his chest. He can’t remember the last time they were this close and he instinctively reaches up to cup her cheek. “Please,” he begs. “Don’t run away from me.”

Snow has started to softly fall around them, and Fred feels like he can’t breathe as her eyes finally rise to meet his. “Please,” he whispers, afraid that if he speaks too loud it’ll break whatever trance they’ve fallen into. 

A softly murmured Fred is Y/N’s only response, and before he can second guess himself Fred leans down and kisses Y/N slowly - finally feeling like he’s home. 

-

“This is still your go to hiding place I see.”

Y/N doesn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice, as if she was expecting him to find her here. Which wouldn’t surprise Fred in the slightest. They used to be so in sync it was as if they shared a brain - and he’s happy to find that time and distance hasn’t changed that one bit. 

When she does nothing to acknowledge his presence Fred heaves a sigh, taking a step closer to where Y/N sits. “Ignoring me isn’t going to make me go away. It only fuels me to stick around to annoy you further.”

That earns him a glare, and he can’t help but smile. “There’s my girl,” he teases.

“Oh fuck off Fred,” Y/N responds, but there’s no malice in her voice. 

Fred takes that as an invitation to come closer, and he sits down on the empty swing next to her. His mind has been racing since Y/N took off after their kiss a few hours earlier, and now that he’s here with her it’s finally starting to quiet down. He’s not really sure what possessed him to kiss her, and even now that he can think straight his brain has yet to come up with something decent to say to her. 

They just sit there staring straight ahead for who knows how long, feet just barely pushing against the ground so they can slowly swing back and forth. Wind curls around them as it blows, but Fred hardly feels the chill as he thinks about the girl sitting beside him. He hasn’t thought about her for years, and all it’s taken is three days and a few brief interactions for his thoughts to be consumed with Y/N once again. 

“I can’t do it again.”

It’s Y/N that finally breaks the silence, and Fred turns so he can look at her. She doesn’t meet his gaze, but Fred can see the way her lip trembles and he has to fight the urge to reach out and comfort her. 

“When you left,” she continues, taking a deep breath. “When you left before it broke me, Fred. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. It took months for my life to get back on track and over a year for me to start to finally feel normal again. I got my degree and started teaching, started dating again-“ she pauses as Fred flinches at those words. “Point is I moved on from you, and I can’t do it all over again. I can’t let you back in just for you to leave again.”

Y/N finally turns to look at him, and when Fred opens his mouth to respond she puts her hand up to stop him. 

“But I also can’t ignore the way that kiss made me feel. Because nothing I’ve done in the years since you left has ever made me feel like that and I can’t go around just pretending that you have no effect over me. Not if I’m going to survive seeing you around over the next few weeks.”

“So what are you saying?” Fred asks after a moment. He’s pretty sure he knows exactly what Y/N is saying - but he needs to hear it come from her.

“I’m saying that as long as we can agree that whatever is going on between us is just for this time that you’re back in town - then I’m in. No real feelings, no talking about our future. Just me and you and the next two weeks. Do you agree?”

Fred knows that he should walk away. That he should say no, stand up and walk away from Y/N and just avoid her for the rest of this trip. But Fred is selfish, and the only thing he wants in this moment is Y/N and whatever parts of herself she’ll allow him to have - even if just for a short period of time. 

So instead of walking away, Fred nods - forcing a grin on his face. “I do.”

-

“How the fuck is your cunt still so tight,” Fred groans as he buries his face in Y/N’s neck. 

She’s sinking down onto his cock for the third time today, and the way she squeezes around him is making his head spin. They hadn’t wasted any time after their talk in the park. As soon as the words left Fred’s mouth they were on each other, Fred pressed her against the swing set as they kissed and he’d been tempted to fuck her right there in the middle of the park. But ever the responsible one, Y/N had managed to hold Fred off long enough for her to drag them down the block to her place. 

He took her for the first time against her front door, both of them still fully dressed with their pants pulled down just enough for Fred to slide his cock into her cunt. It had been frantic and uncoordinated but still perfect and over embarrassingly too quickly. Which is why Fred took Y/N for the second time on her couch a few steps away. He managed to get them both undressed as they stumbled into the living room, and he spent so much time on his knees kissing and licking at her pussy that he’s sure to have rug burn in the morning. 

For the third time they finally managed to make it into bed. After she came in his mouth and around his cock Fred finally felt satisfied enough to take his time. He kissed Y/N slowly as they made their way down the hall, stopping periodically to press her up against the wall. When they fell into bed she’d crawled right on top, whispering into his mouth about how it was her turn to take control. 

Which is how they got here, with Fred’s mouth pressing kisses from her neck to her collarbone, her hips moving against him as she rides his cock at an achingly slow pace. It feels too perfect and too much like home for Fred to handle, so he grips her hips and kisses Y/N hard to avoid saying the things that are running on a loop in his mind. His thumb finds her clit as Y/N words herself on his cock, rubbing circles in time with her movement to push her closer and closer to another climax. 

“Fred, fuck,” Y/N moans breathily as his lips trail back down her neck, toes curling as that familiar feeling pools in the pit of her stomach for what feels like the dozenth time tonight. Fred knows her body even better than she does, and it's embarrassing how quickly Fred has already brought her to the edge of another orgasm. Sex has never felt like this with anyone but Fred, and Y/N already regrets agreeing to a temporary fling. 

Because being here with Fred already feels too much like coming home. 

All it takes is one more final whispered, “That’s my girl, come for me,” from Fred to push Y/N over the edge. Pleasure washes over her in waves, electric shocks radiating from the tips of her toes to the top of her head as her cunt clenches around Fred’s cock, bringing him over the edge with her. 

As they both come down Fred gently rolls over, resting so that they’re both on their sides facing each other, his cock still buried deep inside. He knows he should pull out before they both get too uncomfortable, but some primal urge keeps him from moving an inch. 

Neither one says anything, chests heaving to catch their breath as they look into each other’s eyes. Fred figures he should say something to break the heaviness in the air that has settled around them, but Y/N is so warm against him and her bed is so soft that he can’t find the energy to do much besides pull her in even closer so that their bodies are practically one as they drift off to sleep. 

-

Fred spends the days leading up to Christmas at home with his siblings, taking the time to reminisce about their childhood while always finding new ways to create mischief with his plethora of nieces and nephews. For as much as he was dreading coming back to Ottery, Fred actually finds himself having a lot of fun, and he finds that he doesn’t miss London as much as he thought he would. 

And he’s sure that spending his nights in Y/N’s bed has played a role in that as well. 

Once everyone heads to bed at night he sneaks back out, taking the short walk into town to meet Y/N. Sometimes she’s closing up her Uncle’s pub, and Fred sits at the bar and harasses her as she completes all of her closing tasks before walking her back to her place. Other times she’s waiting for him in the town square after coming from her parents or running an errand, and Fred kisses her right there to try and erase the thoughts of him watching her get smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror. 

But most nights she’s already in bed waiting, the porch light on and the door unlocked so he can slip inside. Those nights are his favorite because it’s easy to pretend that this is their life. That Fred’s coming home to his favorite girl and their warm bed after working late or hanging out at the pub with his friends - instead of him coming over for a quick fuck and a few hours of sleep before he has to sneak back into his parent’s house. 

Christmas Eve comes upon them quicker than Fred would like, and they agree not to see each other until Boxing Day - neither one wanting their family to catch them in the act. Fred barely gets any sleep that night, tossing and turning so much George throws a pillow at him in warning. Less than a week he’s been sleeping beside Y/N and Fred already is having trouble sleeping on his own. 

He doesn’t want to think about the fact that in one more week he’ll be back to sleeping alone. 

The kids wake everyone up far too early on Christmas morning, and as Fred trudges down the stairs the only thing on his mind is how he might be able to sneak away to see Y/N for a few minutes. After presents are opened and breakfast is eaten, Fred is just about ready to implement his plan to see Y/N under the guise of an after meal walk when his parents drop the news. 

“I’m just so happy you all took the time to come spend the holidays with us here back home this year. It really warms my old heart to see all my babies back under my roof,” his mother starts, hand pressed against her heart. 

“But your Father and I have been talking a lot this year about what our future looks like and well,” she pauses, looking over her shoulder at Arthur.”

“We’ve decided to sell The Burrow,” he announces, resting a comforting hand on Molly’s shoulder. Ginny stands in protest, and Arthur puts a hand up to stop her. “It’s far too big of an undertaking for just your mother and I, and between all the traveling we do to visit you all we only spend a few days a month here. That’s why we decided to hold the holidays here just one last time, so we could fill this place with love and laughter one more time before we give another family the opportunity to make their own memories here.”

Bill, acting in his big brother duty, is the first to speak up. 

“I know this decision must not have been easy for the two of you to make, and I think I speak for all of us when I say that while it is going to be hard to wrap our minds around the fact that The Burrow won’t be ours anymore - we respect your decision and are happy that you guys are following your dreams.”

“Yeah, we love this place,” Ginny starts, getting up to hug Molly and Arthur. “But we love you more, and we support you in any way that you need.”

They all murmur similar sentiments as they join Ginny and their parents in a group hug, but Fred finds himself not really meaning any of the words coming out of his mouth. He was just starting to find the joy in coming home to Ottery, and now there won’t really be a home to come back to. The thought of making some excuse to come up and visit Mum and Dad in the new year was the only thing that made the thought of leaving Y/N next week tolerable - and now he doesn’t even have that to hold on to. 

“You alright?” George asks as they separate from the hug, nudging Fred’s shoulder with his own. 

He nods, putting the best smile he can manage on his face. “Yeah, just busting at the seams from all that food. Think I’m going to take a walk - make some room for Christmas dinner.”

George gives him a look that screams he knows Fred is up to something, but he just gives his brother a nod in acknowledgement. “Alright, mate. See you in a bit.”

The second he grabs his coat Fred is slipping out the front door, phone already in hand to convince Y/N to sneak away to meet him.

-

“You’re not going to try and fuck me out here, are you? Because getting arrested for public indecency is definitely not how I want to spend my Christmas,” Y/N jokes as she approaches. But as soon as she sees the look on Fred’s face the smile drops from her own, and she takes the swing next to him. “What happened? Did someone die?”

“Just my childhood,” he responds dryly. 

“Elaborate, please.”

Fred heaves a sigh. “Mum and Dad are selling the burrow, they announced it after breakfast.”

“Oh,” Y/N exhales, taken by surprise. “I’m sorry.”

Except her tone sounds more confused than comforting, and Fred gives her a questioning look. “You don’t sound sorry.”

“Sorry it’s just, you confuse the fuck out of me Fred. You haven’t been home in years, in fact you ran the hell out of here like your ass was on fire and never even looked back. And now you’re acting as if your life is over because your parents are selling their house when in reality it’s not going to have any effect on you or your life.”

