#she’s in durham now where everything is fine!!!

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

that northern carolina sunshine brings my flaws into the light, the way i disrespect myself and how i’m so visibly tired all the time

[fancyfeathers]

How does William’s darling react to their daughter’s escape? Does she root for her while also missing her, or is she worried and wants her back?

His darling certainly misses her eldest daughter but she knows that this is for the best. When William took her up to Durham when she began showing signs of his intelligence she began to worry because she knew her daughter would not give up so easily, she knew it would only be a matter of time before she tried something. Then William sent her a telegram telling his darling that their daughter ran away and he would be returning home with Louis to look for her since there would be no other place fore her to go besides London. Then when she hears she is staying with the Sherlock Holmes she gets an idea, her eldest is definitely trying to stand in the way of her father’s plans, not wanting there to be anymore blood shed, she doubts that her daughter will be able to get her mother out of her father’s grasp so she can try to get someone else out, someone smaller. William had Louis and her eldest daughter has her little sister.

She would try to get her youngest daughter to see the reality of their family’s situation. Her eldest running away was by chance but now she is trying to get her youngest to do the same, for her own sake so she won’t be separated from her sister again. It hurts her to do this but sometimes being a parent is doing what is best for your children even when it burns you.

She cries and cries when her daughter finally realizes everything with the evidence that had been provided to her and all she can think about is how her big sister was right all along.

William is away when she watches from the window her youngest wiggle out of a gap of the iron fence that surrounds the house.

It’s for the best she tells herself…

She had done her best to make sure they are prepared to see the world. To make sure they are fine on their own, but it doesn’t make it easier to let them go.

She just sits there in silence until her husband returns home and when he asked her where the youngest is, expecting her to be playing around the house and she knows she will take the fall for the answer…

“Out in the world, William.”

(I think the eldest name is going to end up being Eloise and the youngest is going to Madeline which kinda reminds me of Eloise from Bridgerton and Madeline from the book Madeline which kinda fits because that is kinda similar to their personalities and just the line from the Madeline book…

“In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines. They left the house, at half past nine... The smallest one was Madeline.”

It just fits causes she is the younger sister. Then also I have been obsessed with this song but all I can think about is the song Balancing the Scales from the Bridgerton musical and then Slipping Through my Fingers from Mamma Mia along with My Love, My Life from the second movie and just it makes me tear up)

(I really need to make a master list for this now)

[mikazuki-juuichi]

Ballroom (Beastars fanfic --Miguno x Durham).

Third drabble I wrote while recovering. Hope you all ejoy!

*

H drabbles III: Ballroom.

By: Yawar.

Canon: Beastars fanfic.

**

It's hard running in fine moccassins. Durham knows his feet will resent it tomorrow. But if he doesn't make it in time he's gonna regret it all of today. And then before he knows it, here it is --Gulag, that small punk club that's easy to miss at first, tucked between two run-down apartment complexes. There's this small sign by the door advertising that tonight "The Carrions" are playing --that is Miguno's band. He takes just a minute to catch his breath. He's positive he's dressed all wrong for this place -- a coyote in his fancy borrowed grey suit and brown tie. Too bad!

**

"Guess who's Hikaru´s date for the next grand ball!" he had told the hyena playing guitar on the lower bunk bed, in his heart-patterned underpants.

"Hikaru?" said his best friend, Miguno. "That poodle girl from the gold district?"

"Fancy family! And you're looking at her next date!" Durham beamed. For all of five seconds. "I mean, she's no doubt slumming it, but--"

"All her curly fur," said Miguno, sincerely, as he climbed down from the bed. "Is not worth a single strand of yours."

"...why, thank you!" After a somewhat awkward pause, Durham added: "Huh, the real problem, though... is that I don't know how to dance. I mean not this kind of--"

"I can teach you. Hey, might be a fun project, even!"

**

In general, Durham did not have much luck dating. Maybe he just looked too rough or had too much of a reputation. Too unpolished, maybe a bit scary. Legosi 2.0 maybe.

The other boys in the dorm were so-so about it. Collot would date on and off. Voss and Jack were always preocupied with other stuff. Legosi was terrified of anything resembling dating.

Miguno, now, though. Dating did not seem to concern him at all. In everything else, he and Durham got along so well, were almost of one mind. They could talk for hours, hang out... enjoy each other's company. One way or another.

**

"And spin! Got it?"

"I still don't know if I'm playing the guy or the girl."

"The guy," said his lead. "Because you have your hand on my back. I'm holding your hand, yeah? Now, one more time! Step, step, spin!"

After only a few days using the dance room at the hours they knew it would be empty, Durham was amazed to discover how little he actually knew about dancing in general. How had he ever come to believe it was easy?

Still, he did get the gist of it, bit by clumsy bit. And then there was something so... sensual aobut it, so intimate. Whenever he got the steps right, he and Miguno felt fully in tune, moving as one. Would it feel like that with Hikaru, he sometimes wondered.

**

"The ball is when?"

"This saturday night, why?"

"Oh..." He saw Miguno's ears briefly go down, then right back up. "No, nothing! Just checking, really!"

But Durham recalled. "Wait. Saturday. Your band! The gig at the club, right?"

"Ah, it's not that big a deal..."

"...now your tail is down, too. Hey." He placed an arm around Miguno, drew him close. "It's unfortunate but you know I'll always attend every other gig. You know that, right?

"I do! I know. And I mean --this is important, of course! It's okay, really, it is!"

**

As it turned out, dancing with Hikaru did not feel quite so sensous, or intimate, or really much of anything at all. Less so once it dawned on him that she was mostly using him to tease another guy at the ball, some apparently popular German Shepherd who had brought a dreamy-eyed vixen as his own date. Yup. Slumming it with the big scary coyote. Yet again.

Coyotes, not so majestic nor impressive, except maybe in the eyes of--

...what was he doing here?

Between pieces, he excused himself to the restroom --and sneaked out.

Now, what was the name of that club and where was it?

**

The Carrions were just wrapping up the second number. He was in time after all, just about!!

He recognized the song. "Bloody loser". That ditty Miguno had written a couple months ago about a bleeding, bruised man who had just lost a match --but whom the lyrics described as beautiful.

Oh.

Wow.

How had Durham never realized who the song was about?

*

Miguno finished his rift, opened his eyes.

Could not believe what he was seeing. Durham, front and center, clapping. Cheering. Jumping up and down. Still in the borrowed suit!

*

Intermission. They ran to each other.

"What... how..?" said Miguno.

"Ball was a..." Durham began.

Another song began, different band.

Not at all a piece for slow dancing.

Durham offered his hand, had to shout to be heard. "May I?"

"I --thought you'd never ask!" But Miguno placed his hand on the small of Durham's back, just above the tail. "Only, mind if this time..?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" Durham guffawed!

*

Coyote and hyena, two males slow-dancing together to a rock-punk ditty. One dressed for this place, one not. They look rather out of place --and could not care less. They are in their own private heaven.

**

END

**

[malamai]

My weekend was a write off.

So as you will have all seen my mothersday was a bust and my week had YET ANOTHER HORRID END! I am not even shocked anymore when things go down now.

So in short Elijah was hospitalised because he'd had this really nasty chest infection since Christmas time that was passed off as viral by a ridiculous amount of healthcare professionals, despite me fighting to get him antibiotics because it was not viral at all and to no surprise of mine that chest infection turned out to be NOT FUCKING VIRAL. So he eventually saw a nurse, that unlike everyone else we went to did not have the brain activity of a fucking chicken nugget and got some antibiotics, some steriods and naturally she could see my frustration and was quite peeved herself at the state of him and fact that when she went through the notes on the computer that at least two other people had reported crackling in the chest along with damp sounds and not given him any medication. We started the antibiotics and the first course didn't do enough so he had to have another course and submit a Flem sample on Thursday.

On international women's day on the Friday I had a shoot and Elijah was still not in school so I send him down to my parents house so my brother could watch him and my mother was just getting over a stomache bug but was fine, thought nothing of it, but I didn't know until the Sunday but she made him lunch. (I know, doesn't seem relevant or important, but it is a key part of the puzzle. Stay with me on this.) So he came home and all was well, the day was fun, it went swimmingly.

Saturday morning I wake up and Elijah isn't looking too good, but I just initially thought "wow the antibiotics have knocked him well and truly" I do my normal and make him eat something before he has his antibiotics which he did and then he took his antibiotic. Within 30 minutes he suddenly takes a turn for the worst and he just starts constantly vomiting, like barely a break, everything he drank came back up, he just could keep nothing down and he starts looking extra bad, I knew something just wasn't right, he's vomited for an hour straight, he can't eat, can't drink, can't take medication and he just cannot stay awake and he has puked everything up to the point where all that's coming up is bile and even that is coming up constantly and he went clammy. I went on the phone to 111 and they got a hospital to call and when the hospital called they wanted us there after I explained all the stuff that has gone on with him health wise recently and Lee was with me and I think at first he thought I was loopy because I got him to sit with Elijah and started preparing my house because I knew I wasn't going to be back the same day judging by the look of Elijah, so Lee is like "what are you doing and why are you doing it so fast?" Because I was preparing my handbag with chargers ect... rushing the washing up, tidying, making sure I had a bucked and towel to take with me ect... and I just said "I'm doing everything I need to do now because I honestly don't think I'll be coming home tonight and I suggest you do anything you need to do when I'm done because I think I'll need you to stay with Aura."

When we get to the hospital they check him over and they basically don't have the facilities to find out what exactly is wrong but the lady we saw was lovely and she said she could see why I was concerned and he definitely needed some medical attention so off we went to the next hospital and I knew we would be fine going to the next hospital because it was Darlington, we always go to Darlington over Durham hospital because none of us have ever had a bad experience there, everyone has time for their patients, they leave no stone unturned, there is no waiting around left to god and good nature, there are more facilities and it runs like a dream. So we got there and Elijah got sent straight back to pediatric observation, his heart rate crazy, pulse crazy, oxygen low, constantly vomiting and they took blood, found markers in his blood, saw he couldn't keep a thing down if he tried and they decided to keep him in for the night on antibiotics and fluid drips and keep giving him anti sickness meds. I was allowed to stay with him which I obviously did. I did not bank on a mothersday sleepover in a hospital this year but you know, here we are. The next day he finally stops puking and his stats look a little better and they toom samples of everything. He was diagnosed with gastroenteritis and gastritis on top of his chest infection he already had and he got out at around 6.30pm.

So flash back to when my mother made him lunch. She works in a hospital and she had what she thought was a bug but was a actually a case highly contagious gastroenteritis and Elijah was already run down on antibiotics so of course he was going to catch it. So I'm looking after Elijah, I get him settled on the couch and he goes to sleep, Lee took Aura again so I could have some rest and have a bit of time to get some sleep but I just wanted some fun so I hopped on my xbox, turned on fallout 4 and was just chilling with the dogs on my bed. While I am playing I have to pause because I start feeling really bizarre. I remember just feeling so hot, like my eyes were rolling and I felt like I was so full I was going to explode which is exactly what I did, by this point I know I have caught the gastroenteritis and gastritis and I just start violently vomiting on mothersday night and I violently vomited for 12 hours straight to the point where I could not even call anyone for help, my muscles actually hurt from wretching and I had ran out of energy and started going in and out of sleep and somewhere in the 9th hour of this I managed to actually make a phone call in-between puking to Lee and he said I sounded like I was dying and I puked twice in the 2 minute phonecall we had. I needed him to grab me some Coca-Cola because it was the only thing I could think would help and I needed to stop puking because I had my own problem already through Elijah being sick.

When Elijah got taken to hospital I forgot to pack my meds which was not good because you're not meant to just come off them, so I didn't have one from saturday all the way through until Tuesday night and I have really felt the affects of coming off them all of a sudden because I was dizzy and acting out of character, a friend checked in with me and noticed. I explained "I am off my meds through no fault of my own due to vomiting and the trip to hospital and I'm now scared to take one because I feel like it will make me vomit." But he told me I needed to take the pill, so I braved it and I felt better, not 100% but it took the withdrawal away and the horrid "I'm off my meds" side effects but I'm still feeling some effects now like sudden deep depressive hours in my day and I have no drive but it can't be helped and I know its rational but needs to be numbed my meds and I can't wait til I am all stable on them again because fuck feeling like that.

But yeah, basically my son gave me gastroenteritis and gastritus for mothers day and I gave myself withdrawal on top of it all and had to go to work on tuesday while still recovering and looking after my children. Thats literally what happened. 😅

[legends-of-time]

The Journey of Living at Downton

Chapter 19: Late May 1920

Masterlist

The Bransons arrive a few days before the wedding to be surrounded by pre-matrimony chaos. Sybil and Billy arrive at a similar time. Sybil is coming along with her pregnancy nicely at 6 months.

Lady Grantham gives them an old bassinet and other baby equipment like a pram that she had moved from the attic. There was the initial offer of having the Nursery set up but Emma doesn't feel comfortable and asks for it to be moved to her and Tom's room. Though she does accept one of the maids, Anne, keeping an eye on Ivy now and again.

——

The servants prepare the Great Hall for the wedding reception. The room is full of flowers and glasses and servants bustling about. Emma had decided to assist Lady Grantham and Gemma with arranging the gifts in the Drawing room.

The Dowager and Edith enter the room later on. Emma is happy to see the beaming smile on Edith's face. Emma still feels nervous in the matriarch's presence though.

"See, I told her everything would come right, but she wouldn't believe me." The grandmother remarks.

"I still can't. Something happening in this house is actually about me." Edith grins as she excitedly looks around the room. Her mother smiles at her. "The dress came this morning."

"I was rather sad you decided against Patou. I would've paid." The Dowager replies.

"Lucille was safer. We don't want her to look like a chorus girl." Her daughter-in-law argues. Edith smiles and shares a chuckle with Emma.

"Either way the dress looked lovely," Emma adds though she had internally cringed at the price considering the family predicament.

The Dowager hums. "How is Anthony? Excited, I hope."

"Desperately." Her granddaughter replies. "Just when he thought his life would never change, he's going right back to the beginning."

"Oh. What an invigorating prospect." Lady Grantham gives the Dowager a look. Emma tries not to give away her own thoughts. She personally does not see the appeal of Sir Anthony Strallen though he did stand up for Billy and Tom after Larry Grey's prank.

——

Emma is walking through the upstairs corridor, after checking on Ivy and giving her a feed, to join the family in the Library when she comes across Thomas and Mr Molesley. The latter, she had learnt, had been brought in to look after Mathew after previously having been left at Crawley house and Alfred had begun to look after him. Emma wonders if the change had anything to do with Alfred being Miss O'Brien's nephew.

She frowns as she sees Thomas helpfully pick up some clothes that Mr Molesley had dropped. Thomas is usually not that helpful. Then Thomas opening the servants' door for Molesley with a smile, really seals the deal. Emma hopes she gets to the bottom of it.

——

Emma walks into the Library to find Lady Grantham arranging flowers while Lord Grantham sits at his desk and Tom, Billy and Matthew read on the settees. Emma plonks herself next to Tom while Matthew and Billy sit opposite.

Tom turns to her. "How is she?"

"She's fine, though a little fussy but she settled," Emma replies.

"I take it Ivy has settled in?" Lady Grantham asks

Emma nods. "As well as a newborn baby can."

"How will they advertise it?" Lady Grantham then asks her husband.

"I don't know exactly." Her husband replies. ""Desirable nobleman's mansion with surrounding estate and properties.""

"Where will you go?" Billy asks his father-in-law as he closes his book.

Lord Grantham leans back in his chair as he answers him. "We have some land further north at Eryholme, on the border with Durham. It came with my great-grandmother. The house is pretty and we might make something of it. We could always rename it "Downton Place."" Lady Grantham sits down next to Emma.

"Who lives there now?" Matthew asks.

"A tenant. But we can come to an arrangement that keeps him happy." Lord Grantham replies.

"Let's take a picnic there tomorrow. Take a break from the wedding on Edith's last day of freedom." Lady Grantham decides. "Tom, Emma and Ivy can come too."

"Are you sure? Isn't it a family affair?" Emma asks.

"Of course, this was once your home too." Mary and Sybil enter. Sybil goes to sit next to her husband while Mary continues standing.

"Molesley's in the Hall. He wonders if he might have a word." She tells them.

"I'll come through in a minute," Matthew says as he continues reading.

"Not with you, with Mama." Matthew looks up from his newspaper in surprise. "Molesley." She moves to sit next to Matthew.

Mr Molesley enters with a smile. Then his face falls when seeing them all there. Emma winces in pity. "Your Ladyship, may I have a word?" Mr Molesley asks.

"Of course." Lady Grantham nods with a smile but doesn't move.

Mr Molesley proceeds nervously. "Milady, might I be allowed to put forward a candidate as Miss O'Brien's replacement?"

"What?" Her Ladyship blurts. Her husband turns around in surprise. Emma blinks in surprise. Miss O'Brien didn't love being here but Emma doubts she would just leave without having a bigger opportunity and Emma doesn't believe she does.

"When the time comes." Mr Molesley continues.

His Lordship walks over. "Is O'Brien leaving?"

Mr Molesley looks unsure. "I hope I've not spoken out of turn. Only, I didn't want to let it go and miss the chance. I thought you knew."

"Of course, I know. Thank you, Molesley. I'll be happy to listen to recommendations when, as you say, the time comes." Her Ladyship answers.

"Thank you, Milady." Mr Molesley bows to her and the rest of them and exits.

"Well, I must confess, I will watch her departure with mixed emotions." Lord Grantham remarks.

"Mine are fairly unmixed." Mary retorts, causing Emma and Tom to smile in amusement.

"Did you have a clue?" Sybil asks her mother.

"Not a clue."

"This is Miss O'Brien. She's not exactly the most honest." Emma says.

Lady Grantham sighs despondently. "It is very disappointing."

"But, in a way, it raises the big question: when do we tell the staff that the end is nigh?" Lord Grantham wonders.

"It makes it sound so final," Mary says

Her father takes her mother's hand. "I'm afraid it is final."

"Well, don't spoil Edith's day. Let us get through the wedding first and then tell them afterwards." Mary declares. Honestly, Emma is enjoying this newly harmonious relationship between the elder two of the Crawley daughters.

——

The next day, they all head out to the new house. Sir Anthony is bringing the Dowager and Mrs Crawley, who said Emma should stop calling her Mrs Crawley and instead call her Isobel, while the rest of them leave from Downton.

Anna had told Emma that she is heading up to London to speak with Vera's friend and Emma hopes it goes well.

Matthew and Mary exit the house first, followed by Edith, then Lord and Lady Grantham. Sybil, Billy, Tom and Emma bring up the rear. Emma carries Ivy while the pram is being loaded into the back of the car by Alfred.

"We'll see you there," Matthew says to them as Alfred goes to open his car door.

"You want to come with us?" Mary asks Edith.

"Yes, thank you."

"This is us," Sybil says. Emma climbs in first to get comfortable with Ivy on her lap. Tom gets into the car seat as, since there's only one chauffeur, he had offered to drive their car. Sybil and Billy sit next to Emma and Ivy while Alfred climbs in the front with Tom.

——

Tables are set for luncheon on the grounds, the large house sits in the background.

"Won't it be a bit cramped?" Mary remarks as she, Matthew, Billy, Sybil, Tom and Emma walk around.

"You do realise that for most people it looks like a fairy palace," Tom says. Emma walks beside him, pushing Ivy along in her pram.

"You'll be able to run it with a much smaller staff," Sybil says as they circle the table Isobel, Edith, Sir Anthony and the Dowager sit at.

"This is it." Lord Grantham says as he stands near the table. Mary and Matthew continue walking while Sybil, Billy, Emma and Tom stop. "I doubt we'll need more than eight servants, tops. So, it'll be very economical. A—" His Lordship puts a finger over his lips as Alfred steps forward to place something on the table, then steps away back to the serving table.

"What about me? Where am I to go?" The Dowager asks.

"We still own most of the Village."

"Oh. Perhaps I could open a shop."

Edith chuckles. "Good idea, Granny. What do you think Eryholme needs?"

"Well, if it's like everywhere else: good manners and some decent conversation." Her grandmother replies.

"Well, there you are then. You should have a roaring trade in minutes." Isobel remarks. Edith chuckles.

Ivy begins to fuss so Emma walks away from the tables to get her in the shade and once she is, Emma does a quick loop around the house. When she makes it to the front, she notices that Matthew is storming away from Mary, who has a confused scowl on her face.

"Mary?" Emma calls, walking over to her. "What's the matter?"

"Mr Charkam, Reggie Swire's lawyer, came by this morning with a letter from Mr Swire now that Matthew is officially his heir," Mary explains. Emma internally winces. The fact that Matthew is officially receiving the money is definitely going to cause conflict between the two.

"A letter? What does it say?"

Mary huffs. "He will not open it."

"No?"

"No," Mary grumbles, "he believes that Mr Swire does not know the truth about his daughter's heartbreak and the letter will only praise him."

"And Matthew doesn't want to read it." Emma states rather than asks.

"Exactly. What do I do?"

"Well, opening it is one idea," Emma says not too seriously.

Mary, however, looks interested. "Not a bad one."

"Uh, no Mary, I was joking," Emma says hastily. "You can't break his trust and privacy!"

"I'm his wife. If I do not have the right, who does? Even so, is it right to destroy a man's last words without reading them?"

"I suppose," Emma answers reluctantly.

——

Gemma, after assisting Edith, had popped into Emma's room to help get ready for dinner but since Emma had mostly done it herself, they take the chance to gossip as Gemma tidied up Emma's hair. Tom had slipped away to play billiards with Mathew and Billy before dinner.

"Mr Molesley seems to think Miss O'Brien is leaving," Gemma reports.

"Isn't she? He went to Her Ladyship, asking if he can put candidates forward for her replacement." Emma replies. It seems her suspicions are coming into fruition.

"No, it seems to be a misunderstanding but now Miss O'Brien is mad at poor Mr Molesley," Gemma argues.

"Well, he doesn't deserve that."

"No." Gemma steps away from Emma to sit on the bed.

"I think this is Thomas' doing," Emma tells her, turning away from the dresser.

"Mr Barrow?" Gemma frowns.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Yes, Mr Barrow. I saw him being quite generous and chatty with Mr Molesley yesterday then this, he's behind it. I hope it doesn't escalate or he'll get hurt."

"I'll never understand your care for him. He can be so cruel." Gemma wonders.

"He lives in a cruel world," Emma argues. She can't say anymore but it all irritates her that no one seems to understand.

——

After dinner, Edith regales them with details of her honeymoon as they sit in the Drawing room.

"He thinks I don't know, but of course I do. We'll spend two weeks in Rome, then Florence, then Venice. So, I couldn't be happier." Edith smiles happily as she sits between Emma and Sybil.

"And what about Locksley? Is there lots to be done?" Emma asks.

"It's not too bad."

"It's not too bad downstairs. The bedrooms are kill." Mary says from her seat as she rolls her eyes.

"Well, don't do anything too fast. It takes time to know how a house works." Isobel warns Edith, who smiles excitedly. Sybil smiles with her along with Emma, who can't fight Edith's infectious happiness.

"I really think you should go to bed. No bride wants to look tired at her wedding. It either means she's anxious or she's been up to no good." Her grandmother tells her.

Edith sighs happily. "I won't sleep a wink."

"Tonight, or tomorrow?" Sybil remarks as she sips her tea. Emma lets out a quiet snort.

The Dowager gives her a disapproving look. "Sybil, vulgarity is no substitute for wit." Edith chuckles.

"Well, you started it." Her youngest granddaughter counters. Emma quietly sniggers.

——

Emma gets dragged out of bed by an anxious Mary. This surprises Emma considering none of the family are usually up at this time. Tom smirks as he watches, a book in his hands.

"You read it?!" Emma hisses as they stand in the upper corridor. Mary had just told her that she had gone and read Reggie Swire's letter.

"Yes, and I was right to," Mary replies determinedly. "Lavinia must have written to him on her last day, only hours before she died after she tried to persuade him to call off the wedding and he wouldn't."

Emma catches on. "So, Mr Swire knew the truth when he made Matthew one of his heirs?"

"He still won't listen though," Mary complains. "He believes that it is all faked as it's impossible for Lavinia to send a letter without us knowing."

