#is that when it comes to cromwell

[thomascromwelll]

James Frain and Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Thomas Cromwell and King Henry VIII in The Tudors | S01E10 'The Death of Wolsey'

[cosmic-walkers]

sometimes, i wanna talk about how Gregory cromwell was probably a closeted gay man, and was charged with buggery for more than likely being caught with a man, and the irony of the buggery act being pushed into parliament/law and more than likely drafted by his own father, thomas cromwell.

but then i'll have to deal with people trying to argue down and claim that, 'actually buggery didn't just mean sodomy, it meant cheating/rape/etc, so gregory wasn't gay he was just a rapist'.

and while cheating on your wife with a man wasn't an ideal thing to do, i do think there is more evidence leaning toward that, than rape/adultery - as rape/adultery would've more than likely been recorded and brought up explicitly, especially during the downfall of the cromwell family. i would go more into this, but i just dont have time.

whereas, it would make a lot more sense if a gay relationship was hidden because a.) this was thomas cromwell's son, and that would shame the family and b.) thomas cromwell, who came up with the buggery act - England's first unofficial anti-sodomy law - would not want anyone to know that his son was actually gay lol.

and the buggery act wasn't officially recognized as an anti-sodomy law until years later, however, it was basically viewed as such as it was drafted, because it did go after gay people in england.

i always thought thomas did it specifically to go after the catholic church, but never actually realized how it could impact his own son because well...he didn't know

[fideidefenswhore]

"Mr. Page received your letter directed unto my lady Anne, and delivered the same. There is yet no answer. She gave kind words, but will not promise to speak to the King for you." Cromwell to the Cardinal.

[carewyncromwell]

"Don't talk 'bout me

Like how you might know how I feel --

Top of the world, but your world isn't real...

Your world's an ideal...

So go have fun -- I really couldn't care less."

~"Therefore I Am" by Billie Eilish

x~x~x~x

When Carewyn Cromwell first joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as an up-and-coming lawyer in the spring of 1991, Cornelius Fudge -- the Minister for Magic -- was very eager to welcome her and show support for her budding career. It didn't take long for Carewyn to figure out that Fudge had heard all about her and her brother Jacob's exploits dealing with the Cursed Vaults and apprehending R -- not just from Dumbledore, but from OWL examiner Professor Tofty and infamous Auror Mad-Eye Moody -- and although Carewyn had had plenty of people side-eye her for her dealing with the Vaults at school, it seemed Fudge held no such disapproval. On the contrary, he seemed very keen on interacting with Carewyn, especially around his support staff and the rest of the Wizengamot. And it wasn't until Carewyn finally met him (as well as his Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge) that she figured out why.

Carewyn had known she wouldn't be the first Cromwell that sought a career in Magical Law. Her Head of House, Severus Snape, purposefully brought it up to her in their Career Advice session, to make sure she was aware that -- at the time of her interest -- Carewyn's ruthless grandfather, Charles Cromwell, was an influential member of the Wizengamot. After Charles's arrest and lifetime imprisonment, the Cromwell Clan's reputation had understandably been tarnished. Carewyn and Jacob's reputations, however, were shining and pristine, because they were the Cromwells who had actually defeated Charles and the rest of R and in the process saved Hogwarts from the danger of the Cursed Vaults. And considering that Fudge was related to the Cromwell Clan through marriage (a fact that still left Carewyn reeling) and had apparently done his fair share of socializing with Charles Cromwell while unaware of his crimes, it was very clear that Fudge wanted to distance himself from that old association, preferably by being on good terms with the people who'd brought Charles to justice. And since Carewyn was now pursuing a promising new career at the Ministry, Fudge had clearly deemed it in his best interest to throw his support behind Carewyn, so as to have her esteem and reputation likewise reflect nicely on him.

So Fudge only has interest in being around people who make him look good, rather than anyone with actual integrity, Carewyn thought cynically. Guess I shouldn't be surprised that the chief politician around here acts like it.

Despite herself, though, Carewyn was disappointed. All the more so when she learned in the spring of 1993 just how self-absorbed the man was, despite being given charge of the entire British Wizarding World.

It all started when -- in the midst of a busy night shift -- Carewyn's meeting with fellow lawyer Chester Davies was interrupted by her old school friend Ben Copper bursting into her office.

"Carewyn," he said urgently, "Hagrid's been arrested."

Both Carewyn and Chester whirled around.

"What!?" they cried in unison.

"How can that be?" Chester immediately followed up, sounding confused. "I didn't even know Hagrid was under investigation -- let alone charged with anything..."

He looked to Carewyn as if to ask if she had, but Carewyn wasn't paying attention. She got up from her chair and strolled around her desk over to Ben, taking hold of his shoulder and steering him into the office so she could close the door.

"Tell me everything," she said seriously.

Ben rested his forehead on his clenched fist as he propped his elbow against the wall of Carewyn's office.

"I was just finishing up my work for the day, when I saw Hagrid by the Floo grates with two Hitwizards, talking to Cornelius Fudge," he explained. "Fudge was apologizing, saying something about 'it just being a precaution' and that he was sure once things at Hogwarts settled down, he'd be able to go about his business as usual. Fudge even tried to tell Hagrid that Azkaban shouldn't really be that bad for him -- "

Ben looked absolutely disgusted repeating back such a blatant lie. Carewyn was just as furious herself.

"'Shouldn't be that bad?'" she repeated, her soft voice nonetheless dripping with horror and umbrage. "What, does he think only violent criminals are affected by dementors?"

"Likely!" Ben spat, his brown eyes flashing with righteous anger. "I went over and asked what was going on, and Hagrid explained that it was because of the whole 'Chamber of Secrets' mess. Fudge didn't seem to want to talk about it and kind of just blustered the same rubbish he'd said to Hagrid -- claimed the Hogwarts school governors had been concerned and he'd thought he should take measures to 'reassure' them and the public -- "

"Reassure them?" said Chester, his mouth falling open in disbelief. "But -- you can't mean -- the Minister can't really think that Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets?"

"No -- but apparently because Hagrid was expelled right after the Chamber of Secrets opened the first time, Fudge is perfectly willing to throw him under the bus anyway, just to make it look like he's doing something," Ben said vindictively. "Apparently he's letting the exact same thing happen to Dumbledore too."

"What do you mean?" said Carewyn, her eyebrows furrowing.

Ben leaned his back up against the wall, crossing his arms.

"Hagrid said that Dumbledore and Fudge had come to see him at his hut about an hour ago, when Lucius Malfoy crashed the meeting out of nowhere, just to round Dumbledore up and expel him from the grounds. Apparently that snake Malfoy somehow got all of the other school governors to sign off on the proposal."

The mention of Lucius Malfoy made Carewyn's eyes flare with resentment. Of course Malfoy would be the sort to take advantage of a bad situation to try to oust his old master You-Know-Who's greatest enemy.

"But -- but taking Dumbledore away could only make things worse," said Chester. He clearly had a hard time making sense of all this. "Surely the Minister wouldn't agree to that? He's gone to Dumbledore for advice for years..."

"But how could Fudge have arrested Hagrid in the first place?" Carewyn rerouted the conversation sharply. "The Hitwizards can't arrest anyone without the charges first going through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement...how fast must the charges have gone through, for Chester and me not to have heard anything about them?"

"That's because Fudge didn't involve the Hitwizards or the Wizengamot at first," Ben said coldly. "The Hitwizards I saw looked just as surprised by what they were hearing as I was...even if they did end up going lockstep with Fudge and took Hagrid away through the grate anyway. I reckon Fudge just asked Hagrid to come with him quietly, so he wouldn't have to get the Hitwizards involved..."

"Or have his activities draw too much attention," Carewyn finished.

Her low voice evoked the rumbles of an earthquake as she swept to the door. Opening it, she glanced over her shoulder at Chester, her blue eyes blazing with righteous fire despite the stoicism of her face.

"Chester...I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to finish editing the case file," she said curtly.

"What are you planning to do?" asked Chester.

"Speak to Madam Bones. Hagrid needs a lawyer, and I intend to be it."

x~x~x~x

It only took a half-hour for Carewyn to blaze through all the paperwork needed to become Hagrid's official legal counsel. Unfortunately Azkaban's visiting hours were only from sun-up to sun-down, with each visitor only being allowed an hour each day with a Patronus escort either provided by the warden or conjured by the visitor themselves. The conditions were very familiar to Carewyn -- she'd been reminded them every time she chose to visit Patricia Rakepick in her lonely cell block.

When Carewyn finally made it to Azkaban first thing the next morning and was led to the cell Hagrid had been squeezed into, she found the poor gamekeeper crumpled up in a huge ball, sobbing like a child.

"Dad -- 'm sorry, Dad -- "

Even with her Abraxan Winged Horse Patronus protecting her from the dementors' influence, Carewyn could feel a cold, ocean-like wave of despair crash over her, just looking at Hagrid. Her almond-shaped blue eyes welled up with empathetic pain.

"...Oh, Hagrid..."

She clutched the bars of his cell with her free hand as her Patronus swept through the bars, lightly brushing its nose along Hagrid's arm. Hagrid choked, blinking up through his tears as he shakily raised his head.

"...W...wha'...?"

The grief and paleness of Hagrid's usually rosy, happy face broke Carewyn's heart. She could feel her own eyes welling up with traces of tears as she tried to smile at him.

"It's me, Hagrid," Carewyn said gently. "It's Carewyn."

Hagrid's beetle-black eyes widened. Then, just as abruptly, they flooded with even more tears, which streamed down his face like pouring rain might streak down a windowpane.

"...Carewyn..."

He couldn't keep himself from breaking down into full sobs as he crawled over and slapped his oversized hands up against the bars -- they were too small for him to grab them the way Carewyn had. Even so, Carewyn tried to take his hand as best she could, even if it only resulted in her holding his pinky and ring finger.

"It's okay, Hagrid," Carewyn whispered as soothingly as she could. Her Abraxan Patronus gently rested its transparent wing over Hagrid's shoulder and rested its head beside his arm. "It's going to be okay..."

x~x~x~x

It took sitting with Carewyn and her Patronus for a couple of minutes before Hagrid was able to speak coherently. He told Carewyn everything that had happened, including the reason Fudge had thought he could be behind the attacks in the first place.

"...Th' whole lot thought that he'd been what hurt poor Myrtle Warren, bu' -- bu' I'm tellin' you, Aragog wouldn't-a done it!" said Hagrid. "I tol' 'em that at th' time too...bu' only Professor Dumbledore believed me..."