Fred scoffs, pushing off of the swing so he can slowly pace back and forth. “I just, I don’t know. Always thought that they’d be there to come home to if I ever needed it. And recent events have made me think that maybe coming home every once in a while isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Don’t,” Y/N states firmly, standing up as well. “Before we started this you agreed that it was a one time only thing. No talking about the future, no real feelings. Just us fucking around until you run back off to London in the New Year.”

“Well I’ve changed my mind,” he announces. “I want to talk about the future and have real feelings. Because this past week has been the best week I’ve had in years. Seeing the lads, running around the burrow with everyone, spending time with you. This is the life I’ve been missing out on and I don’t want to miss anymore.”

“Fuck you,” Y/N spits. “Where was this revelation ten years ago when you left me crying by the side of the road while you went off to start a new life without me? I’m sorry that you regret your decisions in life Fred, but it’s too little too late. I can’t trust you anymore. We talked about starting a life here and then you fucked off to London and now you want to come back here and expect me to just jump back in where we left off? Who’s to say you won’t regret this decision in ten more years and you’ll abandon me here with kids and a house and a whole fucking life you just decide to throw away? I’ve spent enough of my life picking up the pieces that you broke and I’m done.”

Fred’s crying silently as she storms away from him, and it’s far too familiar to the scene he left behind all those years ago. Except Fred had turned back to give Y/N one last glance, but she keeps her head forward as she leaves him behind.

-

They leave to go back to London on New Year's Day. Christmas is usually their biggest time of year, and both Fred and George want to get back so that the employees who covered for them can get some much deserved time off. Fred had texted Y/N to let her know when they planned on leaving in case she wanted to say goodbye, and despite not getting a response he remains hopeful until the moment they start the car up to leave.

Fred keeps his eyes forward as they drive away from the burrow, steadily ignoring the way his twin looks at him from the passenger seat. He knows he’s been acting weird since Y/N left him standing alone in the park, hoping that his behavior can be attributed to the fact that their parents are selling their childhood home and not the fact that he somehow managed to break his own heart. 

“You alright?” George asks as they drive through Ottery one last time. 

“No,” Fred answers honestly, looking over at his brother from the corner of his eye. That ache that settled in his bones when they first arrived two weeks ago is back with a vengeance, and it only hurts more knowing he’s the reason why it’s there. “I’ll feel better once we’re home.”

“Yeah, I guess London really is our home now.”

Fred just hums in acknowledgement, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror for one last look at Ottery as they leave for good.

[burningthrucelluloid]

Christmas Carol-cember Day 4

From the executive producer behind “The Stepford Wives” and “The Taking of Pelham One Two Three,” Edgar Scherick brought to audiences in December 1979 this oft-forgotten adaptation of the Charles Dickens novel that moved the setting from 1840s London to 1930s New England for ABC Television network titled "An American Christmas Carol."

Naturally, since this TV Movie rarely got as much replay on cable as often as other Christmas specials, this one almost passed me by until I found it on IMDB. Though I admit it wasn’t the fact this was an American take on the story that caught my eye but it’s lead star: Henry Winkler.

Yes, the Fonz himself, is our Scrooge.

Benedict Slade, Henry Winkler under old man makeup crafted by makeup legend Rick Baker, is a miserly old man whose wrinkles could count the many people whose homes and property he has repossessed over their debts while refusing to reopen the granite mines that use to provide for the workers in town. Made worse that the country is in the midst of an economic depression, he’s stepped up his repossession efforts and stuffed them all in a warehouse where he intends to sell off the meager possessions to collect a sum, including tearing the leather linings to a copy of a certain Charles Dickens’ book. 

But as it just so happens, he finds himself haunted by three ghosts, each one manifesting in the form of people he repossessed who show him visions of the past as an isolated orphan and how the cut-throat tactics of the business world molded him and cost him the life he could have lead. Visions of the present where said lost love, Susan Hogan, is clearly happier without him and the hard strife from his employee that impacts his ill son and a vision of the future where his cruelty results in the painful death of this child and the populace coming to repossess all he ever owned, only to burn it all while leaving his grave littered with overgrowth.

Even for American television, Eric Till’s direction is solid with the limitations he has at his disposal. The suspense that builds when Slade’s warehouse loses power and he realizes someone is in there with him before his former partner, Ken Pogue, just reveals himself casually with “Are you really gonna shoot your old partner?”

No big wail or chains to rattle, but the sudden appearance is sudden yet he he feels very inviting. Stuff like that really makes this version more engaging with its subtlety than other versions I’ve seen.

I like that the ghosts are each represented by people Slade personally met who are haunting him and they don’t necessarily declare themselves to be ghosts but just let Slade make that distinction. When he sees the Ghost of Christmas Past, played by David Wayne, in his warehouse playing a trumpet and lamenting his time playing in the Army and Slade asks if that is who he is, the figure just replies “you said it, not me.”

Or when the owner of the orphanage, Gerard Parkes, is addressed as the Ghost of Christmas Present, he only responds “you have a very interesting way of things.”

Even the choice to make the Ghost of the Future dress like he is from the 70s and allowing him to speak instead of being silent is a unique choice. Course even when he speaks, you hang on every word he says, for the few he provides as he just lets the images speak for themselves.

And then there’s Henry Winkler as Benedict Slade.

His performance surprised me.

There’s something fascinating about what he does with this performance of Scrooge that I’ve rarely seen in other performances.

Given Winkler was best known for playing Fonzie, it’s such a radical departure to see him go from the cool customer to this raspy grouch who views people as trying to interfere with his success.

There’s almost something subdued about what he’s doing with the character, someone who tries to justify all his coldness as reasonable business ventures, only for him to see how his choices negatively impact others around him. In a way, it makes him more realistic as a character, especially given the slate of billionaires in this country who spout business theories to validate their business tactics for their success, even if it means leaving others to suffer for their wealth.

But even when Slade undergoes his change, he’s still a bit rough around the edges, totally awkward even as he genuinely tries to come off as a changed man but he hasn’t exactly made that shift. The final line he gives to this orphaned kid he decides to adopt as he sees something of himself in the youth really encapsulates that as he tells the kid who is uncertain whether he wants to live with Slade “Give it a chance…give me a chance.”

It’s a profound line and one that clearly demonstrates that this is a Scrooge who has a lot to work on. Which feels genuine to me, as someone who has undergone therapy, people aren’t able to magically shift or change overnight but it takes commitment to grow and change yourself to be the best version of yourself that honors your trauma and works to be the best version of yourself that benefits everyone, not just yourself.

“An American Christmas Carol” is a surprising find. A version I had not heard of until I was doing this challenge and I’m legitimately glad I found it. It showcases a more subtle performance of Scrooge by Henry Winkler, who not only rises to the occasion but meets it, as well as taking advantage of some surprising changes that really makes this version stand on it’s own two feet.

It does have the occasional corny moment, but I personally found it charming. This is a hidden gem of a Christmas movie that’s worth checking out. Especially as Shout Factory has brought the film to physical media for others to enjoy it.

Also, how you know this is an American version?

When the Jacob Marley character shows up to haunt Slade, Slade pulls out a shotgun.

Definitely American. XD

“An American Christmas Carol” is available to stream on YouTube, Amazon Prime, and Peacock.

Next up, a woman is Scrooge? How does that work? Well it won't leave a "hallmark" if you ask me.

[mermaidsirennikita]

Your Titanic tweet made me realize I haven’t read any Edwardian-era set romance. Do you have any recs? Like U.S. setting with Edith Wharton, Gilded Age vibes?

Yes, for sure! Joanna Shupe almost entirely writes in the Gilded Age (except for her first three historicals and two of her historical novellas). She writes it soooo well, imo. The luxe, the class tensions, the slow erosion of the English aristocracy with things like the Duke of Lockwood (my favorite Shupe hero) who shows up to marry a Dollar Princess in order to save his estate (and is rudely awakened to the fact that American politicians are like... less than impressed by a broke duke, lol).

My favorites of hers would be The Prince of Broadway (wild hellion rich girl asks a casino owner to show her the ropes as she wants to open a casino for ladies; he's actually using her for revenge BIG TIME);. The Bride Goes Rogue (a society deb has grown up waiting to marry the man her dad contracted her to wed when she was a baby; after he rudely informs her that he has zero intention of marrying her, she decides to sow her wild oats and goes to a French Ball, which was a real thing, only to have a masked encounter with... that same asshole); and The Duke Gets Even (aforementioned Duke of Lockwood has an oceanic makeout with a skinny dipping lady the night before he's supposed to meet up with the American heiress he's meant to propose to; said heiress turns out to be BFFs with the skinny dipping lady, Nellie, who's a total wild woman and is like FUCK YOU and decides to ruin his life lol).

But they're pretty much all good. Pick a Shupe, any Shupe.

Harper St. George writes Gilded Age romances, though, if I'm being REAL, they're largely solid but I'm not blown away by them. They're a lot tamer than Joanna's books, and less attuned, I've found, to the real FILTH of the world. Plus, they spend more time in England.

Beast by Judith Ivory is a RIDE and it's problematically 90s so I'm not like... recommending it, per se, but if you want to read a book that would honestly be pretty great if not for the orientalist vibes (soooo common in 80s/90s historicals, I'm afraid) it's there. Not really set in America, but very much a Gilded Age book that spends half its pagetime on a LUXURY LINER. The hero is a French prince who's agreed to marry an American rich man's beautiful daughter because the dad has a ton of ambergris and the hero is oBSESSED with perfume production. He overhears the heroine, before they properly meet, talking to this guy about how her future husband is apparently ugly. The hero (who is disabled; he's blind in one eye and has a permanent limp) is very sensitive about his appearance and decides to take revenge by dressing up as a "pasha" and seducing the heroine when it's dark so she can't see his face. This proves to be an issue when they get to France and actually marry, because she's too busy mooning over the "pasha" who deflowered her to get with her husband, who is that same dude and very much in love with her now, lol.

I'm currently reading Lions and Lace by Megan McKinney, which is another old school Gilded Age book (this time set in New York) and... wild. Basically, the hero is a self made man who's looked down upon because he's Irish. His sister has a HORRIBLE experience in high society, and as revenge, he ruins everyone he holds responsible, including the heroine (who actually did nothing wrong but he thinks she did) who he then forces to marry him. Lol. Also he's called "THE PREDATOR" which. INTERESTING.

The heroine's uncle literally ties her the railing on this guy's doorstep so that she's forced to go to his house and marry him (the uncle wants to get his $$$ back) so. You know it's old school. And frankly... I'm not mad at that particular aspect;.