"There's someone who could've sent the letter without anyone noticing." Emma ponders.

"Who?"

"One of the servants." Emma answers. "One could've found it in her room or she handed it to one of them."

"Of course." Mary gasps, realising.

——

Emma and Mary enter the Servants' Hall while the servants are eating.

"Are we interrupting?" Mary asks. The servants all stand. "No. Please. We just want to ask you all something."

"Milady, I'm sorry I've not been up." Anna apologises.

"Don't worry. I'll change properly after luncheon." Mary dismisses.

"But we had to catch you when you were all together," Emma adds.

"How can we help, My Lady, Ma'am?" Mr Carson asks.

"It's a funny thing. Mr Crawley has heard that Miss Swire sent a letter on the day she died. If so, someone must have posted it for her, and we wondered if it were any of you." Mary explains. The servants all look at each other, but no one speaks up.

"I'm afraid not. Given that the poor lady passed away that same day, an incident of this sort would have been reported to me or Mrs Hughes." Mr Carson replies.

"That's right, Milady."

Mary looks disappointed. "I see. Well, thank you very much." Emma and Mary turn to leave and the servants sit just as Daisy enters with a tray.

"What were that about?" Emma hears Daisy ask.

"Lady Mary and Emma wanted to know if anyone posted a letter for Miss Swire," Gemma explains.

"Oh, I did that." Emma and Mary pause on the stairs and turn around.

"Daisy? What did you say?" Mr Carson asks as Emma and Mary re-enter and the servants stand back up.

"Poor Miss Swire's letter. She'd written it and she asked me to put it into the box in the Hall." Daisy turns to the stunned looking Mary. "Why?"

"What were you doing in her room?" Mrs Hughes demands to know.

"Making up the fire. We started talking and she said she'd written a letter." Daisy answers. "She was ever so nice. I still get sad when I think about her."

"And it didn't occur to you to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"Never mind. We're grateful to you, Daisy. You cannot know how much." Emma replies warmly while Mary smiles at Daisy.

——

Emma leaves Mary to tell Matthew the news. She herself eagerly tells Tom as she doubts Mary will mind.

Edith stands in her room, in her dress with the help of Anna doing the final touches. Her sisters, mother and Emma smile as they watch on. Emma holds a wriggling Ivy.

"You look beautiful." Lady Grantham tells her daughter.

Edith sighs happily. "All of us married." Edith turns to look at her sisters. "All of us happy." Edith looks at Sybil. "And the first baby on the way. Why don't we get the photographer to take a picture of the three of us... when we get to the Church?"

"What a beautiful idea," Emma says, grinning.

——

On the way to the wedding, Mary quietly lets Emma know that Matthew had agreed to take the money to save Downton but they won't say anything so as to not steal Edith's thunder.

Once at the Church, Emma goes to her pew to sit as the sisters take their photo outside. Mary and Sybil soon walk to their pew and as they take their places, the guests stand as the organ begins to play. Edith and Lord Grantham begin to walk down the aisle and Sir Anthony steps up to the altar with a grim look on his face. Emma smiles as Edith passes her. Edith steps up beside him all smiles. Edith and Sir Anthony murmur to one another and Sir Anthony gives her a small smile. The guests watch with pleasant smiles. The music stops.

Reverend Travis begins, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered—"

Sir Anthony looks up at the minister. "I can't do this." Emma looks at him in alarm. Edith and Lord Grantham turn suddenly to Sir Anthony and the guests murmur.

"I can't do it." Edith's smile fades. Sir Anthony looks at Lord Grantham. "You know it's wrong. You told me so yourself several times."

"My dear chap."

"No. I never should have let it get this far. I should have stopped it long ago. I tried to stop it." Emma can't believe she's hearing this.

"What are you saying? I don't understand what you're saying." Edith says, sounding upset.

"Edith..." Sir Anthony looks at the guests who are staring in shock. Sir Anthony turns back to Edith and speaks in a lower voice meaning Emma can't hear what's being said.

"What do you mean? We're so happy, aren't we?" Edith takes Sir Anthony's hand. "We're going to be... so terribly, terribly happy."

Sir Anthony says something else in a low voice. Edith looks into his eyes, mortified.

"Anthony, it is too late for this." Lord Grantham interjects.

Reverend Travis butts in, "Might I suggest we all take a step back?"

The Dowager steps forward, stopping Lady Grantham from doing the same. She murmurs to her granddaughter, who looks up at Sir Anthony, her lip trembling. Sir Anthony looks offended by something the Dowager then says.

"But... Granny..." Edith cries out. Her grandmother speaks but Edith just shakes her head. "I can't." She is becoming more upset by the moment.

Sir Anthony speaks quietly again and then leans close to her ear. He then walks back up the aisle and Edith turns to him, but her grandmother holds her back. Emma reels from the shock as Edith is led out by her mother and grandmother by the side door. Emma can see the family feeling the same and Sybil looks close to tears. Emma feels Tom wrap an arm around her.

——

It's a speedy return to Downton. Edith storms ahead, crying and running up the stairs. The rest of the family follows, the sisters and Emma going after Edith while Lord Grantham, Matthew, Billy and Tom bring up the rear but stop in the Hall. Edith throws her veil over the stairs.

Lady Grantham, Mary, and Sybil enter Edith's bedroom to find Edith crying on the bed. The laurel tiara has been pulled out, ruining the neat hairstyle.

"Is there anything I could say to make it better?" Her mother asks.

"No." Edith sits up and her mother sits next to her on the bed. Edith looks at her sisters and Emma, who lingers at the back. "Look at them. All with their husbands. Sybil pregnant, Mary probably pregnant and Emma probably pregnant again." Sybil is crying. "Oh, just go. I mean it, go!"

"Perhaps you should go." Lady Grantham says. They leave to let her comfort her daughter.

——

Evidence of the wedding is removed. The servants clear away the champagne, the cake, and the flowers, and re-lay the carpet in the Great Hall. Emma watches them all sadly as she cradles Ivy in her arms as she watches from the upper floor. Despite the choice, Emma was glad that Edith was finally getting her happiness.

Anna had also told her that she didn't get anything worthwhile from her visit to Vera Bates' friend but Emma had advised that maybe she should write everything down in her letter to Mr Bates in case he notices anything.

The more positive news is that Matthew has told Lord Grantham that they no longer have to leave Downton. Lord Grantham only accepted when Matthew accepted the offer that he be an investor and joint owner of Downton. Emma feels quite pleased with how that's turned out as hopefully Matthew will stop any more stupid business ideas.

——

Dinner is very quiet that evening. Everyone focuses on their food, taking in the day. Emma glances up to the ceiling now and again, thinking of the upset woman upstairs.

"Has she had something to eat?" Isobel asks.

"Anna took up some sandwiches, but she didn't touch a thing." Mary answers.

"That reminds me. Carson, I don't want Lady Edith to see any of the wedding food." Lady Grantham says.

"Mrs Hughes and Anna are taking what's left down to Mr Travis tomorrow, My Lady, for the poor." Mr Carson replies.

"If the poor don't want it, you can bring it over to me." The Dowager says. Emma looks up at her in surprise. Honestly, what kind of statement is that?

"How can we help Edith?" Matthew ponders.

"You can help her by finding her something to do." His mother answers.

——

The next morning, Emma enters Edith's room. She picks up Edith's laurel tiara from the floor. Edith is still lying in bed.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Emma asks softly.

"A different life." Comes the despondent response.

"Let me get them to bring you up some breakfast," Emma says.

"No." Edith sits up. "I'm a useful spinster... good at helping out. That is my role. And spinsters get up for breakfast." Edith gets out of bed and Emma watches her sadly.

She hopes Edith will be able to recover and move forward.

——

A/N: Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.

[dailytudors]

20 FEBRUARY 1547: The Coronation of Edward VI

Edward VI was the last Tudor King and the first true Protestant King of England. On the eve of his coronation, Edward made his procession from the Tower of London to Westminster. There were many pageants that greeted the boy-king as he rode horseback dressed in a jerkin of white velvet decorated with diamonds, rubies and pearls.

*“His gown was a fine mesh of gold with a cape of sable, whilst the horse he rode upon was draped in crimson satin beaded with pearls.”

The Imperial Ambassador Francois Van der Defelt was not impressed and when he met the king, he spoke to him in French to which his uncle, the Lord Protector and now Duke of Somerset, reproached him and told him he should speak in Latin instead because the king “understood better than French.” Defelt had no more good things to say about the King or the Archbishop of Canterbury who refused to speak to him because of his Catholic beliefs.

As for the pageantry itself, it was nothing short of glorious. Everything went according to plan. Protocol was followed. The Marquis of Dorset [Henry Grey, husband to Frances Brandon and father to Jane Grey] carried the sword of justice in his role as Constable of England and Edward was flanked by John Dudley and his uncle [Somerset]. Next came the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, the pensioners and the other guard.

Pageants greeted the young king. These were not rehearsed and many had to be improvised. Of these was one of children who each represented one of the four virtues: Grace, Fortune, Nature and Charity.

Like his first Tudor ancestors, Edward VI’s procession on the eve of his coronation served to leave its mark on history. The Tudors knew the importance of imagery and how powerful it was to manipulate or rewrite history. At the same time, it evoked the tales they themselves kept perpetuating of their legitimacy. For example the phoenix was his mother’s badge, standing on a golden tower with its wings spread up and nature flourishing as a result. Edward was making a powerful statement, and his uncle helped too perhaps, about his parents’ marriage as lawful and true. And also establishing his legitimacy. His sisters would do the same for their coronations [especially Elizabeth whose glorious pageantries marked the contrast between her future reign and her sister’s]; emphasizing on their legitimacy and lineage through their parents. The female consort played an important role here. Although she was not physically present, she could still be seen [and remembered] through her insignia. Secondly, the red and white roses were powerful symbols and reminders of the legitimacy of the Tudor line, or what they called their right to inherit the throne. It reminded everyone of the wars fought between brothers and cousins, that ended with the destruction of Houses Lancaster and York (represented by the red and white rose) and the ascension of the Tudors who brought about peace when their first monarch, Henry VII (considered the heir to the Lancastrians) married the beautiful Elizabeth, Princess of York.

The truth we now know is very different but it was a tale that worked very well for the Tudors and it simplified the conflict, and it gave their line legitimacy.

The procession had lasted nearly five hours and ended at six o’ clock.

The following day, the real show began when Edward was taken by barge to Whitehall where he was received by the guard and pensioners. Passing them into the chamber of Court of Augmentations, he donned the Parliamentary robes he was wearing and put on a robe of crimson velvet ‘furred with powdered ermines’. From there he went to Westminster Abbey under a canopy borne by the barons of the Cinque Ports. At his right and left was the Earl of Shrewsbury and Cuthbert Tunstall, Bishop of Durham. John Dudley, the Marquis of Northampton –Catherine Parr’s brother, William Parr- and his other uncle, Thomas Seymour bore his train.

At his entrance into the Abbey, Cranmer began the address, asking the congregation “Will ye sirs at this time, and give your wills and assents to the same consecration, enunction, and coronation?” To which they responded “Yes, ye, ye, God save King Edward!”

In spite of the great response, the coronation which still followed the precepts set by Liber Regalis (c.1375), had been altered significantly and certain ceremony and addresses cut down not to wear the King, but more than that, because it was against the new tradition that Cranmer and the Reformers wanted to impose for their “new era”. The crowd who was aware of the changes, was explained by Cranmer the reason for this changes in a sermon to the King. He said that the alteration was due to the fact that before, Kings had atone for their actions to the clergy or somebody else, including their people. This time Kings were infallible. They were demi-gods of a sort. Edward as the Reformist king would account to no one and the clergy had no right “to hit Your Majesty in the teeth”. Nevertheless, he reminded that as God’s anointed sovereign he still had to have certain virtues for he was a messenger of Jesus and his representative on Earth.

*Taken from Edward VI: The Lost King of England by Chris Skidmore

Read more here: https://tudorsandotherhistories.wordpress.com/2015/02/20/the-coronation-of-the-last-tudor-king-edward-vi/

[moriarty-bibliotheca]

—✧ ❝𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞❞ ✉

— 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 ✉

𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔: 「 Hello, miss bibliothecary! I have a story request for you, may I ask for a Sherlock x fem reader x William full fic story? It can be made or are which ever you choose. So the idea I hav is that (Y/N) is a waiter who was at the wrong place at the time and murder happens at the manor she's catering for. William knows of her because she sees him time to time on the street near the college. While she knows of Sherlock cause they're neighbor!? Which man can steal her heart durring this.) Thank you!

❝ 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 , 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐬 ❞

— 𝗳𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲! 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

— 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘁

— 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘃𝗼𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗲 𝟱, 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟱

— 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗲𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱!

☎ 𝒃𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒚'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: oh my~ what an interesting request, i’d be more than happy to fulfill this for you, my dear! the way that i would write how Y/N does her catering is similar to my experience! i hope this is to your liking, now go ahead and check out the story!

The bright lights on the chandelier illuminated the party hall as the invited guests entertained themselves with a conversation with their fellow nobility, Y/N was standing at the corner of the room wearing her usual servant dress. She recently served a few drinks to the ones who requested it, she held the tray firmly before leaving the room and heading to the kitchen.

She let out a soft sigh as she fixed her white apron and her cap, she placed the tray on the kitchen counter and stood beside a fellow waitress. She grabbed a clean towel to continue polishing the silverware that the guests will be using for dinner at a later time, she was feeling a little exhausted from all the catering services she had to do for the past few days, but she wasn’t complaining and thought that she should be grateful that she has a job.

A few minutes later, she had completed her task of polishing all the silverware. She faced the huge window by the kitchen, this baron’s house was humongous, she shouldn’t even be surprised at this point. She walked closer to the window, the pale moonlight illuminated the dark streets of London. If only life would be greater, she would have enjoyed the way she lives her life without being harassed by a majority of the nobility. 

“Enjoying the view?” asked a voice as beautiful as the moon high up in the sky, she nodded without acknowledging who the voice belongs to. “I must say you’re quite occupied,” said the person, “I apologize for disturbing your time, miss.” Y/N’s attention was on this person now, she turned her head to identify who the speaker is, only to see a man of nobility that she has known in a while; William James Moriarty.

“Professor Moriarty,” spoke the female as she gave him a polite curtesy, “I apologize, I did not know it was you, how can I be of service to you?” She had recognized this man for she has seen him quite a few times around London and the university that was located in Durham. She had never spoken to this man face-to-face, but they did greet each other with a smile every time they have walked past each other.

“I’m doing fine, Miss L/N,” said the male, “no need to worry. I am only walking around,” his voice was as melodic as her favorite musical piece, she had to admit that hearing the younger earl’s voice for the first time is quite relaxing. She gave the man a nod as she bowed at him one last time before excusing herself to go back to work, the hint of redness on her cheeks was certainly evident and she didn’t want to embarrass herself any further.

“Did the earl need something, Y/N?” asked a co-worker, the lass shook her head as she tried to calm her beating heart and slight reddened cheeks, she did not know what was happening to her and it felt so sudden to react like this to someone she doesn’t even know much, she shook her head to herself and started preparing the utensils for dinner that will occur within 30 minutes. 

Minutes have passed and everything was prepared, a huge variety of meals were neatly placed on the long table with serving utensils right beside each container; there were hot dishes, cold dishes, salads, and of course, desserts. The headwaiter let out a sigh of relief and looked at his fellow co-workers, he gave them a huge smile followed by a thumbs up and said, “another job well done!” 

It was time for dinner to start, Y/N and her fellow co-workers immediately retreated to the kitchen and cleaned up the area before taking a short rest. The night had been peaceful all the while and thank the Gods that the invited guests and the host of the party weren’t as rude as the previous ones that they have worked for.

But, was the night really peaceful? 

A scream was heard nearby the dining hall, Y/N and her fellow co-workers immediately jumped out of their seats and ran to the place where they heard the scream with the other guests in the dining room coming out of the hall to see the commotion, and to their horror, the discovery they made was gut-wrenching and shocking.

Laid there on the red carpet of the halls was a nobleman, definitely one of the guests as Y/N remembered his face, he laid there on his own pool of blood, lifeless and still. The first one who had discovered it first and alarmed everyone with a scream was a woman, perhaps she had come across this dead man as she left the dining room.

The woman let out a sob as she ran towards a man that was undoubtedly her husband, the lady will surely be scarred upon discovering a dead body, what’s worse is that she might get suspected even if she may be innocent. “What happened?” questioned the headwaiter silently, he was talking to his co-workers in disbelief, the rest of the waiting staff did not answer for they were in quite the shock as well.

“My, how unfortunate,” said William, and he was right, how unfortunate for this man to die at a dinner party as glorious as this one. Another man moved away from the crowd and kneeled next to the dead man to examine his injuries. Why, this man was Sherlock! Y/N’s eyes widened as she recognized this man, he was living right next door and they have interacted a few times. He is quite an intelligent man, she admits. 

It seems the male sensed she was looking at him for he averted his gaze towards Y/N and locked eyes with her for a few seconds, he waved at her and she greeted him back with a wave before he continued on with the investigation. “The yard should be here soon, please get back to your seats,” informed the head butler of the household, the guests immediately walked away from the scene and continued on where they’ve left off.

The rest of the waiting staff walked away as well and went back to the kitchen, “Y/N!” yelled Sherlock, making the maiden turn around to look at him, he gave her another wave before running towards her, “mind helping me out?” Y/N was definitely surprised at his odd request, but agreed to help him anyway, she walked towards the dead body as Sherlock chased another person across the room. 

“Hey,” yelled out Sherlock, “Liam!” The male turned around right after hearing his name— Sherlock’s nickname for him, to be exact. The second Moriarty gave him a small smile and a simple greeting, “Holmes, I see you’re planning to investigate the murder.” Y/N observed them with a little shock, she wasn’t honestly expecting these two to know each other, but she always thought these two were fairly similar and are, no doubt, geniuses. 

“I am!” cheered Sherlock as he rubbed the back of his neck, "wanna make a bet on which one of us catches the culprit first?” Y/N was surprised to hear this, are they treating this like a game? The second Moriarty let out a chuckle, “quite like what happened on the train.” Sherlock looked amused as he gave him a nod and continued on with their short conversation, the two males in equal standing height walked towards the direction of the dead body, right where Y/N was kneeling.

She wishes not to admit this, but she’s starting to feel a little shy. She will be accompanying two men with one of them apart of the nobility, who’s to say this investigation won’t be quite awkward with a maiden like her to tag along? As curious as the lass is, she wanted to know why did Sherlock ask for her help, that was a little odd of him and she knows she is nowhere near their intellectual level to be able to help them solve this case. 

“L/N,” greeted Moriarty, “I assume you’re here to help?” The maiden nodded at him, “I guess you could say that.” She was definitely uncertain on why she’s here, she wasn’t even sure if she can do anything to help them. “It seems he was stabbed,” said Sherlock as the three of them continued observing. “Stabbed at least 10 times,” added William as he and Sherlock examined the body, Y/N quietly glanced at the two of them and her eyes landed on Sherlock. 

The amount of times they’ve seen each other was countless, it wasn’t that rare since he lives next door with his roommate in Miss Hudson’s apartment. Those short meetings always included short conversations and people could tell they were friends, to say the least. The short conversations Y/N had with Sherlock was interesting, it was always fun for the maiden to hear some random facts that the male found out during his experiments and some sort. 

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t looking forward to seeing Sherlock so often, Y/N’s gaze stayed on Sherlock as he observed the crime scene and made some deductions while talking to William. The way his eyes would lit up when William makes a deduction that perfectly fits what he was thinking, the way he looks when he stayed focused and was dedicated to his thoughts alone, it was like he shouldn’t be disturbed.

Y/N started to feel like a creep the longer she observes Sherlock instead of the crime scene to help them, she shook her head and broke her concentrated gaze on the detective. She was starting to think she might be ill, her heartbeat starts to get quicker and her cheeks were a hint of red, her palms were a little sweaty and she was nervous, similar to how she reacted during her encounter with William earlier. 

“Are you alright?” asked Moriarty, he had noticed the redness of her cheeks and wondered if she was sick or feeling nervous around them. The maiden nodded, “I — I’m fine,” spoke Y/N as she mentally cursed herself for stuttering. “If you’re feeling ill,” said Moriarty as he kneeled in front of her, “we can escort you to a room until you feel better.” 

There it was again, the heat on her cheeks grew as it got redder, her heartbeat quickened as she tried to process what was happening, she immediately shook her head and dismissed the offer, she thanked him for the concern and told him that she could manage. She avoided eye contact as they continued on with the investigation, she gave a few statements here and there that would certainly help the problem progress further until they have arrived to a conclusion.

As soon as they had enough clues, the two decided to split up for their bet was still present, they definitely weren’t joking. “Wait,” said Y/N, “you two were serious about the bet?” She seemed to be in total disbelief, were they really treating this as a game? She wished she could understand the fun that they are experiencing just by solving cases and living as a genius. “Why, yes,” said Sherlock, “and you’ll be the final judge to see who catches and arrests the culprit first.” 

“Me?” questioned the female as Sherlock nodded and waved at her, he and William split up and went on their own ways whilst Y/N stayed with the Scotland Yard and had a short conversation with Lestrade. 

A minute or two had passed and the two gentlemen had appeared at the same time, they both had a few people with them that could be the potential killer. As the two continued to explain their reasons and logic, Y/N and the yard listened attentively and whether they’d admit it or not, these two were pretty impressive. 

After a few minutes of deductive reasoning, the main culprit turned out to be one of the servants in the household, the culprit tried to explain that he did it out of loyalty for his master, but that did not change anything and he was arrested. Sherlock let out a yawn as he stretched his arms, “I guess we both caught the culprit together.” 

William nodded as he looked at Sherlock, “that doesn’t mean our bet is settled.” His scarlet eyes then averted towards the female as she stood there, completely clueless about this “bet” that they were talking about. “What is it?” asked Y/N as she noticed the two of them were looking at her, the two gents gave her a smile as her cheeks turned pink.

“Winner of our bet gets to ask you out,” said William and this made the lady’s heart beat even faster, “but the both of us ended up winning, so you get to choose.” Choose? My, this is a tough decision, Y/N wasn’t even certain if she has feelings for one of them, despite the fact that she was experiencing weird symptoms every time she speaks to them.

Well, should she choose William; the young professor of mathematics with such beautiful scarlet eyes that seemed to hold the darkest secrets or should she choose Sherlock; the consulting detective that lives right next door with whom she had interacted quite a few times now. 

☎ 𝒃𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒚'𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆: this is quite long and it took me a day and a half to finish this, let me know if there are errors! i seemed to have gather a lot of motivation in the middle of the night even if i am tired. setting that aside, i hope you enjoyed! sorry if this was nowhere near your expectations, let me know if you want me to do alternate endings for this! come visit the bibliotheca again, darling!

[taiyaki-choco]

Moriarty the Patriot Headcanons

s/o who is from the 21st century

Author’s Note: this is written in female pronounce. I think I went too far, anyway please enjoy reading this headcanon!!

Upon opening your eyes, you saw a clear blue sky with warm sun rays bathing you. “Where am I?” You thought. “Is this a dream?” But is too true and too real to be a dream. Your hand brush through the green dewy grass, you brought up a hand to your eyes to block the sun rays and got up from the laying position. You looked around your surroundings, it seems like you are in a garden. Suddenly, there is someone approached you which startled you...

“Uhm... miss? Are you okay?” A tall blonde with ruby red eyes asked with a hint of concerned in his eyes.

He held out his hand to you like the gentleman he is, you stare at his hand a moment before you accepted it.

“May I ask are you lost?” He enquire but based on his observation skills it doesn’t seem like you are from the this timeline as your clothes differs a lot from what they wore.

You explained to him that you are from the 21st century and you somehow ended up waking up in the garden with no knowledge how you are transported here.

“Mmm.. I see, why not you come inside and talk about the details?” He offered. Well, is not like you have a choice since you have nowhere to go and you bet that nobody will believe you, they will think you as a weird or mentally ill person.

After explaining everything to him he then say “I apologise for not introducing myself earlier, I am William James Moriarty.”

Slowly, both of you began to converse and get to know each other more.

“It seems that a lot have changed where some are for the better while some for the worse.” He said having a deep thought about how everything is so different. I mean of course since there is a 100+ years gap.