Carewyn nodded. That sounded about right -- for as much as she resented Dumbledore, the Headmaster had always supported Hagrid. And given the Headmaster's own talent for Legilimency, Carewyn suspected Dumbledore knew full-well Hagrid was telling the truth, just as much as she herself was certain of it. But she also knew that her intuitions based on her Legilimency couldn't be used as evidence of either guilt or innocence...and even if Hagrid didn't believe Aragog was the beast from the Chamber of Secrets and Carewyn doubted it as well, plenty of people could see the circumstances as pretty damning, on their own.

"And because no one else believed you, Headmaster Dippet expelled you with the thought that it would make the attacks stop," surmised Carewyn.

Hagrid hung his head. "...Yeah. An' well...th' attacks did stop, after tha'. Dunno why, aside from th' person maybe decidin' t' cut 'is losses..."

Carewyn's lips came together grimly as she looked at the floor. The gamekeeper's face went that little bit paler as his eyes flooded with fresh tears.

"Yeh -- yeh don't think I did it, d'yeh?" he said desperately. "I-I would never! I woulda never hurt 'em -- Nick an' Mrs. Norris, an' -- an' poor Hermione -- oh, Carewyn, I never woulda -- !"

Carewyn gave Hagrid's pinky a reassuring squeeze.

"I know, Hagrid," she said firmly. "I know you didn't do it. All of those Pureblood wizarding families that claimed to be related to Salazar Slytherin have died out -- and trust me, 'Hagrid' was not one of them. And the beast inside the Chamber of Secrets was supposedly put there by Salazar Slytherin around the time he and the other four Founders made the Cursed Vaults, back in the 9th century. Acromantula weren't bred until the 18th century. Aragog couldn't be Slytherin's monster."

Her eyes softened.

"...And I know you, Hagrid. You love everyone at Hogwarts, even the brattiest students. I know you would never do anything to hurt them."

Hagrid's teary eyes crinkled up to make room for a very weak, watery smile.

"...Thank you, Carewyn," he gave a loud sniff. "It...it means a lot...knowin' yeh believe in me..."

Carewyn gave a gentle pat to his hand through the bars. Hagrid gave another loud sniff.

"...D'yeh...d'yeh know if the Wizengamot'll be able t' stop Malfoy? Get 'em t' bring Dumbledore back?"

Carewyn pursed her lips grimly. "There's nothing for them to stop, at present. The school governors' job is to oversee the school and its Headmaster -- them asking Dumbledore to resign is a completely legal action for them to take."

Hagrid looked distressed. "Bu' -- bu' withou' Dumbledore there, everyone'll be in more danger than ever! Professor Dumbledore was likely the only thing that kept th' Heir o' Slytherin from goin' all out -- "

"That doesn't mean the Wizengamot can overrule the governors' decision," Carewyn said sternly. She then said a bit more gently, "...I know how much you respect Dumbledore -- and you're right, Dumbledore has warded Dark wizards away from the school before..."

Not that he was able to prevent R from sending Jacob and me threats, but they still didn't feel bold enough to show up in full-force until Dumbledore was away...

"...But however foolish their decision might be, it doesn't break any laws. And law enforcement is meant for that purpose -- enforcing laws that have been broken."

Hagrid looked incredibly disheartened.

"They're gonna regret it later," he muttered miserably. "Yeh jus' wait an' see..."

Carewyn gave Hagrid's pinky another light squeeze, exhaling quietly through her nose.

She thought so too -- but she was so unhappy just contemplating the consequences that she didn't have to heart to say so.

x~x~x~x

The consequences, as it turned out, were even worse than Carewyn could've envisioned.

After going out for an afternoon coffee break with Talbott one May day, Carewyn found the Ministry Atrium in disarray, with multiple owls flying in and out of the offices of the Minister of Magic and his support staff and nosy reporters crowding around in an attempt to figure out what was going on.

Tonks emerged from the crowd and filled them in -- apparently the reporters had heard rumors that there'd been another attack at Hogwarts by the Heir of Slytherin, this time with a student actually being taken into the Chamber itself. It was only once Talbott convinced Tonks to change herself temporarily into one of Dolores Umbridge's staffers so she could force her way through the reporters and get more information from the support staff herself that she found out who it was -- and when the pink-haired Auror caught up with Talbott and Carewyn in the Atrium, her heart-shaped face was as white as a sheet.

"Weasley," Tonks whispered shakily. "Fudge said the girl's name was Weasley..."

Talbott's shoulders stiffened as Carewyn's hands flew to her mouth in horror.

"Ginny," she gasped.

x~x~x~x

Talbott, Tonks, and Carewyn all bolted to the lift, taking it up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where they could use the Auror Department's Floo Network grate specifically meant for communication. Upon trying to contact the Burrow, however, Carewyn found the house quiet and deserted.

"Are they not there?" Tonks asked Carewyn anxiously as she took her head out of the grate. The ginger-haired lawyer shook her head.

"The school must've contacted Mr. and Mrs. Weasley as soon as it happened," Talbott said solemnly.

Carewyn nodded, her red lips knitting together tightly. "I've got to write to Bill and Charlie right away -- "

"I'll go to Hogsmeade," said Talbott at once. "There might be more information, closer to the school..."

"And I'll go back downstairs!" Tonks agreed. "Maybe I'll pick up some more intel, huddled in with all those reporters -- "

The three dispersed, with Talbott and Tonks heading back to the lift and Carewyn heading to her office. Once she'd very quickly written out a letter each for Bill and Charlie and put all of the expediting stamps on them that she possibly could, she then set about writing another more formal letter to Azkaban prison. Then she raced back to the lift, gave Bill and Charlie's letters to the two fastest owls she could find, and then headed straight for the Minister for Magic's office with the final piece of paper in her hand. The tiny ginger-haired lawyer had some trouble pushing her way through the crowd of reporters until Tonks -- disguised as one of them and therefore much taller and more muscular than usual -- managed to push everyone back enough that it gave her an opening.

When Carewyn reached the slightly open door of the Minister for Magic's office, she didn't even bother to knock the way she probably would've in any other circumstance. Quite frankly she didn't think the Minister would've heard her knock even if she tried, and if he did, he likely would've tried to ignore it, given how much owls were swooping in and out of his office and how noisy it was outside.

"Minister!" Carewyn said urgently.

Fudge looked up, incredibly startled. He'd been pacing the room, one letter in his hands and five left more open on his desk. His trademark light green bowler hat was hanging off the side of his high-backed chair, and he looked incredibly harried.

"Carewyn!" said Fudge, trying and failing to smile. "How nice it is to see you!"

Once Carewyn was in, she immediately shut the door behind her so sharply that Fudge gave a start.

"Ah -- forgive me, my dear, but...I'm afraid I'm very busy at the moment --"

"I know," said Carewyn. "Minister -- I need you to sign a release letter for Rubeus Hagrid."

Fudge was taken aback. "Hagrid? I-I don't -- "

"If the Heir of Slytherin has taken Ginny Weasley into the Chamber of Secrets, then he's still at Hogwarts," Carewyn said sharply. "Therefore Hagrid is innocent."

"Well, yes, but...that'll be dealt with, in due time," said Fudge with an attempt at a reassuring smile as he put down the letter in his hands and started to make a stack of it with the others. "I'll be sure to send along a proper letter to Azkaban, once I get these papers in order, and calm the press -- "

"You needn't send anything," Carewyn cut him off firmly. "I've already written out a formal release, and I'll be happy to deliver it myself -- you only need to sign it."

She put the letter down smack-dab in the center of his desk, right on over the stack of parchment he was organizing. Fudge, however, seemed hesitant to look at it, and instead busied himself with consulting the stack.

"Ah, well...I do appreciate your initiative, Carewyn," Fudge said in a weak attempt at indulgence, "but as I said, this...all will be dealt with, in due time. Now I'm truly sorry, but I'm afraid we'll have to speak more later -- I do have so much to do, in the light of all this -- "

"Minister!" Carewyn said, clearly upset.

" -- responding to all these letters from the governors, from Minerva McGonagall, from Arthur Weasley -- coordinating a response, for all press releases, and sending it along to the Prophet -- all before heading out to the school myself, to ascertain the gravity of the situation -- "

Carewyn could hear Fudge's rambling, but it was oddly muffled, in her own ears. Because of her Legilimency, she could sense Fudge's feelings wafting off of him just as clearly as she could hear him with her ears -- and in that moment, when she herself was so urgent, all she could feel from Fudge was the desire to run. To avoid, to push away, to ignore -- to not deal with his terrible mistake at that moment, and instead just try to make himself look as capable as he could to the public at large --

All that Carewyn could feel coming off of Fudge was cowardice.

And it was this that made Carewyn cut into his rambling with the cold sharpness of a knife.

"Minister."

Carewyn managed to catch Fudge's eye, and when he made eye contact with her, his voice immediately died in his throat. Her almond-shaped blue eyes were burning with a kind of cold disapproval the likes of which he'd never seen.

"I realize that you wish to be seen as a compassionate and attentive leader," Carewyn said very softly. "But trust that, in leaving an innocent person locked up in a prison manned by creatures that can drive people mad with their Dark aura alone -- when all you'd have to do to help him is sign your name...you currently appear as anything but."

Fudge opened his mouth, trying to stammer out a weak attempt at a stern response. "N-now, Carewyn -- I-I already told you I'd deal with -- "

But Carewyn merely picked up the release letter again and slapped it right back down on the desk in front of him.

"Minister -- you've already wrongfully sent a man to Azkaban before he'd even been formally charged with a crime," she murmured. "All while being quite certain he hadn't committed the crime in the first place, to the point that you reassured him that he'd probably be released 'once things settled down.'"

Carewyn's blue eyes narrowed.

"...Don't shame yourself further."

The Minister's face had lost quite a bit of its color as he stared at Carewyn. He rather shakily lowered himself down into his chair, regarding Carewyn with a wariness he never had before. Then, looking almost cowed, he averted his eyes, reached for the quill in the inkpot at his desk, and signed the release letter. He mutely held the letter out for Carewyn to take.

"Thank you," Carewyn said quietly.

She turned on her heel and headed for the door. When she opened it, ten owls swooped in, flocking around Fudge's desk and raining even more letters onto and around his desk.

"If I may make a suggestion, Minister," Carewyn said a bit more levelly as she left, "going to Hogwarts right now to deal with the problem would both make you look more proactive and give you some relief from all these letters."