[penig]

a matter of appearances

Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these were wrong. Heaven is not in England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort. But he was intelligent. And it was an intelligence which, while not being particularly higher than human intelligence, is much broader and has the advantage of having thousands of years of practice. - Good Omens, the book, p. 119 in the first American hardcover printing

I changed the title, but this is me working stuff out for my own satisfaction and proceeds directly from the question of power posts, so before I begin, links:

Welcome back. Now, why on earth did I go to the trouble of transcribing that entire paragraph when the only bit that deals directly with appearances is the familiar first sentence regarding nationality, intelligence, and monkeys?

Why, because it is the only direct statement we ever get about Aziraphale's abilities, and the details matter. He masks, successfully, as a queer Englishman, but can't, or at any rate doesn't, hide his intelligence, which is not "higher" than ours (whatever that means!) but is broader and strengthened by use. Aziraphale has a huge mental database to draw on, and we need to remember that. (I'm not sure all the minisode writers remember it, but Gaiman allowed that, so we'll have to deal. Later. I will try to be systematic, but I'm afraid I'm a quantum leap thinker, not a linear one.)

Aziraphale is, as we all know, a chronic and habitual liar, but it is easy to overlook the degree to which he lives his lies continually. Lying to humans about himself isn't even a sin - it's a job requirement. He can't appear as an angel among them if he's to do...whatever the heck it is he's supposed to do, which is one of the many things we're not told about him. He has to behave and present himself in ways that trick them into thinking him a human. On the one hand, he's arguably not very good at it; on the other hand, he's lived in Soho for over 200 years at least (the bookshop in the show opened in 1800; in the book we're told that he had a bookshop as early as 1651 and that his neighbors thought of him as the nice Mr. A. Ziraphale) and they all take him as he comes. Crowley hides his demonic nature behind sunglasses; Aziraphale simply masks all the time. Even most of the times when he's alone with Crowley, whom he trusts! Presumably this is why so many autistic fans claim him as one of their own.

I have always felt that his masks are significant to his role and his identity, because he chose them. He is not a man, but he chooses to present himself in a form he knows will be taken for one; he is not English, but he chooses to present himself as the citizen of a self-glorifying, self-aggrandizing empire with a tiny geographic core that tells itself it's doing the world a favor by conquering it (based on his costuming in the AD 41 scene he did the same thing in Rome!); and he is not a sexual being, but he chooses to present himself as a member of an oppressed sexual minority - more, to present himself as the archetype and stereotype of that minority, to declare himself proudly to be the southern pansy.

Break that down into classes of privilege and oppression, morality and license, hypocrisy and sincerity, self-knowledge and self-delusion, and it gets complicated very quickly indeed. How much of this is convenience, how much accident, how much a deliberate middle finger to both Heavenly and English cultural assumptions, how much a challenge to the virtues of humans, how much a hand reached out to them in solidarity, how conscious are these choices? We can't know. Aziraphale certainly won't tell us, and we'd have to take him with a grain of salt, if he did.

I was uncomfortable during much of Season 2 with what thundercrackfic has perceptively called a tendency to infantilize Aziraphale. For much of it, he doesn't seem intelligent or powerful at all; the other characters protect him or threaten him or boss him around or lead him by the hand through complex questions as if he can't be expected to protect himself or think anything through on his own. Present-day Crowley is actually the worst about this; whereas in Season 1 he was constantly trying to draw Aziraphale into action and keeping him informed (while Aziraphale lied and dithered about the bombshell of information he got out of Agnes Nutter's book), in Season 2 he actively withholds information that he thinks would trouble him. There's some indication that he never told Aziraphale the details of his "trial," he doesn't tell him about the Book of Life threat or Hell's burning interest in finding Gabriel. Shax's sub-legion is actually on the march before he alerts him to it, and Aziraphale is so ill-informed and so deep into his Austenian fantasy at this point that he doesn't take him seriously. Then Crowley is the one to lead the humans to safety, and Maggie and Nina (who have a legit grudge against him at this point; they may not understand what's going on but they know they've had their heads messed with) stay because they want to protect Aziraphale - and Aziraphale lets them. It all seemed deeply out of character and I didn't like it.

Then Nina and Maggie ask him if he can't do something, and he answers: "Of course I can, but he enjoys rescuing me so much."

Aziraphale is deliberately nerfing himself so other people can be the heroes.

I should have twigged to this much earlier. I have over 200K of fanfic which a commenter once told me should be titled "Everybody underestimates Aziraphale." It was a central premise of my take on the character that he could do action hero stuff, that Heaven wanted him to do action hero stuff, and he absolutely hated doing action hero stuff and went out of his way to get around doing it. I assumed that part of this was personal inclination, part was PTSD from combat in the War (in which I take it for granted he distinguished himself, because otherwise how did he land his Guardian of the Eastern Gate position - the military doesn't make just anybody an SP), and part was his way of doing his job.

We are never, of course, told exactly what his job is. He's supposed to "thwart" Crowley and is apparently known for his ability to do that, but what exactly does that mean? He remarks in Season 1 that he tries to encourage people to kindness, but he doesn't elaborate or even seem to complete the thought. Crowley is supposed to tempt people to sin in order to harvest souls for Satan; Aziraphale presumably is supposed to encourage people to virtue in order to harvest their souls for Heaven (though I doubt he ever allows himself to think of it as "harvesting;" "saving" maybe).

But as anybody who's ever had a job knows, there's your job description, and then there's what you actually do all day - the things you want to accomplish in the context of the work environment and your ways of doing those things. His internalized purpose, judging from his very first recorded act, would seem to be to help the humans help themselves. He is not allowed to go with Adam and Eve to defend them from the vicious animals and the cold - so he gives them his flaming sword, along with all the unintended consequences of War. He can't use "frivolous" miracles to escape the guillotine, but he can attempt to talk the guards and executioners into freeing him and maybe not cutting off any more heads. He is allowed to model kindness, and to convince everyone around him of how nice he is; and he can get away with appearing weaker and more foolish than he is in order to encourage them to build up their moral muscle and confidence in their ability to help each other. If he'd told Maggie when she got up in the morning that she had it in her to go toe-to-toe with a mob of demons, armed only with fire extinguishers, she would have been incredulous, but before the night was over that was exactly what she did, and pretty successfully, too.

This all fits in nicely with my previously-developed headcanons, and so I like it; but when he said Crowley enjoyed rescuing him, suddenly a part of that headcanon flipped. Because he's not only putting on the silly little queen act for the humans - he's putting on the silly little angel act for Crowley. It's part and parcel of the Arrangement, and older than the Arrangement.

When put in context with the Job episode (the only minisode I enjoyed, for the record, and therefore the one I am most willing to draw on when parsing the text), what I'm seeing here is an Aziraphale who decided back then that he deserved to Fall and Crowley deserved to Rise, because even as a demon, even confronted with children who annoyed him, Crowley displayed a busy, active moral sense on which he was willing to act, while Aziraphale was acutely aware of his own doubts and indecision and tacit complicity in atrocity, and no doubt magnified his own shortcomings to himself (as you do). So he has been giving Crowley the same opportunities to do good to an angel and build the habits of protection and kindness and making moral-based arguments Hell would not like him making. Fitting him, like the humans, to get into Heaven? That's certainly possible. Certainly he is giving him opportunities for the acts of service we all know is Crowley's love language.

But that personal love complicates the matter a lot.

Anybody who doesn't think Aziraphale knows Crowley loves him, or at any time was in ignorance of it, is overlooking the key fact that Aziraphale can feel love. He explicitly refers to this in both the book and Season 1. The fact that they don't talk about the particular love that lies between Crowley and him doesn't change that. Crowley even tells Maggie and Nina, straight out, that Aziraphale knows, when they give him The Talk. But they'd be having an easier time in Season 2 if this sense enabled him to process that love. It's not like the human love he's been encountering during his sojourn on Earth, it's not like the love he feels for humanity, it's certainly alien to the love of God and of Heaven (which to a human eye doesn't look like love at all); it's just between them, as far as he knows, and once the Ineffable Bureaucracy is revealed it doesn't seem particularly similar even to that. It's just - him and Crowley, the way they are.

Which Aziraphale seems to think requires that he make himself smaller than he is, so Crowley can feel heroic.

Crowley truly does enjoy rescuing Aziraphale, there is no doubt about that. He even gets off on little things like being coaxed with puppy dog eyes into cleaning his coat for him. But to me, out here in the audience, it's clear that he also likes it when Aziraphale does something badass like giving away his flaming sword or blowing up his halo. Aziraphale only takes visible satisfaction in front of him, however, in small things - palming the incriminating photograph, for example, or asking for the towel and the rubber duck. The big things scare or embarrass him.

Is he afraid Crowley will feel less loved if he feels less needed?

Is he afraid Crowley will love him less, if he needs him less?

Is he afraid of his own power? Of his tendency to get carried away, to overdo things just a bit, to start out building a neat little roleplaying romantic scenario to hide what he and Crowley did from Heaven and wind up with a shopful of glamored, disoriented, and semi-mind-controlled neighbors dancing dances they don't know how to do. Aziraphale and Crowley have scary amounts of power, and while Crowley embraces that, or at least faces it head-on, Aziraphale really doesn't. And y'know? Watching that ball? He's probably got a good reason for that.

Which brings me right round back to the PTSD idea.

I'm a military brat, born on a USAF base and shuffled around according to military personnel policy and needs. My dad didn't have a combat position, though. He was a mechanic for his entire tour in Nam, thank goodness. I live now in the town sometimes called "the mother-in-law of the army." My husband was in the Air Force when I met him (but, again, never saw combat and really did not have the temperament for it). I am not an authority on PTSD in veterans, far from it.

But I've met these guys. I've worked with them, dated them, played D&D and SCA with them, paid rent to them, even been rescued by them in minor ways. I know the difference between the loudmouth bragging about what he's done, or will do, or could do, or is trained to do, or looks forward to doing, the gung-ho guy who wants to kick ass that you've probably met hanging around the comic shop and have certainly seen on your ballot, and the guy who never talks about any of those things, structures his life by a rulebook, accepts authority when it's thrust upon him but does not seek it out, prefers a quiet life, and suddenly pops up with a weird competence when it's needed, only to put it away again when it's not, unless you ask him to teach you. (He'll teach you. He'll teach you all the safety rules first.) For good or for evil, it's the guy you forget was a soldier who was the good soldier. And as a good soldier, he may have done horrible, horrible things. He may even have medals for them, buried in his sock drawer or shoved to the back of his gun safe.

I think there's a strong possibility that Aziraphale was a very good soldier and now wants to forget all about it. That he may even have been a hero once, and doesn't want to be one ever again. Let Crowley do it; let the humans do it; let other angels do it; I don't want to kill the anti-christ, I don't want to fight demons even when they invade my bookshop, I have no intention of fighting in any war. Let me be the cat's paw while you surround the church to descend on the Nazis I lured there for you. Let me be the person who draws the fire, who introduces the complication, who uncovers the clue - you can save the day. I don't like that part.