After talking, William will introduce you to his his brothers. Both of them are quite shocked as William explained to them about your origin. Anyway, they still welcome you with a open heart since William trust you somehow.

At some point, you begin to catch up on what they are actually doing but you have no qualms regarding it as some nobles does deserved it. Since you are not even from the 19th century, you won’t do something stupid to land yourself in hot soup.

You may or may not get yourself involved into their plan. If you do, William will be really happy as someone even from the 21st century does share the same mind as him.

Of course, he will make sure that you won’t be doing something dangerous as he might have found some interest in you.

Well if you both do becoming a couple, both of his brothers will be happy for William as they know their brother do deserve some love. Or maybe a lot...

If you are home sick, don’t worry.. you still have him to give you comfort, you don’t know if you are able to go back or not but for now he will cherish you and help you through tough times as how you will do the same for him as well.

He might think that you are drunk and somehow landed in their manor’s garden.

Then he stop to look at you, the way you dress is weird.. “May I ask how you came into the garden?” He sounded quite harsh but his eyes shows a little concern as don’t you feel cold wearing that little??

You apologise profusely and told him about how you have no knowledge or any idea how you are transported here. You also told him that you are from the 21st century and ask him not to think you are crazy.

He look at you wide wide eyes, taking some time to absorb the information, he will believe you for now as you didn’t show any sign of lying.. he can’t read you as good as his brother but then he does know how to read people because of his past.

He felt sympathy towards you and brought you into the manor, he will let you meet his brothers and they will settle a plan on how to make up a story and do cover up for you to conceal the fact you are from the 21st century.

He might not open up to you at first but slowly he will greet you with a small smile when you wish him good morning.

You can help him with household chores so that it will lighten the burden that he held.

Have once, you offer him the treats that you bake and he is delighted. Slowly, he begin to fall for you because you just have such a kind heart and you do not know when to quit. There are so many times he pushed you away but you somehow able to get his attention.

He is just such a tsundere, please he is precious and protect the smile of his at all cost!!

Once he opened up to you, he will show his affections through actions rather than words by giving you some flowers or even make the desserts you like.

If both of you are a couple, his favourite thing to do with you is to bake together. You would have small talks and making jokes together. He just simply enjoy your company.

When you are sad because you miss your home, he will held you close to him and you will drown into his warmth. He will tell you that you are important to him and he definitely will comfort you.

He knows that it is difficult for you as well to stray home but for now please rely on him.

Well this is interesting... I mean not everyday you will meet someone who is not from your own era.

“Hello miss, if I may ask are you okay? Do you need any help?” His voice is so soothing you don’t think you would want to wake up. “Miss?” He asked again. You are so embarrassed to stare at him.

You told him that you are fine and asking where you were.

“You are in the Moriarty Manor, my name is Albert James Moriarty.” he introduced himself to you, he held out his hand waiting for you to take it.

“Well then, let’s head inside and talk over through tea?” He offered you. After a long explanation he finally understood how you are in the manor’s garden.

“If you don’t mind, why not stay here for the time being?”

He is interested on how the future looks like and like a curious child he will ask many questions like “how the people there are treated?”, “how the mode of transportation have changed?” or even shocked about certain facts.

Well since you are new about the way 19th century works, Albert will teach you what you should and shouldn’t do so that your identity are kept as a secret.

Some day he will bring you out for a walk in town, some people who knows him will think that you are his girlfriend.

“Albert-sama, is this your girlfriend? Such a lovely woman!” The florist that they used to buy flowers greeted him and compliment you at the same time.

You know how playful and a tease he is? Well he will smile and replied “Yes, she is. I’m so lucky to meet her.” You blushed so hard that you can be confused with a tomato.

When you are on the way home, Albert will tell you about what he said earlier is true. Throughout the times he helped you to adapt the 19th century he fall for you.

You will be tomato 2.0

He understand when have times you miss your home but fear not he will be there for you. If you want to cry, he will lend his shoulder for you.

He will spoil you with gifts, flowers and a fancy dinner. At times, you will be reading a book together and enjoy the warmth of each other.

Well his presence itself is imitating, he is just so... tall and big

You feel like you are looking at the Mount Everest.

He might be shocked to see you at first and looking at the weird way you dressed. When you are about to get up, he helped you by holding out his hand for a support which you accepted.

You proceed to ask him where are you which he answer “You are in Durham, England. In the garden of Moriarty manor.”

Looking at your devastated state he then asked “Are you lost?” Even though he is a womaniser he still care about your well being since 1. You have trespassed 2. Based on your clothes, you don’t look like you are from here.

He bought you to the outdoor wooden table and took a seat with you. “You looks like you are not from here, where are you from?” He said softly scared that he would frighten you.

You begin to talk out how you just woke up laying in the garden, you don’t have any proof to show that you are from the 21st century other than what you are currently wearing. He listen to you attentively.

After you have talked out everything, he saw Louis and William is walking towards his direction. Form afar, Louis thought Moran brought back a woman to the Moriarty manor but taking a closer look she is dressing a bit weirdly.

He then told the small but serious problem to William as he knows William can settle and handle the problem well. Apparently, they welcome you which is quite shocking but you are greatful and thankful.

You thank them for letting you stay in their manor.

It’s been months yet you still unable to find a way to go back to the 21st century and this makes you feel quite down, of course Moran realised it as both of you somehow became closer ever since the first meeting.

He will cheer you up by making stupid jokes, he knows how hard it is to lose a person or family who are close to you, who you loves and cherish. If you wanted to rant you, he will lend a ear. He will even give you a hug as a comfort if you are okay with it.

He would teach you self defence as you never know that you will get kidnapped by someone or not. Yes, you somehow knew that what the Moriarty gang are planning and of course you helped them since you know how bad is the class system that time.

He is so proud to see you succeed in various missions, it just boost his pride up. I’m sure sooner or later, he will realise that he hold feelings for you.

Indirectly taking you a date one day by having a nice dinner with you. His heart just melts when he saw how happy you are. He swear that he won’t let you get hurt, he will always protect and be by your side.

He is shocked but he quickly compose himself when he saw you in the garden. He is about to tend the roses in the garden as it is his everyday routine.

Well you didn’t ruin the flowers that a good thing but who are you exactly?? Do you know you are trespassing??

It is such a awkward moment for the both of you keep staring at each other.

You got up and asked where are you at, he would be confused at first but looking at the way you dress, you don’t seems like from England or in this era at all.

He would answer your questions but still wary of you. Who knows you are actually faking it but then when he saw that you were panicking and terrified he started to think that you might have gotten yourself in a sticky situation.

First thing that he thought is to approach William as he knows William will have a solution to handle these kind of problems. Before explaining, you told them not to think you are out of your mind and begin to tell them about how you are from the 21st century and you don’t even know how you are transported to this era.

I mean is not like you are able to meet someone from the future every day.. maybe not even once at all so this is quite bizarre.

Since you don’t know how to go back or when you are able to go back, the Moriarty gang decided to do some cover up at least to make you blend into the 19th century.

You would usually visit the garden since you are fascinated and shocked about how well the flowers are tended. Is not everytime you are able to see full bloom flowers.

You will think how skillful Fred is and you begin to approach him to make some small conversation like asking him about his day or even different types of flowers in the garden.

Slowly, Fred open up to you and found that you and him have a lot of things in common. That’s how you capture his heart.

When he saw how down you look when you miss your home, he will sit together with you and comfort you. He might give you the flowers that he grow to you so that you will cheer up.

He will bring you along whenever he is been given a task by William in town. After he had completed it, he will take you to a cafe and enjoy a cup of drink together.

Both of you would talk about everything and anything. He might confess to you that day and if you do accept it he will place a kiss on your cheek.

Please don’t tease him, this precious boy would be so embarrassed and started stammered while talking to you.

[vimerald-lycaix]

Beastars ms six eyes x gn! reader

Ok ok I know I have a few requests to finish and all but..... I'm simping for sexy security snake ok?😩 let a bitch thirst.

So here's a fanfiction of my beloved 😍

Warning: the reader is a student(16-17) so it'll be technically a minor x adult relationship(I guess?) I'm sorry

(sorry not sorry)

SKsssskssss

There goes that sound again.

I've been hearing this weird 'skssssksss' sound for the past week and its driving me up the fucking wall.

The worst part is that it seems like I'm the only one who can hear it... I've told my friends but they just think I'm going crazy or hearing things.

Legoshi also seems to hear it but I don't want to bother him about it. I mean- he punched the wall in our dorm for goodness sake! It was funny seeing the others scared tho..... lmao.

Anyways as I was saying. Some students think its 'the ghost of tem woooooo'..... but I highly doubt it. It's been six months since he went... 'bleh'. And the sounds n' the spooking as only started a couple weeks ago..

"Hey y/n!" My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the cheery voice of Jack, I turn from my position on the floor by the window to face him on his bed.

"Hmm?" I hummed in question.

"Since legoshi isn't here right now and the rest of us are busy, do you mind going to get our laundry?" Sparkles grew in his big brown eyes mid way through the sentence. Tf? How he so damn cute?.

I look at him quizzicaly.

"Isn't it Durham's turn to pick up the laundry?..."

"Yeahhhh.... but hes busy right now!" Jack exclaimed wagging his tail.

"Mhm sure" I quickly get up and walk over to Durham's bed, where the curtains were currently closed.

I quickly moved them out of the way to reveal a sleeping Durham drooling over his maths book.

"Mhm very busy indeed" and with a quick slap he jolted wide awake

"HUH??!?! WHAT WHERE!?!.!"

"C'mon it's your turn to get the laundry bone head" I answer emotionlessly

"But... but your up, can't you get it. I need my beauty sleep" Durham groaned

"The only sleep you'll be getting is when I put you six feet under" I requited.

At this he visibly gulped.

"Y/N please? I'll buy you milk for tomorrow and Thursday?" He gave me his best puppy dog eyes, but I didn't cave.

"Hmm... the rest of the week." I grinned "take it or leave it"

*sigh*"fine...the rest of the week..." he groaned.

"Great! I'll go get the laundry. See ya'll in a bit!" I made my way to the door, putting on my shoes before making my way down the hall.

Time skip bought to you by the edit I made:

*bzzzz*

Skssssskssss

As I watched the washing machine turn I heard that rechet sound again. Opting to ignore it I hummed to myself.

Sksssskssss

ignore it Y/N

Ignore it Y/N

Skssssskssss

"THAT'S FUCKING IT! WHOEVER OR WHATEVER YOU ARE, YOUVE BEEN DRIVING ME FUCKING NUTS! SHOW YOUR NASTY ASS RIGHT NOW BEFORE I DRAG YOU OUT OF THE GOD DAMN WALLS!!!" I scream towards all four walls of the room.

Everything suddenly goes quite.

Nothing but the machine that's currently infront of me...

"My my darling~ you really do need to watch that mouth of your's"

....tf.

The hissing slowly got lowered followed by a feminine voice(which was hot may I add)

At this point it wasn't hissing I heard. No. It was rattling, which was new.

"W-what?? Who's there!" I asked, my body shook with fear.

As I looked at my surroundings, I didn't see anything, so I turned back to the washing machine for a quick second.

With that, a tall slim shadow engulfed me.

"Over here darling~"

The voice rang out once again, I quickly spun around to face the owner of the shadow.

To be met with a being of scales.

.

.

.

A snake?...

And a very hot one at that.

"Who-who are you???" I questioned.

"The names rokume. But you can call me ms six eyes~"

The large snake spun around just before putting on a security hat with 'cherryton' engraved on it.

"I've been watching you for a while Y/N L/N~ and I must say, I've taken a interest in you. You may even be more special than legoshi~"

As the- as ms six eyes rambled on, I took in her appearance, her amber eyes as she gazed at me sparkled, her scales shimmerd,and light bounced around every individual one as she moved.

'Beautiful'

I thought, before my attention was caught by her last few words.

"You know legoshi!" I asked, though it was more of a question.

"Indeed I do~ but i must say I'm more excited to get to know you"

Rokume's eyes darkened with something I didn't recognize. Her beautiful body dances with grace as she slithered over to my currently stiff body.

Stared at me for a long moment.

Before rapping tightly around my body.

She gazed into my eyes once more, I couldn't take my eyes off of her... she was so beautiful.

"You're very beautiful" I stated aloud

Her body quickly stiffened as she stared down at me in shock. She started to shake. But why...

"W-what?..."

Her voice quaked and shook as she spoken.

"You're beautiful" I repeated.

She paused. Seemingly tongue tied.

"Impossible.."

She whispered.

Next thing I know, I'm led on my back on the floor, as ms six eyes moved away and out the room as fast as she possibly could.

"WAIT! PLEASE DON'T GO!" I shouted after her, but It was no use. She was gone.

'I hope I get to see her again...'

I'm so sorry if this was bad, it was kinda rushed since I am currently busy.

And to those who have requested more fics, dont worry! I'm still working on those, and proof reading them;)

[ofclaires]

IV. CLAIRE WALSH

PAST SELF PARAS: april 2020 / september 2020 / march 2021. 

hi, before the read more i just wanted to say THANK YOU. getting to play claire has been absolutely a treat, a challenge, and genuinely, a huge part of my life for the past year and a half or so. it occurred to me when writing this and looking back at other things i’ve written for claire that i didn’t just feel like i was writing this for myself or for claire ; but i was writing it for you guys, too ! that has been one of the most special things about gallagher for me is the writing community that i feel like we built, taking such a huge investment in our characters and everyone else’s writing. i feel like i’m writing with and for some of my best friends. i also feel like i’ve grown so much ( ok, i actually don’t just feel like it, i can look back at those three paras and SEE how my writing has improved. ) i am so blessed to have gotten to write claire with all of you and to share her story, i feel like she has been so fucking beloved & it’s given her so much life. i am so proud of her and it’s really bittersweet that i’m finally saying goodbye to her as well. so, thank you all so, so much, gallagher has been a writing experience like no other for me & i love you all ! 

trigger warnings : domestic violence & abuse, death

PART ONE: CHILDHOOD.

The trailer that Claire spent the back half of her childhood in never felt like home. Maybe because trailers are made to be temporary, or the fact that if she accepted that this was where she belonged, she’d have to give up hope.

It’s normal Maggie Walsh to be out late, Claire’s usually cleaned up the kitchen and tucked herself into bed by the time her mother comes in the door – but she’s not sleeping. She’s always had trouble with that, brain bouncing around from one thought to the next until eventually she hears the creak of the door.

Her mom’s home.

She hears the usual stumbling, the clatter of dishes falling from where she’d neatly placed them on the drying rack. Maggie’s drunk, Claire’s sure of that. Ten years old and she knows what it means to be so drunk that you can hardly see straight, that the words you say under the influence are a different reflection from the person that you really are. She inhales deeply and crawls out from under the covers to check on her. Ten years old and she knows the steps: Help her take her makeup off, make sure she sleeps on her side, glass of water on the bedside table, trash can on the floor. Maggie is only twenty-six years old herself now, not done with her childhood by the time that Claire was born, not ready to be a mother. Claire’s had to figure it out most of it herself.

“Mom?” Claire knocks on the door lightly, plastic cup full of water already in hand.

“Don’t – don’t come in!” Maggie sputters, and Claire’s confused. She defies her request and opens the bedroom door the rest of the way. When she sees her mom, she drops the cup on the floor, small hands curling into fists.

“What happened? Who did that to you?”

“I told you not to come in here, Claire,” Maggie repeats, but Claire has always been on to disregard commands. She learns at a young age that authority only means older than you or some assigned title, not that they know best.

“Who did that? Why?” She repeats her questions. Despite being mature for her age, it’s hard for Claire to wrap her head around the black eye obscuring Maggie’s face, and the swelling on her cheek.

“It doesn’t matter,” Maggie sighs, dejected as she flops down on the bed. Even in her state, she knows that there’s not much use telling Claire to back off or go away once she’s decided that she’s not going to. Her little girl is a spitfire, strangely enough reminds Maggie a lot of her own mom, like living with a miniature version of her. Maybe that’s why Claire wins most arguments. “Come here.”

Claire walks closer to the bed, kicking the cup aside on her way for no reason other than to kick something. She crawls into bed next to her mom and looks up at her, waiting for more of an explanation or literally anything but silence. 

“I don’t know why I keep looking for a happy ending. I leave you home alone, I come home like this...not helping either of us,” Maggie presses a kiss to the top of Claire’s head, runs her fingers through her daughter’s hair. It’s so soft and Claire is so little, she can’t help but look at the spilled cup on the floor with a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry,” she adds, voice choked up and words a little slurred. Tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes when she closes them, hugging her daughter closer, “I’ve blamed you for my fucked up life for so long...that’s not fair.”

Now, Claire is only ten, but those are the kind of words that you remember forever. Still, she smiles. “It doesn’t have to stay fucked up. It can get better,” a childish spark of optimism in her heart that hasn’t yet been put out. It makes Maggie smile back though, kissing her daughter on the top of her head yet again.

“I like that,” she says, and they fall asleep curled up beside each other. Claire sleeps soundly, thinking that it’s possible. Things really could get better, and for a while, it seems like there really is a sort of shift. Maggie starts cooking, cleaning again, and she doesn’t even stay out so late. That’s when she meets Martin.

He seems better than the rest. Until he isn’t.

But Claire does her job as her mother’s protector, just as she’s been doing all of her life, and it’s that event that jumpstarts the rest of everything that happens next.

PART TWO: GRADUATION.

Claire’s come to the formal conclusion that graduation ceremonies are a waste of time. There’s all this build up, everyone’s so excited, and then you have to sit around and wait for your name to be called so you can spend two seconds walking across a stage while everyone claps. She would have skipped it entirely if her mother hadn’t already come up, and if she knew that people were going to insist. The small talk afterward is even more agonizing than the ceremony itself. It is sort of painful saying goodbye to everyone, and it occurs to Claire that there’s more people that she’s going to miss than she ever expected.

“Callum and his mother are here,” Maggie points out.

“And?” Claire rolls her eyes. Seeing Callum again to begin with had brought up a lot of old feelings, and generally, even though they’d resolved things, she tries to avoid him whenever possible.

“Well, it’s probably weird if we don’t say hello, at least, right? I’m going to say hello,” Maggie interjects, “he’s such a sweet boy.”

Claire’s eyebrows rise on her forehead as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Go ahead then,” she sighs, “I’ll wait right here.”

“Claire,” Maggie draws out her name with a withering stare, but Maggie has never been able to establish that sort of authority with Claire that would prompt any inclination of obedience, so Claire just shrugs her shoulders, unimpressed. She’s not going to budge. “Fine, I’ll be right back.”

Claire’s done her best to put the chapter of their life that includes Martin out of her mind when rekindling things with her mother, and she certainly doesn’t want to stand around making small talk with his other ex-wife, trying not to look at Callum with his matching jawline, trying not to remember everything she hates. It all comes back in a flash. The horrible cracking sound that her mother’s head had made when it connected with the wall, the blood on the marble floor. They say you don’t remember trauma properly, that your memory doesn’t work quite right, but she will never forget the way her fist connected with Martin’s face : like a puzzle piece, like it BELONGED there, and she’d done it over and over again until she heard sirens.

And yet, Claire can’t deny that it’s a part of her life that got her here, where she is today. She thinks life is shitty and random, and that not everything has to happen ‘for a reason.’ Still, she’ll catch Kass’s eye across the room and see her smiling so brightly that it seems impossible not to believe in something. Claire can’t help herself anyway – she smiles back. No one has ever been able to produce Claire’s smile in its truest form the way Kass has, unashamed of being so happy to look at someone. She once thought the idea of looking at a person and seeing your whole future was ridiculous, that you’d have to be stupid to put that much of yourself into someone, but it isn’t like that at all. All of it was unintentional, like by the time she realized it, Kass was already everything. And she feels so safe with that thought that she doesn’t mind at all.

“Am I interrupting something?” A figure steps in front of her, cutting off her line of sight. She’s not really fond of being snuck up on, so she opens her mouth to say something snarky when she’s met with the gaze of Lisanna Harlin, one of last year’s mentors. Her daughter, Elisa, is there, but she’s not graduating, so Claire’s confused by Lisanna’s presence.

“No, Ms. Harlin,” Claire says, though there’s a spark of indignation in her words that practically goes hand in hand whenever an adult commands authority.

“Lisanna is fine,” she says with a light laugh, like she’s amused Claire’s greeted her this way.

“Can I...help you with something?” Claire asks, mostly curious about how long this interaction has gone on. While she’s friendly with Elisa, she was Kass’s roommate last year, they’re not exceedingly close, so she’s not sure what else Lisanna would have to say to her other than maybe a polite hello.

It’s more than a polite hello. Lisanna Harlin works for Lexon Corp in Durham, North Carolina, a private military company that provides armed guards, bodyguards, and guns for hire. They’re the sort of place that would be looking for the best of the best in combat, and they have a bit of a reputation for hiring Gallagher girls. Claire had given up on the job search months ago since the video went out, in fact, she’s had a job lined up for graduation already : at a boxing gym in D.C., where the scene isn’t too bad. It was suited to her, but not exactly the sort of thing that her Gallagher education had prepared her for. Lexon Corp? Everything her rigorous love of January boot camps were tailored to. And they want to interview her.

A month later, Claire’s sitting on the cusp of a completely fresh start. It wasn’t easy to backtrack on the plans that she and Kass had made together, knowing how much was changing for the both of them, it had been nice to have the stable idea of an apartment together on the horizon. Now, she’s a four hour drive away, and she goes home to her one-bedroom studio in Durham after rigorous training throughout the day. But she’s grateful for the chance to work her way back into the field, and she can remember what Lisanna said to her when they gave her the offer.

“We’re aware that with your history that we’re taking a chance on you, Claire,” Lisanna said. “But we think the reasons that made other agencies look past you are exactly what makes you an asset. You care about your jobs, the people that you’re involved in, and you’d have a partner’s back until the bitter end. You listen to your intuition, trust your gut...and above all else, you have follow-through. I’m excited to be able to offer this position. Don’t prove me wrong.”

Claire swears that she won’t.  

PART THREE: KIPTYN.

Kiptyn isn’t supposed to be in the left hall closet. 

In fact, he’s not supposed to be awake at all. But who can sleep the night before their birthday anyway? Sure, he’ll be thirteen, and that’s probably old enough to have gotten over the magic of it all, but...he’d still been lying awake with excitement, the anticipation keeping his eyes open for hours on end. Well, that and the video game he’d been playing under the covers, but he’d obviously only been playing it because he couldn’t sleep in the first place.

Then he started thinking about the left hall closet and the conversation that they had at dinner the other night. In Kiptyn’s defense, Dahvia – his younger sister – had totally started it and he was an innocent bystander. After all, Kiptyn’s old enough to know that they don’t bring up Claire to mom, because it just puts her in a mood and then you can forget about doing anything else for the rest of the evening. But Dahvia’s ten, practically a baby, and she doesn’t know any better.

“Hey, mom? What sort of accident did Claire die in? Nina asked me at recess and I didn’t know,” Dahvia pipes up, before she’s even properly sat down. Kip visibly cringes. He’s older, wiser, knows this won’t go well. Still, he dares to look at his mom’s face and he notes the faraway look in her eye, like she seems to experience a bunch of things at once. Kip notices how even though her eyes are glassy, she doesn’t cry. Though sometimes, their mom will just cry randomly, like two weeks ago when he asked for help with his Spanish homework and she couldn’t even help him finish the first worksheet.

“It was a car accident,” she says stiffly, “eat your dinner.”

Kiptyn kicks his sister under the table and flashes her a look that says : Great. Look what you did, ruined dinner. Dahvia sticks her tongue out at him.

So, he knows that he’s not supposed to be in the left hall closet because he could ruin many more dinners, but he’s here anyway. He’s been thinking about it ever since they sat in silence for the rest of that half hour, and he’s come to the conclusion – his mother was lying. Because all sorts of things make their mother cry, like a bowl of mac and cheese or Spanish class, or motorcycles, and she won’t let Kiptyn take boxing lessons though his friend Robert is and he thought it sounded really cool, but she doesn’t have any problem with cars or driving, and also, she’s never told them a single thing about Claire except that. They aren’t allowed to know anything about her, especially not anything true, so Kiptyn is pretty sure that’s a lie. There’s just something just weird about it.