Without waiting for Fudge's response, Carewyn left his office. Once she'd pushed her way through the crowd of reporters (even taking out her wand at one point to better coax them back), she dashed over to the closest Floo Network grate, snatching up some Powder in her free hand and chucking it down at her heeled feet as she climbed in.

"Azkaban Prison!"

And in a burst of emerald green flames, Carewyn had disappeared.

x~x~x~x

Once Hagrid had been released from his cell, Carewyn brought him with her to her mother Lane's new cottage, out in the country. The half-giant was still in pretty poor shape after his three-week-long stint in Azkaban, and since Carewyn knew he'd never fit in her tiny London flat, she figured at least Lane's new home would be a comfortable place to get Hagrid fed and healed and await further news from the Weasleys and Hogwarts.

As the night wore on, Carewyn received a few short updates from Tonks and Talbott -- Hogwarts was going to be closed; the girl's parents were at the school; the school governors were convening for a secret closed-door meeting. It wasn't until very early the following morning that Carewyn, Hagrid, and Lane received the news they'd all been hoping for, in the form of a long letter from Mrs. Weasley.

Carewyn dear, Bill wrote to Arthur and me telling me of your letter to him, so after following up with him and Charlie via Floo, I thought it best to write to you straightaway. Ginny is all right. My son Ron, his friend Harry, and their Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, were able to locate the Chamber of Secrets, and Harry, bless him, was able to both kill Slytherin's monster (a basilisk! Merlin's beard, I was terrified, thinking of that poor boy facing off against that thing!) and rescue Ginny. Arthur and I are so grateful, even now I still can't stop crying. We're so relieved to know Ginny's safe, and that Ron and Harry are both safe as well. Unfortunately poor Gilderoy Lockhart apparently had his memory wiped...at his own hand, no less! He actually had the audacity to try to modify my son's memory! I suppose it's true what they say about never meeting your heroes!! Oh well, it seems Professor Dumbledore will have to find yet another Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for next year. Oh, yes, I nearly forgot -- Dumbledore has returned to Hogwarts! Apparently all of the school governors (excluding Lucius Malfoy) heard about what happened to Ginny and immediately sent a letter to Dumbledore begging for him to come back. And he did, of course -- he was so gentle with Ginny, after her ordeal... Oh, but Carewyn dear, truly, I cannot thank you enough for caring so much for Bill and Charlie. Arthur had sent them his own letters not long before we left for Hogwarts, but from what I understand, your letters reached both Bill and Charlie well before Arthur's did, and I appreciate you trying so hard to make sure they knew what was going on as quickly as possible. Arthur and I send our love, and Ginny as well. Do consider coming over to the Burrow for a visit sometime soon -- Ginny was a bit cheered at the thought of having "another girl" over for dinner! Your mother and brother are more than welcome as well, if they're available. Arthur would be delighted to know what your mother thinks about pinball machines. All our love, Molly Weasley

Not long later, Hagrid returned to Hogwarts, and Carewyn returned to work at the Ministry. It was when she returned to the Ministry that Carewyn noticed Cornelius Fudge's attitude toward her had gone through a considerable change. When she arrived in the Atrium, she caught sight of the Minister likewise heading into work. At the sight of her, Fudge immediately approached her -- but his smile was not as wide open and overly amiable as it was before.

"Hello, Miss Cromwell," he said.

Carewyn blinked. "...Minister."

Fudge inclined his head respectfully. Taking a quick glance around the Atrium, he then spoke a bit more stridently.

"...Professor Dumbledore told me that Hagrid has settled himself back in nicely. He expressed admiration, for your defense of him...Madam Bones did, as well."

Carewyn frowned as her eyes drifted off toward the lift.

"Hagrid was my client," she said simply. "It was my job to advocate for his well-being. And it wasn't either lawful or right for him to remain imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit."

To Carewyn's surprise, Fudge's pleasant expression actually seemed to crack a bit, betraying something strangely insecure.

"I suppose so," said the Minister a bit stiffly. "Well then, Miss Cromwell...I'm afraid I must be off."

He paused. Then, forcing a slightly more politician-worthy smile, he asked, "I hope...I might likewise call on you in the future...should I wish for an expert legal opinion? Madam Bones does speak very highly of your abilities as a lawyer, you know."

Carewyn cocked her eyebrows in surprise. She honestly wasn't expecting that.

"...Of course," she said, once she'd recovered.

Fudge tipped his lime green bowler to her, before turning and sweeping away toward his office. As Carewyn watched him go, she couldn't help but frown.

It was bizarre -- it didn't feel like Fudge disliked her now or anything after she'd so coldly called him out in his office. Even so, there was a wall around his feelings that wasn't there before: something guarded. And yet it didn't seem suspicious or mistrustful. If anything, it felt almost formal: like Fudge was standing that bit taller and being that bit more detached and dignified than before. Less like he was trying to buddy up to Carewyn and use her as a prop to elevate himself and more like how an employer would treat a high-ranked employee...

And then it hit her.

Fudge had called her "Miss Cromwell." Not "Carewyn," not "Carewyn, my dear" -- but "Miss Cromwell." In the same sort of respectful tone of voice he'd use for Madam Bones and other older, respectable Ministry employees.

He was speaking to Carewyn not like a child that he could coax onto his side through coddling and fawning...but as an adult he wished to coax onto his side through decidedly more political means.

Carewyn's red lips came together tightly as she turned and headed for the lift, tossing her much shorter ginger bob off her neck.

Well, even if Fudge was truly nothing but a politician at heart, at least now he saw her as an adult who wouldn't become his sycophant just because he acted nice to her.

[sirgawin]

uhhhh just been in a state of mild shock for the last 20 minutes... disney+ are adapting my (other) favourite historical novel series, the shardlake books...... AND SEAN BEAN IS PLAYING THOMAS CROMWELL

[cinemaocd]

I love that when we see Claire she is still 2015 Claire, a ghost doesn't age, and when we see her successor she is 2024 Kate Philips as if the moment when she could no longer live in the limbo of being prevented from marrying Henry by the existence of Anne has aged her ten years in a heartbeat. She is soon to be ghost but she will still feel the weight of it fully before then.

Honestly I love the choice to begin TMATL with that long lingering shot of Anne being rowed to The Tower. It feels so haunting. Ofc the shot was already used in the s1 finale, but this time it feels so different framed in a new context, with a ghostly stillness. She's already gone, already a memory, already haunting Cromwell. It begins with her downfall and it will end with his. He says his goodbyes to the goddesses; a last flitting glance over his shoulder. No trace of Anne Boleyn. He remembers her saying - was it in this very room? - 'Be good to me.' He thinks, if I see her again, perhaps this time I will.

[ellecdc]

✋🏻 i have a request

so i’m a loudmouth, a D1 yapper if you will. could you maybe please write something with a yapper reader who just gets quiet and flustered in regulus’s presence?

like she’ll be going on about the randomest thing and regulus walks by and her mouth snaps shut and her face gets bright red.

hiiiii! I decided to pair this with two anonymous requests for our dear reggie too! prompt 2: I was thinking maybe a Potter! Reader who is in the same year as Regulus and has a huge crush on him, she just kind of watches him from a distance, here comes James and Sirius noticing and they try to set her up with Reggie prompt 3: I was wondering if I could get a regulus x reader where regulus is like close to the marauders and then Reggie gains like a crush on reader and the marauders find out and like kinda spy on them but like not well and maybe it ends in Reggie asking reader out

Regulus Black x Potter!reader who has a 'big fat crush' on Reggie

CW: sibling squabbles, this was hard for me to write for some reason so I'm sorry if it reads awkwardly!

“I’m just saying, if you didn’t want your essay to go up in flames, maybe you should have spent less time talking about which of your classmates were ‘filthy blood traitors’, and more time making sure I couldn’t point my wand at your parchment, you know?” You asked rhetorically as James and Sirius roared with laughter. 

“How far along was he in his essay?” Peter asked with a low chuckle before taking another bite of his lunch.

“Oh, he was done. He probably should have handed it in instead of running his mouth.” You said with a proud smirk as your brother roughly patted you on the back, letting out another bark of laughter. 

“I would have paid good money to see the look on his face.” Sirius said as he wiped fake tears away from under his eyes. 

“Find me a pensieve, Black, and I’ll show you.” You offered with a wink before remembering something.  “Oh! James, I meant to tell you; I heard from Janey who heard from Cromwell who heard from Collins whose sister works at Honeydukes that they’re having a sale on those caramel sugar quills that-”

“-Lily likes so much!” James finished for you. “My hero! Thank you!” He said as he pressed a sloppy kiss to the side of your head.

You feigned disgust and rubbed it off before continuing. “If you want, I can ask Janey to ask Cromwell to ask Collins to ask his sister to put some aside for you?”

“I’d owe you my life.” He responded solemnly. 

“Chocolate frogs will suffice.” 

“Consider it done.” 

“I’d like chocolate frogs too, Prongs.” Remus offered then.

“What have you done to help me win over the girl of my dreams, Moony?” James countered. 

“I’ve not told her about the time you screamed like an ickle little first year when you found Fenwick’s toad in your shoe.” Remus replied plainly.

“Why do they have to have warts!?” James groaned miserably as he remembered his toad assault. 

“The bumps aren’t actually warts, Jamie; they’re glands. They contain a toxin that they will secrete if they feel threatened.” You explained.

James blinked at you owlishly before shaking his head in disgust. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.” 

“Hello, Sirius.” Regulus’ voice interrupted then, standing stiffly behind Sirius as he looked around the group of you. “Lupin, Pettigrew…Potter’s.” 

“‘Sup, Reggie?” Sirius responded easily.

“‘Lo, baby Black! What brings you to the red side of the Great Hall?” James asked then, earning him a glare from the younger Black brother.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Well that just makes me want to call you that even more.” James admitted.

“What brings you to the Gryffindor table?” Remus repeated with a knowing smirk.

“Can’t I just come say hello to my brother?” He asked defensively. 

“You could, but would you?” Sirius asked sceptically then.

Sirius and Regulus stared at each other in silence before Regulus finally sighed. 

“Potter, erm… Y/N, I was wondering if you’ve finished Professor Sprout’s essay about the proper propagation of venomous tentacula’s?” 

At the following silence, James turned to notice you staring at Regulus in what appeared to be abject horror before you slowly nodded your head. 

“How, uhm… how many feet of parchment did it end up being?” Regulus continued awkwardly; his eyes flitting between you and his brother. 

The group watched as you opened your mouth a few times only to close it again - not unlike some socially awkward fish - before clearing your throat. 

“Erm…I think it’s about four feet.”