With all these layers of and reasons for disguising his true self, it's no wonder that Aziraphale loves sleight-of-hand and theater. No power involved, no harm done, it's all illusion and skill and appearances. So innocent, so harmless, so fun!

It's no wonder it's so hard for him to tell the truth.

And yet, he takes almost everyone else at face value. Most dishonest people I've known have been deeply suspicious, always looking for signs of deception and clues to what's not said, to the point of cutting themselves off from people they should be close to. It takes an honest person to be truly gullible, I would have thought. How real is that gullibility? How deep is that trust in everyone except himself?

I was once very badly hurt by a liar. Well, more than once. Most of them I haven't forgiven; this one, I did. Because I realized that in order to lie to me, he first had to lie to himself. Because I realized he'd been raised to lie, because his real self was not acceptable to his family and they would not be satisfied with him until he lied to them. Of course he thought he had to lie. Of course it took him most of his life to figure out what the truth even was. He had to put in a lot of work, and he did it. For me, specifically. In tandem with me putting in the work to fix what made it so easy for him to lie to me.

Aziraphale can do it, too. For Crowley,and for humanity. I have every faith in his ability to do that. Crowley has a lot of crap to unlearn and replace, too. They can do it, together, for each other.

Metatron is going to do everything he can to prevent it, in order to protect his own lie.

Fortunately, Metatron underestimates Aziraphale.

Unfortunately - Aziraphale also underestimates Aziraphale.

[doctorstrangereview]

0098: Marvel Premiere #7

Cover Date: March 1973 On-Sale Date: December 19, 1972

Our guest artist this month is P. Craig Russell, credited as Craig Russell. Oddly enough this work isn't listed in his number works on his Wikipedia page. Mr. Russell will go on to co-write and illustrate the very first Doctor Strange Annual ever in about three years. The story title will be "...and there will be worlds anew!" A couple of decades after this Mr. Russell will redraw the entire thing and title it "What is it that disturbs you, Stephen?" which is the first piece of dialog in this story. Mr. Russell's pencils on both efforts are much better than this story.

We continue to get the "Featuring concepts created by Robert E. Howard" credit and the "Featuring concepts created by H. P. Lovecraft" is missing. The story's villain is named Dagoth which is remarkable close Dagon who shows up in the eponymous tale and "The Shadow over Innsmouth."

We join our cast where we left off last issue. As I mentioned in the previous entry, Johnny Frames has disappeared as if he never existed. The poor guy doesn't even get a mention. We see N'Gabthoth's body lying at their feet. Doc dispatched him back to that primal ooze from whence he came. The Shambler should probably look more like a puddle of slime. Mr. Fox isn't even paying attention to his own continuity. After reading the old parchment, Doc knows he needs to head to Stonehenge in Merry Old England. Wong suggests Doc go on using his Cloak of Levitation and he will follow with Clea. I'm not sure how fast the Cloak is, but I don't think we're talking about Flash or even Quicksilver speeds and he's got a good 3,500 miles to go at least. And we're talking just days after he got smacked around by a semi and had near-death battles with multiple ancient horrors. We'll need to really suspend our disbelief on this one.

We change our view to Merry Old England. Doc isn't here yet, but someone named Henry Gordon is. He is accosting the public to find something called Witch House and everyone is giving him the cold shoulder about this. This is a horror movie tradition going back to forever. David Manners encountered this in Bela Lugosi's Dracula. Nick Adams encountered this Die, Monster Die. (That one was based on Lovecraft's "The Color Out of Space.") We learn that Witch House is Henry's inheritance from his Uncle Jed. Henry doesn't seem to be too broken up about it so it's either a long time since Uncle Jed bought the farm or they weren't all that close.

Henry eventually finds Witch House. Not only is it a dark and stormy night, but Witch House is on a cliff at the end of a treacherous winding path. It's even got a really creepy doorknocker. We'll learn that it's shaped like Dagoth's head.

Henry is let in to the house by the housekeeper. She is, of course, blonde, stacked and wearing a flimsy nightgown. And her name is Blondine. The first place Blondine takes Henry is to the library which is, of course, filled with books about the occult. Uncle Jed must have been really creepy!

Henry's first literature choice happens to be Nameless Cults. It's a fictional book appearing in several Cthulhu Mythos tales. In Doc's universe, the book describes an ancient city named Kalumesh whose inhabitants worshiped Dagoth who served Shuma Gorath. It tells Henry that the city sunk and why it sank, although Henry doesn't pass that tidbit to the readers.

Henry goes on to explore more of the house and finds a giant webbed footprint. He thinks it glows but it turns out to be a reflection of light from a nearby tower. Blondine lets Henry know it's named "The Tower of Dagoth." Blondine warns him off checking it out. Henry scoffs and goes up to the tower where he finds a big jewel with a shadow trapped in it outside the tower.

Henry is feeling all creeped out, but not enough to go boating with Blondine the next morning. He thinks Uncle Jed was trying to find treasure in Kalumesh and the two of them go scuba diving in search of it. It's described in the caption as being at the point where they're about to abandon the search, but feels like five minutes later. They find Kalumesh.

They also find Dagoth.

Doc just happens to be flying over the scene. He'll go save the stupid couple! We also get a close look at Mr. Russell's rendition of the All-Purpose Amulet. He regressed it to something closer to the original Ditko design.

Being Master of they Mystic Arts is very convenient for Doc. He doesn't need any gear to breathe whatsoever!

Mr. Russell does give a cinematic view and some great detail in this one. Doc and Dagoth engage. Dagoth appears to choke Doc dead and heads over to Henry and Blondine. But, it turns out Doc is using his old illusion trick and Dagoth choked an image. Doc traps Dagoth in a magical cage while rescuing the couple and taking them back to the house.

Henry and Blondine seem enthralled and spout some mystic gibberish. Doc thinks this is the perfect time for a non-consensual mind probe. Doc doesn't just read Blondine's mind, but he probes along her reincarnations and sees all the rotten things that happened in Kalumesh.

I really like the funky views of Dagon. Doc lets Blondine sleep and talks with Henry. Blondine wakes up and places the jewel that Henry found earlier in a specific window so it can feel the touch of Kulthas. Witch House is surrounded by Kirby crackle!

Meanwhile, Dagoth has returned and is playing Pied Piper leading all the townsfolk into the sea. He's even managed to snag Doc. Another in a remarkable chain of lucky coincidences sees Clea and Wong arrive as Doc is about to walk into the sea. Clea awakens Doc.

Doc awakens everyone else and hops back into the water to face Dagoth. Doc wins and banishes Dagoth to some limbo. This is what Doc should have done to N'Gabthoth last issue instead to turning him into a puddle of slime. Doc asks about the big jewel (the starstone.) Blondine explains it was a gift of Kulthas, the planet of Shuma Gorath. The return to Witch House where things are going nuts.

This is another story I forgot how much I enjoyed. It has Gardner Fox's mixture of kooky and bizarre. It has some high level concepts like reincarnation and hints of living planets. It has some typical horror movie tropes like the inherited spooky house, local legends and local demon. There's a bit too many of 'in the nick of time' coincidence to be plausible. Doc does the right thing of banishing Dagoth instead of murdering him. Glad he's back on the right track.

P. Craig Russell's pencils are sub-par compared to his later work on Doc, but are still miles ahead of Sam Kweskin's goofy lizard people from two issues ago. Gardener Fox probably needed to read more of Doc's back catalogue and paid closer attention to his own Doc stories to avoid some glaring, if minor contradictions. A regular artist may have been able to point these out and get them corrected before going to press.

Overall, this was fun!

[hvrdesthues]

(toby regbo, he/they/she, 31) announcing [ AUGUSTUS TUDOR ],the [ KING ] of [ ENGLAND ]. people would describe them as a [ KING ], maybe that is why they are [ FOR ] the kingdoms working together. they remind me a bit of [ PUTTING OUT MATCHES ON YOUR TONGUE, CLASPING BOTH HANDS ON YOUR MOUTH TO KEEP FROM SCREAMING, THE BURN OF REJECTION AND THE BURN IN YOUR LUNGS– THEY BOTH FEEL THE SAME BY NOW ].

@royalhqzstart

basics.

full name: augustus henry david tudor nicknames: auggie age: 31 years old  gender: genderfluid pronouns: they/them, he/him, she/her orientation: gay status: widowed

BIO.

(tw for toxic family dynamics, chronic illness, mental illness, murder, assassination, postpartum complications, loss of a parent)

you’re born into the world screaming. your parents are relieved. strong lungs. healthy. a boy. in all, a fine heir to the throne. within your first ten years of life you’ll dash all of those assumptions. the first comes when you’re still a baby. you’re prone to bouts of wailing, fevers you can’t express and pain you cannot soothe. you’re a sickly baby, and fussy at that. but the bouts seem to lessen with age, and your parents hope it will just be a funny anecdote, something to give you a hard time for when you’re older. at four, you take to draping blankets like dresses and fashioning pretend rings and necklaces, calling yourself a princess as you twirl. your parents don’t mind it. you’re an odd child, but you’re their child. some days you’re a prince, and others you’re a princess. in the grand scheme, where is the harm? six is when things change.

six is when the first attack happens. it’s summer, and you and leo are outside. the two of you are always out doing something, especially now. you love your sister, of course you do. the three of you are so close in age, not even a year between you and leo and barely more time between leo and kitty. it’s been the three of you your whole lives. you love max. you don’t love sharing. so the two of you run outside now, while you still can. you’re not sure what triggers it. one moment the two of you are running, laughing, shrieking in that sort of childlike delight one loses all too quickly, and the next your chest feels like fire. air doesn’t come easily, and you can’t get enough in at one time to say what’s wrong. you just keep wheezing, obviously distressed. help is swift, but it still feels, in your mind, like it goes on forever.

that’s just the first one. more will follow, and soon you’re being monitored much too closely for your liking. you’re only allowed to play slower games, and you’re brought in when it’s too cold or too hot, and soon it feels like you’re hardly allowed to do anything on your own at all. you fight tooth and nail for your life back. you want to run down the hills with your brother and you want to pretend to be knights fighting a dragon together and you do not want to be inside, stuck reading books and lamenting your bad luck. this is when the rift starts. leo is strong. leo can go out. leo can run and jump and fight and though he never quite learns to weave his words into things people love, he's the favored one. you don’t want to hate him. but you can feel when things shift. your father’s favor always felt obligated to land on you, as the eldest. but now with your health and strength and viability as heir called into question, you can feel all favor direct to leo. you do not want to be angry.