So, in the middle of the night before his thirteenth birthday, he looks up a video on how you pick locks and then he figures it out on the door of the left hall closet. He’s there for at least forty-five minutes, practically ready to give it all up when he hears the clicking sound, and then it opens. His first thought is : Woah. This is a load of junk.

And he’s right. There’s boxes upon boxes of paperwork, old clothes. Some things start to click, like when he finds a pair of worn boxing gloves with Claire’s initials embroidered on them. His favorite thing that he finds is the fattest scrapbook he’s ever seen – his mom always makes them, there’s one for every year of his life. Dahvia’s too, they love looking at them. The cover of this one, though, says Italy 2021. It’s all pictures of his mom and Claire, probably in their early twenties. Kiptyn mostly notices his mother’s smile, how he’s only seen her look like that a couple times in his life and yet it looks so EASY here, like she wears it all the time. It’s so strange to him. He sets the scrapbook down and crawls toward the back of the closet. His eyes land on two leather folders with gold embroidery, and he opens up the first one. In big letters at the top : GALLAGHER ACADEMY.

It’s a diploma.

This certifies that Kassandra Sutton has satisfactorily completed the…

“What are you doing?”

Kiptyn yells out like a child, not having heard anyone creeping up on him. He claps his hand over his mouth as if to shush himself. “The door was open! I don’t know how, but I just...noticed it was open and wanted to make sure that...no one was stealing your stuff!” he grins sheepishly, hoping that he can ride on the high of his birthday week to get him out of this one.

“It was just...open?” his mother looks down at him with raised eyebrows before brandishing a twisted paper clip between two fingers. The one that had formerly been stuck in the door. His guilty expression widens, he can’t help it.

“Okay, I might know how it opened,” Kiptyn admits. He hesitates for a moment, before he realizes that he’s ALREADY in trouble, he might as well just come out with it and pray to the birthday gods. He holds up the diploma with her name on it : “What’s Gallagher Academy?”

Kass’s sigh is heavy and deep, accompanied by the amount of exhaustion that comes with raising two curious kids by herself. After Claire died, she moved her family to London to be closer to their aunt and away from everything that reminded her of Claire. She never told her children why. From hiding that world from them, the world that took so many people from her : her father, her ex-girlfriend, and the love of her life. She swore that she would never lose her children to it, too. But Kiptyn looks up at her with wide eyes, desperate to know about his mother and his past, and Kass also knows what it’s like to have part of yourself missing due to family secrets that are being kept from you. He is practically a teenager now. So, she relents.

Kass doesn’t go into all of the details, of course. Just that Gallagher Academy was a school for spies, and that’s where it all started. Kiptyn already knew that his moms met in college, so it’s the spy part that’s most interesting to him. She talks about Claire with a light in her eyes he’s unfamiliar with, how she was one of the best fighters in their year, that she grew up with such a talent in the ring that she probably could’ve gone pro if her life had gone in a different direction. She talks about how they had to part ways after graduation, because Claire got a job in North Carolina and she got a job in Washington, DC, but they made it work, and both got very accustomed to the four hour drive – though it was sometimes closer to three for Claire, because she always drove too fast, even on this big, black motorcycle which Kass swears that she hated. She tells Kiptyn about how they got married, the way she’d almost moved to England for a dream job and that long distance threatened to drive them apart again – until Claire chased her down in the airport with a ring and proposal.  

She also talks about how Claire really died : the abridged version. It was an overseas mission where they’d been cornered, and Claire risked her life to save the rest of their team. There were no other casualties, and the information they were able to bring back helped stop the terrorist organization they’d been chasing to end them for good. Kass tells the abridged version for her son, gives Claire a hero’s death. In some ways, it was. She doesn’t mention the ways that Claire was consumed by the case, it was an organization hellbent on killing spies and it likely reminded her of the brotherhood. Kass had been worried about the case the whole time, because it felt like Claire was taking it too personally. In the end, she may have been right : because Claire had let it take her life in order to close it. She also doesn’t mention that such a sacrificial death means that her wife died fighting alone, swinging her fists until her very last breath. But still, she was all alone.

She had no choice but to take her kids as far away from that life as possible.

Kiptyn tries, but he doesn’t really remember Claire. He’d only been three years old when she passed away, and before then, she’d been so consumed by her last case that she was barely present. Still, he thinks she sounds badass.

He falls asleep on his mother’s shoulder that night, looking through the scrapbook of pictures from their trip to Italy in 2021. He’s animated for the first part, pointing out buildings and asking questions, wonders if Claire was sweating in all that leather, but he slowly starts to drift off. He wakes up on the couch the next morning, no trace of the book or any of the other papers he’d hauled out of the closet the night before. He looks at the closet and there’s an extra padlock. Figures.

It comes up in little ways, like a private joke that he has with his mother, like she’ll say something and flash him a secretive smile. He likes that, and he understands that this is a big secret that he has to keep. It doesn’t come up again until his fourteenth birthday the next year, the summer before high school. It’s a strange letter in a manila envelope, sealed with some expensive red wax, his name written in fancy calligraphy. The most attention-grabbing part, however, is not Kiptyn Sutton-Walsh in big cursive letters. It’s the return address :

GALLAGHER ACADEMY.

learn her skills, honor her sword. keep her secrets.

[turnupswritessometimes]

All’s Fair (SherLiam) - Part 2

The two parts are only loosely liked, so really stand alone as oneshots.

Title: All’s Fair

Chapter: 2/3

Word Count: 4692

Summary: Sherlock had noticed William Moriarty since he had entered the foyer.

Not that he was hard to miss, with his crown of blonde hair and fine clothes. With those bright, almost red eyes. There was something about him that made people take notice. He stood out from the crowd. It had to be intentional.

Did he know Sherlock would be here? He could do - could have seen the robbery in the paper and guessed that Sheock would be at the theatre to investigate. If that had been who he wanted to see. Of course, he could be investigating himself; since he was, seemingly, just as drawn to crime. But would William come all this way for that? (When Durham must have had it’s own crime.)

Unlikely.

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29183583/chapters/71650485

Sherlock had noticed William Moriarty since he had entered the foyer.

Not that he was hard to miss, with his crown of blonde hair and fine clothes. With those bright, almost red eyes. There was something about him that made people take notice. He stood out from the crowd. It had to be intentional.

Did he know Sherlock would be here? He could do - could have seen the robbery in the paper and guessed that Sheock would be at the theatre to investigate. If that had been who he wanted to see. Of course, he could be investigating himself; since he was, seemingly, just as drawn to crime. But would William come all this way for that? (When Durham must have had it’s own crime.)

Unlikely.

There was probably business he had to attend to in the city. Perhaps a coincidence that he had chosen this theatre. Perhaps didn’t even know about the robbery, and simply wanted to see an opera.

It was more probable that he did know all of it. That he gathered Sherlock Holmes would investigate. That he, like a cat sat up a tree, was taunting the dog below.

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, and kept his back turned to the room. He wouldn’t play this game. Annoyed; it annoyed him, because he couldn't figure out if he was glad to see William or not.

Because Sherlock had travelled to Durham, and spent the afternoon in William's bed. Because William, when adjusting his shirt, and redoing the sleeve buttons at the end of it all, had glanced at him and said, "better that it's just this time."

Sherlock had still been lying across the sheets. Still looked a mess, he knew. Still felt as though he had just taken a very long drag of opium.

"Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation?" he said. Smiled crookedly.

William looked at him, then. With a slight narrowness to his eyes and purse at the corner of his mouth that suggested he knew something that he wouldn't say.

"Wouldn't want to ruin yours."

He'd laughed. Just laughed. And tried to content himself with the once. He'd had similar dalliances, some that lasted even less in the past. It would be fine.

But it wasn’t. Because he couldn't always tell what William Moriarty was thinking. Because William gave him the high that opium did, and was likely as bad for him. So how could he leave him be?

"I say, isn't that the man from the train?" John was with him, glancing across the room as though it would provide them with more clues.

"I believe so." Sherlock drank again.

"Well, sorry for saying.” John had a tinge of sarcasm to his voice - the tinge of a question. “I gathered that you were quite taken with him."

Well, Sherlock had never made his affection for William secret, but he hadn't realised his displeasure was just as noticeable.

"What have I done to suggest otherwise?" he asked. Wondered if William had also spotted him. No doubt.  He had eyes like a hawk. Would he come over first, or would it be up to Sherlock? He swirled his glass.

"I may not be able to pick up as much as you, but I'm fairly good with facial expressions," John said. "When I mentioned him, you looked miserable."

"It’s..." Was there a word to sum it up? This feeling of magnetism, of attraction, juxtaposed with the feeling of danger radiating off that man? "Complicated."

Complicated because William was very beautiful, and was a more than competent lover. That would be enough, just on the surface, to have mixed feelings about seeing him once more, and not knowing whether there would be a repeat of the last time. But there was also the fact that he was almost certainly a criminal into the mix, if not the criminal Sherlock was hunting. He'd felt that way when they'd met on the train, and though William had played his bluff off as a joke, that didn't make the feeling go away. There was more to that man than met the eye.

John smirked, and sipped from his own drink. "I'd wager on it being complicated."

"Why's that?

He looked at him then, with a frank look of exasperation. "Nothing's ever simple with you, Sherlock."

He laughed, then. Longer and louder than he had meant to, but John got him like that sometimes. When he was so honest, it just cracked him up.

A hand appeared on the small of his back, like the laugh had conjured it. Someone letting him know they were there, before they stepped forward.

Of course, he knew that hand. Knew who would let him know they were there in such a way.

"Mr Holmes."

There he was, in a high-necked collar like Pollidori’s Vampyre. His waistcoat was heavily embroidered with thorny plants - the same strange red-brown as his eyes. Stunning, really. The picture of a Lord.

William's hand was still on his back. And that meant all of them – their faces – were close.

Sherlock forced himself to smile back. To make sure that he tilted his head so that his hair caught the gas lamps on the bar, and made his teeth glint.

"Liam. What a surprise."

William smiled wider - like a fox, seeing through the forced polite tone. But then, he was meant to. "My brothers - Albert, and Louis, who I'm sure you remember?"

Oh, he remembered Louis. Remembered the way he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock whenever he saw him, and his general air of disproving. Even now, next to William, he was practically glaring behind his glasses.

Albert seemed less judgemental - less knowing - and offered a gentlemanly smile.

"Of course." He gave an easy smile - uncaring, that was him. "And, of course, you remember my friend, John Watson."

And he put a hand on John’s shoulder. William smiled, though there was a tightness at the edges. Perhaps just the ache of being polite, or Sherlock could flatter himself and say it was a tinge of jealousy.

"I was not aware that you enjoyed the Opera," William said.

"I don't, particularly." Sherlock smiled. He hoped that would niggle at him - that Sherlock was not a man of culture. "We're here on a case."

"Oh my -" William looked politely shocked, a hand over his chest, as though he was scared – as though he didn’t know. "Are we in any danger?"

He'd said 'we,' but it was clear he meant himself. Sherlock caught Albert's raised eyebrow. Maybe slightly more knowing after all. Would he take Louis’ side?

Sherlock leant against the bar, resting his elbows on it. Not what one should do in polite society, but that was the point. “If you keep a close eye on your purse, you should be safe."

William smiled. Tilted his head in the way that drew attention to those long locks of blonde hair. Like gold.

"I'm fairly good at that." His fingers tapped a trouser pocket. He wasn’t stupid enough to draw attention to where he was really keeping his purse, of course. It was bait.

Sherlock let his gaze linger there - not for long enough to look as though he was going to steal it - but long enough to show William that he remembered what was so close to that pocket.

"So am I."

William chuckled. Sipped the wine in his hand, and Sherlock sipped the whiskey.

"Are you offering to do the job for me?" William asked.

It was an offer to spend the evening together. On the surface, simple. An invitation for Sherlock to sit close to William all night, and more than likely travel back for a nightcap. More than lightly display how deft he was at violin again. (How could he refuse that?)

More complicated, when William had made it clear that he did not want to make a habit of that. So why was he suggesting it?

He played it safe. "Depends on what seats you're offering."

It was Albert's turn to smile. A different smile to William. He was more like a Labrador retriever. But that didn’t mean he had no teeth.

"We have a box with plenty of room for guests."

William's red-brown eyes seemed to gleam in agreement.

Sherlock turned to his companion. "A box, John. How exciting."

The sarcasm was not lost, rather ignored. John was too polite to be openly scathing.

"That's a very kind offer."

"Not for an old friend. Maybe it will even aid your case, seeing things from a new perspective."

Sherlock took another drink, before answering. Logic and facts and most emotions were a simple cause to figure out. William Moriarty's feelings, though, were another matter.

Nevermind the feelings, there was more to this man. He had met Sherlock's bluff with another bluff, playing it as a joke. It was clever.

And it didn't clear him from suspicion.

"Perhaps," he finally answered.

"Then join us," William said. "Please."

John was watching him. Waiting for him to say it, and when he didn't, took matters into his own hands.

"Thank you very much."

It decided the matter for Sherlock - and he had been about to decline the offer. He was about to decline.

He didn't have to do everything William wanted.

But he did go back to the Moriartys' box. He did sit next to William, and it was helpful to see the theatre from up here.

Albert had a lady friend too, and she filled the box with chatter - chatter enough to cover that John was clearly nervous, and out of his depth.

Chatter enough to drown out Sherlock's voice as he leant over to William.

"And what a coincidence to see you here, Liam."

William had an elbow on the arm of his chair so that he could rest his chin on the back of his hand.

"Why's that, Mr Holmes?"

Because he could never call him simply Sherlock, even after he had stuck his hand down his trousers. More than once.

"Because wherever there is trouble, you are not far behind it."

"I'm unlucky."

"And a far way from Durham."

William's smile was subtle. A cat who had the cream.

"Oh, I thought we'd established that London and Durham are close enough for casual visits."

He had Sherlock there. It had been Because he'd wanted to know more about William, that he'd travelled up there. He had told himself that it was investigating, but then flirty words had dripped off his tongue and -

He had gone because he was attracted to William. Body and mind.

"Indeed," He managed to reply - as much as admitting defeat - just as the curtain began to rise for the second half. He leant back in his chair, and let his eyes rove around the theatre.

Concentrate on finding the route a thief would take and not be caught.

William changed the arm he was resting on, so that he was leant closer to Sherlock.

"Don't be cross now, pooch."

Which made his hackles rise. He glanced at William, and back at the show, as though he didn't care. About the wordplay or the nickname.

Two could play at that game. He waited until William was not leant so close, and leant back further, adjusting his own arms - let a hand fall down onto the seat next to him. Onto William's leg. His thigh. He just - nudged his fingers - to get the shape of it, and felt William shift in his seat.

He didn't react straight away. But then his shoe was pressed firmly against Sherlock's. Traced around it, and up the back of ankle.

Sherlock held his breath and pretended to be focused on the show. He kept his hand on William's thigh, though, and inched higher.

“I’m not cross,” he replied. “Moggy.”

“Moggy?” His foot disappeared from Sherlock’s.

Sherlock just smirked, eyes still on the performance. There. He had won that one - had annoyed William, and that counted as a victory.

William's hand rested on his own. For a moment, it stayed there. His fingers were slightly shorter than Sherlock's. He remembered that hand tugging at his hair. That hand around his -

That hand pushed Sherlock's away. He looked over to see William watching the show. He took a sip from his drink with a satisfied smile, then sat back. It was ridiculous, that his heart was racing so. Completely irrational.

But then, he'd never behaved rationally, where William Moriarty was involved.

It wasn't five minutes later, when there was a dip in the music, that William placed his glass on the small table set in front of the seats. He turned to Sherlock, mostly hidden in shadow, and said, "I'm going to fetch another. Would you like to join me?"

A cue. A blatant cue, like asking a dog to fetch. That was how he saw Sherlock; as a loyal creature at his beck and call. Let him think that. It would put his guard down, if he thought Sherlock was besotted.

(Maybe there was a part of him that liked being thought of like that, as something to be manipulated.)

So, he smirked back and said, "Naturally."

Then, he followed William from the box, and caught John's raised eyebrows as he did. He gave him a wink.

The hallway of the theatre was quiet, all noise from the stage muffled. The lights seemed brighter after the gloom. It was like waking up.

William was at his side, arms folded.

"Moggies are cats with no breeding," he said, still aloof. "So I don't think that’s a fitting pet name."

"Really?" Sherlock kept his eyes on the staircase at the end of the corridor. "Because there are times, Liam, when it sounds as though you're as cockney as I am."

That was true – ish. It was only a very slight hint, and only when he had been drinking. Only when he had been drinking around Sherlock.

"You're imagining things."

"I don't imagine anything. I know things. I thought I had proved that."  

He'd proved that William felt the same way he did. Felt this - attraction.

A beat. "I had been drinking."

"Oh, is that the excuse you'd like to go for?" And Sherlock felt just a twinge of anger rise in him, at that. He took hold of William's arm, to get him to stop. And he did, though he didn't look around. "It happened, Liam. Are you going to acknowledge it?”

"I'd rather," William took a breath. "Keep doing what we were doing in there."

That was a no.

The hallway was empty enough that Sherlock felt confident clarifying, "Flirting?" He stepped closer, that twinge of anger rising, and he hated how it was obviously written on his face, because William looked satisfied at it. "And then fucking, and then leaving it at that until we happen to bump into each other again?"

That was, unless William was going to point a gun at him, first.

William looked up at him. "That's how arrangements like this normally work, Mr Holmes."

It cut deeper than it should. He let his hand drop, even though his feet were moving forward, so that William stepped backwards. Lightly as a cat.

"Is that it?" he asked. Stepped forward. "This is just an - arrangement?"

It was the fear of not feeling the same way as someone else, and it was a terrible, all-consuming fear.

William's back was against the wall. "What else can it be?"

There was just a hint of melancholy, there, despite how impassive his expression was. As though he couldn't let himself get too close to Sherlock. Even so, he reached out, wrapping his finger around a strand of Sherlock's dark hair. Stared at it.

"It could be –" A relationship. The word didn't fall from Sherlock's mouth. He could say love - or war - just as William had already said. But he was at a loss, an arm on the wall next to William's face, as he kept playing with Sherlock's hair. He found himself leaning into the touch.

"Do you really think so much of me after so few meetings?" William kept curling that hair around his finger.

It sounded more like a grunt, than a sound of affirmation. Sherlock tried for something more - "You clearly think so much of me."

"How so?"

"You didn't have to talk to me tonight. Didn't have to invite me to your box. Didn't have to send me all of those 'come hither' glances–"

"There were no 'come hither' glances." William almost scoffed. Let Sherlock's hair fall.

"I don't imagine things, kitty."

A raised eyebrow. A tilt of his chin, so that his hair fell across it. "Kitty?"

"You said moggy was no good." Sherlock put his other hand on the wall, the other side of William's head. "You chose to see me, tonight. Chose to let me into your Durham mansion. Chose to sample my violin skills."

"You chose to sit with me," William replied. Poked him in the chest. Pedantic like a child. "Chose to follow me out here. You chose to come to my house in Durham and everything after."

"We're just as bad as each other, then." Just as attracted to each other - both mentally and physically.

"Perhaps." He twisted Sherlock's tie in his fingers, again. Tugged it just enough so that he could feel the pressure. "These violent delights have violent ends."

Sherlock drew closer, resting his elbows on the wall, instead. He could smell William's Eau de Cologne, this close. "Pretty words."

He looked disappointed at that. "You don't know the quote."

"Should I?"

William tugged his tie again. "It's only Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet."

"Ah, see-" Sherlock leant closer, so that their faces were inches apart. It was like a magnet, drawing him in. "That's never helped me solve a case, so why should I memorize those pretty words?"

"To make me happy."

A final – harder - tug. He was pulled forward, and his mouth met William's. It felt like before - hot and exhilarating. Made his heart race. It was like staring down the barrel of a gun. Like having his finger on the trigger.

William's hand moved to bury itself in his hair, pulling him even closer. Yet he tugged on the tie again; hard enough to leave Sherlock breathless.

He sought William's tongue with his own. Hungrily.

"And in their triumphs die," William murmured, pulling away only slightly, so that their lips still brushed as he talked. "Like fire and powder. Which, as they kiss, consume."

"Does that mean we're continuing this–" Relationship.

"It's not a good idea."

Why is that, Sherlock wanted to ask. Why was it that wherever this web of higher crime was, William Moriarty was too? He'd tried to dodge the question on the train, but Sherlock had such a suspicion -

He couldn't start that argument. Not now.

"Then why are you still kissing me?" And he pressed his leg between William's - suspected he knew the answer just from the shape, and from the hitch in William's breath. His chest burnt.

William just shook his head, kissing along Sherlock's jaw. He could feel the scrape of teeth. So he pushed his leg higher, and felt the moan it created against his neck.

"It wouldn't be a good idea, as you call it, to deal with that here," he murmured into William's ear. And kissed the hollow of his jaw.

It was the closest he could get to kissing his cheek. That felt like too sweet and too innocent an action for this. It felt like something doting lovers did.

Sherlock was not doting.

"Where do you suggest?" William replied. "The box or the bar?"

"I'm sure your brothers would enjoy that." Sherlock sought the hand from his tie, though it felt like a childish motion.

William let him, though. Laced their fingers together as he tugged him down the corridor. Like teenagers would.

"Don't you have an investigation to be getting on with?" William asked.

Sherlock half-turned. "Oh, I’ve already solved that. Without giving too many sensitive details away, it has to do with a forged autograph and a mannequin."

"A mannequin?" There was a smirk in William's voice.

Sherlock was counting the boxes. He knew there was one -

"Dressed as a thief, and set up at the other entrances. Moved around as the actors were rushing to fetch the peelers. In the chaos, no one would notice if one of those actors moved that mannequin."

"The thief is one of the actors?" William's thumb dragged across Sherlock's skin.

"Obviously. Here -" He tugged them both into another box, nearer the back of the theatre. Unless the folks in the next box over leant over, and looked away from the stage lights, they wouldn't be seen. The heavy curtains framing the box, mostly as decoration, helped too.

Sherlock twitched them even further, as far as they could go.

William slipped his arms around his waist, from behind, kissing Sherlock's neck. He tugged him back into the shadows – away from any stage light.

"Tell me more." His voice was a purr, and Sherlock felt it in his gut.

He leant back, against him, sighing. "I can think of other things to do with my mouth."

A chuckle, then, at that. And teeth grazed his jaw. William's hand moved down, from his waist, to the front of his trousers. "I like the sound of that, pooch."

He made a sound of dissatisfaction in the back of his throat. "That's here to stay?"

"Does it annoy you?"

"It's not preferable." He reached behind him, to bury his fingers in William's hair. It was like silk.

"Then it's definitely here to stay."

Sherlock turned, then, a growl in the back of his throat. It only made William chuckle, brushing curls from Sherlock's face.

"What did you have in mind for your mouth to do?" William's voice was low. They stood in the shade of the curtains - practically invisible, and yet nonetheless they were in a theatre.

People clapped the scene onstage.

This was stupidly risky. Yet, the very fact that it was so stupidly risky made Sherlock giddy. As though he’d drunk through a whole bottle instead of a measure.

Sherlock lowered himself, as gracefully as he could, to his knees, letting his fingers run down William's waistcoat. Tightly fitted.

He rested those fingers on his belt buckle, smirking up at him. That hardness from the box - from the hallway - had yet to fade.

"You've sampled my violin, but I'm not bad at flute, either," he murmured.

William took a breath, his eyes dark, just glittering in what little light reached them. Then smiled. "Play away."

Sherlock's fingers were light, as they teased open the front of William's trousers.

His hand had found its way into Sherlock's hair again, and he felt it being tugged as he got to work – and that helped – that made his stomach leap and his heart judder into action. He went lightly, at first, so that his lips and tongue barely grazed over skin.

William's breath came as breathy gasps, far above him. He moved forward, opening his mouth more and moving quicker. And quicker. His heart raced, and his own instrument throbbed. This was just like before - this mind-swirling - attraction. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was lust. It didn't matter - it was intoxicating, and Sherlock wanted this. Wanted William.

"Don't make a mess," William whispered, leaning into him.