Regulus seemed relieved by your answer and nodded in understanding. “Good, mine is about that as well.”

James looked between his friends, his sister, and his best friend’s little brother after a few moments when it became clear that no one was going to say anything else.

“Was…was that all, Regulus?” Peter asked then, clearly agreeing with James that lunch had quickly become painfully awkward. 

Regulus seemed to look at you first, only responding when you kept your gaze down at the wood grain of the table. 

“I suppose so. I’ll see you lot around.” 

And with that, the Slytherin boy hurried back to his side of the Great Hall.

James’ eyes only left Regulus’ form when he heard a miserable groan escape your lips as you let your head fall to the table with a thunk.

“What the fuck was that?” Sirius and James questioned at the same time.

“I’ve gotta go.” You muttered miserably as you gathered your bag and stood from the Gryffindor bench.

“Where?!” James called after you. 

“To run away with the fucking centaurs at this point!” You called back before disappearing through the doors. 

“Since when does Regulus come to say hi to you, Pads?” Peter asked then, still watching Regulus from across the hall who now had his eyes glued to the door. 

Sirius, who up until that point looked just as bemused as Peter did, had a look of understanding dawn on his face. 

“Merlin’s beard.” He hissed as he smacked James in the arm from across the table.

“Ow! What? What? Why are you hitting me?” James called as he rubbed his arm protectively. 

“When was the last time you saw Y/N be reduced to awkward silence?” He asked then.

“At mum and dads fundraising gala when that wizard from Witch Weekly attended.” James answered quickly; knowing that one of his sister’s greatest strengths was her ability to talk (especially when it helped get them all out of trouble). “Though she’s been doing it an awful lot lately.”

“Like when you coerced Regulus into joining us at the Three Broomsticks last weekend.” Remus offered.

James nodded. “And when I made her come with me to scout the Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin game last Monday.” 

“And when Regulus just happened to be looking for a Herbology textbook when she was studying in the Herbology section of the library.” Remus continued.

“Godric’s balls.” Peter breathed out, looking towards Sirius incredulously. “You’re not suggesting-”

“-that our littlest Potter has a big fat crush on the littlest Black? I sure am.” Sirius said smugly. 

“I don’t think she’s the only one with a ‘big fat crush’.” Remus added, nodding towards Regulus who was chewing aggressively on his lip, still looking in the direction you just went.

“Oh my Godric.” James hissed as he turned towards Sirius excitedly. “Oh my Godric, Pads! We’d be real life actual brother’s-in-law!” 

“I’m going to walk Reggie down the aisle.” Sirius added wistfully as he clutched at his chest. 

“Merlin and Morgana. They can’t even make it through a sodding conversation; stop planning their wedding.” Remus muttered as he turned a page in his book. 

James let out an incredibly dramatic gasp as he looked at Remus. “You’re right. We have to do something!” 

“What do you say, boys? Up for some mischief for the greater good?” Sirius asked with a perfectly arched eyebrow. 

“Operation turn Potter Black!” James cheered to the group, causing the three boys to look at him in various levels of bemusement and discomfort.

“Erm, Prongs…” Peter started.

“Absolutely fucking not.” Remus added.

“We can’t call it that.” Sirius agreed. 

“We’ll circle back to it.” James said as he stood from the table.

Sirius shared a slightly panicked look with the other two Marauders before standing as well. “No…no James, we really can’t call it that.” 

“It’ll be a placeholder until you guys think of something better!”

“Anything would be better.” Peter whined as they all trailed out of the Great Hall in the name of mischief. 

。.。:+* ﾟ ゜ﾟ *+:。.。:+* ﾟ ゜ﾟ *+:。.。.。:+*ﾟ ゜ﾟ *+:。.。:+*ﾟ

“Quick! You’ve got to see what we’ve planned.” James had said to you as he grabbed you roughly by your arm outside of Transfiguration and hauled you in the direction of the library.

You allowed him to nearly drag you through the courtyard and into the central haul; apologising to students that you nearly collided with in his haste. 

“But…what did McLaggen do? Why are you pranking him?” You asked breathlessly as the two of you made it to the library doors.

“The bloke’s a prick, Trouble, do keep up.” Sirius called as you met up with him. 

The two boys ushered you through stacks of books towards the end of the library that held private study rooms when Remus and Peter materialised from a row of shelves.

“He’s coming!” Peter squeaked as Remus quickly redirected the three of you. 

“That way, quickly.” 

Knowing better than to question Remus, you allowed James to guide you by the shoulder towards one of the private study rooms in order to hide from McLaggen as he walked into their trap. 

Except…

Except no sooner had Sirius opened the door did James bodily shove you into the room before they slammed the door behind you.

“Wha- James!” You shouted as you heard him cast a locking charm and a muffliato around the door. 

“What are they up to now?” A tired voice sounded from behind you.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you realised what they had done, praying to every deity that the voice didn’t belong who you thought it belonged to. 

But of course, the deities didn’t give a bowtruckles arse about you, so you turned on the spot to see Regulus Black sitting at the end of the table looking at you with a sceptical expression and one perfectly arched brow. 

Godric, he was beautiful.

“Making my life hell.” You answered despondently. 

Regulus offered you a tight lipped smile as he nodded in understanding. “Ah, so, regular brother stuff then?”

You breathed out a chuckle as you nodded, trying once more at the door before giving up in your efforts to escape. 

“What did you do to get yourself locked in a room with me?” He asked then, fiddling with the tomes and notes in front of him.

“Had the audacity to be born into the Potter family, I guess.” You muttered.

Regulus made a non-committal sound as he considered you. “I’m sure a lot of people would have loved the honour.”

Your face softened as you looked at the Slytherin boy. “I know they’ve asked you already, but you should come, you know? I know Sirius would love it if you did, and my parents would too.” 

Regulus nodded slowly at you, though he never moved his gaze from your eyes. “I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?”

Regulus smiled ruefully then. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t get the impression that you like me very much.”

You stood there with your mouth agape like some mute opera singer. “Okay, I’ll correct you then; you’re very wrong Regulus Black.”

“Oh, I’m very wrong, am I?” 

“Horribly so, I’m afraid; I can’t believe you’d even say such a thing.” You continued haughtily; finally sitting down in a chair across from him. 

“Well, you see, everyone is always telling me how much of a chatterbox you are, yet you never seem too keen on chatting with me. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ve exchanged more words with Mulciber at this point.” He teased.

“The most I ever talk to Mulciber is to tell him to go fuck himself!”

A divot formed between his brows as he tilted his head in confusion. “Is that not just your love language? I’ve heard you say the exact same thing to Potter and my brother.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him as you leaned back in your chair. “Touche” 

Regulus smirked at you then. “So, why don’t you talk to me?”

You let out a heaving sigh and looked to the ceiling. 

You were trapped, and you knew why you were trapped, and you figured there was no use in pretending that you didn’t. 

“I suppose I find you a little…nerve wracking.” You settled for, figuring that telling him you thought he was so handsome that even standing within his vicinity seemed to short circuit not only your brain but somehow your entire nervous system would perhaps be a little much. 

“Oh good.” He responded, sounding truly relieved by your answer. “I thought it was only me.”

What? You thought stupidly.

“What?” You asked stupidly. 

“I find you a little nerve wracking too.” He responded.

“Me?” 

“You.”

“Why?” You nearly shrilled before remembering yourself and feeling immediately embarrassed for your theatrics.

“Well, I suppose for the same reasons you find me nerve wracking?” Regulus offered. “You’re really quite pretty, Y/N.” 

You swear to all of the gods that your brain made an audible record scratch sound at that moment as you tried to compute what he had said to you. 

He called you pretty, that much went without interpretation. But did he just insinuate that he knew you thought he was pretty?

“You do know that, right?” He asked, shaking you from your internal spiralling. 

“Know what?”

Regulus smirked then. “That you’re pretty?”

You scoffed and crossed your arms petulantly. “Of course I knew that; I just wasn’t aware that you did, too.” 

“Ah,” He started with a smile. “My apologies, I’ll make it more obvious that I find you attractive going forward.”

“Thank you.” You huffed.

“You’re very welcome.”

The two of you allowed a semi-comfortable silence to lap as he continued watching you and you continued looking anywhere else but him.

“So,” He interrupted eventually. “What now?” 

You tapped your arms in thought. “Now I figure out how to get back at my meddlesome brother.” 

Regulus hummed as he nodded his head. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Yeah…hey, do you happen to know where I could find a toad or two?”

“Yes, actually. I’m quite certain Evan and Barty are breeding some in the dungeons.” He answered with a look of ill-hidden discomfort at the thought.

“Do you think they’d let me borrow some?”

“Well that depends; would they be used for chaos and/or destruction?”

“Yes.” You responded quickly.

“Oh, well then absolutely.” He quipped back.

He smiled and held your gaze before leaning on his arms against the table. “How about this? I’ll ask Barty and Evan for some of their toads, if you go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend.”

You narrowed your eyes as you pretended to think about it before extending your hand across the table. “Deal.”

He shook your hand as he offered you a crooked smile before leaning back into his seat.

The door popped open just enough for your brother to poke his traitorous head in. “Are you guys in love yet?”

He barely had time to pull his head out of the frame and shut the door as you hurled your book bag at him; the blunt force instrument you had hoped would at the very least incapacitate your brother simply thudding against the wall before falling to the ground in a sad heap.

“You know he’s just going to keep you locked in here longer for that, right?” Regulus asked you then.

You made a non-committal sound as you settled back into your chair. “Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing.”

[avelera]

Thinking about Hob Gadling in 1589, or rather in the decades leading up to 1589 when we see him as Sir Robert Gadlen

Thinking about how he went north, twice, to come back as his own son, presumably to build the myth of the Gadlen family. Before that, as a soldier, a brigand, and a tradesman in printing, he probably didn't have enough money to need to "leave it" to a son, because he'd had no real assets. No houses, no businesses, nothing besides his weapons and armor, the proverbial clothes on his back, and what spoils of war could be carried with him.

But to make money you have to spend it, you have to have it, you have to invest it. 1389, the year of Hob gaining immortality, corresponds to the birth year of Cosimo de' Medici, the man who would establish the great banking dynasty of Florence, Italy. I note this because this transformation in Europe corresponds with Hob's progress through immortality and rather roughly corresponds to when, as I see it, he would have moved from an individual soldier of fortune to make his living to needing some sort of continuity of identity if he was going to move beyond that.

In this instance, pretending to be his own son (or relative) would be a necessity to inherit his own wealth so he could carry it forward for the next 10-30 years, before he'd have to reinvent himself again. The money to buy a knighthood would be the work of generations.