he’s the son of a high ranking noble in the region, a mere four months your senior. as such, the two of you are good friends as children. he leaves when the two of you are young, and you had been distraught. outside of leo, who by now you had closed yourself off to, he was one of your closest friends. you’ve never quite learned how to process loss. when he comes back, older and taller but his grin still lopsided and his eyes still pools of amber and honey when the light hits them just right, well. you’d never hidden your disdain for the betrothals your parents had tried to force upon you. on some level, you’d known why. but seeing him here, this was more. officially, the two of you were fast friends once more. you don’t kid yourself into thinking no one knew what was going on behind closed doors and hidden in corners of the library and tucked away in gardens away from prying eyes. but to speak it aloud felt like a disservice. first love is funny like that. you want everyone to know, but you don’t want to tell them, because your words will never be good enough. 

you think you're being careful. you think no one will realize. you're young and stupid and after, what, six years, you think clearly you've gotten away with this. you don't know how you'll keep this up, in the long term, but you don't think that far ahead. clearly. you've snuck out for, what, the thousandth time now, just the two of you, managing to mostly blend in in far plainer clothes and adornments than you're used to, and the two of you...almost seem normal. two young people too caught up in each other to even see until-- until someone is screaming and ambrose is choking and something hot splatters onto you. it feels like an eternity before you realize it is blood. not your own. his. you try to go to him, to-- to hold him, comfort him, try to stop the bleeding, anything. but you're pulled away, all but dragged back to the castle. you're no fool, despite what your father may think of you. still, you scream at him, ambrose's blood still drying on your face and your clothes, and the coldness you are met with it...it only enrages you further. you're sent away from him, told to clean yourself up and speak of this to no one, and to understand with ambrose gone there is only one target for a blade to find next time.

you are finally, finally bullied into complacency, it seems. you even take a wife, if for no other reason than to silence your father. he doesn't intend for you to take the throne, so he cares little that she comes from english nobility, offering no foreign alliance. you feel no love for her, not as a husband should to his wife, but this matters little to either of you. you both benefit from the union. of course, there is the matter of children. they are expected, and, well. you have one. truthfully, you'd never wanted children, had never liked them much the few times you had interacted with them, your siblings being so close to your own age it barely even counted. but the first time you lay eyes on anne, something changes. she is yours, and despite that, she's...she's perfect. you watch her with a constant sense of unease, fearful she will also be sickly, and maybe even worse than you had been. but no. she's a strong baby, and she stays strong, easily outrunning you more times than you can count, much to her amusement. no, calamity has spared your daughter, but this did not mean it did not arrive.

mathilde is never the same after anne is born. she was once lively and vivacious, and a troublemaker beyond measure. her wit and penchant for misbehavior were part of why the two of you had gotten along so well. but after anne is born, she's so tired. you think nothing of it at first. you know nothing of childbirth from personal experience, obviously, but it makes sense that such a thing would be taxing on the body. everyone says to just give her time, a month perhaps. but one month becomes two, and then six, and then a year has passed, and still. she cannot stand for long periods of time, tires all too easily, and you suspect there is more yet she is keeping from you. physicians can only treat some of the symptoms, and no one can give you an answer. this is just...life. and what a life for anne it is, both parents weak and-- and a father who is altogether useless and-- and--

mathilde dies in her sleep. you are alerted the next morning, when her servants go to tend to her. three years of this, of worry and fear and it has culminated in what you'd expected but hoped against anyway. anne is too young to understand, and there are many times she still speaks of mathilde as though she's only gone away for a while. it burns, to have to tell her no, her mother will not be back for her birthday, nor the holiday, nor ever again. you don't know if she grasps it, but eventually she stops asking. she becomes an angry child, and, god, you see entirely too much of yourself in her now, even if each passing day has her taking after her mother more as well.

and so life progresses. four years later, and now your father has died, the spectre and tormentor both felled by...by fate, perhaps. you don't know. fate is too cruel. fate has taken your love, twice now, and yoked you to an advisor bearing one of their names. you do what you can to avoid using it. it feels like a stab to the heart each time you must. it should not be him to which you refer. but it is.

[edenwest]

application :

[ ! ] — it seems that [ aria eden - west ] has entered the scene ! she looks exactly like [ dua lipa ]. this [ twenty - nine ] is the [ major stakeholder #1 ] of [ app-h inc. ]. it’s a small wonder since she is known for being [ nosey & self critical ] and [ captivating & ambitious ]. she has been involved with the company for [ four ] years. [ kenny | she + her  | twenty - three | pst ]

statistics : 

faceclaim : dua lipa name : aria catherine eden - west nickname(s): ari birthday : november eighteenth  birthplace : london , england  age : twenty - nine  gender & pronouns : cis-woman , she & her occupation : magazine editor , interviewer & duulan show host  height : five feet , eight inches  scent : dolce & gabanna light blue 

family heritage : 

aria eden west is the newest carat in her family’s gold lineage, next in line to the throne of her family’s crown jewel , weston co.  founded by catherine west , weston co. was risen from the ground up , determined to give the ‘ every day woman ‘ access to jewelry that was both stylish and durable , allowing them to pay no mind to the usual wear and tear that came with being a twentieth century housewife . j.c penney was the first to invest , lining their accessories sections with their first ( and what would soon become their most famous ) cuff bracelet , an indisputable hit during the holiday season which made penney’s rich and catherine even richer . weston co. only blossomed from there , over the next hundred years she’d break the glass ceiling of the j.c penney’s jewelry section , open her own boutiques , little by little inching closer to the edge of rodeo drive where the weston co. now resides with the rest of the world’s greatest designers . weston co. prides itself on being made for women , by women — though , now it’s certainly popular and amongst anyone who enjoys fine jewelry — so the company now rests in the hands of eleanor eden - west , and eventually , it will become aria’s too .  [ weston co. is equivalent to a brand like cartier or tiffany & co. ] 

past : 

you grow up with the world at your fingertips . everything you want is given to you before you have to so much as ask . it’s the typical life that’s afforded to a child like you , educated in the nation’s best private schools , never without the newest toys or latest book in whatever series you were obsessed with at any given time ( some even before they were released to the public ) . it’s comfortable , you’re comfortable , but why does that make you feel so guilty ?

technically the first “ true “ nepotism baby in your family considering that your mother didn’t get to reap the benefits of weston co.’s success until she was well in her 40s and your father built his entire career from the ground up . not that you’re complaining , people would kill for this life and you know that you’re lucky to live it . you don’t resent it , in fact you cherish it , but you can’t help from asking yourself one thing : what have you done to deserve this ?  a question the tabloids seem to want an answer to too . 

you want more out of life , as grateful as you are for your parent’s support you feel terrible taking it from them — is it true what everyone says ? would you really be nothing without your family name ? going to college feels like the only way to get away from it all , to silence that voice in your head that tells you the only thing you’ll ever have to show for yourself is a company you don’t even really own . you go to oxford , but not without scrutiny . impossible not to overhear the whispers of your peers that swear they have you pieced together , that are completely certain your family’s name ( or perhaps their generous donation ) is the only reason you’ve made it this far . they put a chip on your shoulder , and it’s only up to you to figure out how to get it off . 

you make two friends while you’re in college , it’s all you can really afford as someone who spends as much time in the library as you �� one on occasion they quite literally had to drag you out of there kicking and screaming . you spend your first two years completely immersed in your studies , trying to prove to everyone ( read : yourself ) that there’s more to you than what your parents have given you , that you’re smart , independent , worth something on even your own .  

it’s not until your senior year that you find the thing that would eventually become your life’s purpose . céline was meant to be nothing more than your final project , a theoretical magazine complete with three articles on art , entertainment and current events that was supposed to be for your professors eyes only . but you’ve never found yourself work so hard at something in your life , not only determined to make your final project your best one yet but actually interested in the process at hand . you found yourself excited to go home to write an research , so many nights spent watching the sun rise while you fooled around indesign tweaking the smallest details until they sat just right on the page . 

you’re not quite ready to own a company yet , the thought of inheriting the one that’s had your name signed on it sign the day you were born still sometimes makes you feel sick , so you’ll have to find another way to turn this into something more sustainable for the person you are right now .

you reach out to a couple of friends who reach out to a couple of friends and before you know it you’re being asked to pitch an idea for a youtube series , one that puts a new edge on the predictable world of celebrity interviews — and thus , pub crawl is born . it’s probably not the best idea , inviting celebrities for a day of recorded and publicized drinking all while asking them questions about their lives and careers , but maybe that’s exactly the point . pub crawl becomes an instant success , rising to viral fame after tom holland came to the show and completely spoiled the upcoming avengers movie after he’d gotten tripped up by one of your tricky questions . 

it’s been a hit ever since , each season only growing bigger and bigger until you find yourself being invited to interview celebrities at the red carpet of some of entertainment’s biggest events . people love you , they find your interviewing insightful yet playful , flirtatious yet elegant , captivating in every way as is obvious by the millions of views garnered by your interviews at the grammy’s , oscars and of course , the met gala . 

you get three seasons deep into pub crawl before you realize that though hosting this show makes you happy , it doesn’t make you feel complete . sure , it’s fun picking your guests brains about their most recent projects but it doesn’t feel like enough . you want to talk about what’s really going on in the world , about art , history , fashion , design , and give voice to the people who do it best . so  , céline is pulled back out from the depths of your google drive , an dream you’re now determined to make into a reality especially now that you have all of the resources to do it on your own . for the next year , any time that isn’t spent filming pub crawl is dedicated to turning cèline into the publication it’s meant to be , gathering a team of writers , editors and designers to make certain that it lives up to the potential you’ve always known it had. 

it’s been four years since it’s official launch , and while critics initially dubbed your publication as an out of touch passion project by yet another bored nepo baby , you soon grew tired of trying to prove yourself to people , trying to make them see that your worth is in more than just who you are, but what you can do — so , you stop trying to . only then is when you really start to see the success and satisfaction you've been craving . what first only began as a few copies distributed to local news-stands has grown to become your very own empire. thanks to support from app-h, celine took off in the digital world , some say it even revived the nearly long lost art of the magazine. in what feels like no time you're competing with names like cosmopolitan, elle, and even vogue .

[mattnben-bennmatt]

Matt Damon's interview w/ Vanity Fair (December 1997)

Meet Matt Damon

Three of Hollywood’s top directors have decided that 27-year-old Harvard dropout Matt Damon is a star: Francis Ford Coppola gave him the lead in the latest Grisham adaptation, The Rainmaker, Steven Spielberg cast him in the title role in Saving Private Ryan, and Gus Van Sant directed him in Good Will Hunting, which the actor co-wrote. But, David Kamp discovers. Matt Damon himself is not so sure.