He looked up, mouth half-open, to catch a glimpse of flushed cheeks and shining eyes that made him feel like he was on fire.

"Yes, Lord Moriarty," he replied.

And felt a sharper tug in his hair to show how that name was received - to show that William was close. More than close.

Sherlock was as good as his word. Let himself take just a little liberty in making sure he'd cleaned up completely - William's breath juddered at that. His own breath was heavy. He pushed his hair from his face, lips numb.

Hands on his elbows, helping him up to his feet. He was face to face with William, inches from him. His thumb ran over Sherlock's lips - they were swollen - before he kissed him again.

Something silky was pressed into his hand. A handkerchief.

"So you don't make a mess."

There was clapping from the theatre. There was nothing much of the show left, Sherlock knew.

"That's cold, Liam," he managed.

William pushed him against the side of the box, so that he was half buried in velvet curtains.

"So you don't make a mess after I'm done with you," he clarified, his voice low, his hand even lower. Sherlock's hip bucked into the touch. Found William's lapels and clung on.

Because he felt helpless. Helpless to this touch and helpless to what his body wanted.

Helpless for William.

And that was not a good thing. He knew it was not a good thing, not if his suspicions were accurate. This was the one person he could not be helpless around - could not let his strings be tugged by.

Because even if he wasn't the mastermind, he was - very nearly - as sharp as Sherlock. Which was just as dangerous.

The handkerchief kept it tidy, as the clapping broke out again. The timing was almost laughable – if he had the breath to do so. It felt as though he’d been in a bonfire.

William smiled at him in the ghostly half-light of the gas lamps. Red eyes and blonde hair and he looked like a fallen angel. Was so beautiful with flushed cheeks and crimson lips.

He leant forward, and it seemed as though he was going to kiss Sherlock again.

Instead, he whispered, mouth just grazing his, "I can't guarantee going steady. But you're not – just an arrangement."

"Flattering." He was still fighting for breath. "Liam, you must know how-" How he felt. It must have been obvious.

William pressed fingers to Sherlock's lips.

"Then you know the same about me."

His heart stuttered.

It didn’t take a lot of mindpower to figure William’s meaning. Which was good, because Sherlock felt short-circuited.

*

John looked relieved to see Sherlock re-enter the box. He was saved from socialising with these intimidating young men. Men he probably had nothing in common with, given he’d spent his youth in the army, and his lack of birth-money.

Then he seemed to take in the mess that is tie was, the crumpled shirt and the fact that his hair was barely tied back anymore. He raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock took a seat, next to William, and smiled at him. Innocently, as though they really had just been for a drink.

Which made John tilt his head to the side, eyebrow going up even higher.

He broke into a grin. Rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt at sheepishness. And shrugged. Pushed his hair away from his face. It stung at the roots, where it had been tugged, like a phantom William still there.

All was fair, William had said. If this was a war, Sherlock felt like he'd lost the battle. For once, it didn't niggle at him quite as much as it should.

Albert looked up, his chin resting on his hand. He smiled. "You were a while.”

William – who barely had a hair out of place, despite it all, smiled back. That ‘there’s a secret,’ smile that Sherlock was obsessed with. He had to flop back down into his chair.

“Mr Holmes had a case to solve,” William said, easing into his own. His shoe was pressed against Sherlock’s. A reminder of what he had said. “He asked my advice.”

John's eyebrows were in danger of disappearing altogether. He stared at Sherlock, as though he expected him to refute it.

Sherlock just laughed. He leant back, putting an elbow on the arm of the chair so that it nudged William’s back.

“Something like that.”

[betterdaysareatoenailaway]

RANDOM REVIEW #2: ANY GIVEN SUNDAY (1999)

“This game has got to be about more than winning. You’re part of something.”  Any Given Sunday (1999), directed by Oliver Stone and featuring Jamie Foxx, Dennis Quaid, Cameron Diaz, Al Pacino, LL Cool J, James Woods, and Matthew Modine, is my favourite sports movie of all time. Of all time.

I’m not betraying my favourite sport by saying this. The Mighty Ducks is a kid’s movie. It’s okay, but it’s not a timeless classic. I don’t like the Slap Shot series, Sudden Death is fun but silly, and the Goon movies were a missed opportunity. The only truly good scene in Goon is the diner scene where Liev Schreiber tells Seann William Scott: “Don’t go trying to be a hockey player. You’ll get your heart ripped out.”

  Such is the sad circumstance of the hockey enforcer. They all want to play, not just fight. Here’s a link to a video in which the most feared fighter in the history of the NHL, Bob Probert, explains that he wanted to be “an offensive threat...like Bobby Orr,” not a fighter: https://youtu.be/4sbxejbMH4g?t=118 Heartbreaking. But not unusual.

Donald Brashear, Marty McSorley, Tie Domi, Stu “The Grim Reaper” Grimson, Frazer McLaren: they all had hockey skills. But they were told they had to fight to remain on the roster, so they fought. As Schreiber says in the film: “You know they just want you to bleed, right?”  If the players don’t bleed, they don’t get to stay on the team. So they fight, and they pay dearly for it later. Many former fighters have CTE or other head injuries that make day-to-day life difficult. The makers of Goon should have taken that scene and run with it. I was so disappointed they didn’t, especially given what happened right around the time the film came out, with the tragic suicides of Wade Belak, Derek Boogaard, and Rick Rypien, all enforcers, all dead in a single summer. So Hollywood hasn’t even made a good hockey movie, let alone a great one. Baseball has a shitload of good films, probably because the slower pace of play makes it easier to film. Moneyball has a terrific home run scene, Rookie of the Year does too. Angels in the Outfield was a big favourite of mine when I was a kid, plus all the Major League films, and Bull Durham. 

Football has two good movies: The Program (1993) and Rudy (1993).    

And football has one masterpiece. The one I am writing about today.

A young Oliver Stone trying not to die in Vietnam. ^ Now, I know Stone is laughed at these days, given his nutty conspiracy theories and shitty behaviour and the marked decline in the quality of his films (although 2012’s Savages was underrated). I know Stone is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but do you want a football movie to be subtle? Baseball, sure. It’s a game of fine distinctions, but football? Football is war. And war is about steamrolling the enemy, distinctions be damned, which is why Any Given Sunday is such an amazing sports film. I love the way it shows the dark side of football. In fact, the film is so dark that the NFL withdrew their support and cooperation, forcing Stone to create a fictitious league and team to portray what he wanted to portray.

This is not to say the movie is fresh or original. Quite the opposite. Any Given Sunday has every single sports film cliché you can think of. But precisely because it tries to stuff every single cliché into its runtime, the finished product is not a cliched mess so much as a rich tapestry, a dense cinema verite depiction of the dizzying highs and depressing lows of a professional sports team as it wins, loses, parties, and staggers its way through a difficult season.  Cliché #1: The aging quarterback playing his final year, trying to win one last championship. (Dennis Quaid) 

Sample dialog: Dennis Quaid (lying in a hospital bed severely injured): Don’t give up on me coach. Al Pacino: You’re like a son to me. I’ll never give up on you. ^ I know this sounds awful. But it’s actually fuckin’ great. Cliché #2: The arrogant upstart new player who likes hip hop and won’t respect the old regime. (Jamie Foxx) 

Cliché #3: The walking wounded veteran who could die if he gets hit one more time. Coincidentally, he needs just one more tackle to make his million-dollar bonus for the season. (Lawrence Taylor) 

Cliché #4: The female executive in a man’s world who must assert herself aggressively in order to win the grudging respect of her knuckle-dragging male colleagues (Cameron Diaz). Diaz is fantastic in the role, though she should have had more screen time, given that the main conflict in the film is very much about the new generation, as represented by her and Jamie Foxx, trying to replace the old generation, represented by Al Pacino, Dennis Quaid, Jim Brown, and Lawrence Taylor. Some people think Diaz’s character is too calculating, but here’s the thing: she’s right. Too many sports GMs shell out millions for the player an individual used to be, not the player he presently is. “I am not resigning a 39-year old QB, no matter how good he was,” she tells Pacino’s coach character, and you know what? She’s right. The Leafs’ David Clarkson signing is proof positive of the perils of signing a player based on past performance, not current capability. Diaz’s character is the living embodiment of the question: do you want to win, or do you want to be loyal? Cuz sometimes you can’t do both.

Cliché #5: The team doctor who won’t sacrifice his ethics for the good of the team (Matthew Modine).

Cliché #6: The team doctor who will sacrifice his ethics for the good of the team (James Woods) 

Cliché #7: The grizzled, thrice-divorced coach who has sacrificed everything for his football team, to the detriment of his social and familial life, who must give a stirring speech at some point in the film (Al Pacino…who goes out there and gives the all-time greatest sports movie “we must win this game” speech) 

Cliché #8: The assistant or associate coach who takes a parental interest in his players, playing the good cop to the head coach’s bad cop (former NFL star Jim Brown). 

Best quote: “Who wants to be thinking about blitzes and crossblocks when you’re holding your grandkids in your arms? That’s why I wanna coach high school. Kids don’t know nothing. They just wanna play.” 

Cliché #9: The player who can’t stop doing drugs (L.L. Cool J).

Okay, so the first thing that needs to be talked about is Al Pacino’s legendary locker room speech.  Now, it’s the coach’s job to rile up and inspire the players. But eloquence alone won’t do it. If you use certain big words, you lose them (remember Brian Burke being endlessly mocked by the Toronto media for using the word “truculent?”). The coach must deliver the message in a language the players understand, while still making victory sound lofty and aspirational. This is not an easy thing to accomplish. One of my favourite inspirational lines was spoken by “Iron” Mike Keenan to the New York Rangers before Game 7 against the Vancouver Canucks in 1994. “Win tonight, and we’ll walk together forever.” Oooh that’s gorgeous. But Pacino’s speech is right up there with it. 

“You know, when you get old in life…things get taken from you. That’s parta life. But you only learn that when you start losin’ stuff. You find out…life’s this game of inches. So’s football. In either game – life or football – the margin for error is so small. I mean…one half a step too late or too early and you don’t quite make it…one half second too slow, too fast, you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second. On this team, we fight for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. Because we know when we add up all those inches that’s gonna make the fuckin difference between winnin’ and losin’! Between livin’ and dyin’!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_iKg7nutNY  Somehow, against all odds, Any Given Sunday succeeds. It is the Cinderella run of sports movies. You root for the film as you watch it. The dressing room scenes are incredible…the Black players listen to the newest hip hop while a trio of lunkhead white dudes headbang and scream “Hetfield is God.” There is a shower scene where a linebacker, tired of being teased about the size of his penis, tosses his pet alligator into the showers where it terrorizes his tormentors. There is a scene where a halfback has horrible diarrhea, but he’s hooked up to an IV so the doctor (Matthew Modine) has to follow him into the toilet cubicle, crinkling his nose as the player evacuates his bowels. There is a scene where someone loses an eye (the only scene in the film where Stone’s over-the-top approach misses the mark). There are scenes that discuss concussions (which is why the NFL refused to cooperate for the film), where Lawrence Taylor has to sign a waiver absolving the team of responsibility if he is hurt or paralyzed or killed. I wonder how purists and old school football fans reacted to the news that Oliver Stone was making a football film. If they even knew who he was (not totally unlikely…Stone made a string of jingoistic war movies in the 1980s) they probably thought the heavy hands of Oliver would ruin the film, take the poetry out of every play. But the actual football is filmed perfectly. The camera gets nice and low for the tackles. It flies the arcs of perfect spiral passes. It shows the chaos of a defensive line barreling down the field. When Al Pacino asked quarterback Dan Marino (fresh off his own Hollywood experience acting in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective) what it was like to be an NFL QB, Marino said: “Imagine standing on a highway with traffic roaring at you while trying to read Hamlet.” A great explanation. Shoulda made the movie. So the football itself is fabulously done. Much better than what Cameron Crowe did in the few football scenes in Jerry Maguire. The Program had some great football, as did Rudy, but neither come close to the heights of Any Given Sunday. In one of the film’s best scenes, Jamie Foxx insists that his white coaches have routinely placed him in situations where he was doomed to fail or prone to injury, and we believe him because white coaches have been doing that to Black players for decades. Quarterback Doug Williams, who led his Washington Redskins team to a Superbowl victory in 1987, was frequently referred to by even liberal media outlets as a “Black quarterback,” instead of just “quarterback,” as if his skin colour necessitated a qualification. Even now, in 2021, the majority of quarterbacks are white, although the gap is gradually closing. The 2020 season saw the highest number of starting Black quarterbacks, with 10 out of a possible 32.  Quarterback is the most cerebral position on the field, and for a long time there was a racist belief that Black men couldn’t do the job. Foxx’s character is a composite of many of the different Black quarterbacks who came of age in the 1990s, fighting for playing time against white QBs beloved by their fan base, fawned over in hagiographic Sports Illustrated profiles, and protected by the good ol’ boys club of team executives and coaching staff. Foxx’s character isn’t demoted because he can’t play the game. He wins several crucial games for his team en route to the playoffs. He’s demoted because he listens to hip hop in the dressing room, because he recorded a rap song and shot a video for it, and because he’s cocky. Yes, the scene where he asks out Cameron Diaz is sexist, as if her power only comes from her sexuality, not her intelligence and business acumen, but it’s meant to show how overly confident Foxx is, not that he’s a sexist prick. Any Given Sunday isn’t a single issue film. It’s basically an omni-protest piece. It gleefully shows football’s dark side, and there is no director better than Oliver Stone for muck-raking. He’s in full-on investigative journalist mode in Any Given Sunday, showing how and why players play through serious brain injuries. How because they are given opiates, often leading to debilitating addictions (this happens in all contact sports...Colorado Avalanche player Marek Svatos overdosed on heroin a few years after retiring from injuries). As to why, Stone gives two reasons. One, team doctors are paid by the team, not the players, therefore their decisions will benefit the team, not the players. And two, the players themselves are encouraged to underreport injuries and play through them because stats are incentivized. James Woods unethical doctor argues with Modine’s idealistic one because an MRI the latter called for a player to have costs the team $20k. But the player in question, Lawrence Taylor, plays anyway because his contract is stat incentivized and if he makes on more tackle he gets a million dollars. Incentivizing stats leads to players playing hurt. And although I loathe this term, a lazy go-to for film critics, Stone really does give an unflinching account of how this shit happens and why. When Williams is inevitably hurt and lying prone on the field, he woozily warns the paramedics who are placing him on a stretcher to “be careful…I’m worth a million dollars.” It’s tragic, yet you’re happy for him. The film really makes you care about these guys.  Thanks to the smartly written script, the viewer knows that Williams has four kids, and you’re pleased he made his bonus because, in all likelihood, after he retires, his injuries will prevent him from any kind of gainful employment (naturally, they give the TV analyst jobs to retired white players, unless Williams can somehow land the coveted token Black guy gig). Stone is not above fan service, a populist at heart, and he stuffs the film with former and then-current NFL players, a miraculous stunt given the fact that the NFL revoked their cooperation. Personally, I think this was a good thing because it meant Stone didn’t have to compromise (the league wanted editorial say on all issues pertaining to the league…meaning they would have cut the best storyline, which is the playing hurt one). It also meant that they had to rename the team and the league. While I’m sure this took away from the realism for some fans, I’m cool with it. It also allowed the moviemakers to name the team the Sharks, a perfect name for this roving band of predatory capitalist sports executives. In another example of fan service, the call-girl Pacino’s quintessential lonely workaholic character rents a girlfriend experience from is none other than Elizabeth Berkley of Showgirls, who had been unfairly blacklisted after the titular Verhoven/Esterhaz venture, a movie my wife showed me one day while I was dopesick, which I became so transfixed and mesmerized by that I forgot I was. As mentioned above, the only misstep in the film is one of the offshoots of the Playing Hurt arc, where a player loses an eye on the field. Not because he gets poked, but because he gets hit so hard his eye simply falls out. A medic runs onto the field and puts the white globe on ice. Stone cast a player with a glass eye in order to achieve this effect. No CGI! Still, the scene is unconvincing, a tad too over-the-top. But this is Oliver Stone. At least Any Given Sunday’s sole over-the-top moment is a throwaway scene lasting all of thirty seconds. It easily could have been a secondary plot-line in which government officials try to sneak a Cuban football prodigy out of Castro’s communist stronghold but the player is brutally murdered the morning the officials arrive at his apartment to escort him to the private plane. Or else the team GM is revealed to be a massive international cocaine dealer. Or the tight end is one half of a serial killer couple. The film follows its own advice, focusing more on the players growth, particularly Beamon’s (Foxx). The anonymity of the title, Any Given Sunday, elevates the game, not the players. Thank God, the movie doesn’t force Beamon to assimilate into Pacino’s mold. He buys into the team-first philosophy without renouncing his idiosyncratic POV or his fierce individuality. This is a triumph. One of my biggest problems with sports is the flattening effect it can have on creative individuals. Players take media training in order to sound as alike as possible during media interviews, a long row of stoic giants spouting cliches. It’s boring. Which is why media latch onto a loudmouth, even while they scold him for it. All sports are dying for an intelligent mouthpiece who can explain his motivations in a succinct, sound-bite-friendly, manner. Sports are entertainment. As much as I love Sidney Crosby, in my heart I have to go with Alexander Ovechkin because Ovechkin is far more thrilling, both on and off the ice. Unlike almost every other NHL star before him, all of whom were forced to kneel and kiss Don Cherry’s Rock Em Sock Em ring, Ovechkin defiantly told the media he simply did not care about Cherry or Cherry’s disgusting parental reaction to one of Ovie’s more creative goal celebrations (called a “celly” in the biz). On the play in question, Ovechkin scored the goal, then dropped his stick and mimed warming his hands over it, as if his stick were on fire. As cheesy as the celebration appeared to the naked eye, it’s both a funny and accurate notion. Ovechkin was the hottest scorer in the league for many years and his stick was on fire, metaphorically speaking. The only celly I can think of that matches up in terms of creativity and entertainment value came from Teemu Selanne in 1993, who scored a beauty of a goal, threw one of his gloves straight up into the air, then pumped his stick like a shotgun while “shooting” his glove. Of course, Cherry took exception to it. Cherry’s favourite goal celebration features Bobby Orr putting his head down and refraining from raising his hands over his head. Cherry’s idea of an appropriate goal celly is no celly at all. This from a man who claims “we’ve got to sell our game.” But when an arrogant player shows up and he’s not white, he’s in for a shitload of bad press. Foxx’s Beamon illustrates this beautifully when he yells at Pacino after Pacino cuts him for an older QB who has lost four games this season. “Don’t play that racism card with me,” Pacino warns. “Okay…okay…” Foxx nods, “Maybe it’s not racism. Maybe it’s ‘placism’…as in…a brother got to know his place.”

Here is the original theatrical trailer, featuring Garbage’s classic “Push It.”

Above Lawrence Taylor begs Matthew Modine for Cortazone.  There’s also a great scene where Pacino is trying to figure out where he has gone wrong and Diaz just looks at him. “You got old,” she says simply. No enterprise is more cruel to an aging human being than sports. And this movie makes football a big giant corporate machine that chews players up and spits them out, injured and drug addicted, after four or five years. Those who play for a decade are lucky. This is still how the NFL works. And the NHL is increasingly becoming a young man’s game. Experience matters less and less.

When I started watching hockey in the 90s, players regularly competed into their late 30s. Not so anymore. Players peak at 23-24 now, and are often out of the league by age 35. Thornton and Chelois are exceptions, not the rule. After more than two hours, Any Given Sunday finally lurches across the finish line, bravely refusing to give its viewers a traditional happy ending, in the great tradition of underdog sports films like Rocky and Rudy. The bombshell dropped by Pacino’s character at the end feels less surprising than inevitable, but by now the movie has explored so much of professional sports' seedy underbelly that you're glad it's over. The film is great but exhausting. Stone seems to be advancing the notion that the sport itself is pure, but the people in it are corrupt. If money weren’t involved, the game would be played for its own sake.

I agree with this. People playing pond hockey are engaging in wholesome fun, not necessarily practicing to make a professional league. Commerce corrupts the purity of the game, and the extent to which it corrupts is directly proportional to how badly the individual in question needs the commerce. Of course, the sport is highly racialized, with people in positions of authority white, and those being told what to do with their bodies Black.

Any Given Sunday is an important film, but it never sacrifices entertainment for the sake of moralizing. That it pulls off such a strong moralistic stance is a testament to the actors, who are all incredible, and the material, which is among the strongest of Stone’s career.

He never really made a great movie after this one. So check it out sometime.

[rhysismydaddy]

My Little Brawler - Feysand Headcannon 2

I’ll just go ahead and preface this by saying it’s long as SHIT. I went a little crazy. But here’s the second headcannon for Feysand. Thank you for the love on the last one! Next one out tomorrow. 

Synopsis: Feyre Archeron is a 31 year old researcher who has devoted her entire life to her work. Her dating history is a mess, from an ex-husband to one night stands. A serious relationship? Hell no. 

Rhysand Turner is a Virginia-born quarterback living it up in a football-crazy city. He doesn’t date and sticks to dumb blondes who look good on his arm and think how far he can throw a football is better than sex. Marriage? Not in a million years. 

________________________________________________________________

Feyre swung the lab door closed, locked it behind her, and headed toward the hospital exit. 

“Calling it a night?” Howie, the night-shift security guard asked from behind his desk. 

She glanced at her watch and winced. “More like a morning now, but yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

He laughed and went back to his crossword puzzle. Nothing interesting happened in the hospital this late at night outside of the ER, so Howie was basically only there for her. Feyre frequently was the last staff member to leave the place, something her coworkers never understood. 

She came in early, left late, and worked holidays. To say she was married to her job would be an understatement. 

Grabbing her keys and walking out to her car, she had to admit they had a point. She’d given up her entire life for her work, but she had no regrets. 

She’d made countless breakthroughs in nuclear medicine and had changed the face of chemotherapy and radiation. It payed off every day when she heard from the oncologists that one of their patients was cancer free. 

As she drove to her townhouse--only four minutes from the hospital--she wondered if it was strange she preferred to be alone.

Then she remembered how she’d ended up when she committed herself to a relationship and shook her head. If you can’t trust the man you’re married to, who can you trust? No one. 

She didn’t miss being married. At all. She didn’t miss having to come home from a long day at work and muster up the energy to talk about whatever was bothering him. 

She did miss sex, though. She never went out, never invited anyone over. It’d been so long since she’d been with a man, she was pretty sure she had cobwebs down there.

Ignoring that thought, Feyre walked through her front door, threw her keys on the kitchen table, and went to bed. She had to be in the hospital in four hours if she wanted to get ahead of her schedule. 

_________________________________

Rhysand jogged off the field, grinning at the look on his coach’s face. 

“If you’re in love with me, I don’t want to know,” he joked. 

Coach Matthews was at least five inches shorter than Rhys, but he reached up and smacked the back of his head anyway. He wasn’t actually mad, though. There were about three people in the world who could get away with talking trash to Adrian Matthews, and Rhys happened to be one of them. 

“Shut up, smartass. I’m just excited. If you play like this tomorrow, we’ll wi-”

Rhys cut him off. “Don’t jinx me.”

A raised eyebrow. “After all this time, you’re superstitious?”

“It could be my last game,” he said, ignoring the look on the man’s face. “I don’t need any bad luck.”

He’d never admit it, but losing tomorrow’s game was easily the scariest thing in Rhys’s life. 

Talent wise, there was no one better than him. He wasn’t cocky, but he knew it. He had better stats, better knowledge of the game, better everything. 

But, according to sports, Rhys was old as dirt. 

No matter how good you are, football isn’t a lifetime sport. Even though thirty-eight would be young to almost anyone’s standards, network channels and reporters were all wondering how long he would push on. 

The guys he was competing against were all in their twenties, young and fresh and without back pain. And knee pain. And-

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, idiot. No matter what happens tomorrow, you’ve had the most impressive career as a NFL quarterback in history. So get your head out of your old ass and play the game you know how to play.” 

Rhys just laughed. “My old ass? What about you? When did you even sneak out of the retirement home?”

Before Matthews could attempt to kick his ass, a beefy hand smacked into Rhys’s back and Cassian--the other person allowed to talk shit to coach--said, “Oh, I see. You made a few good passes out there and now you’re over here drinking water and gossiping with coach like a couple old ladies. Cute.”