I'm thinking about Hob building himself up from being a printer's apprentice (because printing was so new a trade that it was probably one of the few where he could get in as a man perpetually in his 30s, most apprenticeships would require you to begin as a child) to gaining his knighthood. By his own admission of faking his death twice by 1589, he'd be Robert Gadlen the Third, possibly the Fourth (not that this was a naming convention back then for commoners, but more to illustrate where 1589 Hob stood in the line of his own fictional family inheritance).

The first half of the 1500s in England under Henry VIII still saw a predominance of nobility holding the lion's share of power, but it did see something of a shift where you had noteworthy men rise to great heights from common origin, like Thomas Wolsey and Thomas Cromwell (yes, I'm rewatching Wolf Hall, why do you ask?).

But now to the point that got me thinking about this: imagine Hob in the 1500s. At the beginning of the century he is the first of his name, building his fortune. Robert Gadlen, who made his money in the printing business then invested it, through a great stroke of luck in to the powers-that-would-be that century: the Tudor shipyards. Hob building himself from very nearly nothing, peasant stock, nothing more than a soldier and a brigand before that. It's still grubby to build oneself up from trade, better to have been born to wealth of course, this isn't American Yankeedom and we're before the Puritans, where showing one's hard work was a virtue rather than an ugly necessity of the common people. But Hob still did it, with his own hands.

Imagining Robert Gadlen II, and Robert Gadlen III, the "scion" of a family on the rise, sniffing around the edges of the Tudor court, eventually finding his way in, having enough gold to buy himself a knighthood.

Imagining Robert Gadlen, meeting one of those common men in the service of Henry VIII, noting with chagrin their own common birth, the sons of blacksmiths and butchers, unlike Sir Robert, whose father was a man of means who left a growing fortune to his son.

And I can't help but imagine Hob smiling, a little slyly because he did it, he slipped passed the censors, no one knows of the fact he was born to peasant stock almost 200 years ago, and no one ever will. As far as anyone knows, he was born wealthy, a gentleman in the rising social consciousness that all it takes to be a gentleman is to have the money to act as one.

But I can't help but wonder if that smile would be just a little uncomfortable, too. Because no one will ever know. No one will ever know that Sir Robert Gadlen didn't inherit his money, that he's not some child of nepotism and generational wealth who has never worked and never starved. He is the founder of his own family, he built it himself and with each generation that goes by he has to leave more and more of that story behind him. Except with Dream.

[vidavalor]

Nina offering Aziraphale eccles cakes to calm him down instead of the WAY more obvious option of *a cup of tea* is hilarious given the history of eccles cakes...

Nina: What'll you have?

Crowley: Six shots of symbolic liberty in a big cup.

Nina: Ok. And you, Mr. Fell?

Aziraphale: What do you have that calms people down?

Nina: I sell like, I don't know, seventeen different varieties of tea here in my shop that is based in London, including several decaf and herbal varieties, and it's not just implied but is canon later on in the scene where Maggie orders some but instead of saying the most obvious thing possible to you here, which would be that I'd be happy to fetch who I believe to be an older, English gentleman a nice cup of decaf tea, I say...

Nina, cont.: And why do I say this? Well, we're in a show obsessed with food symbolism so naturally my Soho-set shop-- named after the famous rallying cry of an anti-monarchist American revolutionary as he fought to break away from the English empire whilst still being, at that moment, stuck under its thumb-- recommends, for calming purposes, the delicious little round mini-turnover bits of pastry butter and topped with sugar and filled with currants or lemon things... eccles cakes... which were banned in England in 1650 when Oliver Cromwell took over and got all puritanical and claimed they were pagan. You're stressed, Aziraphale, so instead of offering you THE MOST LOGICAL POSSIBLE THING IN THIS SHOP to calm you down-- that is, a cup of tea lol-- I will, instead, offer you the sweet treats that the crazy Nazis of history think are so good they're sweets of the devil.

Aziraphale:

Bonus hilarity related to this:

The Angel got himself locked up for eating Satan's baked goods in 1650 and made Crowley come rescue him, didn't he?

[cakebatteronabrickwall]

One of Succession’s running themes has always been that the past is made up. You can’t go back to fact check it and everyone is an unreliable narrator when it comes to memory. In the same sense, the creatives behind this show have always given the actors a lot of freedom in how to play scenes and change them.

And I honestly respect the hell out of Jesse Armstrong, the writers and everyone else that, when asked about their take on the show, they will always say things like “I think” “In my opinion” “Personally”. Like, the literal creator of the text recognizing that there is no definitive take is so fucking cool to me. It is perfectly in line with the show’s philosophy as well.

Discussing Succession is truly like sitting in a very smart english lit class, where everyone’s opinion is well supported by the text. Everything is valid, nothing is 100% right but you can see how they got there.

For example, James Cromwell will think there is a certain hope for betterment by the end of the finale, Mark Mylod thinks it’s profoundly tragic, Jesse Armstrong thinks change isn’t possible, the next person will point at moments during the story where that exact thing is disproven-- there is no right answer.

[cosmic-walkers]

a wolf hall series that specifically focuses on the childhood of thomas, kat and his bet would be interesting. there is something so special about the three of them coming from an incredibly abusive house hold where their father tried to kill one of them at least twice, where the siblings (at least bet and thomas) would throw things at each other and fight, and where kat probably had to play mother more times than she wanted to, all to end up under the roof of their younger brother. and even when kat and bet die, thomas takes in all of their children, raises them, finds them good marriages, good jobs, etc.

it's as if they made a pact with each other, that in their own way, they'd take care of each other. and i think they were all fighters, they all had to be, but thomas was probably devastated when kat and bet died. because they were all fighting this war that only they were so unique to. no one in their immediate family and circle had dealt with the abuse they'd dealt with growing up, thomas probably could only relate to his big sisters.

and then there is the role reversal; they probably protected him when he was younger. when the sister left and married, they probably attempted to take him with they, but were either beaten or chased away because of it. they wanted to take care of him, but they couldn't - gender also has a lot to do with it. they were women, and married into good families, but they could still only do so much against their father, a well known man, who wouldn't give them back their brother.

but toward the end of it all, it's thomas who is their care taker. he literally becomes a man and cares for them. it's thomas who houses them when their husbands die, who watches them, who is probably devastated when they die because in his mind they're all supposed to be fighting this war together, surviving together, etc.

also, in a strange way, to him, they were probably what walter was supposed to be. even if they didn't think it, they were his parents in a way and even as an older man, who didnt have his father's love, he knew he at least had the love of his sisters- so he wasn't alone.

but then they left him, and for the first time he was truly alone.

it doesn't matter if he got taller, stronger and richer - he was still their baby brother.

[fideidefenswhore]

However, while there is no doubt that Anne is represented by Mantel in a negative light, a word of caution is required, as her sophisticated narrative technique makes it unadvisable for the reader to rush into conclusions. Indeed, the trilogy’s narrator appears to have full access to Cromwell’s conscience. However, this is nothing but an illusion. Clues are dropped in Bring Up the Bodies: the reader discovers that young Cromwell’s brutal beating, with which Wolf Hall opens and which Cromwell relives while being executed in The Mirror and the Light, is in fact the punishment that he received from his father for having stabbed a boy, resulting in the latter’s death (Mantel, Bring, 86). The narrator does not mention this until this moment, which may be seen to question Cromwell’s memory (O’Connor, “History,” 34) and even the narrator’s reliability. Such issues are visibly addressed in The Mirror and the Light, in which Cromwell is haunted by ghosts—a trademark of Mantel’s “spectral realism.” In fact, Cromwell recurringly dreams of Anne Boleyn’s execution (Mantel, Mirror, 25, 69), which suggests a sense of guilt and casts doubt on the accuracy of Anne’s portrayal.

The Changing Faces of Anne Boleyn: An Analysis of Contemporary Historical Fiction by Philippa Gregory, Hilary Mantel, and Alison Weir, written by JOSÉ IGOR PRIETO-ARRANZ AND PATRICIA BASTIDA-RODRÍGUEZ

[carewyncromwell]

"Playground school bell rings again... Rain clouds come to play again... Has no one told you she's not breathing? 'Hello -- I'm your mind giving you someone to talk to... 'Hello..."'

~"Hello" by Evanescence

x~x~x~x

Told you there'd be more Haunted Mansion AU content coming! This one, unfortunately, is more on the sad side. Also, sorry for the blood trigger -- the mental image just was too strong in my mind.

Okay, so in the Haunted Mansion AU, I have mentioned that Bill Weasley fills the role of the "Ghost Host" -- the spirit who greets Duncan when he first comes to the Cromwell Manor and, as it turns out, ends up mostly taking charge of the other ghosts and daily affairs inside the Manor while his BFF the Beating Heart Bride (Carewyn Cromwell) takes on the responsibility of keeping the actual Master of the House, the malevolent Phantom, contained to the attic so he won't terrorize everyone else. When Duncan investigates more about the Cromwell Manor's history and the Cromwell family by extension, though, he learns that Bill was Carewyn's childhood friend, and that the eldest Weasley not only tried and failed to help Jacob and Carewyn run away from their uncle Blaise before they died, but that he was the one who discovered Jacob's severed head and buried it on his family's property, which ended up resulting in Charles not being able to lay claim to Jacob's soul postmortem the way he'd planned. What only was briefly touched on in the AU, though, was Bill's reaction to what happened to Jacob and Carewyn.

Carewyn was Bill's first real friend in the world -- one he made when he and his family had only just immigrated to upstate New York and had never had a true equal who he could rely on for emotional support just as much as he supported them -- and for Carewyn, Bill was the same. Both Bill and Carewyn had had their respective brothers -- Charlie and Jacob -- as emotional support, of course, but Bill had still always taken on the "big brother" role with Charlie and Jacob obviously was that same "big brother" role for Carewyn. Even despite their two year age gap, Carewyn and Bill treated each other like peers and, due to their similar personalities, often ended up "taking care" of everyone else around them (sometimes together), as well as helping take care of each other. Carewyn would stand up for Bill while he was working multiple jobs as a child to support his family and even coaxed members of her own family to give him odd jobs, so as to support him. Bill would hide Carewyn (often with Charlie's help) in his family's barn when her uncle Blaise came looking for her and taught her how to climb a tree and read the stars. When Jacob was stuck with his tutors and Bill was forced to work unpleasant jobs to make ends meet, Carewyn would keep him company and even help him complete his tasks, just to show moral support, even though her grandfather and especially her uncle so disapproved.

