#skins uk was my entire personality

[neiptune]

did you go through a skins uk phase as a teenager or were you normal

[faaun]

ok let's catch up quickly

[gaysindistress]

Things that I feel like would happen when you’re in a relationship with Simon Riley.

Simon Riley masterlist

1. First off he hates the word ‘boyfriend’.

Maybe it’s because he’s in his mid thirties or something but he can’t stand being called your boyfriend. He’s more than that but also not at the same time. You live together, have access to each other’s bank accounts (which is only because he hates it when you try to fight him about him giving you money), and you’re each others emergency contact. He thinks of himself as your husband. The man wears a silicone ring when he’s home and a necklace with the ring that’s totally not a wedding band when he’s working. Price has seen the chain once or twice and smirks, shooting him a knowing look but never says a word.

Simon cannot stand it when people get nosy and want to know what your relationship status is. You’re together and that’s all that matters. No one needs to know that you’re the beneficiary of his will and life insurance policy or that he’s put you on all of his accounts. No one needs to know that he buys you anything you want but has only ever bought you two rings; a thin gold band with a flower engraved on it and its twin a matching emerald ring. No one needs to know that when he gifted them to you, there were tears and promises of safety, love, and happiness whispered against feverish skin. No one needs to know that he has your name woven into his chest tattoo.

No one needs to know any of that because your relationship is between him and you only.

2. You are not some submissive little house wife. You are a strong independent woman and he prefers it that way.

I know this one goes against what most people say but hear me out on this. Simon has been independent since birth practically. He’s only had himself to count on for years. Even in the military, he’s only been able to rely himself. Sure the others watch out for him but if it came down to it, he’s the only one who’s going to get himself out alive.

The thought of someone else relying on him in that way is terrifying. He can’t even fathom what it would be like to look at another person and fully trust them in that way. Half the time he feels like he can’t even be trusted to take care of himself let alone another human. In theory a sweet docile housewife is great with the meals and clean house but not for him. He needs to know that you can hold your own. He needs to know that you can be independent and carry on without him if something happened while he was working. He needs to know that you will be okay if he doesn’t come back.

You have to be okay without him no matter how much it pains him to think about it.

Like I said before, he’s made you the beneficiary of everything so he knows you’ll be set financially but that’s not enough. He’s made Price promise to keep an eye out for you. He’s made you promise to let Price do that and you agreed because it’s Simon who’s asking but you’d tell anyone else to fuck off.

In addition to all of that, he’s installed the best security system the government has to offer in your house. You have a very expensive and large safe in your shared closet that he’s instructed you to only open if you feel unsafe. While you might not like it, you agree to go shooting with him so he can sleep at night knowing that you could protect yourself if he’s not home. He’s gone as far as to make sure you have all of the licenses and certificates that are needed to legally own firearms in the UK.

He’s not leaving any opportunity for you to be vulnerable or have your ‘safety checks’, as he calls them, taken away.

3. Simon Riley is a godless man…until he meets you.

Now this is entirely my own headcannon with no evidence to support it so bear with me.

Simon had a shitty childhood where his mom would pray to a god who never listened and his dad would shout verses at him when he was drunk. God was a mythical figure that he was told stories off with nothing to show for it. He did believe at one point but then his dad never got better, his mom wore bruises of every shade, and his brother found comfort in drugs.

He found himself praying when he was being tortured by the Mexican cartel. Between the flashbacks of his abusive past, he prayed to a god who had failed him so many times before to help him. He prayed again as he dug himself out of that Texas grave with the major’s jaw bone. He wailed his prayers when he found his family executed after Sparks tried to kill him.

After that he deemed himself a Godless man. Years of praying had passed with nothing. This god had decided that Simon was not worthy of a miracle so why would he continue to worship him?

That was until he met you. He finds himself praying before every mission, every time he has to leave you, every time he’s on his way home, and just about any other time he thinks of you. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s praying for other than for you to be there when he gets back.

He whispers his prayers to an absent god against your skin as he worships your body, soul, and heart. He promises to be devoted to you until his last breath and vows to find you again in whatever afterlife awaits you. He pledges to find solace in you and only you when his haunting nightmares return. He makes an oath to your heart that it will never weather another storm alone again for his will take whatever beating that comes your way. He shows you that he will love you in the same manner as a Hozier song; putting you above all else because you have become his religion, his faith, his beliefs, his life.

You have become all that he is and he thanks the god he once believed in for you. He prays again but to you, his heart, his love, and his beacon through the enteral storm of life.

[thebibliosphere]

Hi, me being white and Scottish does not negate the fact that I am a disabled immigrant living in America.

I have restrictions on my income, restrictions on how I can travel, and whether or not I can vote, and I am almost entirely reliant on my spouse for everything. If I am forced to leave him, as I have been made to do so in the past due to immigration red tape, my care will decline, I will lose access to healthcare, and there's a very real chance I will die.

I was, in fact, dying before he was able to move me here and take care of me full-time.

Nowhere did I say I know what it's like to be a person of color. Nowhere did I claim to know what it's like to come to this country in the worst of circumstances, unable to speak the language or deal with the horrendous, vile human rights violations that happen at the borders of this country to anyone who cannot afford to come in legally.

I was stating a fact because whenever I say I cannot vote, people scream at me to register, and I have to explain to them time and time again that as an immigrant without citizenship, I can't vote.

"Well you're husband can just go to Scotland--"

HAHAHA tell me you know NOTHING about UK politics without telling me.

As a disabled person, I do not meet the UK income requirements to sponsor my husband into the UK. I barely earned enough before my disability made me unable to work full-time. The laws changed six weeks before our wedding and we had to pivot our life plans on a dime.

If I go home, I go home alone. And again, I cannot do that. I am not being romantic when I say I'll die without him. I am being factual.

The NHS is gutted. My parents are elderly and caring for my adult brother with brain damage and can barely pay their electric bills. My friends are all barely making rent. What safety net do you think I can leave for?

Yes, my skin color keeps me safer than so many other people who deal with far, far worse. I am not and will never deny that. But that doesn't negate that I cannot vote in a country I am living in. And it makes me feel so profoundly helpless when I see people saying voting doesn't matter because it does. Voting matters. If it didn't, people wouldn't be working so hard to take it away from you.

[jewreallythinkthat]

One of the most important things I wish a lot of non-jewish leftists understood is that those of us who are Jews who don't live in Israel - especially Ashkenazim - understand that we are only not based there because of a few tiny, sometimes not even chosen moment in our history.

I see what happened on October 7th and since and I see myself there had my family been the strand that went to Israel rather than heading to America and being stranded in the UK. I have family who did go to Israel and only avoided the massacre because they were on holiday in Crete. Their closest friend played dead on the steps of his house, a bullet in his leg, lying beside the corpses of his wife and daughter in law.

It's personal because it literally could have been me, it could have been any of us. When we see people braying for the deaths of Israelis, we see them calling for our personal demise if not for one twist of fate. That's why so many Jews are invested and want peace. It affects us, it could have been us.

It would not have been a random white lefty in the West with 0 connection to the Levant.

I can't speak for Palestinians in the west but I'm sure they feel a similar way when they see the destruction in Gaza and the violent settlers in the West Bank. I've seen Palestinians talk about how Hamas would have killed them because of their sexuality or gender identity etc. and I can feel through the articles and the posts that they understand the "it could have been me" & "that WOULD have been me" mindset that so many Jews have experienced the past few months.

The majority of Jews and Palestinians (that I've seen) in the West want lasting peace and everyone to live in safety. The people making it violent and calling for the deaths of Jews, and often shutting down Palestinians who speak out for peace which doesn't include genociding 50% of the world's Jews are random white people and others who have 0 connection to any actual people involved and have decided to make a war on the other side of the planet their entire personality.

So this is a message to those with 0 skin in the game - if you are not Jewish or Palestinian or have family living in Israel and what will hopefully become Palestine - please understand this:

For you, this is a way to show your political opinion and score moral points and take out your frustrations on those you seem worthy of abuse. For me, for us, this is our history, our family, our future and safety. If your words are not designed to try and move towards a peaceful solution, keep them to yourself and stop being part of the problem. Listen to the people actually affected by this (and watching videos and feeling horrified simply doesn't count in this case.)