“Both of you, get your asses home and in bed,” the coach ordered, rolling his eyes. “I cannot believe I let myself draft two hard-headed, pain in the ass hillbillies,” he muttered, walking toward the other players. 

“He’s just mad because he’s in love with you,” Cassian said, throwing a thick arm around Rhysand’s shoulders, and dragging him to the locker room.  

Rhys pushed him off and laughed. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“So about tomorrow-”

“I swear to god if you mention the game one more time, I’ll tell everyone you wear women’s underwear when you play,” Rhys threatened, then ducked to avoid the helmet flying towards his head. 

“Shut the fuck up, man! That was one time! And I wouldn’t have done it, but you made me watch Bull Durham and it seemed like a decent idea at the time. And I wasn’t even gonna talk about the game.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow. If Cassian wasn’t talking about football, he was droning on about women, booze, or hunting. Sometimes a mixture. Before he could continue, Rhys made a bet it was women on his best friend’s mind this time.

“Anyway, me and Az were thinking we could go somewhere new tomorrow night. Regardless of how the score turns out.” 

That caught his attention. The three of them had been friends since high school and had all played together till Azriel blew his knee out two years ago. They all lived in the same apartment complex still and got together almost every weekend. In all their time of friendship, they’d maybe gone to five bars. Once Cassian found a place and racked up enough of a tab, he stayed until they wouldn’t let him through the door anymore. 

“Where?”

“There’s bar about twenty minutes from here. Az apparently knows the owner or something.” It made sense. After his injury, Azriel had gone into broadcasting and had made a ton of connections in the PR world. 

“I don’t want to go anywhere crow-”

Cass cut him off. “He said it’s a small bar. No crowds.”

The one negative aspect of his life was the never-leaving pack of fans and paparazzi following him around. After the game tomorrow, it’d be hectic. He didn’t want to deal with that if they won, let alone if they lost. 

Rhys shrugged. “Fine by me. Either way, I’ll be needing a lot of booze.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic man,” Cassian laughed. “It’s just a game.”

Rolling his eyes, “It’s the Super Bowl, idiot. It’s not just a game.”

“Okay,” his best friend and defensive tight end said lightly. “It’s a big game.”

As he thought about how a loss tomorrow could be the end of his career, Rhys could only nod and agree. 

________________________________

Feyre walked through the front doors of the cancer wing and halted. John Weatherly, the Chief of Staff of the hospital--and not to mention a huge pain in her ass--stood at the threshold. 

“You look annoyed,” she stated, ready for whatever lecture he was about to give her. 

After all the time she’d worked for him, she’d never really gotten past her dislike of her boss. Or his misogynistic rants. Or the fact that he smelled like cigarettes. They worked in the cancer wing of the hospital, for crying out loud. And he had the nerve to smoke a cigarette every chance he got. 

“I am,” he said, equally as blunt. “Are you aware you’ve worked at least 120 hours a week for the past two months?”

“Considering I log my own hours, yes.”

“That is a huge waste-”

“Are you aware that I’ve published three research articles during the past two months? Generating publicity, not to mention patients, for the hospital?”

“Considering I’m not an idiot, yes,” John snapped sourly. “But this isn’t about me. The board is implementing a new rule this week. No more work weeks over 100 hours.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but he held up a hand in annoyance. “Don’t bother. I already tried to tell them you practically live here. It’s not flexible for anyone.”

Feyre allowed herself to steam for a few moments before muttering, “Fine.” She tried to walk around him to the lab, but he stepped in her path. 

“Since you’ve already worked over the limit, you’ll have to go home. Come back Tuesday.” 

“Tuesday?!” she practically shouted. “Why not tomorrow? The time cards reset every week.”

“You���ve worked 115 hours this week. They told me to tell you specifically that if you want to continue to receive a paycheck from them, you will come back Tuesday.”

“This is so-”

“Have a nice two days off, Dr. Archeron.”

She couldn’t not work for two days. “What am I supposed to do all day? Just let me go get my paperwork, and I’ll work from home.”

“Feyre, I have specific orders from the hospital’s board to have the security guard escort you out if you try to go in the lab.”

Her mouth dropped open, but before she could tell him how ridiculous this was, he said, “Go home. Sleep. Watch the game.”

“Game? What game?”

It was his John’s turn to look shocked. “The Super Bowl is tonight. Did you really not know?”

“No, of course not. I don’t care about football.”

Her boss was silent, stuttered a few words, then said, “How do you not like football? You live in Boston! Rhysand Turner is practically a celebrity around here.”

She didn’t know why any medical professional would encourage grown men to smash into each other for sport, but kept that to herself. “Who is Rhysand Turner, exactly?”

“For a genius, you’re such an idiot,” he said bitterly. “He’s the quarterback about to win us the Super Bowl tonight. You should watch the game in your time off. Speaking of, leave. Now.”

“But-”

“Nope. Now.” 

The urge to call him a jackass was so strong, she left before it slipped out. How ridiculous was this? She worked her ass off every day researching nuclear chemistry and the effects of chemotherapy in the body. It was important. Her work changed lives. 

And they were telling her to go home and twiddle her thumbs. Or watch football. 

She drove home angrily, wondering what on earth she would do with 48 hours of uninterrupted free time. 

After finishing two loads of laundry, scrubbing her entire bathroom and kitchen, and grocery shopping, Feyre was bored. She tried to sit down and watch TV, but there was nothing on that interested her. 

She flipped to the news, thinking she’d distract herself with politics. But no, everyone was talking about the game. Apparently, John was right. No one cared about anything except football today. 

An idea popped in her head, and she smiled and picked up the phone. 

“Finally!” her best friend shouted happily as she answered on the first ring. “I’ve been waiting for you to call; I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Hi, Mor,” she laughed. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. Work is-”

“-crazy, I know,” she finished her sentence. “What’s up?”

Trying not to sound bitter, Feyre said, “Well, I actually have today and tomorrow off, so I was wondering what you were doing tonight.”

A pause.

“You know I own a bar, right?” Mor asked, as if Feyre were dense. 

“Yes, of course.”

Another pause, then, “And you know it’s Super Bowl Sunday, right? It’s a busy night for us. Well, as busy as a tiny ass bar in the suburbs can be.”

Feyre laughed. “Oh, no worries, I’ll see you some other-”

“Wait! Why don’t you come?” 

“Oh... uh...” How could she get out of this? Fake illness?

A knowing town crept into Mor’s voice as she said, “Don’t even think about telling me you’re sick, bitch. You already said you don’t have anything to do tonight. Or tomorrow. Which means you can get drunk! Ooh, or laid!”

Feyre sighed. “Mor, I don’t want to watch a football game. And I definitely don’t want to get drunk.”

She could tell her friend was smiling as she said, “Just laid, then.”

Feyre rolled her eyes and stayed silent, trying not to think about how true that statement was. 

“Fine. Come at like 11. It’ll be pretty empty by then. But you’re definitely drinking.”

She debated arguing, but Mor would likely show up and drag her out herself if she tried. “Fine. One drink.”

____________________________________________

Rhys couldn’t stop smiling as he drove himself and Cassian through the city in his truck. 

“You know you’re a millionaire, right, Rhysie?” his best friend asked with a laugh. 

He just rolled his eyes, having heard this argument at least 20 times. “Don’t hate on the truck. I’ve had her since senior year.”

“It’s rusting. You’re a millionaire. Buy a new one.”

“Nope.”

Cassian groaned. “Why not?”

“She’s been with me through every win, every loss, everything. You know I lost my-”

“Stop! You already told me, and I almost throw up every time I get in this ass-mobile.” 

Rhys laughed and punched his shoulder, then said thoughtfully, “You know, I think it was right where you’re sitting.”

Cassian swore and scooted as close as he could get to the door. 

“Don’t worry, you can get out. We’re here.” 

As soon as he put the truck in park, Cassian jumped out of the cab and wiped the seat of his jeans off with his hand, making Rhys laugh. 

He climbed out of the truck, his body still lined with adrenaline. He’d played his ass off, crushed the opponent, and carried his team to victory. 

He supposed he had Cassian to thank, too, considering he’d also played his ass off and kept Rhys from getting pummeled. 

Their success was echoing through the city on excited whispers. Both of them had already turned their phones off they were getting so many calls from team managers. 

They walked into the wonderfully slow bar, nodded to the few people still around who luckily didn’t ask for pictures, and went to find Azriel. 

He was sitting at the bar, chatting to the bartender. Even though the bartender was hands-down one of the most attractive women he’d ever seen, it was the woman near Azriel that gave Rhys pause. 

Cassian saw the look on his face, smirked, and nodded toward the empty chair between Az and the girl. 

A good end to a good night.

He winked, then slid in the chair, nodded to Az--who rolled his eyes--, and turned to the woman. 

She had clear blue-gray eyes, dark blonde hair, and full lips. She was... exotic. Different. 

He smiled confidently and said, “Hey. How you doing?” 

It was a simple line, but one that worked countless times when paired with a southern accent. 

He couldn’t tell if the look on her face was amusement or shock. “Where the hell are you from?”

That reaction was one he was used to, so he grinned and said, “Virginia.”

“What are you doing in Boston, then?”

He couldn’t stop his eyebrows from pulling together. She was in a sports bar, where his face had just been plastered on every TV for four hours, but she didn’t know who he was? “Work,” he said simply. 

Rhys could feel his best friends’ eyes on him, but he ignored them. “So, what’s your-”

The girl turned to the bartender, ignoring him completely, and said, “Mor, I’m going to make a call.” She cut her eyes toward the men around her and murmured, “Watch my drink.”

Every single one of their eyebrows shot up. Did they look that much like criminals? Sure, they wore a lot of black, but every one of them were multi-millionaires. Did he come off like a date-raper or something?

The bartender, Mor apparently, rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t take it personally. Even balls to the wall drunk, she’s cautious.”

Rhys could tell there was more to that story but shrugged and asked for a beer. 

Mor slid it across the counter and smiled knowingly. “She’s pretty, right?”

He just turned to Azriel and asked, “How have you been, man? Did you report the game?”

“Yeah, they had me follow your stats the whole time. Boring shit,” he replied, laughing. 

“I bet you could hardly talk fast enough.”

“Cocky bastard,” Cassian muttered. 

Azriel nodded to the bartender and said, “This is Mor, by the way. I’ve known her since I left the NFL. Mor, this--as I’m sure you know--is Rhysand and Cassian, although I call them Dumbass 1 and 2.”

“You’re a funny, funny man,” Rhys muttered. 

Mor’s friend came back and slid into her seat. Mor put another drink on the counter. The woman raised an eyebrow. “I said one drink, Morrigan.”

“Morrigan? Jesus, you’re already drunk aren’t you?” 

Before she could respond, Az said, “Mor, perhaps you’d like to introduce the guys to your friend?”

She smiled and said, “Guys, this is Feyre Archeron, my very best friend who loves me so much she’ll stay and have another drink.”

“Since you’re buying,” Feyre said sweetly, picking the drink up. “And because I know you’ll make me feel bad about leaving so soon.”

Cassian asked, his accent even thicker than Rhys’s, “Why the bad mood, gorgeous?”

She turned and leveled a look at him. “I’d rather be doing something else.”

Rhys rolled his eyes as his best friend leaned down towards the woman and smiled slowly. “Well, you should’ve told me sooner. I’d be glad to do something else with you, baby.”

Azriel and Rhys both looked at each other and shook their heads. Cassian flirted with everyone. It drove them insane, but it was at least predictable. 

The woman unlucky enough to have his current affections set her drink down with a little too much aggression, making Rhys chuckle. “What’s your name?”

“Cassian,” he replied confidently. 

“Cassian, believe me when I tell you I have absolutely no interest in having sex with you. Leave me alone and go shook a chicken or something.” 

The look on Cassian’s face was priceless, and Rhys bit his lip to keep his laugh in. Like Rhys, he was used to women being very... open to his suggestions. 

Before Cass could even retort, the woman looked to her friend and asked, “Who the hell are these guys? Your friends?”

Mor pointed to Azriel and responded, “He is my friend. Those two rednecks,” she jerked her head toward Rhys and Cassian, “I don’t vouch for.”

Rhys put a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “We’re Azriel’s friends, which makes us pre-vouched.” He turned to Feyre and smiled. “You single?” 

________________________________________

“No,” Feyre said at the exact same time Mor yelled, “Yes!”

The man next to her smiled smugly. “Since you’re single, let me buy you another drink.” She opened her mouth, but he said quickly, “Say yes. It’s just one drink, darling.”

His accent was so ridiculous, it sounded like he should be riding on the back of a horse in cowboy boots and a hat. 

“I said I’d have one drink,” she stated to Mor. “I’ve had two. I’m going home.”

“Of course you are.” Her best friend sighed dramatically. “You don’t care about me at all, do you? I haven’t seen you in a month, and you come to my bar and stay for all of ten minutes-”

“Mor-”

“Then try to leave, and I probably won’t see you for another-”

Feyre gave in with a huff. “Oh, my god, fine! I’ll stay. You’re so damn dramatic.” 

Her best friend jumped up and down like a toddler, clapping her hands stupidly. 

“Now I don’t have an excuse, do I?” She tried not to roll her eyes at how big Rhysand’s smile grin grew.

“Don’t get so excited. I’m just using you for liquor.”

“Fine by me,” he replied smoothly. “I’m trying to get you drunk.”

Despite herself, she laughed. She wasn’t used to such honesty. She definitely wasn’t going home with the guy, but she couldn’t deny how insanely attractive he was to her. The kind of attractive that drove women crazy. 

He was so tall, he towered over her even sitting down. He had dark hair, tan skin, and the most unique shade of eye color. They seemed almost purple and practically glowed as they raked over her. 

She turned to Mor and gestured for another drink. “You associate yourself with the strangest people.”

Mor just shrugged. 

“So, what do all do for work?” she asked the men around her, trying to make conversation. 

Rhys quickly said, “We’re- uh- in sports.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he didn’t give her a chance to ask any more questions. “What about you?”

She saw Mor roll her eyes, but she kept it simple as she said, “I’m a scientist.”

“That explains it,” Cassian said with a laugh. 

This man had a special talent for pushing peoples’ buttons, it seemed. 

She turned to him and narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to go ahead and guess that you ‘being in sports’ means you’re a football player, since everyone in this city is so obsessed with the sport. And you know what? Between the constant head trauma and the accent...” She looked him up and down with narrowed eyes, then said sweetly, “It explains a lot.”

Rhysand launched into a coughing fit. She saw Azriel glance towards Mor, but her best friend just shrugged and said, “Not a big football fan.”

“We can tell,” Cassian muttered. 

“What kind of scientist are you?” Rhys asked, ignoring his friend. 

Mor sighed, but Feyre said, “It’s complicated, but I’m basically a nuclear chemistry-”

“It is boring as hell, I assure you all,” Mor cut in. 

Feyre rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. 

Mor got a strange look on her face, bent down, and grabbed a bottle of tequila. “Who wants a shot?” 

All three men at the bar raised their hand. Feyre just rolled her eyes.  Looks like it was going to be a long night.

_____________________________________

As Feyre got up to use the bathroom, ignoring all of their taunts about having a small bladder, the bartender looked at Rhys and waggled her eyebrows. 

“What?”

“Oh, we’re going to act like you weren’t just eyeing my best-friend’s ass?” She laughed, then said, “Feyre.”

“What about Feyre?” he said, keeping his voice neutral. 

He liked her, sure. Over the past couple hours, she’d loosened up around him. She was... funny. And smart. And sarcastic. 

And yeah, she was beautiful as all hell. He’d love to take her home, but... he wasn’t a relationship guy. Football took all of his time, and he traveled practically every weekend. The women he slept with were all young and didn’t care about anything other than his latest game. 

Feyre was different. 

“You like her, don’t you?” The bartender was nosy, that was for sure. 

“She’s... serious.” 

Mor raised her eyebrows, clearly waiting for him to continue, so he said, “I don’t date. And Feyre is... serious. She probably wants a relationship and marriage and all sorts of shit-”

“You know,” Mor interrupted, “I thought people were crazy for saying a southern accent makes people stupid. But you have got to be one of the biggest idiots I’ve ever met if you think that girl wants a relationship.”

“What?” 

“She works over fifteen hours a day. Spends all her time in a hospital with nerds looking in a microscope. She wants nothing to do with a relationship, let alone marriage. Trust me.”

“Oh.” 

The woman rolled her eyes and nodded to where Feyre was walking back to them. 

Before she made it to the bar, he turned to Cassian and said quietly, “Get a ride back with Az.”

“Gladly. I hate that truck.”

He glanced toward Feyre and muttered, “Now, idiot.”

Cassian, brilliant actor he was, yawned obnoxiously and said, “Well. I’m gonna hit the hay.” He winked at Feyre. “It was nice meeting you, honey. Call me if you ever need some southern hospitality.”

She shook her head but a smile ghosted on her lips. 

“I’ll refrain from the innuendo, but it was nice meeting you, too,” Azriel said to Feyre.

Mor followed the two of them toward the exit to say goodbye.

“You’ve had too much to drink to drive home,” Rhys stated as soon as they were alone. Feyre laughed, clearly onto his game. 

He rose and extended a hand. “Come on. I’ll drive you back. I only had one drink.”

“Is this your version of southern hospitality?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

She seemed to consider this, then murmured, “It’s very different from Cassian’s.” 

Rhys smiled. “I’d be happy to show you that version. Let me drive you home.”

“I live close to here,” she laughed. “I’m walking.”

He tried not to be too disappointed. The odds of her taking him home were slim anyway-

She slid off the stool and put a hand on his arm. “But Boston can be a dangerous city. Come with?”

_____________________________________________________

Rhysand got up from his seat and threw an arm around her shoulders. “Lead the way, darling.”

“You really have to stop calling me that. You sound ridiculous.”

She didn’t really mean it, though. His accent was... different. Sexy. He was sexy. Something he was most definitely aware of, but Feyre currently didn’t care. 

Cobwebs. 

He was funny and seemed nice enough and... 

She ignored Mor’s knowing smile as they left, telling her she’d call her later.

“I have a feeling you’ll be busy,” she said knowingly. 

She ignored that, too. 

As they started the short walk toward Feyre’s townhouse, his arm still slung across her shoulders, she asked, “So, did you win tonight?”

She could feel his chest rumble as he laughed. “Yeah, we won.”

“And you played the...”

“Steelers.”

“Right. Congratulations, then.”

He seemed to think her lack of football-knowledge was amusing. “Why the hell do you live in Boston?” he asked with a smile.

She froze. 

“What do you mean?” she said, trying to be casual. 

She led them around a corner that led to her block. 

“You hate football. You don’t like crowds. You could probably work anywhere. Why not live somewhere else?” 

They walked up to her house, and she answered simply, “I moved here to do my PhD at Harvard, and they offered me a job. Made sense.” 

“And do you like it here?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

She smiled, unlocked her door, and replied, “Ask me in an hour.”

He mirrored her grin, then pushed her by the shoulders through the door. “Give me two, and it’ll be your favorite place in the world.” 

Feyre laughed, locked the door, then turned to him. Leaning against the door, she looked him up and down and muttered, “Clocks ticking, Rhysand.”

________________________________________________________

As Rhys opened his eyes, he was wonderfully aware of the weight atop him. 

The naked weight.

Blowing Feyre’s hair out of his face, he smiled as she murmured something in her sleep. She was probably tired. 

They hadn’t gotten much sleep. 

Given how cautious she was when they’d first met, he’d half expected her to kick him out pretty early. Needless to say, he’d been pleasantly surprised. 

When the feeling of her on top of him grew to be too tempting, he ran his fingers through her hair and murmured her name.

She shook her head, making him grin. 

His fingers drifted over her back and he loved the way she felt in his arms. After a minute, she turned her head, chin resting on his chest, and looked up at him. 

“Good morning,” she said simply. 

He just pulled her up to him, pressing his lips to hers. She smiled against him, legs coming up to straddle his waist. 

Rhys took in their position and smiled, leaning up to kiss his way up her neck. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Cowgirl’s your favorite position isn’t it? And you say I’m country.” 

He snickered, proud of his joke, then practically choked on the sound as she slid herself onto him. “Shit, Feyre.”

"No more jokes, Rhysand?” she murmured, rocking her hips slowly. 

“Just Rhys,” he panted. He leaned forward to take one of her breasts into his mouth, and she gasped, the sound music to his ears. 

“Rhys,” she moaned, fingers digging into his back. 

“Yes, Feyre?” He gripped her hips to keep her still as he asked, “Do you need something?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he tried not to grin. 

“I said ‘Good morning.’ Don’t make me liar.” 

This woman would be the death of him. He laughed and released her hips, reveling in how she responded to every movement, every touch. 

She picked up the pace, and Rhys just sat there with his teeth gritted and tried not to ruin the moment for both of them. 

He could tell when she was close, her legs tightening around him, voice shaking as she called out his name. He pulled her hair, kissing up her exposed neck and across her jaw to her ear. 

“Come for me, Feyre darling,” he whispered, pulling on the shell with his teeth. 

She moaned, falling apart in his arms, and Rhys had to use sheer will to wait until she was done to finish. 

This woman... was the definition of seduction. Even after a whole night together, he couldn’t get enough. 

As they came down together, he looked at her and smirked. “Good morning.”

She smiled and kissed him, biting his lips gently. Even though he’d just had her, his body was ready for more. 

He was about to flip them over when she ruined the moment and said, “You have to leave.”

She climbed off him, and he watched with amusement as she sprung from the bed, ripped the sheet off of him, and started pacing around the room. 

She found his pants at him and threw them at him. “I’m serious, Rhys. I have to... do stuff.”

He ignored the clothes on his chest. They were both completely naked, and if he had anything to say about it, they’d stay that way for a while. “Like what? You told Mor you have the day off.” 

“I do, but-”

“Then come here.”

She crossed her arms. “Rhysand.”

He sat up and extended a hand. “Just shut up and come here. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” 

_________________________________________________________

Oh, I’m sure you will, Feyre thought as she rolled her eyes and took his hand. 

Then gasped as he used the other hand to rip the sheet off her and throw her on her bed. 

She barely had time to process before he was on top of her, pressing kisses across her chest, down her stomach. Further. 

Sweet Jesus, she thought. The man hadn’t let her sleep more than two hours last night. Not that she was complaining. The cobwebs were completely gone, that was for sure. 

A moan escaped her lips as his teeth scraped her thigh, and he chuckled. She was about to flick his shoulder, but then his lips slid higher, and every thought emptied our of her head. 

She couldn’t keep herself still as he kissed her, so he held her hips with both hands. 

Hers found themselves in his hair and she pulled as he ran his tongue up her center. 

“Rhys, baby,” she panted. She didn’t care how she sounded. Didn’t care about anything but the sight of his head buried between her legs. 

She didn’t know if it was because she was out of practice or because he was some sort of sex god, but she was already close. Again.

By the time she came, her entire body was limp with pleasure and she was close to seeing stars. 

When she opened her eyes, he was above her, smirking like a cat. 

He leaned down to kiss her, but she flicked his nose in annoyance. 

“If you try and fuck me again before I get some food, I’ll strangle you.” 

Ignoring the warning, he buried his head in her neck and tugged on her earlobe with his teeth. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Feyre darling.”

She laughed against her better judgement, but pushed his shoulders until he let her up. If she didn’t eat something, she might pass out when they went again. 

She grabbed his t-shirt from last night and threw it on as she walked to her kitchen. It came down to practically her knees, making her look ridiculous, but she didn’t care. It was soft and big and smelled like him. 

“Pancakes?” she asked, turning around to catch him looking at her in amusement. At what she was wearing. 

She raised an eyebrow, daring him to say something. 

“Pancakes would be great.”

Feyre ignored the look in his eyes and started cooking. And kept ignoring it as he watched. 

Every time she looked at him, he looked like he was five seconds away from throwing her over his shoulder and dragging her back to bed. 

The idea of messing with him a little more was too tempting to ignore. 

“Close your eyes,” she ordered secretively, reaching into her fridge. 

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but gave in when she raised her eyebrows. 

She used a finger to tip his head backward, then whispered, “Open your mouth.”