It's frankly no wonder that Bill immediately agreed to help get Carewyn and Jacob out, when Jacob approached him for help. It's also little wonder -- considering how close Bill was to Carewyn and how much he knew she loved her brother -- that Bill reacted so hostilely toward Blaise, when he confronted him about finding Jacob's skull.

“The only piece we have of Carey’s brother is this skull, thanks to you,” barked Bill, “and the only piece of Carey even left in this world is trapped in there with you, rather than buried in the cemetery where we can visit – ” “I want my nephew,” Blaise interrupted him, very harshly. “I know you have him, so give him back.” Bill’s eyes flooded with angry, grief-stricken tears.  “If Jacob were with me,” he said very quietly, “I would sooner burn in Hell than let you lock him up in here again.”

There was no way that Bill was going to let Blaise have a single piece of the person his best friend loved more than her own life.

So Bill buried Jacob's head under a tree not far from the Weasley house. He also kept Carewyn's usual red hair ribbon -- something she'd left at the Weasley house, the night she and Jacob tried and failed to escape the Cromwell Manor -- wrapped around his hand as he worked, before tying it to a branch right over the tiny plot. This blood-red ribbon would serve as a marker many years later, when paranormal investigator Duncan Ashe eventually discovered the tree and the skull buried underneath it.

Fortunately Bill and Carewyn were reunited long before Duncan came along and discovered the truth of the Cromwell family murders, when Blaise Cromwell insisted the medium Madame Olivia bring back his lost family members.

Carewyn actually didn't fully materialize for a very long time after being forced back to the Manor, even with the ghostly medium summoning spirits non-stop. Instead she appeared as nothing but a cold, light blue, ghostly orb, floating aimlessly into and out of the attic with seemingly no awareness or direction.

It frustrated and grieved the Phantom to no end, especially since the orb that was Carewyn would never speak and would dissolve away out of his clawed hands if he tried to grab her.

It was only when Bill brought his hands around the orb, not to seize it, but to cradle it, that the orb finally stopped wandering. Bill immediately knew this fog-like orb was his friend's spirit, too melancholy and hopeless to fully materialize, and choking back tears, he spoke to her.

"...Carey...Carey, forgive me. ...I failed you, Carey -- you and Jacob. God, I wanted so much to get justice for you, but I failed, Carey. It's why I'm still here, why we're all still here -- we all knew we failed you, Carey. Charlie and Mum and Dad...all of us. We should've been able to protect you -- we should've been able to get you away from your uncle, and yet even now...even now, you've been brought back here, against your will. Brought back here to this terrible house without your brother, without your mother. ...But...I'm not leaving you this time. I'm not leaving you alone here with him -- not again. And I will never leave you again. I swear 't on my life -- nay, on my...on my death...I will never leave you again."

And as Bill bared his heart to this incorporeal ball in his arms, he suddenly felt the cold light expand, growing limbs that clung to him just as much in return, that shook in his arms with silent sobs as strong as his own as she tried to comfort him. For a moment, all Bill and Carewyn's spirits could do, upon both being fully materialized, was hug each other and cry.

If anyone were to want a reason why the Phantom never banished Bill or the Weasleys from the Cromwell Manor the way he did the Wanderer Orion Amari multiple times, even with how much Blaise Cromwell detested them in life...the fact that Bill was the reason Carewyn didn't choose to remain in that hellish, spiraling, maddening, timeless chaos that exists for ghosts without a proper home may be very enlightening.

"...Bill...it's not your fault. It's not your family's fault. I made a choice, and it was mine, and it was cowardly. ...Forgive me..." "No -- no, no, Carey, you weren't cowardly. You were grieving, you were in pain, and...I just wish I could've helped you..." "You have, Bill. You have."

[reticulating-splines]

WIP - West 70th

1880s-1910s row of Upper West Side townhomes.

Been working on this row of late 19th c. brownstones on and off for the past year now, so needless to say when I heard about For Rent I was hype.

Download Here

This initially started because I was homesick for NYC during the pandemic. Specifically for the area of the upper west side my dorm was in while I was a student. I mainly blame this experience for my obsession with historical architecture - walking along central park west past the Dakota on the way to the subway, smoking on the stoops of the brownstones late at night, going to classes in the wedding cake that is the Ansonia - it was just everywhere, and so, so beautiful to look at.

Except a lot of it is faded glory - buildings subdivided, details chipped or covered in the thickest coats of grime or paint. So I wanted to replicate some of the old New York from around the turn of the century. The one I read about in the Luxe series and saw in the Samantha movie lol.

The basement or garden level of each four-story brownstone will be dedicated to the original purpose as the main workplace of the service staff. Unfortunately no room for the actual garden, so laundry lines and planters are on the roof. There are bedrooms and bathrooms for a cook and a housekeeper/butler, along with the staff dining and the kitchen. The butler's pantry is directly upstairs from the kitchen, and the top floor is almost exclusively made up of staff bedrooms and washrooms.

I usually do the service areas first because they're the most interesting, and there was nothing more interesting than a full edwardian brownstone kitchen. Lots of exposed piping, beadboard, subway tile, and shelves of clutter. Has a separate scullery, pantry, and stairs down to a basement storeroom to keep your best champs-le-sims nectar in. There's also a servant's bellboard in the kitchen and the staff dining room. It along with the "boiler" system are made with tool and CC-free.

The main entrance and parlor are doing their best to continue the gothic revival theme of the exterior. The library and dining room follow in the enfilade starting in the parlor. Since this first house is a corner lot, it has a bit more width and space than a true brownstone. The only actual brownstone I've been inside of is Lady Mendl's, so ofc I had to have an extensive tea setup. Def took a lot of inspo from these two pics alone for these rooms.

The main stairwell and picture gallery lead to three large bedrooms on the second floor, and then up to the children's room and nanny's bedroom on the third floor. I really like skylights. I learned the importance of decent lightwells in staving off depression one semester when my window looked out onto a brick wall

The master bedroom and the children's room above it both have their own private sitting rooms and bathrooms. All rooms have either fireplaces or cast iron radiators.

There's no way this is going to be finished by the time For Rent comes out, so im just going to release it in whatever state it's in when it does come out. The exteriors and interior room layout for all the townhomes will (hopefully) most likely be set by then anyway.

Now available for download!

Also the anniversary of Chez Cromwell is coming up! Ive been gone for the better part of the year due to starting a new job, but I havent been idle. C.Cromwell has been updated for infants and ceilings, which led to me redoing the exterior and almost every room, so a rerelease is coming v soon! Sneak peek below. Happy Thanksgiving!

[asha-mage]

Their is always this moment in "Arthur returns" fics where the subject of how government has changed comes up and Merlin invariably goes "Oh yeah we have this thing called democracy now and it's really good haha" and each time I can't help but be taken back.

Cause look. I love Merlin but that boy is a hardcore, dyed in the wool Royalist if there ever was one. He believes in his King so much that he waited for more then a thousand years for the crisis bad enough that it would call Arthur back from Avalon to reclaim his throne, never doubting that he would return and he would fix everything when he did.

Merlin 100% believes in the institution of absolute monarchy as a result of Arthur. He would still be bitter about the Magna Carta in the year 2023 and have a dart board somewhere with a picture of Cromwell taped to it. He would be disgusted by the office of sovereign being reduced to figurehead celebrity and is convinced their hasn't been a proper sovereign since Anne Stuart. He calls the Hanovers "those posers from the continent". He likes the Windsors a little bit better but not much: George VI and Liz II won some points in his book for their services in World War 2, but he detests the advent of the modern "celebrity royal" for degrading the dignity of the crown to new lows.

Everything wrong with England and Britain, in his mind, is the fault of Parliament who he still sees as a bunch of unruly Barons and angry Roundheads squandering the nation's future to stay in power.

(If anything Arthur "I want what's best for my people always" Pendragon is the one much more into the idea of democracy and parliament, and would crush Merlin's hopes of simply dissolving to body by instead reforming it to make it more fair.)

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

masterlist | part 5 | part 6

synopsis the if only conundrum.

wc 4.6k

“Rafe,” you warn.

“Y/N…” he echoes, his finger sweeping over your warm cheek.

He’s too close, closer than he should be, far closer than your own good or his would sanction.

And it’s as though his stupid, familiar scent has immobilised you, the rough chlorine and vetiver like a disarming agent, liquefying your limbs. His lips draw nearer, less than an inch from yours now, and your pathetic heart jumps into your throat in tandem.

Is he having as much trouble catching a breath right now as you are?

Your gaze staccatos as you force it up to his features, halting on his bobbing Adam’s apple, the shadow of stubble on his neck. At his mouth now, you watch his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip. Pause. His eyes are all pupil with a thin wafer of deep blue, like the rim of the horizon before it descends into velvet dusk.

He leans in further, reinforcing his hold on your jaw, and rather than doing the same, you find yourself freezing in place.

Perhaps it’s the fact that this is all becoming too real too fast—Rafe Cameron with his hand on your face, Rafe Cameron with zero regard for personal space. Rafe Cameron making the same move on you that he’s no doubt made on every other girl on his roster; he’s this close to sealing the deal, tasting your lips and marking you his, when you realise that you don’t want to be another name he gets to cross off his list.

If only you knew.

You press the heels of your palm against his chest hastily, hesitant more than firm, enough force for Rafe to stumble back in surprise.

His chest lurches in protest, his skin singed where your hands made contact.

“Rafe,” you resound, letting out another shaky breath. Unsure. “Stop.”

“I — shit,” he mutters back, his voice gruff, almost languid. He straightens a little and runs his fingers through his hair, the soft, dirty-blonde locks limp against his touch. “Why?”

You wince. “I could ask you the same question.”

Rafe falters, momentarily caught off guard, his thick brow furrowing as he looks back down at you. “Are you kidding?” He rasps, as if trying to catch his breath. “You have to know that not kissing you right now is fucking torture.”

“We… we can’t,” you say then, grappling for excuses that are quickly slipping through your fingers. “Our relationship is strictly professional, and —”

“Oh come on,” Rafe interrupts then, reclaiming his hold on your jaw so that he can prompt your gaze up to meet his. “The way we look at each other is the exact opposite of professional.”

Your eyes widen slightly, disarmed by the revelation, and you find yourself struggling to deny the truth of it without outright lying.

“The amount I think about you,” he continue lowly, his voice gravelly around the edges. “Would put Cromwell into a fucking coma.”