By David Kamp

-

This is how it works: a script is first sent to Chris O’Donnell and Leonardo DiCaprio. They pass. Then the secondtier actors reconvene, exchange familiar nods, and audition for the role that they hope will elevate them from their current station. Usually this role isn’t even any good, merely a preen-and-shout exercise in an expensively produced Hollywood infliction. But the actor who secures the part is assured offers and choices, while the also-rans are forced to scratch around for other work: made-for-cable movies, TV pilots, independent films about small-town white ethnics who wear their shirts untucked and say things like “Cut the shit, Frankie!”

Matt Damon was one of these also-rans, a scrubbed young kid with an Andover face who played schoolboys and soldiers in movies that were O.K. but never quite took. He was in School Ties, in which Brendan Fraser played a Jewish football recruit at an elite New England prep school, and Courage Under Fire, the Denzel Washington drama about the Gulf War.

By now, given the circumstances that bring us all together here, you’ve surmised that Damon is no longer an also-ran, and that something wonderful has happened to him. What happened was that he became the beneficiary of Francis Ford Coppola’s whim to cast an unknown as the lead in The Rainmaker, the latest film adaptation of a John Grisham book. On top of this, Damon stars as a character named Will Hunting in a movie entitled Good Will Hunting, Gus Van Sant’s first picture since To Die For, and plays Private Ryan in Saving Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg’s forthcoming World War II epic. So Matt Damon is suddenly big news, a star in the making, Hollywood’s face of tomorrow, etc., etc. There is “buzz” about him, and it’s my duty to observe that his career has “caught fire,” that he is “hot.” People who work in entertainment are already slurring his name nonchalantly, “M’daymun,” as if they’ve said it a million times and are exhausted by the sheer burden of advance-word knowingness. Matt Damon. M’daymun. Matthew McConaughDamon. He’s probably a wanker. Let’s find out.

‘Oh, hey, man, how you doin’? . . . Naw, I’m just here watching the game with the guy from Vanity [belch] Fair. . . . Yeah, look, I promise I’ll reread it, but if you want an answer now, I’m telling you probably not, because I read this script on the plane that blew me away, and it’s supposed to go at the same time as yours. It’s about a compulsive gambler. It’s written by a guy who is a compulsive gambler, I think. . . . No, so I think probably not, but look, this is for just this film, O.K.? Let’s keep talking for the future, O.K., man? ’Cause I’d like to work with you.”

He hangs up, dumbfounded. “I can’t believe I’m in a position where I have to turn down work. This has never happened,” he says. He’s of compact physique, with broad shoulders, sharp features, and short, mussed hair—he looks like an early Heisman winner.

“When did it start happening?” I ask.

“Just this past weekend,” Damon says. He is only recently back from England, where Saving Private Ryan is being filmed. We are drinking beer and watching football, and, appropriately, there is an air of beer-commercial wish fulfillment afoot, the kind of deal where two knuckleheads in a dorm room slam down their brewskis on top of the console and are magically transported poolside, where butlers and multiple facsimiles of Jayne Mansfield attend to them. Only it’s not nearly that decadent—we are simply luxuriating in a fancy hotel room in New York City on the dime of Miramax, which is releasing Good Will Hunting. Knucklehead Damon is not blasé about his four-star accommodations, self-consciously ordering “overpriced room-service food that I would never pay for myself” and reveling in the junkiest stuff in the mini-bar—the whole jar of cashews, the entire box of Lindt chocolate squares.

Knucklehead No. 2 is Ben Affleck, Damon’s best friend since their high-school days in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and the star of the recent, well-received independent films Chasing Amy and Going All the Way. Affleck is also in Good Will Hunting, playing, in fact, Will Hunting’s best friend. He joins us in Damon’s room, settles in with a beer, and trades stories with his buddy about the day’s big experience: getting fitted for their first-ever complimentary Movie Actor suits. They are attending a function the following evening. “The Gotham Awards? The Gotham . . . Independent Film . . . something?” says Damon. “I don’t know what it is, but they’re giving Harvey and Bob Weinstein some kind of award and we’re being brought along as sort of, you know, Miramax mascots.” The free suits are part of the deal.

Affleck has been to the V.I.P. showroom of Emporio Armani, where he was surprised to encounter a locked glass door with a receptionist behind it who at first wouldn’t let him in. “She motioned for me to pick up this phone on the wall to tell her who I was,” he says. “They’re afraid of Cunanan copycats—that’s my theory.”

“I went to Calvin Klein,” says Damon. “They tried all these things on me and said I looked very ‘fash.’ They promised me that I’ll look ‘fash.’”

The conversants are wearing jeans and dorky shoes—not so much bad style as pre-style: Hollywood taste hasn’t imposed itself on them yet, and their clothes still look mother-bought. They’re new at this, and it’s endearing. You come in prepared for the worst, a Stephen Dorff situation, wherein the hyped kid in the hotel room is sulky and has an off-duty goatee and smells of Gauloises and sits with such an extreme slump that his head is at armrest level and his groin points out at you. It’s nothing like that. These boys are nice knuckleheads.

Good Will Hunting is proof that Damon and Affleck are also intelligent knuckleheads—not an oxymoron, but an apt way to describe a 27-year-old and a 25-year-old who are by all appearances regular guys (neither emits imaginary Keith Haring rays of star quality, as Matthew McConaughey does), and who happen to have written the screenplay for the film in which they star. Yes, they are writer-actors, an uncommon skill combo among filmdom polymaths, and Good Will Hunting—the first thing they have ever written—is now a Gus Van Sant movie.

Will Hunting, Damon’s character, is a troublemaking Irish-American kid from South Boston who is discovered to be a math prodigy. An awed M.I.T. professor (Stellan Skarsgård) wants to take Will under his wing. He gets his chance when Will, on the brink of being jailed for his latest criminal offense, is sprung by the judge on the condition that the professor supervise him and enlist a psychotherapist to set the boy straight. Will resists the touchy-feelyisms of various therapists, until he meets his match in Dr. Sean Maguire (Robin Williams), himself a product of South Boston. This kid, you see, he’s . . . goodwill hunting.

It’s strangely gentle territory for a serial subversive like Van Sant, whose previous films are rife with casual criminality and sexual deviance. “I haven’t really had anyone I’ve shown it to not like the film, which is really unusual for me,” the director says. “I guess that before, I felt that portraying something out of the mainstream was a powerful way of telling a story. But this time the story itself was enough.”

Good Will Hunting is an engaging, comfortably inhabited small movie. That anyone has even bothered to make a film about two of Boston’s prominent milieus— its academic community and its most famously insular neighborhood—is gratifying enough, but Damon and Affleck have transcended the homeboy-homage genre of indie film that has given us Trees Lounge and Palookaville. The screenplay’s realistic handling of townie-student resentments is buttressed by the time Damon spent at Harvard; originally a member of the class of ’92, he remains two semesters short of graduating. As actors, Damon and Affleck avoid vanity shtick, and the cast responds in kind—particularly Williams, soothing and bearded as he was in Awakenings, and Minnie Driver, who plays Damon’s love interest and has since become his real-life girlfriend.

“To me it was just an extraordinary script,” says Williams. “It was quite shocking when I met Matt and Ben and saw how young they were—I was like ‘May I see some ID?’”

The Rainmaker I can’t tell you about with any authority, because it wasn’t finished at the time of this writing. But I can tell you what Mickey Rourke has told me. Mickey’s in The Rainmaker—mark my words, Mickey’s back—and he says, “Matt worked his ass off. Matt walked the walk. And Francis showed a lot of love on the set. Francis is good with young kids.”

It’s not all leather trousers and kissing Bridget Hall, being a boy actor. The road to The Rainmaker was paved with near misses and self-worth crises. “I’d have taken Robin,” Damon says, alluding to Batman Forever. “Hell, I auditioned for it. When they first offered it to Chris O’Donnell he wanted more money, so they had auditions and I did a screen test for Joel Schumacher. Primal Fear—you know the Edward Norton role? It more or less came down to him and me, and he pretty much put a smokin’ on me. To Die For I lost nearly 20 pounds to audition for, but Wock got it.” (“Wock” is his friend Joaquin Phoenix.)

Damon’s first role of consequence was in School Ties, in 1992. A poor but not altogether worthless cousin of Dead Poets Society, the movie had a young cast that also included Brendan Fraser, Chris O’Donnell, Randall Batinkoff, Cole Hauser, and Affleck. Damon was effectively first among the featured performers, playing a moneyed “legacy” student whose anti-Semitism and resentment of Fraser’s character bring about the film’s climax. But he was not to be the first of the gang called up from the minors.

“Scent of a Woman happened right during School Ties. The whole cast went down to audition for it,” says Damon. “Chris O’Donnell was a business major at Boston College, and he’s a very savvy businessman. So the way I found out about the part is, I’m checking in with my agent, to see if anything good has come in, and my agent says, ‘Here’s one with a young role, and . . . Oh my God, it’s got Al Pacino in it!’ So I go up to Chris and say, ‘Have you heard about this movie?’ and he says [curtly] ‘Yeah.’ So I say, ‘Do you have the script?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Can I see it?’ ‘No—I kinda need it.’ Chris wouldn’t give it to anybody. Later, Ben, me, Randall, Brendan, Anthony Rapp—we’re all commiserating about our auditions, talking about how they didn’t go well. Except for Chris. Chris used to play things close to the vest. We asked him how his audition went, and he just said [highpitched, Hibernian singsong], ‘Ohhh, it was all right.’ And we were like ‘Dude! Just tell us how it went!’ And he would say [singsong again], ‘Ohhh, I don’t know.’”

While O’Donnell went on to become Hollywood’s literal and figurative Boy Wonder, Damon and Affleck found themselves in a wilderness of spotty work and tenuous finances, sharing a two-bedroom apartment on Curson Avenue in L.A. with a third friend from Cambridge. Affleck and two other School Ties veterans, Hauser and Rapp, found jobs playing oily adolescents in Dazed and Confused, Richard Linklater’s winning evocation of the mid-70s. As a result there developed an overlapping School Ties—Dazed and Confused coterie of underemployed young actors: Damon, Affleck, Hauser, Rory Cochrane (the latter film’s lovable stoner), and Matthew McConaughey, dead-on as Dazed and Confused’s over-age, breezily malevolent parasite on the town’s high-school scene.

“When Matthew got A Time to Kill, we all went nuts,” says Damon. “It was such a feeling of vindication—that one of our peer group, someone not on the A-list, got the part.”