[lcriedlastnight]

hi, can i please request a little fic where the reader moves from australia (totally fine if you don’t wanna do aus, feel free to pick another country!) to the uk for karting. she meets lando at school and their friendship kicks off when he hears her accent and realises how gorgeous she is, and since then they have grown up together. even when she decided to give up racing while he continued to go into f1 she was there from the beginning. just something cute showing the timeline of their little relationship

hi! this is such a great idea anon, lovely. ur a genius and ily. big hugs. also i cannot believe the race today, lando should’ve won my man needs a little luck pls.

tw: fem!reader, swears, me not knowing karting lore, me also not knowing anything about australia, swears, lmk if you want me to add anything. p.s i am working throught all of my asks rn, there was quite a few so i am trying my best to get through them all before i open them again!

w/c: 1.7k

you first met lando at a karting competition when you were fourteen. you had just moved to the uk and you didn't have many friends, seeing as you were very introverted when it came to settings like this. even though karting was your entire world sometimes the nerves around other people would just grow to be too much.

lando was a little older than you, just shy of a year, meaning that you were in the same year at school. you noticed him in one of your classes and recognised him from your most recent race, the weekend before. his tanned skin and infectious smile was hard to miss. of course meeting lando had to come at a time where everyone around you was starting to figure out who and what they were attracted to and as much as it embarrassed you to say it, lando was who you were attracted to.

it started off as a little crush, it was harmless and he didn't even know who you were. you made it that way, not trying to make any friends in school - or karting for that matter. you were not sure when it turned into infatuation but if there was one thing you were good at it was hiding your feelings. so when lando himself came over to you to congratulate you on getting p2, you hide your nerves like a pro and only made it seem like you were shy.

that was the first time lando had seen you and honestly he could not believe it. he thought he recognised you when you had stepped onto the podium just after the race had finished, when it clicked that he knew you from school he felt a little guilty that he had never given you the time of day before. how could he have walked around the halls of the school, possibly even brushing shoulders with you, and not even know about it. the mere thought felt like a crime. in that moment lando knew he had to get to know you better.

"you were super fast on track today." lando's accent rings through your ears as you turn around after another race. you didn't get a podium finish this time. neither did he but you are gobsmacked that he is standing in front of you, complimenting you.

"thanks. you too. you were zoomin' around it." you say, australian accent heavy around your words. this is not the first time you have spoken to lando but it seems it is the first time he has actually listened because up until just now he had no clue that you were australian.

"you're from australia?" he asks, trying to play it cool as his eyes dart around your face, taking you in like he has never looked at another person before. you nod, going a little shy at his blatant staring.

"are all the australian girls this pretty, or is it just you?" lando smiles at you, you can't decide if it is a cheeky smile or if he genuinely means it. just like you can't tell if he is flirting with you or if he seriously wants to know how pretty the girls are back home. his words leave you speechless, not knowing how to answer his question. it is like lando challenges your silence with his own. you are both quiet for a while. lando just knows from there that he needs you with him, he feels the need to warm you up to him and erase your awkward nature around him.

lando sticks by your side until you have no choice but to warm up to him. you end up becoming best friends with the boy, pushing that lingering crush to the back of your mind any time the two of you are together, although you feel it grow the more he grows into his looks and the more he grows into his personality as a whole. you find that he just understands you like no one else has ever done before. sometimes you don't even have to tell him whats wrong, he just knows and he knows the exact way to comfort or distract you through it. the curly haired boy is by your side through every single decision you make and vice versa.

lando was the first person you told when you decided that you were going to quit racing. you were only eighteen, him nineteen, when you realised that as much as you loved racing, you were not so sure that it loved you back. lando being a prime example of this. he was already in f1 starting next season, his rookie season with mclaren, their first seat filled with big racing star carlos sainz. lando was making it big and as you had told him many times as he made his way through all the championships, you knew he was going to go far and do everyone he loved proud. you, on the other hand, well you had barely even made a podium in the past year and half, nevermind actually winning races. you knew you just didn't have what it took to make it to formula one, like lando did.

"i think i'm going to quit racing." you had confessed to your best friend while he was driving you both to the mclaren technology centre. he had promised you a tour of the place and you had been begging him until he eventually gave in. lando almost crashed the car in shock.

"you what, sorry?" lando asks, foot back on the accelerator again as the car jolts back into action. the boys head keeps snapping to you when he can, turning to make sure you were not in fact, kidding. "you're serious?" he asks again as you fail to answer his first question.

"i am. i'm deadly serious." you affirm. lando's mouth opens in shock. there was just no way. you were his racing girl.

"i'm super thankful for racing and where it got me and who it gave me," you thank god lando's eyes were on the road because it gives you time to shake off your look of longing as you trail off a little. you pick yourself back up when he coughs a little to bring you back to earth. "but i'm so tired of waking up on a race day and dreading it. i always told myself when i was younger that no matter what, no matter what anyone told me, if i was unhappy doing something, even if it was something i used to love, i'd give it up. i'm not going to beat a dead horse."

your best friend listens intently as he drives you both closer to the centre. once you have stopped talking it is a little quiet. you long to break it but you know you need to let lando process this. neither of you can even remember a time in racing without each other. it sounded like lando's own personal version of hell.

"well i'm proud of you for putting your happiness first." lando starts as the car pulls up in the parking space, dedicated to him. the thing was, you were not even jealous of lando already being in f1. that is when you knew that your love for taking part in the sport had died. you would never stop watching it though. lando made you promise you would try and watch every race you possibly could when he finally started his first offical season in f1.

you had kept your promise and followed him through to what would now be his fifth season. you were his biggest chearleader, constantly posting on your instagram and twitter about how unfair the stewards were bring to lando, and taking to your socials to celebrate the big wins. and when in his fourth season he was promoted to first seat and the second seat was given to a fellow australian you began to wonder the same thing as many of his fans. 'is lando collecting pretty australians like infinity stones or what?!'

the post race interview after lando gets his first win at miami is one you will never forget, especially because he confessed his feelings for you on live tv. you were absolutely gutted about not being able to make it to the race, even though you were never planning on going in the first place, it hurt more that you could not be there to celebrate his first formula one win, especially when it feels like you have been by his side forever. you shoot him a text saying he deserved it and to facetime you if he has time before he goes out and you know he will text you back when he sees it.

as you are back in australia for three weeks, you are sitting with your family as you watch and wait for the podium ceremony. all you wanted was to see your boy finally lift his trophy. every part of you knew that he was just glowing. you hadn't even seen his face from under his helmet yet.

as he conducts one last post-race interview before he has to get back for the trophy ceremony, you and the whole world stop spinning.

"yeah, i need to thank my girl. if you see this, baby. i love you, m'racer girl and i miss you. this is for you, it's all for you. i know you're watching. i'll call you before you sleep." lando speaks into the cameras like he is replying to your text message. you doubt at first that he was actually talking to you until he called you his racer. you cannot believe he just said he love you in front of millions of people. you missed him a lot.

lando ends up calling you and admits yet again that he loves you and this time you say it back. you tell him about the crush you have had since you were fourteen, and he tells you about how much he misses you and wishes you were just there with him. the kiss lando gives you at the airport when you are both reunited is caught by many paps but you stopped caring the second your legs left the ground, wrapping around his waist as his tongue met yours.

you constantly appear on the quadrant channel, showing up all his friends in karting races and every single time lando tried to convice you to get back out.

"i'll leave it to the formula one grand prix winner i think." you smile at him, those words always got to him. he can't believe he got the car and the career he had always wanted. it was finally a win-win for lando, for once in his life.

[housederiva]

Fantasic yes thank you @mt07131 It should be noted I am taking the hottest bubble bath of my entire life while I'm typing this and my skin is the color of Mr Krabs. (these are all cheeses that I have had before so my opinion of each is extremely biased)

We're starting with Neve. I know what you're thinking 'our dear detective has a food pyramid made solely out of the menu of a back alley chippy, obviously she's Kraft cheese or cheese whiz' and you are incorrect. Sit on the floor beside me while I take my bubble bath, we're going on a cheese discovery hand in soapy hand

Neve is specifically a combination of the two cheeses that are in these bad boys that you can find at Walmart for $15. With enough coffee and distractions you can live off these for an entire week. Each piece of cheese is about the size of a quarter, they're powdery, they don't melt well, and the only reason it's in your fridge is that someone brought it to the potluck and no one else ate any of it. We're ignoring the rest of the platter this is only about cheese.