The things I want to do to you, he wants to add, would definitely have that effect. Maybe—definitely—that’s overkill. Perhaps it’s your closeness that’s rendered him defenceless, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s superimposed by your wide eyes and pretty mouth. Christ, you’re going to be the death of him. He wonders whether you know that you’re pressing your cheek into his palm right now, vying for more of him. You have these tells that he’s yearned for since before tonight, before this year, before the year prior and probably even before he tried to ask you out.

A beat. You want to believe him so badly your heart aches, but there’s a nagging in your chest that makes it difficult to focus on anything else.

“Why now?” You whisper, uncertain.

“Didn’t think I had a chance til now,” he murmurs back.

What happens if it doesn’t work out? It taunts, refusing to relent. What happens if he loses interest just as you’re ready to accept it?

“It’s not the right time, Cameron,” you reply finally, letting out a languid sigh. You push away from him again, more sure this time than you were before. “It… it’ll overcomplicate things.”

“The way I feel about you already happens to do that,” he murmurs back, though it’s clear he’s beginning to acquiesce. He sighs too. “But,” he takes a step back, and your heart pulls, “shit… as much as I don’t want to, I get it.”

“Okay,” you say, swallowing thickly. Selfish as it is, you sort of wish he’d fought you on the fact harder.

“Okay,” he echoes, clearing his throat. Another beat as the pair of you regain your composure, or what’s left of it after the havoc wreaked by the promise of something more.

You nod in assent, try for a smile. It’s as you’re readying yourself for the let’s-pretend-this-never-happened speech that the pair of you are interrupted by the sound of a car fast approaching, the turbulent ignition like a blade through the silence.

Your father pulls into the driveway just as Rafe turns to face it, his headlights bathing the two of you in yellow light. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of Rafe’s body heat on your skin. It’s as though having a witness has shrunk the inches between your figures; you step away quickly, feel him do so in tandem, and try to act normal whilst feeling the exact opposite.

The ignition quietens, and your father climbs out of his car with subtle surprise etching his features.

“Mr Y/L/N!” Rafe exclaims, plastering on that charming smile of his. Effortlessly—like it’s nothing. Your heart pulls again. “How’re you doing?”

“Rafe,” he acknowledges, raising his eyebrows. Not unpleasantly; he just isn’t sure what to make of the pair of you outside of an Academy setting. “What brings you here?”

“I was just leaving,” he answers swiftly, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “I… uh, Mrs Y/L/N was kind enough to invite me inside for dinner.”

“Ah.” Your father’s eyes dart to you, searching for an explanation. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Rafe shakes his head in response, turning toward you and beginning to walk down the porch steps backwards. “I’ll, uh,” he sounds more breathless speaking to you than he does your father, his heady gaze softening as it falls over you in paces, “I’ll see you later?”

“At the next meeting, yeah,” you answer with a nod, trying to sound nonchalant. (Failing miserably.)

He pivots on his heels and slides his keys out of his front pocket, his heart doing this odd little lurch as the distance between the pair of you increases. His skin burns despite the Autumn chill, the phantom of your touch still pressed into his torso.

Don’t turn back, he thinks. He hears your father’s footsteps ascend the porch, hears your front door open and close after you greet him. He doesn’t see the knowing look he shoots you, nor does he hear the flustered waver in your timbre. Or the way your gaze lingers on his figure. When he sits down in the driver’s seat and does catch a glimpse of his reflection in his rearview mirror, all he can see is the same mouth that should’ve tasted you by now. He closes his eyes, and all he sees is your pretty face looking up at him, blurred around the edges.

—

You’re doing a good job at being normal about it all.

Too good a job, it seems; two weeks on from your porch-side rendezvous, it appears as though Rafe Cameron has resigned himself to his apparent fate—that he’s never going to be able to call you his.

How do you know? You’ve returned to professional pleasantries sans any playful teasing—sans any lingering glances or too-close proximity, the unbearable tension between you notwithstanding.

And the worst part of it all, you’re quickly realising, is that it’s based on a fate that’s very obviously untrue. Because the thing is, you do feel something for him, try as you might to vehemently deny it. And you know that it’s selfish, hoping he keeps pursuing you despite shutting it down already, but there’s this part of you that wants him to want you despite it all.

Again, if only you knew.

Rafe Cameron’s favourite deflection tactic is moving on far too fast.

“Any other notices?” You ask, looking out over the room-full of tired prefects in front of you.

Dalton raises his arm, the rolled sleeve of his uniform shirt pulled taut. You narrow your eyes at him, skeptical about the merit of his announcement. “Notices that aren’t just party invitations,” you add, sending him a stern glare.

Dalton grins roguishly, lifting his other arm in surrender. “Third one this year you haven’t attended, Y/L/N. Where’s your team building spirit?”

You roll your eyes, your gaze darting to Rafe momentarily, a knee-jerk response. Usually, this is where he’d jump in and interject. Recently, however, it feels as though he’s more afraid of the consequences of a possible imposition.

It makes your undeserving pulse lurch, your lips pulling down into a frown without meaning to. “You know what, Haynes,” you say after a beat, looking back toward him. “You’re right. When’s the party?”

Rafe falters, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Dalton’s too busy looking pleased to notice this reception, and he pushes back against his rickety chair, balancing it on its hind-legs. “Tonight,” he answers, flashing you another grin. A muscle in Rafe’s jaw ticks. “At mine. Cameron’ll get you the addy, won’t you brother?”

A beat. When Rafe doesn’t respond right away, you look up at him expectantly, your brow furrowing at the odd expression on his face—almost strained.

Your heart flounders.

You begin overthinking the invitation and your subsequent acceptance; why did you assume he’d want you there, anyway, at a party with all of his friends in the middle of his affluent neighbourhood? What were you trying to achieve by agreeing to go to it, some non-Academy time to solidify all this awkwardness?

Besides, you’d never fit in with a crowd like theirs, not without his Rafe Cameron charm as a buffer.

“Yeah, course,” he answers after pause, an unreadable emotion flashing across his blue irises. If you’re being honest with yourself, it looks dangerously close to reluctance. You resist the urge to grimace.

“Alright,” you say, clearing your throat awkwardly. “If that was all, we’ll lock in another meeting for the same time next month.”

A murmur of assent moves over the room, punctuated by the clamour of backpack zips and car keys jangling. You hesitate before retrieving your own laptop and placing it into your tote, Rafe’s imposing figure still frozen in place beside you.

Unbeknownst to you, he’s going through his own, exhausting turmoil of emotions. They start and end with you, the way they always do; almost kiss turned rejection or not, he’s pretty sure that your implacability in his mind is inevitable.

He’s pretty sure he’s actually fucking fucked, all things considered. (Read: wants you so badly it genuinely hurts sometimes.) Sure, the risks that come with being together may overcomplicate this whole head student thing, but not doing so is torturing him enough to render this a mute point.

Because, really, when have you ever accepted an invitation to one of his parties? Of all the absolute douchebags that make up your graduating class, why did you have to settle for someone as mediocre as Dalton fucking Haynes?

“…Cameron?”

It’s the third time you’ve said his name, just loud enough to break his reverie. He blinks a few times, glancing down at you. “Yeah?”

“Listen,” you say, frowning a little. ���If I’ve… uh, I don’t know,” you pause, wincing, “overstepped, or something…”

There’s this slight, guilty inflection to your tone, and it makes Rafe feel worse, as if that was fucking possible. “Are you kidding?” He asks, shaking his head and plastering on a grin. “Of course not. I’ve been trying to get you to one of these parties for months!”

Your frown acquiesces a smidge, and you look up at him, your wide eyes messing with his brain. “I just mean… they’re your friends, and I know they never actually expect me to come to any of these things —”

“No, you should come,” he interrupts. “Get to know everyone. The girls. The boys,” he raises his eyebrows in what he hopes is a playful jibe, “Dalt.”

You lift your own in surprise, making to shake your head. “I’m not —”

“He lives at the end of the Strand Street cul-de-sac, super close to my house,” he interrupts again. “D’you need a ride there?”

And very far away from your own, as Rafe already knows. You try not to read into the fact that he’s willing to go out of his way to pick you up.

“I’ll be okay,” you respond slowly. “Listen, Cameron, I’m not trying to —”

“I’ll look out for you, yeah?” He says then, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. You’re close enough for his elbow to nudge yours as he does so, shifting a jolt of static through your bones. “Be your wing-man or something.”

You’re unsure what to make of his insistence, so you pause, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. Maybe he’s already forgotten about the same almost that’s plaguing you; maybe this is his gentle way of telling you he’s over it. Or maybe, and your mouth goes dry as you consider it, he’s moved in with someone else and doesn’t want you feeling awkward about the fact that you haven’t.

He’s sweet when he wants to be, you think.

“Alright,” you say finally, forcing a smile.

He throws his backpack over one shoulder, jogging backward toward the door. “No bailing last minute, Y/L/N.”

He’s gone before you know it, disappearing around the corner and no doubt catching up with his football posse. Your smile fades. It isn’t lost on you that this is the first meeting after which he hasn’t offered you a ride home.

—

Dalton Haynes lives in a magnificent palazzo in the heart of the Eight, its polished glass windows aglow with technicolor lights. The sharp edges are bordered by a cloudless sky, sunset orange transforming into deeper plum.

From the heavy bass reverberating through the air as you near, it’s clear that the party is already in full swing.

“Y/L/N!” Dalton exclaims, joined by Kelce on the front porch. “Look at you! You made it!”

You smile bashfully, clearly a little out of your depth, allowing him to pull you into a side-hug once you’re at an arm’s length. “I made it,” you agree, nodding at the pair of them. “Everyone else inside?”

Kelce raises his eyebrows, sharing a knowing look with Dalton before grinning roguishly. “Cameron’s inside, yeah,” he answer, taking a generous pull of his half-empty beer. Beads of condensation roll down the aluminium can ominously. “But I think you need a drink in your hand before you start mingling.”

“Uh,” you hold out your empty hands expectantly, “bit difficult considering I didn’t actually bring any.”

“No biggie,” Dalton answers good-naturedly, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “What d’you usually drink Y/L/N? I’m sure we can find something you’d like in the fridge.”

“Usually?” You echo diffidently, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. You aren’t sure you’ve done enough underage drinking to justify a predisposition to any sort of liquor—the odd, too-warm beer at a bonfire, a glass of moderately priced champagne if you’re at a celebration. A Mai Tai, once, at that exclusive PTA dinner at the Island Club last year.

With Rafe. And the rest of the association, of course, but it’s Rafe you remember, in his tailored suit and polished dress shoes.