His lips curved into a smile, then opened. She took the can of Ready Whip and sprayed some whip cream in his mouth, laughing as his purple eyes shot open, full of amusement. 

“Cute,” he muttered, swallowing the whip cream. 

She leaned in and licked some of the remainder off his bottom lip. He froze, then reached for her. Before he could get those arms around her, she walked to the stove and took the pancakes off. 

Sliding an unhealthy amount toward him, she said, “Eat your breakfast, dear.”

Rhys gave her an annoyingly perfect smile and devoured the food. She looked at him as he ate, wondering how he looked like a Greek god when he ate like... that. 

He looked up as he finished and laughed at the look on her face. “Baby, don’t invite a football player over if you don’t expect him to eat all your food.”

She took their plates and stuck them in the sink. When she turned around, he immediately strode over and grabbed her face, pulling her lips to his. 

He kissed her thoroughly, then pulled back far enough to say, “Meet me in your bedroom.” Another kiss. “And Feyre? Bring that whip cream.”

__________________________________________________________

By the time Rhysand left, Feyre could hardly stand up. She had no idea how she was going to make it through her shift tomorrow, given that she was so exhausted she could sleep probably for a day straight. 

That’s when she realized that for the first time in her career, she didn’t want to go to work. She wanted to call Rhysand and tell him to come back. 

That’s not an option.

A relationship was out of the question. It’d be cruel to him to invite him back, knowing it would never go anywhere. For all she knew, he was trying to settle down. With a nice girl who’d give up her life to have his babies and be a football wife. 

Hell no. 

As she got out of the shower, giggling at how shaky her legs were, she told herself to forget him. 

But when the phone rang, she was surprisingly disappointed when she looked at the caller id and saw it wasn’t him. 

As soon as she picked up, Mor practically yelled, “How was it?!”

“How was what, Mor?”

“The sex last night, idiot. Was it good? I bet it was good. You don’t look like that and not have a seriously huge-”

“Mor! Calm down.”

She could tell her best friend was enjoying this way too much. “I’ll calm down when you tell me. Everything.”

Feyre laughed, then gave in and asked, “What do you want to know?”

“How long did he stay? Oh, you made him walk back to his truck in the middle of the night, didn’t you? Mean woman.” 

When she didn’t respond, Mor pushed, “Unless you didn’t. When did he leave, Feyre? Hm?”

“An hour ago,” she admitted. 

The howl that Mor let out was practically inhuman. “Oh my god! You nasty bitch! Or, wait. Is he the nasty bitch?”

Feyre laughed. “You have no idea.”

“I cannot believe you let him stay all day. He must be good. He’s good isn’t he?”

She didn’t have to think back to remember the answer to that question. “You have no idea,” she repeated. 

Mor laughed. “I’m so happy for you. Are you seeing him again?”

“No, probably not.”

She stopped laughing. “And why the hell not?”

“I don’t date. It wouldn’t be fair to him to keep sleeping with him and lead him on-”

“You’re both idiots.”

That stopped her. “What?”

Mor sighed on the other end of the call. “He doesn’t date. At all. He’s seen with 20 year old blondes who probably don’t know their head from their ass. You don’t have to worry about him trying to tie you down.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly. 

Of course he wasn’t the dating type. He was a professional athlete. Women probably threw themselves at him. 

“For someone so smart, you really are an idiot.”

“You have a point. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later.” It was only eight PM, but she could hardly keep her eyes open. 

“Worn out, aren’t you?” Mor asked in a knowing voice.

“Good night, Morrigan.”

____________________________________________________________

Rhys wasn’t surprised to see Azriel and Cassian in his apartment when he got back the next day. 

“You dirty dog,” Cassian said smugly, throwing a pillow at his head.

Rhys smiled and told him to shut his fat mouth. “What are you idiots doing here? Get evicted?”

“Waiting on your ass,” Azriel said. “We’re going out.”

“Not everyone got laid last night,” Cassian said sourly. “Ruined a good win.”

Az and Rhys both ignored him. “Wanna come?” 

“I’m gonna crash, actually. I have an early meeting tomorrow with coach.” It was an excuse; he’d barely made it home without falling asleep at the wheel. 

“Mmhm, an early meeting with coach,” Cassian said knowingly. “More like a late night with a pretty blonde.”

Rhysand just winked and said, “We made sure to avoid your seat in the truck.”

“Disgusting,” his best friend said bitterly as the pair walked toward the door. “I hate that truck.” 

As soon as the door swung close behind them, Rhys showered and passed out. 

_______________________________________________________

Three days later, Rhys was watching highlights from the game when his phone rang. He smiled as he saw the caller ID. 

“Unless the hospital is calling to tell me I’m dying,” he said as he picked up, “I’m going to assume this is Miss Feyre Archeron.”

“Wow, an athlete with a brain,” the sarcasm flowed through the line clearly.  

“I’m a package deal, baby. So, what’s up?” If this was a booty call, he’d make her say it. He’d definitely give in, but he’d make her ask first. 

“I don’t date,” she blurted suddenly. 

He paused, then said, “Me either.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just mimicked, “Okay.”

“Then come over.” 

Rhysand smiled, looking at his watch. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

_____________________________________________________

Two months later, they’d spent practically every night together. Either he’d stay at her house and get kicked out at the ass crack of dawn when she left for work, or she’d stay with him and he’d wake up alone.

On the rare days her boss forbade her from working, they’d spend all day together, running errands, cooking, fooling around. Hell, she’d even come to one of his football practices. “Out of pure boredom,” she’d claimed. 

He’d never tell her, but seeing her had become the best part of his day.

Sure, he’d resigned his contract for the next year to keep his dream job, but even that paled in comparison to her coming over. He’d started to depend on her. He’d started to care about her. 

Only Cassian--who gave him shit about it daily--knew. And had been told to keep his mouth shut about it. 

Because he knew that as soon as he told Feyre, she’d bolt. He just had no idea why. 

Sure, he’d said he didn’t date. He was thirty-eight and had a terrible relationship track record, having only had a handful of serious ones. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try, right? 

He’d never felt like this before... never been so desperate to spend time with someone. And it wasn’t just the sex like he’d thought for the first few weeks. 

Because even when they weren’t having sex, he wanted to be around her. Wanted to hear her laugh, the one she let out when he surprised her or she made fun of his accent. Wanted to see her smile. Wanted to see her asleep in his bed, wearing his t-shirt. 

He wanted her. 

Ridiculous.

The first woman to openly not want a relationship with him, he can’t get out of his mind. 

Snapping out of his thoughts, he noticed her staring up at him. “What?” he asked, worried everything he’d been thinking was written on his face.

“Nothing,” she said for the fifth time, stifling a giggle. 

He rolled his eyes. “Just say it.” 

“I cannot believe Dirty Dancing is your favorite movie!” She exploded, gesturing to the screen as if he were blind. “You’re a football player.” 

“Which means I can’t have a good taste in movies?”

She shrugged. “It’s just not what I was expecting when you suggested we watch a movie. I figured you just wanted to come out here and have sex again.”

He grinned. “I did that for your sake. I figured if we stayed in bed any longer, you wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

With her head on a pillow in his lap, she looked completely adorable as she looked up and stuck her tongue out at him. “How considerate.” 

“Southern hospitality knows no limits.” 

As they watched the movie, Rhys couldn’t help but sneak glances at her. She was... distracting. The ocean eyes, full mouth, and delicate features were pretty much a constant distraction for him. 

When the final scene started playing out, Rhys grinned like an idiot and said, “Dance with me, Feyre Archeron.”

“What?”

“Come on. I wanna show you something.” He took her hand, hauled her off the couch, and took her to the biggest open space in his apartment. 

He put his hands on her shoulders and told her to stay put, then walked to the other side of the room. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she said immediately, realizing what he had planned. “Absolutely not.”

Rhysand laughed and said, “Run and jump.”

“Hell no! You’ll drop me.” She crossed her arms and stayed put.

He rolled his eyes. “I promise I won’t drop you. You’re about a hundred pounds soaking wet.” 

“No.”

“Chicken.”

“Excuse me?” she asked incredulously. “You seriously think that’s going to work on me?”

“Yep.”

“You’re right,” she admitted, barely giving him any time to prepare as she ran toward him, yelped, and jumped.

His hands wrapped around her waist as he lifted her up above his shoulders. She hollered like a wounded cat, but she stayed in the air and lifted her legs as he spun her around slowly. 

She giggled as he held her up, and the sound was so adorable that as he let her down, he slowly dipped her. Her hair brushed the floor as he held her, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed a kiss to her lips. 

He could tell she was surprised when she froze, but then she melted into him. 

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him close and opened her mouth for him. It was like it was the first time they’d kissed, and he couldn’t get enough. He kissed her like his life depended on it, and she responded to every movement. She sighed into his mouth and he drank the sound in. 

When he finally brought her back up and pulled away, she had tears in her eyes. 

“What?” he asked, concerned. 

Feyre’s brow was creased as she brought a hand to her mouth. “I have to go,” she whispered. 

“Feyre.”

She paced around his apartment, picking up her clothes and throwing them on as she went. “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

“You always have an early morning. What’s wrong?”

She pulled her boots on, zipped her jacket, and smiled tightly. “Nothing’s wrong. I’ll... see you later.” 

He didn’t have time to say anything before she sped out the door. 

Shit.

______________________________________________________

“He kissed me,” she said as soon as Mor answered the phone.

A pause. “He hasn’t kissed you before?” 

Feyre sped down the road to her house, explaining, “Of course he’s kissed me. But this was different. He dipped me, Mor. Like actual dipping. And he kissed me. Not to get in my pants, but just because. Like he couldn’t stop himself.”

“Oh. You think he has feelings for you?” 

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to find out.” This was the last thing she needed. The past month had been good. So good. 

But it had to end. She didn’t want a relationship... even if the idea of never seeing him again hurt so much she couldn’t breathe. 

He’d become someone to her in the two months they’d spent together. And even though it’d hurt like hell, she had to cut it off. Before it got worse. 

“Feyre-”

“Don’t ‘Feyre’ me. I’m fine.”

Her best friend didn’t let up. “No, you’re not. Ever since Tamlin, ever since that night, you haven’t been fine.”

“Stop talking. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Mor-”

“He hurt you, and now you don’t trust men. You got freaked out tonight because this thing with Rhysand could be real, and you’re scared. You’re scared if you let yourself love him, he’ll hurt you.”

Feyre suddenly yelled, “Wouldn’t you be?”

The line went silent, so she continued, “Yeah, I’m fucked up because of my marriage. It’s pretty easy to figure out. But wouldn’t you be? I was with Tamlin for eight years! Did you know that after hearing your worthless and pathetic and that you deserve what happens to you for so long, you start to believe it? So unless you’ve dealt with that for eight years and been trapped in a marriage to someone like that for eight years, don’t you dare bring it up to me. I have to go.”

She didn’t give Mor a chance to respond as she hung up. 

She pulled into her driveway, took a deep breath and told herself the tears flowing down her cheeks were from her fight with Mor. 

_______________________________________________________

“We’re closed,” Mor yelled as Rhys walked in the bar, then looked up and froze. “Oh.”

“Tell me, Mor. Tell me what happened to her.” He knew there was a reason she’d been freaked out after he kissed her. He just didn’t know what it was. 

“To who?”

He came and sat in one of the bar stools, leveling a look at her. “To Feyre. Why did me kissing her send her running for the hills? I know she told you. She hasn’t answered my calls in six days.”

She shrugged, trying to make herself look casual. “Maybe she’s just not into you.”

“She’s into me.”

Mor snapped, “Maybe she’s not.”

His eyes softened, and she knew he saw it for the lie it was. “What happened to her?”

He could tell she was struggling with not telling him. She might not. But he wanted to fight for her. Wanted to make her happy. He just had to know how. 

She took a deep breath and said, “Feyre and I used to live in New York, you know. That’s where we’re from. And Feyre was married.”

He nodded for her to continue.

“They got married young, and he... changed. He... just.. he was so angry. All the time.” She took a shaky breath. 

“At first, I didn’t notice it. I didn’t see that anything was wrong. But one night, about five years into their marriage, I went to their apartment for dinner, and I saw that she had makeup on her cheek. Not a lot, but... like she was covering something up.” A tear that rolled down her cheek. 

“And he saw. That bastard saw me notice it.” She wiped her cheeks, trying to compose herself. “And I didn’t see her for three years. He wouldn’t let her go anywhere besides work. And he hardly let that happen.”

Rhys closed his eyes sadly, but she continued. “I didn’t see my best friend for three years. Until she showed up in the emergency room.”

His eyes snapped open. 

“I’m her emergency contact. I don’t know why she never changed it when she got married, but she didn’t. So I got the call, and drove to the hospital, and she was-”

She swallowed a sob. “She was in a coma for two days.” 

Mor cleared her throat. “When she woke up, I don’t know how to describe it. She was... different. I helped her divorce him and get a restraining order, but it wasn’t easy. He controlled all her shit. Bank accounts, everything. She was never the same. We left, packed up, and moved to Boston together. She didn’t want him to know where she lived. I think... sometime I think she’s still scared he’ll track her down.” 

“It took her three years to even go on a date. Another to have sex. She says she’s fine, but ever since that night, she won’t let herself actually let anyone in her life. She’s always been a workaholic, but after what happened... I don’t know. It’s like moving on, having a life, makes her remember her life before.” 

Mor sobbed, “And I don’t know how to help her. Because he’s a cop, you know. That’s why it was so hard for her to leave him. We had to go to the freaking governor to get the restraining order.”

A sob wracked her body, so Rhys leaned across the bar and pulled her into a hug. It made sense. Why him showing any sort of feelings freaked her out. Why she’d been cautious around him, Cassian, and Az when they’d first met. Why she didn’t want a relationship with him. 

But it didn’t mean he couldn’t fight for her. That he couldn’t tell her that he’d never hurt her. 

“Mor,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

She pulled back and wiped her eyes. “Well, now you do.”

“I want to be with her.”

She nodded, and smiled sadly. “I know.”

“And she wants to be with me, too.” 

Mor nodded again. “Go get your girl, Rhysand. But, just be careful. And I swear to God, if you’re anything like him-”

“I’m not,” he interjected. 

“-I’ll shoot you. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

“I’m never going to hurt her. You can count on that. Do you think she’s still at the hospital? If she’s not going to answer the phone, I’m gonna track her ass down.”

________________________________________________________

Feyre scribbled down her note, then peered back into the microscope. She knew it was late, but it’s not like she had anywhere to be. The thought sent a pang through her chest, but she ignored it.

She was so distracted thinking about how big of a mess she was that she didn’t hear him come in the lab.

“Feyre,” a familiar male voice said from behind her. 

She spun around and opened her mouth to scream, but he was faster. She cried out as his fist connected with her ribs, but he stifled the noise when he slapped a hand over her mouth and shoved her against the door. 

She tried to swing a fist toward him, but he pinned her arms against the door. 

“It’s been a long time,” Tamlin said, smiling. “It took me a long time to track you down. You know how I found you? Paparazzi posted a picture of you leaving some football player’s apartment at three in the morning. Little whore.”

She whimpered as he squeezed her jaw. 

“So I came to see you. At first, I wanted to punish you. You were my wife. Mine. And then you go and divorce me. For no reason. I wanted to know why.”

Howie, she thought desperately. If she could signal Howie, he’d come and save her. 

She ignored what he was saying, blocked it out, and bit his hand as hard as she could. 

Tamlin jumped back with a surprised yelp and she barely had a chance to scream before his fist connected with her eye. She fell to the ground and he kicked her in the side, making her curl into a ball. 

“You bitch! Why are you screaming? If you’re trying to get that fat security guard, he can’t hear you.” 

No one’s coming. A tear ran down her cheek onto the floor. 

“Now, as I was saying,” he continued as if nothing had happened. “At first, I wanted to punish you. I had it all planned out.”

He knelt on the floor, brushing the hair off her cheek. 

“But then I realized something. I realized you ruined my life. You told everyone I worked with, hell you told the governor, that I abused you. You got me kicked off the force.” 

“Why are you here? What do you want?” 

Please leave please leave me alone-

“I want you to suffer for what you did-”

“I do-” 

Her cheek stung as a palm connected with it, making her cry out. 

“Do not interrupt me again.” His voice was so cold, so calculating. “I want you to suffer. I want you to lose everything, like I did. But the only thing you ever cared about is work. And I couldn’t get you fired. No, you’re too good at your job.”

She shook with fear as he smiled down at her.

“But then I thought, if the job won’t lose you, you can lose the job.”

He ran a thumb over her lip, and she was paralyzed with fear when she realized the bitter taste in her mouth was gas. 

“What did you do?” she asked softly.

His fist closed around her throat. She clawed at his hand, kicked at him, tried everything, but she was stuck. It had never mattered how hard she fought. 

When her vision started to fade, he let go. 

“Don’t question me,” he snapped as Feyre hauled oxygen into her burning lungs. 

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lighter, grinning down at her.

Feyre’s stomach bottomed out. 

She had to think, had to do something. Or else she was going to die in here. 

“You were so consumed by your work, you didn’t even smell the gas I lined this fucking room with. Always so distracted by your work.” 

He laughed softly, “And now you’ll burn with it.”

He flicked the lighter open, and time seemed to stand still. Feyre didn’t let herself hesitate as she reached onto the counter, grabbed the beaker she knew was sitting there, and broke it over Tamlin’s head. 

He swore and closed the lighter, then swung at her. She rolled away from him, placing a kick in between his legs that had him gasping for air. 

She got up and sprinted for the door. Her fingers were closing around the handle when he caught up to her, grabbing her head and slamming her face into the metal door frame. 

Feyre sank to the floor, and Tamlin knelt in front of her. She tasted blood, felt it running down her face, and knew from experience her nose was broken. 

As he punched her in the stomach, she could tell she’d have a ruptured spleen. 

He was still dripping wet from the beaker, but he leaned close and laughed. 

He opened the lighter close to her face, the heat warming her skin. 

“You always were a fighter.” 

This is it. If she didn’t fight now, it was over. He’d drop that lighter, and they’d both go up in flames. Together at last. 

Gritting her teeth, she told herself she wasn’t going to die here tonight. She was going to live. 

She was going to kill her ex-husband. 

Bringing her knees close, she rallied her strength and kicked his chest as hard as she could. As he fell backward, she jumped to her feet. 

Before he could react, she grabbed the lighter out of his hand, threw it on his chest, and rushed out the door. 

What Tamlin hadn’t realized when he’d lined the room with gas was that there were more chemicals in there than anywhere else in the hospital. He didn’t even have to use gasoline. But now that he had, one open flame, and the whole place was going to blow.

She ignored the growing flames on the other side of the glass as she engaged the door’s security lock. Ignored Tamlin’s screams as the petrol from the beaker reacted with the oxygen in the air and the present flame, erupting in flames twenty times hotter than usual. 

She ignored everything happening around her except Rhysand. 

Rhysand, who was running toward her, a confused and terrified look on his face. 

She had no idea what he was doing here, but she sprinted full force at him, also ignoring the fact that he was a professional football player. She wrapped her arms around him and tackled him to the ground as the room behind her erupted. 

Glass and debris and pieces of paper still on fire rained down on them as she looked down at him. 

She laid on top of him, shielding him as best she could, and grabbed his face. Please be alive, please be alive.

His eyes shot open, arms coming around her to brush debris off her back. 

“Feyre, are you all right? What the hell happened?” His voice was fuzzy, like she was underwater. 

She probably had a concussion from where Tamlin had slammed her against the door. 

Tamlin. 

Tamlin was dead. She’d killed Tamlin. 

“He’s dead,” she whispered. “He’s dead.”

Rhys was shaking her, telling her to stay awake. Alarms were going off, the sprinkler system sensing the fire and raining a flood down on them. 

He was screaming her name. 

She just looked at him and smiled softly. “I love you, by the way,” she whispered. Like it was the easiest thing she’d ever said. Like she’d been waiting to say it. 

“I love you,” she whispered again.

Then passed out. 

_______________________________________________________

There was something warm and heavy on her lap. And it had hair. 

She opened her eyes and looked down at Rhys, peacefully sleeping with his head resting on her legs. 

Gently, she ran a hand through his hair. 

She was in a hospital bed, that much was obvious. There were probably police men outside waiting for a statement from her about why her much-beloved lab had been blown to pieces under her watch. 

She knew from experience that as soon as she officially woke up, she’d be surrounded be nurses and police officers and doctors asking how she felt and... 

She ran a finger down Rhys’s cheek. 

She knew he was awake when his mouth twisted into a smile and he murmured, “Do that again.”

She did. 

His eyes opened to meet hers, full of worry and passion and anger. 

“Hi,” she whispered. 

“Hi.” He picked his head up and put a hand on her cheek. “You’re so beautiful. This gown suits you.”

She knew he said it to distract her, and smile tugged at her lips, even as tears sprung to her eyes. 

She was in the hospital. Again. Because of her ex-husband. And Rhys was here. He’d probably never look at her the same after this. Would probably pity her now. 

He leaned in, and she thought he was about to kiss her, but his mouth landed on her cheek instead. As he licked her tear off her face. 

“That’s disgusting,” she murmured, not pushing him away as he moved to the other cheek. 

He pulled back and grinned. 

“Mor told me about your ex-husband,” he said softly. 

Before she could reply, he surprised her by murmuring, “And I honestly don’t know why you say you don’t have any country in you.”

Had he hit his head when she’d tackled him?

“What?” 

“Considering you barbecued his ass,” he finished with a laugh.

Despite how awful and wrong that was, a giggle escaped her. And another. And another, until she was laughing along with him. 

“That’s so fucked up,” she said, still smiling. 

“Yeah, it is, but it’s all I’ve been able to think for the past four hours.” 

Then his smile faded and his eyes grew serious. He put both hands on her face and pulled her close to him. “Feyre.”

“Rhysand.”

“It’s over now. He’s never going to hurt you again. No ones ever going to hurt you again. I’m so proud of you.” He said it all in the softest tone possible, and it made her chest hurt with how much she needed those words. 

“I killed him,” she whispered, the reality of it crashing into her. 

He shook his head. “You defended yourself. He was going to kill you. You fought like hell, and you won.”

Feyre nodded, pulling him closer until his weight was on top of her and his arms were around her. 

“You kicked his ass,” he murmured through her hair. “My little brawler.” 

She smiled, running her hands over his back. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her. 

She pulled back far enough to say, “What do you possibly have to be sorry for?” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster and I didn’t protect you-”

“Rhysand.”

“Yes.”

She shook her head and flicked his nose. “Shut up.”

“Okay.” 

He hugged her again. “You should know,” he said a moment later, pulling back to give her a smile, “that Mor is outside with Azriel and Cassian.”

“Oh, God.” 

“Yeah. I think they had to give Mor a sedative to calm her down. I’ll go get her if you want.”

Feyre shook her head, deciding to give herself another moment before dealing with that brand of crazy. 

“Do you remember what you said to me? After you tackled me? Which, by the way, was insanely sexy.” 

She knew under the humor was a twinge of anxiety, so she said, “I could talk about the homo-eroticism of what you just said, but I’ll give you a break. You’re under a lot of stress.”

Rhysand grinned and raised an eyebrow. 

“I love you,” she murmured. “You know I do.”

“I do,” he replied smugly, smirking like a cat. “I love you, too.” 

He leaned down and kissed her softly, ignoring the probably nasty black eye and bruised jaw. He kissed her, and she didn’t care about anything in the world. 

Until the door banged open. 

“You’re awake and you didn’t tell me!” Mor screeched, running in the room and throwing herself on Feyre, bruises be dammed. “Of course you didn’t because you wanted a chance to make out with your boyfriend before you did. Selfish, Feyre! Selfish!”

“Mor,” she muttered, hugging her back tightly. “I’m awake.”

“You’re such a bitch,” he best friend laughed.

“I love you, too.”

Rhys laughed and got out of his chair, probably going to talk to his friends and update them. 

For the first time in years, everything felt right. It felt good. She was excited for tomorrow, not because of work, but because for the first time in a long time, she had people in her life she was going to fight to keep there. 

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid. 

_____________________________________________________

FUCK sorry this is so long! I literally had no intention of taking this route when I started writing it, but shit happens when it’s 2 am and you’ve had a long week. 