Harding is a fried halloumi stick. It's squeaky cheese that is sooo good when it's melted and somehow still in stick form. The first time an only time I’ve had it was when I lived in the UK. A little cheeky Nandos with Harding? Come on now she's the one suggesting it. This woman eats ham and jam slams, she's eating cold hallumi (bad salty brick ew ew nasty), Taash's first complaint if they ever lived together that would be that they could hear her eating the leftovers right out of the fridge at 3am cause it's squeaking so damn loud while she's chewing

Bellara is the giant babybel. Pictures don't do it justice and the absolute glee of taking off the little jacket before you bite into it like a peach? Undescribable. There's not a doubt in my mind that this woman would collect the wax and leave it in a clump on her bookshelf where she would repeatedly tell you she's gonna do something with it. And yet it grows ever larger with every giant babybel. She's the small ones too but those are somehow worse because she just eats the entire bag of them the second she gets home (not that I do that every time or anything haha dont look in my trash rn)

Davrin is, without a doubt, apple smoked cheddar either from Wisconsin or Lancashire, there's no in between. Once this cheese is in your life you will be fundamentally changed as a person and you can never go back to the way you were. No other cheese holds the same richness and warmth as apple smoked cheddar (either from Wisconsin or Lancashire) It has like this sweetness from the milk in it that's balanced out with the smokiness of paprika. Davrin's bringing this to the cookout and you're going to thank him for putting it on your burger at least four times

Lucanis is Fulvi Pecorino Romano (yes it is Italian why do you ask) This is some of the most expensive cheese I've ever had which is perfect for the man who's offering to pay Harding 6,000 gold to stand around while he kills somebody and then asks if that's too low of an amount when she's speechless. This Romano is made from milk taken from a single herd of sheep that live just outside the city of Rome. It's got this a grainy, crumbly texture that I don't think I'll have anything like again. (I had it at a preview night for this movie I worked on for redacted, I think there was caviar there too it was insane)

Emmrich my sweet vegetarian (and vegan? idk) is Climax Blue cheese. It's plant-based blue cheese, streaked with a natural and flavorful blue-green veining. It is well-rounded, with a creamy, fudgy texture, and with fruity and earthy notes balanced by a warm peppery finish. It's made out of coconut milk instead of animal milk and it's got pumpkin seeds in it somehow. I'm not vegan but my best friend is and she brought me this one time from her work and I ate it all in about 20 minutes. Excellent with wine and those really thin tiny crackers, makes you feel the good kind of fancy

Taash is ghost pepper and fried onion cheddar cheese. Never been hurt by food the way I was hurt the second this touched my tongue. And the cool thing about it is it's also dairy free, and substitutes milk with hemp. The heat from the ghost peppers builds and mingles with the burst from the fried onions and each wheel is aged in a cheese specific cave before it's packaged. It also has that good glowy classic melty cheese flow when it gets hot. If you're like me and you are white people spicy smelling this alone will hurt you

[samsalami66]

Don't Go Kicking My Heart

Another part of the soccer au, it is time for fluff and trauma! Enjoy!!

Read on ao3!

Today was the first day of a new era. A new age of football.

The world of sports would remember this day. 

The day Morpheus Ateleios, winner of the European Golden Shoe, first played for Fiddler’s Green, the highest ranking football club in all of Europe. 

Or, well, the day he first trained with them. His first match was still far off, the next season only started in a few months after all, but today was his first day as a part of the team. He would face the players for the first time not on opposite sides of a field, but as a teammate. 

Morpheus was about to be sick, standing in front of these unfamiliar training facilities in the middle of London, miles away from Wych Cross and Roderick’s now cold and dead body. The distance wasn’t enough. No distance could make up for the ache he still felt in his bones, in his muscles, for the bruises slowly healing on his back and chest. 

But thinking about the ghost of Roderick Burgess still being imprinted on his skin was not what really got to Morpheus’ stomach. 

No, it was the fact that he would face Robert Gadling for the first time as a colleague. A part of the team. 

Gadling was… well, to say Morpheus and him did not get along would probably be an understatement. They had a bit of a turbulent history. 

Said history might have involved red cards for both of them during their latest match, following a disagreement they had decided to solve with fists rather than words. 

It hadn’t been one of his proudest moments. 

There was just something about Gadling, something that set him off in the worst way possible. Morpheus wasn’t a pleasant person to be around, he’d admit, but Gadling would stare at him with such distaste, it felt entirely unwarranted. Jessamy would say it was jealousy, because Morpheus was clearly the better player between the two of them. But who knew, perhaps the Fiddlers’ star player was simply a homophobic asshole, like so many others in this sport. Maybe Roderick had a point when he said that nobody would want to play with him or share a locker room if they knew about him, about his fantasies. 

Perhaps he had been right to announce them to the world.

But god, was he really about to walk into a locker room full of people who would rather have him dead than anywhere near them? Would they refuse to undress before him, just like the Riggers had done? And what would Gadling do to him in the privacy of a training facility, where there was no referee to step between them, no cameras pointed in their direction? 

Fuck, all of this had been a terrible idea. He should leave, should tell Gilbert that he simply couldn’t play for this club, that he would have to find another player, that there was simply too much antagony and hatred and-

“You alright there, mate?” A voice, all too familiar, sounded from behind him. Morpheus couldn’t help the yelp that escaped his lips at the sudden appearance of Robert Gadling right in his personal space. He had been too caught up in his thoughts and didn’t even notice that the other man had approached him. It took every ounce of self-control Morpheus possessed to school his face back into something less terrified as he turned towards his old rival. 

“Why do you care?” He replied, venom dripping from his words. All it earned him was a raised eyebrow. 

“Well, you look like you’re walking to your death sentence. Mind, I don’t actually know what you’re doing here, of all places, but I’m pretty sure the death penalty was abolished in 1969 over here in the UK.” Robert Gadling looked thoughtful for a moment, one hand coming up to scratch at his beard, and Morpheus was left to stare at him. None of this answered his question. “Unless you committed treason of course, the death penalty for that was abolished in 1998 I think. Not that it matters much, both are in the past now, but the more you know!”

There was a moment of silence after Gadling stopped talking, one in which Morpheus contemplated if he should pinch himself for the unlikely reason that this was all a dream. Though surely not even his brain could come up with such impossible scenarios all on its own. After all, he knew nothing about English history. 

Perhaps if he didn’t answer, the other man would leave. 

But no such luck. Robert Gadling was not fazed by his silence. 

“Not a fan of history, eh? Fair enough, I guess it’s not everyone’s cuppa tea.” Gadling winked at him then, and Morpheus decided that perhaps pinching himself wasn’t the worst idea after all. A stab of pain shot up his arm, but, again, no luck. This really was no elaborate nightmare. Gadling was talking to him. “How about a joke, then? Something to wipe that mopey look off your face?”

He did not wait for Morpheus’ answer. He would not have gotten one anyway, but it was still rude. 

“Why’s Cinderella bad at football?” Morpheus was dreading the answer to this question more than he had dreaded entering the facilities in the first place. Robert Gadling waited for a moment, if for dramatics or simply to torture him, Morpheus didn’t know.

“Because she lost her shoe and ran away from the ball!” 

It was an awful joke. Really, it might be in the top ten of the worst jokes Morpheus had ever heard. And yet, he felt the familiar feeling of laughter bubbling up from deep within him, a sort of hysteria he simply couldn’t control, couldn’t stop as it was about to simply burst from his chest. 

Perhaps it was the whole situation that made him hysterical, the stress of the past few days that came crashing down on him that had sent him into delirium. Or, maybe, he simply wasn’t very sane to begin with.

Morpheus tried desperately to clasp a hand over his mouth in order to stop the horrible noise from escaping his lips, but it was a futile attempt. Waves of laughter shook his body and the sound, only slightly muffled by his hand, spilled into the air between him and Robert Gadling. 

Morpheus knew that his laugh was horrible. Back at school people had held their ears whenever he laughed, much later people had simply asked him to stop whenever he couldn’t catch himself in time. Roderick had had the cane. But Gadling did not do any of those things. 

Gadling was simply… looking. He looked… amused? Fond, perhaps? Morpheus couldn’t really see through the tears that were building in his eyes as he tried to calm down. But he had to be imagining things, nobody had ever looked fond when confronted with his joy. And Gadling… Gadling hated him.

Didn’t he? 