Rafe, with the glinting cuff-links and generous wad of cash redeemable for fancy drinks and bar-staff compliance. Rafe, with the charming grin and really really distracting biceps. Aftershave, vetiver, and the saccharine scent of orgeat syrup. You didn’t realise, until just now, how much of him you remember from that first night as head students.

“Yeah,” Dalton prompts, retrieving his arm from your shoulder to pull open the fridge and peer inside. He’s led you down the hallway and into the busy kitchen, his large house suffused by varyingly familiar upperclassmen. “We’ve got some of my sister’s leftover White Claws, half a bottle of Sav, three of those Mai Tai drinks, oh — and a few cans of my beer, which you’re absolutely welcome to but I assume that you aren’t a big Budweiser girl yourself.”

“Mai Tai’ll do,” you answer, “thank you.”

“Easy,” he nods, handing one over before closing the fridge and straightening. He clinks the rim of his can against yours, making a noise of approval when you hiss it open. “The head girl at a party,” he says, grinning as he tips back his beer to take a sip. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

You roll your eyes, sending him a faux-glare. “You make me sound like such a fucking bore.”

“Not my intention,” he answers, raising his arms in surrender. “You just intimidate the living Hell out of me, and this laidback environment tends to take the edge of that a bit.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. “If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s working,” you say, turning to face the living room. You lean against the kitchen island in front of you as you survey the scene, the smooth marble like glacial lava on your forearms. And your gaze moves over the scene absentmindedly, a fact that isn’t lost on Dalton. It’s as if you’re trying to find someone in secret—catch a glimpse of their figure and then pretend that you didn’t.

He leans forward in tandem, taking another pull of his beer. “Oh, I’d never dream of flattering Cameron’s girl without his permission.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, you face whipping around to face him. “I’m not —”

“Oh, sure, maybe not right now,” he allows, raising his eyebrows. “But I think it’s pretty obvious you’re the reason that he’s been flirting with Leighton all evening, don’t you think?”

“Leighton?” You echo, frowning slightly. “Where’s —”

Dalton places his hands on your shoulders firmly, pivoting you on your heel so that you’re facing the kitchen window. It overlooks one side of his wraparound deck, and in amongst the ruckus, Rafe is standing too close to the girl named Leighton. She’s undeniably beautiful, all glowing limbs and cheeks that are rosied by the chill. And a hand on Rafe’s—your Rafe’s—bicep.

You blink. There’s an unfair wrench in your gut. Suddenly, the fact that you didn’t almost kiss him when you had the chance feels like a cruel twist of fate, entirely unbearable. He’s already moved on, the way you predicted that he would, but the vindication of being right doesn’t feel nearly as good as it should.

This isn’t his fault, you have to remind yourself. But that doesn’t matter, the nagging voice screams, seeing him with someone else still hurts like a bitch. Granted, a wholly unjustified bitch, seeing as you’re the one that insisted you keep this professional. You blink again. Her hand’s still abutted in all it’s manicured glory, on his stupid broad bicep as though it belongs there.

“Oh,” is all you say.

Dalton frowns. “Dude, did you hear anything I just said? The only reason he’s even talking to her is because of you.”

“You don’t know that,” you answer, forcibly peeling your gaze away from him. “Besides, nothing even happened between us.”

“That’s the point,” Dalton urges, sending you an assessing look. “Better an oops than a what if, right?”

You shrug helplessly, your gaze moving back toward Rafe without meaning to. He’s smiling down at the girl named Leighton, this real, genuine grin that makes you honest-to-God ache, and another ugly bout of jealousy sears through your ribcage, forcing you to resign yourself to your fate.

“Except,” you say finally, turning away from the kitchen window, “that there wasn’t ever a what if in the picture to begin with.” You pull away from the smooth marble countertop, making for the yawning stairwell before looking back expectantly. “What’re you waiting for, Haynes? You going to give me a tour of this place or what?”

—

The tour, whilst a useful way to pass time, fails to distract you from the envious turn of your stomach. It feels as though every window you peer through allows a crystal-clear view of Rafe Cameron and his latest conquest—his figure too-close to hers, his elbow nudging her slim waist, her pretty hand on his bicep, on his shoulder, ever-present.

“You need a top-up?” Dalton asks, pointing his can at yours questioningly. You’re halfway down the stairwell and fast approaching the kitchen, the burnt ochre hue of sunset transforming a deeper velvet.

You tip back your Mai Tai for its dregs, nodding in response.

“Y/N?”

He doesn’t use your first name very often. His gravelly timbre tends to oscillate between your surname and whatever pet-name he’s in the mood for; less so after you made it clear that it irks you.

If only he knew.

He’s thought about you a pathetic amount tonight. Where you are, when you’ll arrive, how he’ll play it cool when you’re with Dalton (fucking Haynes) despite wanting to die inside. And now, it feels as though his worst fears are manifesting before his eyes—gorgeous you in a singlet and jeans with a slice of waist exposed, with maddening spaghetti straps made of almost see-through material. With pretty eyes, prettier cheeks, glossy lips that he knows smell like peach. (And feel like satin, and taste like something illegal; taste like the absolute fucking death of him.)

If it isn’t already obvious, Rafe Cameron is spiralling. He doesn’t do that very often—ever.

As you complete your descent of the stairwell, he runs his fingers through his hair, drawing your attention to his taut biceps and strong forearms.

“Oh, hey!” You exclaim, a little sheepish. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“Been here the whole time Y/L/N,” he responds evenly, his gaze darting to Dalton beside you. Less even, now. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Not long,” Dalton supplies, moving past him post-descent. “Just gave her a little tour of the humble abode.” He turns to back toward you expectantly. “Another Mai Tai, head girl?”

“You can go now, Haynes,” Rafe says, not bothering to look back at him.

Dalton raises his eyebrows at Rafe over his shoulder. “You’ll grab her the drink?”

Rafe ignores him, and you frown, evidently bemused by his unfriendly reception. “I’ll grab it myself Dalt,” you say, raising your empty can in farewell. “Thanks for keeping my company!”

He sends you a mock salute in response, and you swear there’s an imperceptible wink thrown in too. You frown harder, a question, but he’s too busy disappearing into the hallway to particularly notice it.

“So,” Rafe begins. A pause. “You and Haynes, huh?”

You look up at him, your pretty brow furrowed. “Did you guys get into a fight or something? Because this morning —”

“Yeah. Over you.”

You falter. “Me?”

Rafe sighs languidly, raking his fingers through his hair again. It prompts his figure an inch closer to yours, the scent of his musk and vetiver aftershave rendering your poor insides jelly. “Why didn’t you come find me when you got here, Y/L/N?”

“You were with a girl!” You protest. “I didn’t… I don’t know, you were busy.”

“You came to his party,” he continues slowly, his voice low, “I’ve invited you to so fucking many and his is the one that you finally attend.”

“For you, you idiot!” You exclaim, and then you falter, grimacing abashedly. “I mean,” you sigh, “I… I don’t know, I was sick of things being awkward.”

A pause. An unreadable emotion flickers over Rafe’s blue irises, and he takes a small step forward, caging you into the stairwell bannister. “For me?” He asks, his heady gaze trained on your features.

“Besides,” you continue, choosing to ignore him. “You — you were teasing me about the invitation, going on about how you’d play wing-man when I’m with Dalt.”

He raises his eyebrows. “‘Dalt’, huh?”

“You called him that,” you defend, “Not me. And — and you were with some other girl when I arrived —”

“Leighton’s a family friend,” he interrupts, inching closer still to rest his arm on the rounded newel at your side. His bicep on your shoulder now, a body-heat wall of muscle. “She was telling me about the college guy she’s seeing.”

You swallow. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Rafe agrees.

A beat. You can hear the steady thump of your heartbeat in your ears, the music and party clamour like long forgotten white noise. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, breaking eye contact.

Rafe frowns. “For?”

“I know you didn’t want me to come tonight.”

Another beat. When he doesn’t respond—argue with you—right away, you feel your stomach drop, your unsure gaze moving back up to him.

His once-blue irises have given way to dilated pupils. You swallow again.

“True,” he murmurs finally, his voice rough.

“Because this is your crowd,” you explain unnecessarily, talking faster, “not mine. And your friend’s the one that’s hosting. And there’s no real reason for me to be here except you, but our relationship’s supposed to be strictly professional and I’m the one that’s been harping on about —”

“Because,” Rafe interrupts firmly, his calloused palm find the contour of your jaw and pulling you closer. “Not kissing you two weeks ago was hard enough as is.” He ducks his head to eye-level, his nose brushing over yours gently. “And I don’t think I have it in me to control myself any more.”

You inhale in surprise, your lips parting slightly. “That sounds complicated,” you murmur.

“So fucking complicated,” he agrees lowly, his spearmint-and-beer breath fanning over your warm cheeks. Your lashes flutter. “Christ Y/N,” you can feel his lips ghosting over yours, now, “will you let me in complicate it some more?”

You may lean in first, but Rafe leans in harder. His free palm finds your waist and presses you against the stairwell bannister, torso to torso with enough conviction to bruise a little, your figure like putty in his hands. And his mouth is all youthful and rough, infused by Budweiser, his warm tongue moving over yours with desperation. Like he doesn’t fucking believe any of this is happening—doesn’t believe how soft your skin feels, how sweet your lips taste, how wretchedly he wants to feel more of you, all of you.

His hand slips underneath your singlet to knead the bare skin he finds there, his bruised lips dragging along your chin to your jaw. “Complicated fucking neck,” he mutters gruffly, pressing teeth-scraping kisses along your throat. His hand slides down to the curve of your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. “And shit, don’t get me started on how much these jeans are over-complicating everything.”

“Says you,” you gasp, your arms circling his neck to allow your fingers free reign on his hair. “Your hair’s cuter when it’s a little damp like this, y’know that?”

Rafe groans, his forehead falling to your shoulder in faux-defeat. “Compliments. Complicated.”

“No compliments,” you say as he lifts his head again, smiling. “Noted.”

“No talking,” Rafe agrees. He leans in again, pressing his lips to yours, hard. “Just kissing.”

“Kissing, huh?”

The voice makes the pair of you freeze, spring apart in tandem. Standing at the end of the hallway, a condensation-shiny Mai Tai in hand and triumphant grin on his face, Dalton Haynes’ knowing gaze is trained on your figures. “Please,” he adds then, raising his arms in surrender and beginning to walk backward, “don’t stop on my account.”

He disappears around the corner, and you turn back to Rafe, noticeably chagrined. Shit, you think, mostly because you want to kiss him again. You’re totally fucking fucked.