As always, feel free to send me requests/asks/whatever. I love hearing from yall. 

@bamchickawowow

[misslisterkeepsajournal]

1828 Saturday 17 May

8 1/2 10 1/2

Breakfast about 9 1/2 or rather later - sat talking a little to Mrs. D- [Dalton] their butcher's bills have been £300 a year and £200 a year - vary very much - 11 servants, 8 women and 3 men - 1 hour or 1 1/2 hour packing - at breakfast Marianne and her nonsense calling me nanny she asked how I liked I said the name was certainly quite new to me and surprised but I was otherwise indifferent about it what a goose she is and I now rather dislike her - she told me yesterday she only painted to please her father her own happiness was to lie in bed reading a good novel - Sat a few minutes with Mr. D- [Dalton] in his study - a momentary take leave of Marianne and all the rest of the girls in her painting room - then sat with Mrs. D- [Dalton] she summed up what I said, they said in Paris I ought to buy for visiting next winter to £118 which she said would dress her for 2 years -

Left the party at 1 55/60 - IN- [Isabella Norcliffe] would see me off - we walked about - went into the church yard - off at 2 10/60 in the Telegraph (4 inside coach) for Durham - only one man inside besides myself, and he left us at Darlington, and I was alone the rest of the way - the footman took my liggage [sic] and the butler went to open me the coach door for which each got half a crown I have no intention returning to my friends at Croft or meeting them in July at Hartlepool as they wish me to do for a few days or as long as I can Marianne would teaze and not one of the rest would repay me - incurred a cross just after leaving Rushyford thinking of Pi [Mariana] -

Got to Darlington (and change horses) in 35 minutes, a nice town - neatly kept handsome looking church - a greek cross ∴ looking all of a heap - at the far end of the town, left, the 'Eldon main, Fire coal 7/6 a ton - line coal 6/8 a ton' - change horses at Rushyford, a singley-standing neat-looking splashed Inn 1/2 way between Darlington and Durham - here the road turns off westward to Bp. [Bishop] auckland which being about 10 miles from Durham may probably be about a mile from here? - flat, uninteresting drive from Croft to Rushyford, beyond this the range of limestone hill (right) begins to near a little, the country is more undulating - a little hill or 2 in the road, and patches of wood are to be seen, and the situation of Durham upon the Wear is picturesque - no sight of the city till within about a mile, descend the hill - the cathedral finely placed on a hill, and the city creeping down along its declivity at the foot of which runs the wear with a good bridge over it -

At 5 1/4 alighted at the 1/2 moon, an ale-house nearly opposite the Waterloo Inn or hotel which, the King's or Queen's head (I forget which) are called the best Inns in Durham - the former not good-enough-looking to strike me, or catch my attention in any way - sent off my luggage to another alehouse the hat and feather, close to the marketplace, and ordered my place to be taken for Sunderland (on purpose to see the bridge) at 6 -

Took a prettyish young woman with me from the Inn as guide to the cathedral - close by, the bp's [bishop's] palace built out of, and called the castle, the old tower (square with bevelled corners?) standing close to it, in the garden on grounds on a mound like Clifford's Tower, York - entrance to the palace a castle court by an old castle-gateway - fine-looking cathedral - plain exterior - 2 lowish-looking west towers and latern tower high above its neighbours - the present cathedral, said the woman who shewed it, built about 900 years ago - the 2 doors under the 2 west towers instead of opening outward, open into what is called St. Mary's Chapel, said to be part of the old, original church - a very fine specimen of 3 aisles of circular arches all the groinings of which finished in dog-tooth - here stands a large table tomb, the stone quite plain, said to be the tomb of 'St. Bede - this chapel is just fitted up with reading desk etc. for evening lectures - the deal of the benches, etc., not yet painted - only just done - last week - circular arches along the nave, chancel, and transepts - the most striking thing, all the pairs of columns dissimilar - 1 pair fluted straight - 2 or 3 pairs fluted in different patterns - spirally, and chequered - very odd effect - never saw anything like it before -

Very odd columns in the Durham Cathedral (Image Source) 

Pavement of the nave not good - north door into the nave very bad - cloisters perfect - in - very good repair - behind the altar is the shrine of St. Cuthbert and behind this what they call the nine altars, a spacious chapel which, with its large middle window and 2 side windows finished outside in 3 gables? with 2 turret somehow at each outside gable, forms a singular sort of looking attachment to the main building as one looks at from without - the large stone covering St. Cuthbert's bones just behind the altar was removed the other day - the bones taken up, put into a common deal coffin, and reinterred in the same place as before - no fine monuments - 2 or 3 old ones of the lords Neville, killed in battle against the Scots - the woman said the singing was excellent and the organ one of the finest in England, much finer than that in York -

Dr. Prossers a good looking gothic house - the other building round the close (my guide called it the college) making no great appearance - the close like a long quadrangular court, too confined - the city (brick built) all up hill and down - saw not one good street - small poorish market place (market day) the most striking object in it, the pump, the well being covered over with a little massy round-topped building surmounted by a huge figure of Neptune with his trident-

At 6 5/60 took my seat by the old coachman (tho' I had my place inside) and left the inside to the market people such a coach, such tackling, and 4 such horses I never before saw in England - I wondered how and when we should get to Sunderland - said the coachman 'all where we are going is underminded' - strong symptoms of a coal country - rail-ways raised on the black shale, and here and there the smoke of an engine to be descried - Houghton-le-spring 1/2 way between Durham and Sunderland - a niceish good village - no 'squire - only the rector who has a low but handsome 2 storied gothic house approached by a handsome castle-like gateway - very good-looking church - the people talked of Houghton bank - It was by this, rising steeply from the village, that we crossed the great ridge of lime hill - about 2 years since they cut thro' the hill (3 or 4 hundred yards in length) the present road which is in the deepest part, they say, 15 yards deep - almost all was done by blasting - the sides perpendicular - no complaint of its being filled up with snow last winter - does not look more than 7 yards wide if so much - only just room for 2 carriages to pass comfortably - singular looking cleft as one saw it in the distance on approaching Houghton - no view of the sea till within 2 or 3 miles of Sunderland, tho' perhaps one ought to see it from the top of Houghton bank - brick or limestone buildings all the way - villages pretty good - the coachman pointed out where Wearmouth ended and Sunderland began - fine, broad, handsome long street - nothing like it in Durham -

Alighted at the George Inn at 7 10/60 - hearing that a coach would leave the Golden Lion at 8 1/2 in the morning for N.C. [Newcastle], went and took up my quarters there for the night - best Inn in Sunderland - no great appearance outside, but apparently plenty of room - got into a little sitting room by the door, with a roaring fire in it, hot as flames - tho' a little starved on entering, soon obliged to open the window - had tea immediately - not a muffin nor tea cake in the house, but not having eaten since breakfast at 9 1/2 made a hearty meal on dry toast and butter - market day, too, at Sunderland - the market held in the street, but the butchers stalls, all looked neat and well - went to my room at 9 1/2 - the chambermaid shewed me into a much smaller room than I had seen on entering said it was the undermaid the other was engaged I remonstrated said I was annoyed sent for the mistress she was out when would she up in the morning not till eleven sat up late made the woman change me into the next room which was however the same or no better than the other found the people took me for a nobody and I suspected on seeing the waiter last night and quietly resolved to make the best of it determining to save my money - Do not believe the bed was damp, but slept on my plaid and in my drawers and greatcoat - everything very clean - very fine day -  

Letter this morning (about noon) from Mrs. Duffin, York, to say her nephew Matthew was elected to to Christ Church Oxford - all her father wished - read aloud to Mr. D- [Dalton] the kind messages to him and Mrs. D- [Dalton] to go to the Duffins when they want a bed in York etc. etc. 

Croft to Darlington . 4 D- [Darlington] to Durham . 18 D- [Durham] to Sunderland . 13

Reference: SH:7/ML/E/10/0160 - SH:7/ML/E/10/0161

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: November 2020

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of November 2020 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

Nobody was expecting Donald Trump to concede defeat gracefully, but bloody hell, between the completely batshit insane conspiracy theory bollocks from himself and the rancid Trump offspring to Rudy Giuliani making complete fools of themselves even before he had to give a press conference from the parking lot of a landscaping firm as nobody checked which Four Seasons it was, before threatening to outlaw Twitter because people made fun of his little table (yes, that sentence does make sense), nobody could have expected just how tempramental toddlers are now thinking it's a bit much

...although somehow the Tory government managed to have an even worse response, because not only did posting a boilerplate jpeg to congratulate Joe Biden for his victory the laziest response possible, but then it turned out that they only had a celebratory jpeg for a Trump victory and hastily edited it on Paint so that Biden’s name was on there, but did a cack-handed job of it even though a.) Common sense dictates you have one for each candidate ready in advance, and b.) Given they had several days to accept which way the wind was blowing, the fact they did the most cack-handed job says everything you need to know 

Smirking cretin Priti Patel has bullied Home Office staff and, having initially tried to bury the report, the best the Tory government could come up with to try and make this go away was claim that she was bullying her subordinates by accident while proven liar Boris Johnson claimed she had done nothing wrong, numerous members of the Tory government either said that as they hadn’t seen her bullying anyone she must be innocent or tried claiming she was “accused” of bullying instead of found guilty of bullying, and to top it all off we had Michael Gove’s wife Sarah Vine accused anyone calling Patel of being a bully racist while Alison Pearson said Patel can’t be a bully as she isn’t tall enough. Also, did I mention this came out during national Bullying Week?

...and just a thought for Jess Phillips after she decided to weigh in, considering it’s on record that you bullied Diane Abbott (and have gleefully said how you told her to “Fuck off” on various occasions) it's not a good idea for you to try and act as you’re above bullying as you will get called out for your hypocrisy

Murderer Amanda Knox thought it would be a really funny joke to suggest that, no matter what the election result, the next four years couldn’t be as bad as the four years she spent studying abroad.  You know, those four years where she murdered Meredith Kercher and got away with it

So it turns out that the moral compass of the Tory government says that it is fine for Dominic Cummings to be happy to sacrifice the elderly if it protects the economy during a pandemic while displaying that he doesn’t know how herd immunity works, purging 21 MPs from the party for not buying into his No Deal Britait Jonestown, siphoning hundreds of millions of pounds into the pockets of his mates in various dodgy contracts, or flagrantly violating the lockdown rules by driving several hundred miles to Durham (where he owns a house he doesn't pay council tax for) after testing positive for Covid - but as soon as he calls Carrie Symonds “Princess Nut Nuts” he’s out the door...for a staged photo op, even though he is remaining in his job until December, which is when he was going to leave anyway

...and we should mention Laura Kuenssberg bullishly stating that Cummings was going nowhere in the wake of Lee Cain being told he could leave when his contract is up in December but they want to make it look like he is being fired, but within twelve hours saying that Cummings would always be leaving in December as a blog post in January stated, which not only asks if anyone has checked the archived version of that blog in case any edits were made in mid-November, but also how she can justify her £290k a year salary if she can get a story that badly wrong that Cummings’ blog disagreed with her

There’s a reason why Lindsey Graham isn't popular in the Senate and it isn’t because he questions if Biden won the election, it's because he’s telling people to “misplace” the votes for Biden which they are counting so that Trump could claim that he won Georgia instead of losing Georgia, demanding a recount, then losing Georgia

Once again proven liar Boris Johnson demonstrated that lockdown rules apply to the little people but not to him or his inner circle, as he met with fellow Tory MP Lee Anderson in person rather than via Zoom as the lockdown rules state, didn't wear a mask as lockdown rules state, and clearly didn’t social distance as a picture of him with Anderson taken during the meetings shows they are not two metres apart as lockdown rules state, which means that he had to spend two weeks self-isolating as a direct result 

Has anyone told Keir Starmer that The Board of Deputies weren’t on the ballot for Labour leadership?  Because by his performative act of refusing to restore the party whip to Jeremy Corbyn after his performative suspension, which he did after the BoD stamped their feet and demanded the whip not be restored, he’s not doing a good job of demonstrating leadership

First of all it was news that Steve Bannon uses Twitter, as surely he should have flounced off for Parler years ago.  But secondly, the real news is how he used his Twitter account to call for Anthony Fauci to be beheaded - at which point he suddenly couldn’t use his Twitter account anymore

According to Iain Duncan Smith putting the UK into a second lockdown is “giving in to the scientific advisors” as if during a pandemic, which the last time I checked was a scientific matter, you should instead be listening to Julia Halfwit-Brewer, Dan Wootton, Alison Pearson or Isabel Oakeshott rather than people qualified to talk about what to do in the face of a global pandemic 

Nice Guy Rishi Sunak proposed a return of Eat Out To Help Out for Christmas.  You know, the thing which has been directly linked with causing a spike in Covid numbers in August?

Tory arrogance was neatly summed up by George Eustace casually saying that, if Lurpak didn’t want to incur the massive price hikes of Britain crashing out of the EU without a paddle, all they have to do is move their entire base of operations to the UK

The fact that Disney have been trying to justify their refusal to even issue royalty statements to Alan Dean Foster for his novelisations of the Star Wars and Alien franchises and have simply been pocketing the revenue made by the books continued sales by claiming they only purchased the license and not the liability, which is a particularly unique interpretation of copyright law

It was only a matter of time before The Daily Mail started trying to create dirt about Marcus Rashford because he has the sheer gall to say that feeding children is not a bad thing, which they did by reporting the horrors of him...buying a house for his mother

Twitter troll Ben Bradley had a stellar month, first by standing up in Commons and asking why there isn't a Minister for Women while also showing a terrifying inability to understand what equality is, and soon followed that up by quoting Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech by claiming that it was about equality - only for Bernice King to tell him that, no, her father’s speech was about eliminating racism from our society

I think that it's time for The Daily Express to admit that, when they're running articles saying that it’s Remainers who are to blame for Trump getting dumped onto the street, that maybe they have a problem

The Streisand Effect still hasn’t reached WWE judging by their continuing to double down on demanding their employees independent contractors stop earning money via third-party platforms manifested in their releasing Thea Trinidad from her contract in spite her Twitch account always being under her real name and not her WWE moniker of Zelina Vega

It was a coincidence that the Jewish Labour Movement decided to hold their annual conference on the Palestinian Day of Solidarity.  Of course it was...

This month it was Fin Taylor who demonstrated just how far from satire HIGNFY has strayed with his “Bomb Glastonbury and kill all Jeremy Corbyn supporters” joke in response to Joan Bakewell lying about Corbyn breaking the law - and, afterwards, Taylor was generally being a smug twat about it on his Twitter - which also serves to show how Tim Davie is fine with booking comedians whose acts have plenty of questionable content contained within it if it guarantees the Tories escape criticism

This month’s example of Steve Baker making himself a walking punchline with no self-awareness came from him howling that further lockdown measures would be a violation of terms set out by the European Convention on Human Rights - yes, the exact same convention that Baker has a.) Repeatedly accused of meddling with British affairs and is an example of the EU nanny state, and b.) Frowns upon things such as Steve Baker repeatedly voting against allowing child refugees to be reunited with their families

Nothing says “worker happiness” quite like GameStop running a competition for their stores to post Tik Tok dances where the store which is voted the winner receives prizes such as an Amazon Echo, a Visa gift card, and the privilege of working an additional ten hours during the week of Black Friday.  Wait, did I say “worker happiness”?  I meant to say “Dickensian shithousery” where employees are expected to compete so they can work more hours

Of course the “We’re not racist”s of Twitter had an issue with Sainsburys Christmas ad because it didn’t appeal to white men due to having a black family, in much the same way that Compare the Market’s ads don't appeal to white men as they’re not Russian meerkats

Professional victim Laurence Fox thought it would be a good idea to get into a slanging match with The Pogues while lying that Fairytale of New York would be banned from the airwaves.  It went about as well as could be expected

It wouldn’t be Remembrance Day without The Sun or The Daily Mail exploiting it for some obvious ragebait, and this year was no exception with both “papers” posting a photo of Extinction Rebellion posting with a banner in front of the Cenotaph protesting climate change - a photo taken two days earlier, but they held off on posting it until the day itself to get the rage flowing, because they needed something as neither Jeremy Corbyn nor Meghan Markle were within a mile of Whitehall

This month it was Ernest Cline who demonstrated a lack of understanding of the Streisand Effect by ordering DMCA takedowns on anyone who posted an excerpt of Ready Player Two online, which mainly served to help the internet realise which the actual excerpts were and which the parody versions were - because it was pretty hard to tell them apart otherwise...

“I’ve been silenced”, shrieked Suzanne Moore in an interview with the Telegraph, fatally undermining her argument in the process.  Funny how the people who have been “silenced” keep doing that, isn’t it?

Because we haven’t heard anything idiotic from Jake Paul in a while, Jake Paul decided to say Covid isn’t real and flu has killed just as many people.  So I give it a week before his older brother Logan feels he has to one-up this and say the Holocaust was fake...

And finally, not for much longer, is Donald Trump and his complicity in trying to organise a coup - but not a very good coup, as his minions at Fox News had to exaggerate how many people were actually protesting about him losing an election and crying about it - which was further undermined by his inability to tell Michigan and Minnesota apart

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 109

Chapter Summary -  Tom comes back from SDCC to Danielle's new office where she fills him in on a few things.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

All image rights belong to their owners

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @fairlightswiftly @salempoe @wolfsmom1

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

Tom walked through the office building, smiling widely at the name of Safeguard Limited as he passed it. When he got to the right floor, he chuckled at the reception that greeted him, with a young receptionist looking at him.

‘Good afternoon, welcome to Safeguard Limited, how may I assist you?’

‘May I speak with Danielle please?’

‘What is it regarding?’

‘I have something for her.’ Tom kept his face polite, though he was unsure what to do regarding the woman.

‘One moment.’ The woman picked up the phone and waited. ‘Name?’

‘Tom, she’ll know who I am.’

The woman said nothing more to him. ‘Ms Hughes, there is a Tom here to see you, he says you know him and he has something for you. Of course.’ she placed down the receiver again, her face turning less stoic. ‘She says to go in, it’s the third door on the left.’

‘Thank you.’ Tom grinned before heading down the small hallway until he came to the third door, beaming at the nameplate donning Danielle’s name and her title. He knocked on the door twice before entering.

‘I understand Lucas, but it is not viable.’ Danielle gave Tom an apologetic look as she stood with a phone in her hand pacing behind her desk. After giving a small wave to dismiss her concern, Tom stood looking around the room as she continued to speak. ‘No, the Branagh job takes precedent then. I can arrange someone else...well I am not available then….I don’t care, I am not able to do two jobs at once, and I refuse to. I am not risking being spread too thin.’ She stated firmly. ‘I’ll check.’ she went on the laptop in front of her. ‘Yes, that would work for me...Perfect, now I have a matter here I have to deal with, I will talk to them about it when they send through the paperwork. Thanks, bye.’ She sighed as she ended the call. ‘Well, hello.’ She smiled as she walked around the desk and over to Tom. ‘Not that I will ever complain, but to what do I owe the pleasure? How was ComiCon?’

‘Intense, people are excited for Ragnarok.’

‘I bet that was not the feeling back in Norse times.’ She laughed.

Tom leant down and gave her a kiss. ‘And I thought I would come see you and your new office.’

‘Yes, it is a bit mad in here, everything is finally in, but that seems to mean that everyone assumes that we have nothing to do and have now given us a hundred things to do at once. Thank you for the flowers, by the way.’

‘Yes, you have a few.’ Tom pointed to the several arrangements in the room.

‘Yes, you, your mum and sisters, Luke, Nacelle and Becky, Ben and Sophie, it’s a bit mad.’

‘Wait, Luke sent some?’

‘Yes, I know.’ Danielle laughed. ‘It’s been an odd week for that sort of thing.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, you know how Durham wasted my time with that interview?’

‘Yes.’ Tom was unsure what she was about to say.

‘Jokes on her, guess who they want for the project’s shots in Britain.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Safeguard, and guess who is refusing to do it...Safeguard.’

‘And Waters doesn’t mind?’

‘I told him if he wants to take the contract, he will have to find someone or I will assign someone else, but no, they wanted the head of European coordination involved, and were slightly startled to see who was the European Coordinator, and partner of course.’

‘Be honest, how much did you love declining them?’

‘I may have giggled slightly, okay, fine, I laughed my most elated and diabolical laugh.’ Danielle confessed. ‘I told them no, I would hire someone to do it. That I could not work with a group of people that are so reckless as to waste very valuable time, and that I could not stand over a decision to work with them based on what I knew to be their work ethic.’

‘Good girl.’ Tom beamed. ‘I come bearing gifts by the way.’ He held out a paper bag. ‘Duck and Hoisin wrap.’

‘Tom, I love you, I love you, I love you.’ She beamed taking the bag. ‘I am fucking starving.’

‘So no breakfast today?’

‘If you’ve been to the house, you know I haven’t.’ She took out the food and bit a large bit off. ‘I overslept, by the time I got Mac sorted, I forgot to even grab a travel mug to bring with me, and I just made an arse of this morning. What time did you land?’

‘Only three hours ago, I got home, showered, took Mac for a small trot and decided I would come see the office since you said I should on my return and your text earlier said you had no meetings today.’

‘That’s a lot done in three hours.’

‘I have to say, for a woman with a snazzy office in a good part of town, with fancy receptions and whatnot, you and indeed everyone bar the reception girl, are very casually dressed.’

‘We are not really office staff though, are we. I mean, you never see screenwriters and scriptwriters in fancy clothes either. These guys could be called out to a set today, I could be too, Amelia in reception is the only one here full time, I told her to be comfy, but she states she is happier like that, that it reminds her she is working and not at home watching box sets, so who am I to tell her otherwise?’ There was a knock on the door. ‘Yes?’

The receptionist came in, not paying any attention to Tom and going straight to the desk to Danielle. ‘These came through from Warner Brothers.’ She indicated to one set of papers. ‘And Mr Waters want these signed and sent back by evening here.’ She showed Danielle another set. ‘There is also and James Murray wanting to organise a meeting to discuss something to do with the arrangements for some film, I said that all film arrangements were to be done after initial talk but he said that it was to do with Branagh, that you would know what that meant and to call back with a time that suited.’ The girl looked proudly at Danielle having been satisfied she got everything as required.’

‘Excellent, thank you very much. Tell Mr Murray that there will be a full meeting next Thursday and if he could make it himself, it would be preferable, but we do require someone there.’ She instructed. ‘I’ll sign these in a minute, we’ll have them back before he even sits at his desk.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ the receptionist nodded and left without another word.

‘She’s very proper.’ Tom noted.

Danielle laughed. ‘She is twenty-two and hoping to get somewhere, she believes a good six months here before applying to the US office. She’s hardworking and professional, so off with her.’

‘Very professional.’ Tom commented.

‘She knows who you are, she has Loki as her screensaver, she just doesn’t want to act as though she is a silly fangirl or make herself seem odd applying for a job with me, she is lovely.’

‘Good, and the rest of the staff?’ Tom sat on the opposite side of the desk to Danielle, taking out some food he had gotten for himself before eating a salad.

‘Good, hand picked from a bunch of people I knew were looking to vary things up a bit. I mean one guy, Francis, he has eight years experience, he taught me a lot, he came running here, but I had told Lucas to throw stupid money at him and sure enough, he came, he was our greatest acquisition.’

‘So, you are the boss of the man that trained you, effectively?’

‘No effectively, I am his boss.’ Danielle smiled.

‘That’s my girl.’ Tom grinned again.

‘I also have paid off the house.’

‘What?’

‘I got a payment that means I could pay back my loan for the cottage. I am debt free once more.’

‘That is incredible, well done Darling.’ Tom beamed.

‘Yes, I am also looking into upgrading, I think my car has done its time.’

‘How much of a payment was this?’

Danielle grinned smugly. ‘A good one.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Tom beamed proudly. ‘What are you thinking, same again?’

‘Yeah, it suits me.’

‘No Jags?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll get you driving mine yet.’

‘Not likely.’

‘Congratulations Elle, you work so hard, I am so proud of you.’

‘I just can’t believe it.’ She smiled, her eyes filled with tears. ‘With work going so well, and how we are...I am just...I can’t put it into words.’ She rounded the desk and leant down and kissed him passionately. ‘I love you, Tom.’

‘I love you too, and I am so happy for you.’