“Looked like you needed that.” he said, tone warm, and Morpheus wasn’t too sure about it anymore. “Come on, I’ll bring you wherever you need to go. And call me Hob, yeah? My friends usually do.”

Robert Gadling clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Morpheus had never felt so unsteady on his feet or in his world-view. 

It was minutes later that the two of them entered the training facilities of Fiddler’s Green, Gadling chattering away at Morpheus’ side as if they were old friends. He talked about anything and everything, topics seemingly unrelated to one another, though somehow Morpheus managed to keep up with the jumps in his stories. How he went from a camping trip the team went on last month to when he went fishing with his father when he was younger, to the anatomy of grasshoppers they had presumably used for fishing, and the physical differences between grasshoppers and crickets. 

It was weirdly familiar, so similar to how his own brain worked. Though he could never verbalise his thoughts like this, without overthinking every single word. Gadling didn’t particularly seem to care if he could keep up, just kept talking and gesturing as they walked. 

It was… calming. Morpheus found himself hoping that he didn’t stop any time soon. 

But, of course, they had a destination. And once they reached it, Gadling slowly came to a stop in his rambling. Before them were the doors to the locker rooms, through which Morpheus heard voices, broken up by laughter, louder than he had ever experienced a locker room to be at Fawney Rig. 

The Riggers hadn’t talked much to one another. Certainly hadn’t laughed together.

“Right, Gilbert should be with the other guys. Do you want me to get him or come inside?”

Considerate. Morpheus wished he didn’t have to go into this room. But there was no point, if he was supposed to work and play with these men in the future. 

“I would come in, if you don’t mind.” 

God, Morpheus hated how small his voice sounded. Gadling must be aware of what he was actually asking. The question Would you allow someone like me into your changing rooms? hidden somewhere between the lines. But the other man simply raised an eyebrow at him, smiled fondly and held the door open for him. 

“I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

Morpheus remembered very clearly how the Riggers had once asked him to come inside the locker rooms after Roderick had outed him, just to close and lock the door in his face. 

It had been three years since he last stepped foot into a shared locker room. And Robert Gadling invited him, his rival, inside with a smile. 

Morpheus hoped the tears stinging in his eyes weren’t too obvious.

As they entered, member after member turned to look at them with an air of surprise and curiosity. One of them, blond, American, and with a devastatingly handsome smile, whistled and waggled his eyebrows in Gadling’s direction. 

“Did you finally have the guts to talk to Mister Dreamy without starting a fight, Robbie?”

When Morpheus turned to look at the other man, he could see that his tanned skin turned red around his cheeks, all the way up to his ears. Huh, Morpheus hadn’t known that Gadling felt embarrassment over their common disagreements on the field. He had always seemed very confident in his anger.

“Shut it, Cori. He’s here to talk to Gilbert.”

Just as Gadling said it, the man in question looked up from some papers he had been studying, with a smile spreading over his face. “Oh, Mister Ateleios!” Gilbert stood quickly to offer him his hand, which Morpheus took without much hesitation. The coach of Fiddler’s Green was a homely man, soft and welcoming in every way Roderick hadn’t been. “It’s wonderful to have you, son, just wonderful! I’m glad to see you’ve found your way just fine.” 

Morpheus couldn’t remember when someone had last called him son. Perhaps when he had last seen his parents… some six-odd years ago. Though, honestly, his father had stopped calling him son long before that. It made a part deep within him ache to hear it again, from a stranger nonetheless. But he couldn’t get emotional in front of all these people, not now, so he forced a smile and a nod, and hoped his voice didn’t break when he answered. 

“Yes, Mister Gadling was kind enough to lead the way. I am honoured to be here.”

The elder man patted his shoulder, fatherly, and Morpheus was a hair’s breadth away from breaking down. 

“Glad Robert could make himself useful at least, when he’s already never on time.” Gadling pouted at that, but didn’t otherwise react. Such a statement from Roderick would have had the entire room cowering in fear. But these men weren’t afraid. It was strange, but at the same time filled Morpheus with hope that this perhaps wasn’t a huge mistake. “And now that you two are here as well, it’s time for the big announcement, wouldn’t you say?”

Gilbert hadn’t warned the team of him? With all their history? Either the man had incredible trust in his men or he didn’t care much about Morpheus’ physical well-being.

Morpheus was about to be sick after all. 

“What’s the announcement, boss?” a raven-haired man asked from their right, curiosity in his voice. Or was it mistrust?

“Well, boys, Mister Ateleios here approached me a few weeks ago, asking to become a part of the team. And I signed him on, of course. He will take Paul’s place, since his spot opened up with the end of last season.” 

Morpheus closed his eyes, preparing himself for protest, for judgement, for insults. All of it would be reasonable, and he wasn’t stupid enough to hope for a better reaction. He had landed Gadling in hospital once, for Christ’s sake. He would be lucky if nobody resorted to violence in the face of what must feel like betrayal from their coach-

“Oh fuck yeah, we will kick ass this season with Morpheus on our team!”

Gadling’s excited voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter, and suddenly the whole room erupted into cheers. Hands found his shoulders and back, patting them with enthusiasm as Morpheus blinked his eyes open in surprise. The men were smiling at him, not a hint of malevolence in any of their faces. Robert Gadling was practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes shining like those of a child at Christmas. Nobody had ever looked at Morpheus like that, like his presence was a thing to look forward to. 

It would change, surely. They were happy to have his skills on their time, were looking forward to a successful season. That was all. 

It would change. 

Morpheus was sure of it. 

- - - 

The next day, Morpheus was the first ready for training. He was early, really. Dreadfully early. When Roderick said training started at eight, he had expected the team to show up at six at the latest. But apparently the Fiddlers were less inclined to begin a day so early. 

No matter, a few extra hours would not do him any harm. 

He could warm up already, set up a few exercises. Perhaps it would reflect on his conviction to be a valuable player for the team, so they would perhaps forgive his lack of character. 

It was as good a plan as ever. 

He started off with stretching his legs and feet, before moving onto his arms and neck. It was calming, to spend some minutes in tranquil silence, simply feeling the muscles in his body stretch and loosen for the day ahead. Just as he was about to start his last set of stretches, a voice came from the side of the field, which almost caused him to strain his neck with how fast he turned around to look at the source. 

Of course, it was Gadling. 

“Did you hear about the team whose back four was only two fullbacks?”

That. Didn’t make any sense. What was that supposed to mean? Had he been supposed to do preparations for today’s training? Research the teams they would be playing? Gods, if he had already missed such a vital task on his second day they would never tolerate him, they would put him on the bench and find a different player, they-

“Apparently they're double stuffed.”

It was another joke. A pun. A horrible, terrible, awful pun. 

Morpheus couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, half-delirious, his heart beating so fast in his chest he felt a bit faint. 

He hadn’t misstepped. No reason for punishment. He was okay. 

Except that he was laughing, freely, before Robert Gadling. 

He really had to get a grip on himself. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the laughter in, couldn’t stop, not even when tears were running down his cheeks and his stomach felt like he had done a hundred situps. 

Gadling was smiling when he came closer, as he seemed to do so very often since they had met in front of the facility. He sat down next to him, mirroring his current position, and Morpheus couldn’t help but smile back at him as they began to stretch together, Gadling once again regaling him with stories and anecdotes and seemingly random facts. 

It was nice. 

Morpheus had absolutely no idea how to deal with it. But he decided to simply accept it for what it was. 

- - - 

On Saturdays, the Fiddlers met for drinks. 

It was an unspoken rule, a tradition, and Morpheus had been invited during that first week of training with the team. Therefore, it was important to leave a positive impression. 

He arrived, dressed in a tux and carrying a bottle of wine, at the address Gadling had sent him. It was… not a real restaurant, nor another place he recognised. It didn’t seem to be a place where any of the other players lived either. The sign on the front of the building read The New Inn and from inside Morpheus could hear the same laughter and joy he had come to associate with the locker rooms of Fiddler’s Green. 

They were a loud bunch, almost irritatingly so, if it weren’t for the warmth their company provided. Spending time with them was easier than it had ever been with the Riggers. 

Upon entering Morpheus was greeted with cheers and whistles, and he realised very quickly that he was immensely overdressed. The team sat around a large table towards the side of the room, dressed in jeans, t-shirts and hoodies (except Ken and Cori, those two technically wore shirts, though Morpheus was not entirely sure that they could really qualify as such with how little they were covering.). Gadling sported a fading band-tee about two sizes too large and sweat-pants.