Damon’s ticket out of obscurity was last year’s Courage Under Fire, in which he delivered an attention-grabbing performance as a soldier who witnesses something horrible in Kuwait and, thus traumatized, becomes a heroin addict. Damon lost 40 pounds for that role and became, literally, anorectic. “I was under 2 percent body fat,” he says. “I remember seeing Lou Diamond Phillips”—whose boxing-ring scenes in the movie reveal a perfectly sculpted torso—“and thinking, God, if I looked like that I wouldn’t take my shirt off. I thought he looked fat!” He produces an unsettling snapshot of himself from this era, smoking a cigarette and holding up a packet of ExLax. He looks like Chet Baker about to die.

Health be damned, Damon believes that the extreme measures for Courage Under Fire were well worth it. “It was a business decision,” he says. “I thought, Nobody will take this role, because it’s too small. If I go out of my way to make something of this role . . .” At this point he cites the punchdrunk performance of Benicio Del Toro in The Usual Suspects. “He’s killed early into the movie and he probably has, like, nine lines. But I found it the most memorable performance of 1995. The guy just goes out and thinks, No one’s gonna understand what I’m doing except for me, but I’m a fuckin’ genius. For me, I was sick of reading scripts that Chris O’Donnell had passed on, and I was looking for something to set me apart: ‘Look what I’ll do, I’ll kill myself!’ Directors took note of it.”

Indeed, Damon’s performance impressed Coppola enough that he cast him in The Rainmaker. The out-of-nowhere notoriety this accorded Damon prodded Miramax to push Good Will Hunting into production. And when Good Will Hunting was shooting on location in Boston last spring, Williams invited Damon along to visit Spielberg, who was in town to film scenes for his slave-ship-revolt movie, Amistad. “I’d auditioned by tape for Saving Private Ryan, but Steven thought I still looked like I did in Courage Under Fire,” Damon says. “So when he actually saw me, he saw that I didn’t look that way anymore, and that’s what made the difference.”

Inevitably the topic of nascent stardom arises and, equally inevitably, Damon demurs. It’s a “lofty assumption,” he says, that the Coppola—Van Sant—Spielberg trifecta will make him a star; it could all blow over in a year’s time. “I won’t be Matthew McConaughey,” he says. “I’m not as good-looking as him. I’m certainly never going to be anyone’s sex symbol.”

Here the conversation takes a turn for the meta-, becoming all about the impact of this article and the photos that will accompany it, and how celebrity is lovely if it helps you get better work, but is also a tricky bugaboo larded with unseemly implications. Ed Harris, Damon concludes. That’s the kind of life he’d like, being a good actor like Ed Harris, well regarded but not overpaid or stalked by anyone. Damon makes no attempt to veil his disdain for Hollywood, proclaiming himself “an East Coast person” who will one day settle down in his native Boston area; for now, he has no fixed address and lives in Cole Hauser’s apartment near L.A.’s Griffith Park.

You could argue that Damon is being pre-emptive, just in case things don’t work out these next few months. But his conviction strikes me as genuine. He can’t fathom, for example, the notion of eightfigure salaries. “Chris O’Donnell made $10 million last year. [Again, more deliberately] Chris . . . O’Donnell . . . made 10 . . . million . . . dollars last year. Now, if I made $10 million last year, I would not be sitting here with you. No offense. Unless you and I were friends and you wanted to hang out with me and help me spend my $10 million. Shit, man, give me five million bucks once—that’s $500,000 a year for the rest of your life if you invest it. I can’t spend that much money. Not the way I live.” (For the record, Damon says that his average take-home pay for The Rainmaker, Good Will Hunting, and Saving Private Ryan was “significantly under half a million per picture.”)

Damon’s upbringing was progressiveliberal even by Cambridge standards. As a child, he was taken on tours of South Boston by his mother’s longtime boyfriend, who had driven one of the hated buses that delivered black kids to white schools in Southie in the mid-70s. When Damon was 10, he, his mother, and his older brother, Kyle, moved into an experimental cooperative house. “About six families bought a broken-down house in Central Square and rebuilt it,” he says. “It was governed by a shared philosophy that housing is a basic human right. Every week there was the three-hour community meeting, and Sundays were workdays. My mom put little masks on me and my brother, gave us goggles and crowbars, and we demo’d the walls.”

Damon positively beams when he speaks of his mother. When I ask if I can give her a call, he agrees and advises me that she is “nice, you’ll like her, she’s really touchyfeely”—which I later surmise to be his way of saying I love her dearly, but her value system skews somewhat to the left of mine.

Damon’s mother, Nancy Carlsson-Paige, is a professor of early-childhood education at Lesley College in Cambridge, and she forthrightly discusses her discomfort with her son’s impending celebrity. “I’m not happy about it, particularly,” she says. “What happens in a consumer society is that people become objects of attention in a way that doesn’t seem healthy to society. I’m happy that Matt is happy in his work, but I’m not convinced he has to be on the cover of a magazine about it. It’s a little hard for me to accept. It’s all so out of the ordinary that I worry he might not grow as I want him to.” For an unreconstructed leftist whose son has pledged allegiance to the Entertainment State, these difficult quandaries arise frequently. “It was hard for me to go to the set of Courage Under Fire,” she continues. “I was deeply against the Gulf War, and I didn’t know how the film was going to pan out politically.”

So it’s settled then. We have come here to celebrate the launch of Matt Damon, actor, not Matt Damon, celebrity. We shall not torment him with shallow appraisals of his love life. We shall not murmur that he looks kinda fat or suspiciously thin in that photo we saw in People magazine’s “Star Tracks” section. We shall leave him alone to develop his craft and indulge him in his use of that word, craft. We shall take into account that he is still learning.

“I think Marlon Brando has done more to destroy this generation of actors,” he says, referring to his own generation, “because, with the whole marble-mouth thing— the I-don’t-give-a-fuck mentality—what people overlook is that when the dude was my age he was the hardest-working man in show business. He was onstage, he was busting his ass with Stella Adler, he was obsessed with acting. When people say, ‘I just want to be fat and live in Fiji and have everyone tell me I’m a genius,’ they’re not looking at what it actually takes to get there.”

[mynameis-noe-body]

Professor Severus Snape × Original Female Character

Summary:

Licorice Hatch has traveled the world, fulfilling her dream of becoming one of the most famous writers and reporters in the Wizarding World. Now, she is coming back. Merlin only knows the turmoil she has caused in the heart of her dark, splendid professor. And at the very thought — eager to hold her in his arms again — Severus can't help but relive their whole story, from the very beginning, when it all started with a Wilbur Smith's book and... a two-month detention!

Or — OC was a Slytherin student, but through the years her relationship with professor Snape developed from a platonic friendship to true love. AU - no Second Wizarding War & start from the 4th Year.

Warnings: None (no underage relationship)

Rating: Mature

Status: Complete

Here the first chapter.

▪️▪️▪️

Five years.

One hundred and fifty letters exchanged.

About three hundred stamps, including those for priority and international mail. Ireland, Netherlands, France, Germany, Portugal, Italy, Spain and the Canary Islands, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Turkey, Armenia, Egypt, Cape Verde, the island of Cyprus, Morocco, and back north to Norway and the Svalbard Islands — yes, he had read them all.

And he had kept all the dozens — dozens, dozens — of photographs, tickets, newspaper clippings, pamphlets and so on and so forth; he had had to empty a trunk to put everything away.

Severus had never considered himself a sentimental man, yet he'd never allow any of his old friends to cross the threshold of his study only to discover the inkblots on the scribbled parchment, signed with his first name and, on top on the page, that usual «My dear Licorice». My dear — it had become ridiculous how he had found himself waiting for her letter, punctual every two weeks for five years, coming from all over Europe and beyond.

Severus knotted his tie glancing at the invitation, opened on the table in front of the fireplace. It was going to be a formal event, the Quibbler's twentieth birthday, the Lovegood's magazine; it had been unexpected, she hadn't warned him of the precedence of her return to England. A flush of heat tinted lightly his cheeks red, and he found himself berating — an old fool, that's who he was. Fortunately, Albus was no longer there to tease his idiosyncrasies.

Severus closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and grabbed the card with the typical annoyance that had accompanied him for a lifetime; the flames in the fireplace trembled and the Headmistress shrill voice called to him. "Are you ready? I'm going now with Filius but I very much hope you want to join us, Severus."

He nodded. "I'll be there, Minerva."

The flame vanished with a puff of ash. His hand hesitated over the jar of Floo Powder. Another mirror check, just to make sure the knot is neat. Severus had never considered himself a vain man — good Merlin, no, no. He had never found anything particularly interesting in his physical appearance of him. Nothing worth paying attention to more than the five minutes it took to brush his teeth twice a day and shave three times a week. Yet now that he was wearing a new midnight blue suit (and had combed his hair, had shaved even though it didn't seem necessary, and had tried — unsuccessfully — to choose a perfume) he felt decidedly uncomfortable. He cursed the girl, again. Severus squeezed the invitation in his pocket thinking he would give up, but the very idea of missing this opportunity made him miserable. You won a war, get some self-love good God. And with a final flash of resolution, Severus grabbed the Floo, stepped into the chimney, and traveled to the Quibbler's London headquarters.

—————

It was a warm evening on the rooftops of London. From that terrace lit in purple and gold one could admire the whole city; the artificial lights of the Muggle streets were magically extinguished under the transparent dome that hid them from prying eyes, and entire constellations unfolded in the sky like a mantle of precious stones set in velvet. Severus avoided the crowd. Minerva had dragged him here — to congratulate the Lovegood family, and to rejoin old friends from Hogwarts — and there — to shake hands with the members of the Ministry who had been invited; it had been forty-five unbearable minutes of intercourse and pointless chatter, with the one exception of Luna Lovegood — surprisingly. The girl had always had an aura of genius around her, from a certain point of view, and the newspaper had achieved new popularity in the wizarding world thanks to her.

She approached him — saving him from the gang of little journalists who were hoping to extort him who knows what interview - and offered him wine. "I knew you were coming, Mr. Snape" Luna affirmed with a dreamlike smile. "Although I also know that you aren't particularly interested in the company of the other guests, nor in mine." Severus nodded, without adding anything. "Have you met Licorice yet? She is very impatient to meet you, but they keep interrupting. So rude, isn't it?"

"Is she?" he asked, sounding more interested than he wanted. Too many years had passed, it was unlikely to be true — even though he didn't remember Miss Lovegood having ever lied in her entire career.

She brightened up. "It will be a splendid reunion, yours. This evening is surprisingly devoid of nargles, there is a very positive energy." And then she began to tell about the latest edition of the Quibbler which was to be published the following week; she revealed the titles of the articles to him in advance, and only at the end did she promise she would find Miss Hatch for him.

"There is no rush, Miss Lovegood. I'm sure Miss Hatch will have other impediments to deal with at the moment."

Luna shook her head. "Nonsense, she has done nothing but ask about you since she came back" and with these words she disappeared.