Gods above, Morpheus would stick out like a sore thumb. Why had nobody told him about the dress-code?

“Looking good, Dreamy!” Cori called over the cheers, a grin on his face. “Dress to impress! Robbie will look dreadfully underdressed next to you.”

The man in question kicked Cori underneath the table. 

“Ow! What, it’s not my fault you roll from your couch upstairs right down to drinks night!” 

The tips of Gadling’s ears turned red at the other man’s words, and Morpheus almost felt the need to defend him. After all, it was his being overdressed, not Gadling being undressed, that was the faux-pas here. 

But in the spirit of good impressions Morpheus simply sat down on the free chair next to Gadling and placed the bottle of wine on the table. It was immediately nicked by Mervyn, an appreciative whistle leaving his lips as he read the label. “Good stuff, Dreamy. Cheers!”

That nickname, twice already this evening. Morpheus wasn’t entirely sure if it existed to make fun of him or was simply a thing these people did. It had been there since day one, and apparently the team wasn’t about to stop anytime soon. It… did not bother Morpheus too much. He had never had a nickname. Roderick had only ever called him Morpheus, and he had only ever said it with hatred, disappointment or cold detachment. Never with humour, joy or fondness, had never used it to tease him. 

“Why did the winger miss the match?”

Gadling’s voice, quiet and right next to his ear, quickly pulled Morpheus out of his thoughts. It was a question. Had he missed a part of the conversation? Was he supposed to answer? Or, no, it wasn’t another one, was it…?

“He was busy chasing ball.” 

Oh, fuck, it was another one of Gadling’s horrible, god-awful puns. That was it. Proof that Gadling hated him, had just been nice to him to gain some twisted sort of amusement. Morpheus knew the laughter was coming this time, knew he was helpless against it bubbling up in his throat. He didn’t want to face the whole team as they were subjected to his laugh. Surely they would tell him to stop, to keep quiet, to leave the inn, laugh at him. 

But there was no helping it. With his face hidden behind his hands, Morpheus allowed the sound to spill over and mix with the laughter around them. Seconds passed by, and the noise around him did not stop. Conversations continued, drinks were drunk, and nobody seemed to react at all. 

Ever so slowly, Morpheus dared to raise the hands from his face and to peek into the group of people around him. 

Nobody was batting an eye. 

Stunned, and more than a little confused, Morpheus let his hands drop to his lap. Beside him, Gadling was nursing his beer, almost as if he hadn’t just tried to embarrass him in front of the entire team. Or… perhaps he really hadn’t tried to. Nobody was laughing at him after all. Nobody was shouting at him to keep quiet or to go outside. 

Almost as if it were okay for him to just… be. 

- - - 

About a month later, Morpheus sat in his apartment on his day off. A Sunday. The first of the month. 

It was a quiet day, warm and sunny and the only sounds were the birds chirping outside.

That was, until someone decided it would be a brilliant idea to abuse his doorbell. Probably some reporter, or an obnoxious fan. They would get bored soon. Very soon. 

Ten minutes later, the doorbell was still ringing and Morpheus had had enough. 

“Gamo to kerato sou. People nowadays have zero respect for privacy.”

Morpheus was ready to yell at whoever was standing behind the door, scare them off so they would never show their face here ever again. 

But behind the door was Gadling. And Cori. And Matthew and Mervyn and John and Ken and… even Gilbert was there. Gadling was holding a cake in his hands. Self-made, by the looks of it. 

The frosting read Happy One Month Anniversary!

Morpheus was about to cry. 

He couldn’t help it. He rushed forward, right into the arms of Robert Gadling. Because this must have been his idea, insufferable, incredible man that he was. Considerate. God, he was always so considerate. Cheering him up with stupid puns every single day, forcing him to relax, to trust, to breathe, to be. 

Forcing Morpheus to enjoy his company. Seek it out even. He didn’t do hugs. And yet, here he was. 

“Thank you, Hob.” he whispered, so only Hob could hear. The arms around him tightened, and the other man pressed his cheek against his own. 

“Anytime, Dream.”

[mahnamahnadubididu]

MR BONZO?

STUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING MR BONZO GOD DAMN FOOL UNFUCKBLE MONSTER EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIOT AVATAR OF THE WHORE BIGGEST CLOWN IN THE CIRCUS LAUGHED OUT OF TOWN COWBOY MOTHERFUCKING MR BONZO. STOP PINNING ME WHEN I TALK ABOUT MR BONZO I HATE HIM SO MUCH WHY DOES HE HAVE SO MANY FUCKED UP SONGS WHY DID HE DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT GO TO A STRIPP CLUB IS HE DEAD IS HE A BASTARD MAN HAS SUCH A VISCERAL AFFECT ON ME NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM NEVER SEEN THIS MANS FACE AND I KNOW HE HAS THE WORLDS SAGGIEST AND SWEATTIEST SKIN GET AWAY FROM ME.if i wanted to get into heaven and god said Mr Bonzos waiting inside i would piss on gods feet for the sole purpose of getting sent back down. if i have to deal with Mr Bonzo speaking one word in person on voice in podcast not only will i close the tab i will delete my bookmark out of spite and have to rewatch the entire series again for the experience of being able to skip all the times when he is mentioned or alive. i dont even know why i hate him so much. he works for the UK Government but i am just mad because i am ANGY. he better have some fucked up backstory to explain this if hes just some tv shithead whos a fan of creepypasta and wanted the irl version ill go ham. BETTER have had a costume make him a kill a man cuz if he didnt Im going to make him. Episodes not even about him. vaguely mentioned what is supposed to maybe be his show and I lost it. Where the fuck is Mr Bonzo if hes still alive im going to so deeply wish he wasnt. Crusty old clown. I´ll punch Mr Bonzo and his sad frail old man twig bones will simply flake apart under my epic huge meat fist and he will disintegrate until all thats left is one final cd he kept on him at all times simply titled Now You Fucked Up in ancient yiddish. im not breathing im hyperventilating at this point. I hope theres a date given for when Mr Bonzo died or will die so i can make it a reminder on my phone. Everyday once a year i will see it and do anything but pay respects to the man who had so many fucked up teeth

[oldwritingm]

Omg i Live your writing sm ❤️❤️

I would love to like have a ninjago Kai x fem/reader okay so basically it’s like a good friend of Lloyd in school and they do everything together but Kai has like a crush kn her since idk a year (like pretty long) and Kai’s jealous so he tried to be friends with her but she disagrees (not in his face but she’s like idk how to explane but she like doesn’t really talks to him and everything uk?) but he doesn’t know she has a crush on him too and is too shy to speak to him . But one time she told Lloyd and Lloyd knew Kai loves her too so she like make a date without them knowing idk just like Kai and Lloyd were suppose to meet at the same time as Lloyd and y/n and Lloyd then says to them both he doesn’t have any time so they do sth together and then like it’s a love story u can think of sth here 🫶🏼

Yes ofc!! We need more innocent schemes from Lloyd in this world

Word count: 1.1k

Ninjago - Lloyd Sets You Up with Kai

You closed your locker, nearly jumping out of your skin to find that someone had been waiting behind its door.

Spiky brown hair with warm eyes and a little smirk, you’d recognize hum anywhere. It was Kai Smith, a boy in your grade. You certainly knew about him, but you’d never actually spoken. Perhaps that was why your heart raced nervously at his alarmingly close proximity.

“Hey,” he greeted you.

“Um, hi.” You walked past him, eager to dodge the uncomfortable encounter.

That was weird…

The weirdness didn’t end there. Almost every day after that, Kai would try to talk with you. You didn’t understand why he was so interested; frankly, you were skeptical of his motives. So, you avoided him as best as you could. Luckily you had your friend Lloyd to use as an excuse to leave him.

“Hey, you got any plans for lunch today?”

“I’m sitting with my friend Lloyd.”

You didn’t stay long enough to see the disdain on his face at the mention of that name. Nor did you see his harsh glares at the two of you from across the cafeteria throughout the entire lunch period.

“Hey, you’re friends with Kai, right?”

Lloyd nodded, more focused on shoveling rice into his mouth at the moment.

“Do you know why he keeps trying to talk to me?”

Lloyd froze. His eyes bulging as they locked on his tray in shock. He did, indeed, know why Kai was trying to talk with you. But that wasn’t his secret to tell. Even though you were best friends, Lloyd was loyal to all of his buddies, and he’d never reveal their secrets.

“I mean, I guess I wouldn’t mind if he was trying to get close to me… he is pretty cute, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a little crush on him, but…” You shook your head, cheeks going a little pink. “I’m way too shy for this.”

Too shy, eh? Lloyd thought to himself mischievously. We’ll see what we can do about that.

A couple days later, a sunny Saturday, Lloyd invited you to the arcade. Naturally you agreed, so you met up at his place and headed down together.

Arriving at the arcade, you were perplexed as Lloyd began to wave eagerly. Scanning the area, you spotted the person giving a corresponding wave. Your heart dropped. Spiky brown hair, warm eyes, a little smirk. Kai.

“What’s he doing here?” You whispered hastily to Lloyd before Kai could get within listening range.

“I invited him. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

“Hey Lloyd! I, uh, I didn’t know you invited Y/n, too.”

“I guess I forgot to tell you,” Lloyd replied innocently. “Oops.”

Then, with an exaggerated expression of shock, Lloyd whipped out his phone. “Ack! Speaking of forgetting, I totally spaced on my fish’s funeral! Oh, man, it’s in ten minutes! Sorry guys, I really gotta go. You two should have fun together though; don’t let me ruin a good date—er, hangout!”

You both stood dumbstruck as Lloyd hurried out of the arcade.

“Lloyd doesn’t even have a fish,” you grumbled.

“Yeah, and since when does he forget to tell me who he’s bringing to hangouts?”

You shook your head. Clearly he had some sort of scheme afoot, and you were determined to figure it out. In the meantime, though…

“Um, so… what kind of games do you like?” Kai glanced nervously at you.

“I like the racing game they have here,” you responded automatically, forgetting your shyness for half a second. You felt your face heat up when Kai smiled at you, taking your hand and leading you to the machine.

“I knew you had good taste in games.”

“This is something you’ve thought about?”

Kai took one of the two seats on the machine, and in the dim glow from the screen you could see him blushing. “I think about you a lot.”

Unsure of what to say to that, you took the place next to him. You played several rounds, becoming more and more disappointed in yourself as your performance declined. Kai’s words just wouldn’t stop echoing in your mind. You were distracted.

Little did you know that Kai was in a similar state. Why did I say that? He kept asking himself. Stealing fleeting glances at you only further declined his abilities.

“You guys suck at this game,” a child’s voice came from behind you after yet another round. “Let someone with actual talent have a turn.”

You both chuckled awkwardly, scrambling off the machine to let the kid have his turn.

“I’m normally not that bad,” you defended yourself as you browsed the other games.

“Me neither.”

“I guess being with you just made me nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”

“N-not in a bad way! Not in a bad way at all…”

“Does this make you nervous?” Kai brushed his hand against yours as you walked, making you look down with wide eyes.

“I don’t know. Does this make you nervous?” In a sudden bold gesture, you locked pinkies with him.

You could practically see his brain buzzing. “No. Actually, that’s quite nice.”

You looked away with a shy smile, certain that your face was as red as a barn.

It was several hours before Lloyd contacted you next. He said that the funeral (which you both doubted was real) was taking way too long and that you should head home without him.

“This was nice, Kai. I guess I’ll head home now.”

“A lady like yourself? Alone? At night? No way. I’ll walk you home.”

Too flustered to decline the offer, you let him escort you home. You weren’t ungrateful; no, this just meant that you got to spend more time with him. He had proven to be fantastic company in the arcade, and you were eager to see more of him in the future.

“Well, this is my place.” You turned to face Kai, wishing you could prolong the moment for much longer.

“I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

Monday seemed an eternity away. A lightbulb abruptly illuminated in your mind. “Here, just take my number.”

You exchanged numbers, finally bidding each other goodbye with promises of texting in the morning.

You flopped onto your bed, singing in dreamy disbelief. Did that really just happen? Did you really just finally befriend your crush?

A buzz from your phone confirmed it. It was from Kai.

Tonight was fun. Can’t wait to see you again :)

It took everything in you not to squeal as you kicked your feet aggressively. It was real after all!

That night, you both dreamed of futures filled with flowers and kisses, hand-holding and her/him.

Thank you for this awesome request! And thanks for reading, take care guys <33

(divider by saradika)

[vampire-named-gampire]

COC Day 2: Chosen

Since I am utterly swamped with life, this year's COC is going to be probably entirely WIPs that just happen to fit the prompt in one way or another.

Here's the first one, it's still unpublished but almost done, so hopefully I'll have it done by the end of this year. Fingers crossed.

It doesn't have a title yet, but I think I'll call it Heartstrings. The premise of this AU is that Baz is a violinist and Simon is in a punk band (so you'll be seeing more of them on punk day!)

Anyway happy COC and enjoy this short snippet of Baz looking up Simon's band for the first time.

BAZ

While on the tube, I open my Spotify and search for The Chosen Ones. I expect a photo on their Spotify profile, but I’m met with a drawing of the devil’s wings and tail, the same one that’s on the hoodie that Snow often wears.

Thirty thousand monthly listeners, that’s not bad. I scroll down to the bottom of their profile and check the band description.

Hello! We are The Chosen Ones. We met in secondary school, when we were all very angry about very different things and music was our way of surviving. If you want to rage, cry, be in love or simply pay our bills, make sure to join us at our next show! UK tour tickets at: www.thechosenones/tour.com

I swipe through the band photos (After the logo with the wings and tail, there are some actual band photos  as well, mainly from shows). It’s a four person band; the curly-haired lead singer whose brown skin is covered in tattoos, the equally tattooed tall blonde man with a pointed nose on the guitar, a woman with pink hair on the bass, and then in the back, I can just make out Snow’s curly head behind the drum set, grinning wildly. I don’t know if I should be sad or relieved that Spotify doesn’t let me zoom on photos.

I scroll back to the top of their profile, my finger hovering above their top song, Bones and teeth.

Then I decide I’ve done enough damage to my heart (and my violin practice) today already and exit their profile, putting on Stravinsky instead.

[yes-ihavealwaysbeengreen]

"Not what I came for." John 'Soap' MacTavish x F! Reader

Summary: No one gets under your skin the way Soap does. It's gotten so bad, that you need to get the hell out and you request a transfer. But Price has one rule before he'll let you go, talk to Soap. To bad Soap has no interest in just talking.

Pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x F! Reader

Warnings: 18 + Only- Explicit Smut, Misunderstandings, Enemies to Lovers, language.

Cross Posted on AO3

“I could have gone anywhere, John,” you sit across from Price in the well-worn leather chair he’s placed across from the mahogany desk. “I’m the best sniper in the entire UK, I had over a dozen organizations that wanted me and my gun but for some reason, I chose you and your merry band of fucking idiots.” 

“Harsh words, love,” he smiles, leaning back in his chair and nursing his brandy, “only half of them are idiots, let’s be fair.” 

“I want a transfer,” he straightens, putting the glass down on the desk. “I can’t keep doing this every day and acting like I’m fine. This is not what I came for, Price.” 

“Okay,” he nods slowly, “I’ll start the paperwork…but you have to do something for me.” 

“What?” you groan, already hating the way this conversation is going. 

“You have to talk to him.” You open your mouth to protest and he raises a hand silencing you, “the paperwork isn’t started, I’m still your commanding officer so you’re going to shut your damn mouth and listen.” You grind your teeth before setting on a frown, Price sighs exasperated. “While the world is large, the world of intelligence and Spec. Ops is not, you’ll have to see him again at some point. Might as well leave things on a good note.” 

“He’s such a fucking prick, he’s making me transfer, John!” You stand pressing your hands on the desk, “how am I supposed to leave things on a good note, when he’s insufferable?!” 

Price leans back with a grin, “be the bigger person, darling.” 

“Fuck I hate that,” you groan, “for once in my life I don’t want to be the bigger person. I want to tell him what a fucking arsehole he is, and that if I never have to see him again in my entire life, it will be too soon.” 

“Well, then say that, but at least talk to the man. Then you’ll get your transfer.” Price looks smug, arms crossed over his chest and you let out a shout before slamming the door to his office shut behind you. 