He sighed, keeping himself from brooding too much. The glass of Syrah in his hand was infinitely more attractive than his thoughts. However, hiding behind the shimmering crystal of his goblet hadn't been enough to escape Mr. Potter; the boy had grown up, undoubtedly, and if he were really interested about him the wedding ring on his left hand would have had a strange effect, but Severus had seen many students grow up, become adults and start their own lives over the course of nearly twenty years of teaching. It wasn't new.

Harry approached with an outstretched hand and a friendly smile. "I'm glad to see you here, professor. It's been a while."

Severus returned the gesture. "Since Granger and Weasley's wedding. And I don't have to remind you that I'm no longer a Hogwarts professor, do I Potter?"

"No sir. The Devon is good for your health, you look good."

Severus nodded. The boy — that young man — at least seemed as uncomfortable as he was. For some reason Harry had never stopped insisting; letters, invitations, Christmas cards. He never answered. "And how is Mrs. Potter? I haven't seen her yet."

"Oh no," Harry replied, with a smile "Ginny stayed home, the pregnancy is starting to be tiring and she needs rest." So they exchanged a few more words: Harry was excited about becoming a father, told him about their new home near the Burrow and how Hermione and Ron had preferred to move to London for the time being, and had the decency not to ask him many personal questions. When he confessed he had read his publications on Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts, Severus rolled his eyes and didn't even try to look flattered. His gaze ran bored over the crowd as the boy continued to speak.

"...another drink?" Potter asked.

The terrace slowly emptied as the remaining couples moved to the center. The speeches of thanks had stopped, light classical music floated in the air; Severus knew it was time to move and accepted another glass of wine with a defeated sigh. The bar was packed with people, many crowded in line for yet another cocktail and it was the perfect — terrifing — opportunity to reconnect with old, unpleasant acquaintances.

Harry raised his hand and greeted someone. Obviously, Severus thought. Two pairs of eyes turned towards them: Sirius Black approached, clutching a Campari with ice in his hand and accompanying a young, beautiful woman beside him. Snape was sure he hadn't seen her before; she wore a long black dress with two dizzying slits showing her tanned legs. When Sirius hugged Harry, she smiled at him.

"Ah, Snape" Black commented. His small black eyes giggled, studying the unusual blue suit - which actually fit him perfectly. "I heard you moved to the country side. How's life in the middle of nowhere?"

Severus didn't even waste the breath he needed to snort. "Torquay is hardly the middle of nowhere, Black — if I were you I'd think before I utter even a single word."

Harry had to intervene, for the umpteenth time, trying to avoid the nascent discussion and turned his attention to the music, commenting on the lovely evening that Luna had organized. Sirius nodded. "You are absolutely right, Harry. Dearest," Black turned to the young woman, showing off his best smile "would you like to dance?"

She grinned, a light of resolve illuminated her gaze. "Indeed yes" she replied, but she refused Sirius's hand when he offered it. "I would very much like to dance with you, professor Snape."

Sirius gasped, shocked. Snape smirked.

Oh, Severus wouldn't have let an opportunity like that pass by; rarely — perhaps never — such a beautiful woman would have preferred his hand to Black's, and now he could enjoy this little revenge. He slipped his hand down the woman's back, touching the bare skin with his fingertips to the hem of her dress, and led her onto the dance floor giving Balck one last defiant look. Then, finally, he moved his eyes to that lovely creature.

She was young, much younger than him. And she was smiling, still. She wasn't hesitant, but her hand rested on his shoulder with reverence, so light he could barely feel her through his jacket.

"I must inform you" he said, "that I'm not a professor, not anymore. It's been five years."

She giggled and nodded, starting to swing in his arms. Someone had given them a few curious looks, but he pretended not to notice, as always. "Yes, I know" she replied. "How do you find the evening?"

He shrugged, looked around to glare at the newly weds Weasleys, and sighed. "Dreadful. Still, the wine was delicious."

"That's all?" the whispered question sounded more like a challenge, a playful provocation. "Only... the wine?"

She was delightful. She was warm, bright. Severus had learned not to ask himself why a pleasant thing could happen to him; he spun her around before taking her back into his arms, she laughed and it was a sweet sound. And she looked at him. Her eyes were greedy, as if she were eagerly trying to quench her curiosity, to steal all his attention and the more she smiled at him like that — completely enraptured — the more he forgot everything that was around them. Delicious, indeed.

"I would say my evening has definitely, if unexpectedly, improved" Severus replied. His eyes darted to Sirius for a moment, enjoying his palpable nervousness, and he smirked.

She shook her head. "Hmm, that's so unfair," she muttered, amused. Severus lost himself in her bewitched gaze, mesmerized by her. He didn't know what to think; he just held her a little closer to his chest. She smelled good, lovely — familiar and comforting, somehow. "You take pleasure in the little revenge against your enemy, yet you have a young, beautiful woman in the palm of your hands, literally." And it was true. The song had changed, but she didn't let go: she took his hand and did another pirouette, leaving him baffled as she came closer and put both hands behind his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. If he blushed, she didn't notice. "And you didn't even ask me my name, did you?"

Severus was ashamed. It was in his habit to be rude and intractable, but not in his nature to be so terribly distracted. His back suddenly stiffened, his gaze turned hard and stern, but she just giggled in amusement, shaking her head. "God — you haven't recognized me yet, have you? And I thought you were waiting for my return!"

Words echoed in his mind and memories. Severus paled imperceptibly. His fingers dug into the hips of the young woman in front of him and he pulled her away to look at her a little better; she blushed, guilty.

"Licorice Hatch" he breathed.

Her eyes were filled with tears, but she didn't cry. "Finally, Severus."

If you love this story, keep reading here & please consider following me. That would be deeply appreciated. Thank you. 🖤

[hendolish]

your headcanons are the besssst, always make me smile and get my own fic imagination going :D :D :D

h/c for how they sleep together (literally, not nsfw) and if it's easy or uncomfortable in each case? like who demands a toll of kisses and cuddles before they can sleep? or like to be woken up with kisses and touches? who gets up at 5am to work out and who lies in rotting til noon? who hogs covers? snores or kicks their bf by accident? wakes up five times at random? watches half a series at 3am while their bf is asleep then tells bf about it the next day? dreams out loud (of their partner?) or sleeptalks? has to have a collection of side table vitamins and waters and books right by the bed? gets overheated? or needs a hot water bottle thick socks and extra blankets? and are there ever fights over the sleeping arrangements, like whether or not a window in the bedroom is cracked?

for hendolish, taa/madders and taa/ramsdale, dec/chilly and dec/bowen, and mings/coady <3

sleeping together (literally) headcanons ♡

hendolish

jack always demands a nightly toll of kisses and cuddles from jordan before he can even consider drifting off to sleep. and with the two of them being apart so often now, he likes to know that jordan’s still there and so usually settles down with his head pressed against jordan’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart that reassures him this isn’t just one of his dreams where he and jordan are curled up together only for him to wake up to an empty bed.

he also equally loves to be woken up in the morning with soft kisses and gentle touches which always means he starts his day with a grin on his face that jordan then finds the need to kiss all over again. jordan’s always the first to wake, working out whilst he waits for jack to rise, ever-stuck to his schedule for optimum performance. in his search for the perfect night’s sleep, jordan occasionally hogs the covers unintentionally, but it’s nothing that a sleepy apology and loving caress can’t fix. jordan is also the one who dreams out loud, occasionally murmuring sweet nothings that make jack smile in his sleep when he catches them.

madders/trent

these two would be absolute saps about sleeping together. trent always slings his arm over madders’ waist to keep him close against him, loving the warmth it brings and knowing that having madders pressed against him makes it easier for him to sleep. madders enjoys being pressed up against trent’s chest but when that gets too hot he’s quick to slip into the position of the little spoon, slotting back against trent’s body like he was made to fit there as trent splays one of his hands across his stomach, often slipping it underneath madders’ shirt (if he’s wearing one) to press against his hot skin.

and trent always delivers a precise kiss to madders’ neck which often turns into two, and then three, and then four, until madders is squirming against him at the pleasurable sensation and trent is pressing a grin against his neck.

trent/ramsdale

aaron loves cuddling, almost so much that it would probably annoy trent if he didn’t secretly love it too, always rolling his eyes when aaron immediately pulls him against him once he climbs into bed yet, deep down, revelling in having the warmth of his boyfriend pressed up against him. aaron’s hugs are the best as well, with that large goalkeeper arm span trent feels wrapped up and protected from the world. never seeming to get cold himself, aaron’s like trent’s very own hot water bottle to keep snuggled under the covers.

despite his love for cuddling, aaron falls asleep very easily and trent, well, just doesn’t. it isn’t a new thing, it’s always been this way and aaron knows it because they used to share rooms all of the time away with england, so often trent will find himself watching half a series at ungodly hours. and, just the same as he used to back then, aaron listens diligently in the morning to trent’s explanation and review of what had happened after he'd inevitably fallen asleep, fondness starring his eyes.

dec/chilly

dec despite all of his teasing, is the one who often presses himself right up against ben when they're in bed, getting ready to fall asleep. ben always chuckles at him and dec always insists that it's the only way he can fall asleep properly now.

he enjoys listening to ben's heart thump rhythmically in his chest, pressing soft kisses to the skin there before nuzzling against his sternum. ben complains, usually, but he doesn't really mind. he thinks dec is cute, but he'd never say that to him in a million years because dec would protest to the contrary. (he does, however, always keep his phone in reach on the bedside table in case the urge to take a photo of his boyfriend overcomes him).

dec/jarrod

jarrod, as much as he hates to admit it, is much smaller than dec. but sleeping together in the same bed is the only time that he'll admit he doesn't mind it so much. he enjoys the way dec can wrap himself around his body and practically engulf jarrod in his warmth. it's also the only time jarrod doesn't have to stretch himself upwards and stand on his fucking tippy toes to give his boyfriend a kiss. dec's grin says he always wants to tease him for it afterwards, but jarrod's deathstare invites him (lovingly) to try it and see what happens...

tyrone/conor coady

tyrone hogs half the bed with his enormous stature and conor's always complaining about it. he'll wake up in the morning and be half hanging off the bed with tyrone starfishing luxuriously in the middle. he always pokes the younger awake when this happens and the first thing tyrone does when he sees him after waking up is always grin up at him like a bloody loon which makes conor want to grin back at him until he remembers he's supposed to be mad.

'you're taking all the space again', he tells him instead with a shove, although it doesn't move the larger man an inch. tyrone drags him down by the arm and kisses him softly like he always does in apology. 'you know i've got no control over it', he's said before. 'feels like you're trying to get rid of me', conor had quipped in return leading tyrone to frown up at him and tell him firmly with another precise kiss, 'never'.

♡