It doesn’t take long to cross the base with the pace you’ve set yourself and in a matter of moments you’re pushing the mess hall doors open. You quickly glance around before seeing the other members of your team in the corner, eating lunch. “Soap MacTavish!” you shout, the whole room going silent as he turns to look at you, his mouth wide open food still partially chewed in his mouth, fuck, he’s disgusting. “Get the fuck out here,” he fails to move so you shout again, “Now!” 

“Aye, Lass, I’m eating my lunch. Lemme finish before I’ve got to deal with you and your squawking.” Your blood boils and you rush across the room, hands on your hips staring him down. He takes his time, turning his head to glance at you, “Ya know, Lass, I’ve always had this fantasy of you looking down at me, but it was never while I was eating my lunch.” 

“What was the fantasy?” Ghost asks with a smirk, and you glare at him, but of course, nothing phases him. 

“Well,” Soap sighs dramatically, “I was on my knees,” he pauses running a hand over his chin, “ah you know what L.T. I was enjoying some lunch in that fantasy too. But it wasn’t food, I was eating.” He smirks up at you and you want to hit him right in the middle of his perfect face. 

“You’re despicable,” you shake your head disgusted, “I wouldn’t let you within five feet of my pussy. I think I’d get an STD just from you breathing on me.” 

“Somebody get me a tape measure!” he shouts, “I need to see if I’m within five feet of Her Majesty.” Simon chuckles, Gaz looking between the two of you with interest. 

“You wouldn’t know what to do even if I let you get within five feet. All men are the same, useless and disappointing.” 

“You want to make that wager?” 

You could never resist a wager. Folding your arms over your chest, you nod, “What are the terms?” 

Soap goes slack jaw, his eyes widening as he takes in a trembling breath, his voice growing deeper as he slowly stands pushing his chest against your folded arms. “I can make you cum, with nothing but my mouth, no hands. I can eat your perfect little pussy till you're screaming my name and when I do,” he licks his lips, his eyes hungry with the mental picture, “when I do, you’re going to go back to the Captain and tell him you’re staying with the 141.” 

“How did you-” your words falter, noticing Simon holding up his phone with  a text from Price displayed. You growl, teeth clenched, “and when you lose? When you realize you’re not as good as you think and I fall asleep from boredom?” 

“Then you can leave,” he crosses his arms over his chest and leers down at you, “you can run away to Kortac or the Shadows.” 

“I’m not running away,” you drop your arms, pushing your face into his, “you’re the reason I’m leaving, Johnny! If you treated me like a goddamn teammate instead of a burden, I’d never leave this team.” 

He swallows hard, opening his mouth to say something when he snaps it shut, narrowing his eyes, “Do we have a wager or not?” 

Heat floods between your thighs, imagining him looking at you from between them, his lips glistening with your juices. You’ve always despised how attracted you are to him, remembering the first mission where you got paired up together on that rooftop in Madrid, sharing jokes and stories over a cup of weak coffee, and a cold churro. It was the perfect night, the moon high in the sky illuminating his face as he smiled at you. The last time he smiled at you. 

You have to leave, you didn’t sign up for this shit. “It’s a deal.” 

You turn from the room, hearing his boots thud behind you, Simon and Kyle shouting obsecentities behind you but you tune them out heading from the barracks. “Where do you want to do this?” you glance over your shoulder, catching Soap's eyes as they glance up from watching your ass sway back and forth. 

No one is following, thank fuck. You’re about to let Soap eat your pussy, you can’t imagine if you had an audience as well. The thought is tossed out of your brain when your wrist is grabbed from behind and you’re pulled into a darkened room. It shocks you when you feel his lips press incessantly against your own, his tongue swallowing your gasp, a whimper softly escaping when he presses you into the wall, his hands massaging your breasts. “No hands,” you gasp, each word punctuated with a moan. 

“Fuck,” he pants, his mouth against your neck, “that was a stupid fucking rule.” 

“What?” you mock, “Can’t get me off without using your hands? I think I know the way this deal is going to work out. Maybe I can find some man in Kortac who’ll treat me right, I heard they got this big fucker that could split me in half.” 

Soap fingers the switch on the wall and you take in the empty classroom, “on the desk,” he orders, stepping back and tossing off his fingerless gloves, before locking the door. “We don’t want an audience when I make you cum, though I’m sure the entire base will hear you by the time I’m done.” 

“Promises, promises,” you taunt, going over to the desk, and going to unbutton your pants, sliding them down your legs. You bend over, unlacing your boots when you hear a thud as he drops to his knees. 

“Put your hands on the desk,” he nudges you forward till you bend in half, your cheek resting on the desk. “Don’t fucking move unless I tell you to.” 

His hands graze over your ass, and he goes to pull your panties down when you tsk, “Hands remember? Or is your memory that short, Captain?” 

He growls something deep in his chest, turning you over, popping up to his feet, and leaning over you with a hand on your neck, putting the faintest pressure. “Do you ever fucking stop?” he shouts, spit hitting your cheek, “you and your fucking mouth are going to get you into trouble.” 

“Is that why you hate me?!” you spit back, leaning forward and getting in his face. The hand around your throat tightened just slightly, but for once he stayed blessedly silent. “Is that why you’ve treated me like shit since Madrid?!” Your voice breaks and you take a deep breath, the hand around your throat letting go, as his brows furrow with confusion. 

“I-” he stutters, shaking his head, “I don’t hate ya.” You hiccup, the tears spilling down your cheeks, “I never hated ya, Lass.”

“Then why?” you whisper, “why have you done everything you can to get me to leave?” 

“You got shot in Madrid,” his words make you pause, the tears streaming down your face as he takes a shuddering breath. “You got shot, and it was like it didn’t even phase you. You kept going, kept running that fucking mouth for hours, and it wasn’t until we got back to base that you collapsed in my fucking arms.” He closes his eyes, his grip on you tightening, before they slowly open, “I fell in love with you on the rooftop, and in an instant I lost you, and you didn’t even care.” 

“Johnny-” 

“This was stupid,” he pushes himself off the desk, running his hand over his mohawk, “I should have never made this stupid bet.” 

“I agreed to it,” you sit up, his eyes on you as he takes in the damp spot on your panties, licking his lips. “And I want you,” he stiffens, watching as you remove the bottom half of your clothing, baring yourself to him. “I do a lot of stupid fucking things,” you lean back on the desk, dropping one leg to the table and your knee propped up on the other side, “but letting you eat my pussy, is not one of them.”  

You take two fingers, spreading yourself wide so he can see the slick coating your fingers, before you hold them out for him. The balls in his court and you wait. 

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he groans, sliding to his knees and grabbing your wrist before sliding your fingers into his mouth. He moans around them, his eyes sliding closed as he sucks them clean, before they open hazy, watching you. “Do you want this?” he asks, you can feel his breath on your pussy, sending a jolt up your spine. 

“Yes,” you whimper, your head dropping to the table when he surges forward pulling your legs over his shoulders and diving into your cunt. “Oh fuck,” you gasp, eyes closed, as his tongue swirls at your clit, his nose running up and down. He flicks it back and forth fast, his saliva mixed with your slick creating a mess all over his chin as he sloppily sucks your clit into his mouth. 

You prop your body up on your elbows and glance down, almost cumming as you take in his eyes dialated and watching your every move. He spears his tongue, sliding it into your wet cunt, the sounds are damn near pornographic you’re so wet. “Touch your tits for me, sweet girl,” he orders, your hands sliding over your breasts as he watches you twist a nipple before letting out a whimper. “Such a good fucking girl.” 

“Hands,” you remind him, breathily, “this is cheating.” Neither of you mentions how you hands fail to stop moving. 

“Aye,” he grins, “but they’re not my hands are they?” 

“You bastard,” you groan, your head dropping back, “you found a fucking loophole.” 

“You love it,” he groans, burrowing himself back into your heat. He groans, the vibrations traveling through your body, “you taste so fucking sweet, I could eat this pretty cunt forever.” 

“Go ahead,” you pant, feeling the coil in your belly tighten, “I’m not fucking going anywhere.” 

He pauses, his breath heavy and you let out a moan before lifting your head, watching as he licks his lips and stares at you. “Did you mean that?” he asks, voice deadly quiet, “you’re not leaving me?” 

“I will if you don’t let me fucking cum!” you shout, screaming his name when he puts his mouth back on you, a soldier on a mission. “JOHNNY!” you shout, grabbing onto his mohawk and bucking your hips into his mouth, “oh fuck!” Your pussy clenches, and you go to shut your legs but he holds you down, his tongue working inside you as he wrings every drop of pleasure out of you. You push him away when the oversensitivity turns uncomfortable and he stands, smiling down at you, your chest rising and falling fast with your heavy breath.

“Tell me,” he pulls you forward with a yelp, wrapping your legs around his waist so you can feel the hard press of his cock against your weeping cunt. “Tell me,” he commands again, leaning down to press his face into your own, keeping your eyes on him. 

“I love you too, you asshole,” you wrap your arms around his neck, “every since that rooftop in Madrid.” His hold on you tightens, and he presses his forehead to your own, “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be the weak woman on the team. I thought it was fine…until it wasn’t. I woke up three days later in the hospital alone, waiting for you to show up. And you never did.” 

“I was there the whole time,” he lifts his head, “I left when you started waking up and got the doctor and left. We lead a dangerous life, lass, I didn’t want to risk my heart.” 

“I thought you thought me weak, that I was a burden to you.” 

“No,” he shakes his head, “you are not a burden to me.” 

“We’ve both been fools,” you hold him close, getting lost in his eyes, “can you ever forgive me?” 

“Oh love,” he groans, pressing his lips to your own, “can you ever forgive me? I’ve been a right bastard to you, you didn’t deserve it.” 

“I forgive you Johnny,” he repeats the sentiment back, using your own first name, none of the silly nicknames or call signs. “Do you mind if I stick around for awhile longer?” you ask, running your hand over his cheek as he smiles. 

“Oh lass, you’re staying right here, right where you belong.” 

[adarkrainbow]

So, I realized I made a BIG mistake in my previous post (thanks @gay-impressionist and @northwest-by-a-train for correcting my big mistake, I clearly wasn't well-informed Xp) - time to redo a new post!

As a result I'll go straight to the conclusion: there's something inherently queer about fairytale adaptations. There's something inherently queer about literary fairytales, for example, written by French lesbians of the Renaissance or sad Danish gay men. There's something even queer by the more "traditional" folktales (see the famous fairytale type which ends with the heroine undergoing magical gender transition - I posted a Greek version and reblogged a Romanian one). But when it comes to various fairytale adaptations, the queerness is even more present.

The most famous example is the Disney classics. Movies that are the epitome of fairytales in America, movies that are some of the huge symbols of heterosexuality and "conservation of traditional values" in America, movies owned and produced by a company still known today for not being queer-friendly... And yet movies that form a huge part of the queer aesthetic, and that fuel the cross-dressing/drag-art imagery, and that formed a certain gay audience. Charming princes, beautiful princesse, disturbingly sexy villains, Disney had all to please a queer person.

But it isn't just in America. In France the two major fairytale movies, the dominant pieces of fairy-tale cinema, were created by two prominent gay/bisexual artists of their time, and each had their own queerness in it. Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast (he literaly had his boyfriend play the Beast), and Jacques Demy's Donkey Skin (his musical movies of the 60s form in themselves a sub-genre associated with gayness in France - we don't have the "Gays love musical theater" stereotype, but we do have the "Gays love Demy's musicals" stereotype).

(This isn't so much about "classics" but I have to point out how the motif of queerness as a joke or subversion of fairytales also is quite present in French media since the 90s-2000s onward. The sex-comedy "Blanche Neige la suite" has, obviously, a lot of gay jokes, the humoristic-fantasy book "Blanche-Neige et les lance-missiles" and its sequel have a lot of lesbianism, the recent "Robilard" comic book has a big gay element by the middle of its run, and even the recent Cinderella parody movie has an entire segment about a gay fairy godmother directly referencing Demy's Donkey-Skin ; while of various qualities and worth, I can't help but compare this prominence of the "lesbian joke" or "gay subversion" in fairytale comedies and parodies in France, compared to for example American fairytale parodies and comedies which seemed more shy about it? I don't know, again, I'm just scribbling down notes)

And from my old post other people pointed out similar phenomenon in old "classics".

@countesspetofi pointed out how in the UK you have the entire pantomime genre, and there is no need to explain why they're queer. And @maimoncat higlighted how a lot of fairytale productions of Europe like to use the "crossdressing princess" motif (Three Wishes for Cinderella/Fantaghiro) - plus how Roberto de Simone's adaptation of "Gatta Cenerentola" explored the motif of gender ambiguity by having femminielli (third gender people from Naples and Campania) be involved in specific scenes, and the wicked step-family played by crossdressing actors.

If you ever have other examples don't hesitate to share! (And let's hope this time I won't have to rewrite the post due to my own ignorance Xp)

[separatist-apologist]

Wishing On Dandelions

I see forever in your eyes

Summary: When Elain is gifted a castle from her late Uncle, she expects it to come with bats in the attic and ghosts in the halls.

Not a grouchy English Lord hell bent on pushing her out.

Note: A final thank you to @the-lonelybarricade for both validating all my worst impulses AND being my UK consultant.

Part 1/2 | Read on AO3

To say Elain’s castle was a mess would have been an understatement. Nestled in the English Countryside, on paper it was perfectly picturesque. Charming, even. Elain had known the minute she’d learned of it she wanted to turn into a bed and breakfast. It was, for four straight months, all she thought about. Elain spent those early months picking out swatches and doing expensive surveys on the structural damage–of which there was a lot. She’d bought soil and seeds and enough gardening supplies to shape the whole of England if she’d truly wanted to.

And it had all come crashing down around her, crushed under the immaculate boots of Lucien fucking Vanserra. 

“I own this place.”

He’d said it in that posh accent she loathed, arching one immaculately groomed brow before his lawyers had swept in. He wasn’t wrong—though he wasn’t entirely right, either. His father and her Uncle had owned half, and now so did she and Lucien.

Elain and tried to turn on the charm. She’d smiled and put on her lowest cut dress, had bent against the desk they’d spent so many months arguing over, and asked to buy him out. Lucien had been unswayed—uninterested.

Elain blamed that entirely on how poor Lucien’s vision was. She’d learned this from a friend, who’d given her all the Vanserra gossip. His father had been a Duke before he died—allegedly murdered by his wife, who was little more than a common American actress. It had apparently been a terrible scandal, made worse when people suspected Lucien, his youngest son, wasn’t even his son at all. 

And in between all that, she’d learned that the Vanserra patriarch had been terribly abusive, though that was said like an afterthought. What was important was Lucien’s parentage and the fact that perhaps his claim to the castle wasn’t even legal.

Only, it was. Beron Vanserra had claimed him, and Lucien was uninterested in selling. It left Elain with the option of letting him buy her out, or convincing him to let her renovate and make him her partner.

Graysen wanted her to sell.

And Lucien had agreed to be partners, so long as he was allowed a fifty percent share, and say in her remodel. It was how, six months later, Elain found herself staring down paint swatches over a renovated office her and Lucien managed to share, despite their obvious desire to kill the other. 

“You want pink and green?” he asked dryly. Elain gave herself permission to study him only for a moment. She’d never asked him just how much he could see—the cane he often used to navigate with told her whatever sight he had was limited.

And none of her business.

A trio of scars raked over one of his eyes, like someone had dug their nails down his cheek in an attempt to gouge out his eye. It did little to diminish just how handsome Lucien was, though his mean spirited personality certainly made his good looks almost worthless by comparison. Still, his eyes were the most peculiar shade of russet brown, set in pretty, warm brown skin. His hair was a lovely auburn red and long enough he often tied it off his face, which gave him a rather rakish appearance. He wore a navy button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of well tailored trousers that showed of his muscled thighs, spread apart as he examined each of her swatches with a scowl.

“It’s for the garden view rooms,” Elain explained patiently. Sometimes she thought Gray was right—this was all a monumental waste of her time. She could be back in London planning their wedding like he wanted her, not two hours away negotiating with a terrorist. 

“Why not wallpaper?”

“There—” she was going to kill him. “There could have been wallpaper, but you hated that idea last week. Why not paint, that’s what you said.”

“I don’t recall.”

Elain clenched her hands to fists. “I still have all the wallpaper swatches. Would you like me to get them?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring them with you,” was his dry response. If looks could kill, he would be dead. Elain’s anger practically radiated off her, not that he noticed. Elain was certain he did this in an attempt to wear her down. He’d agreed to be partners because the alternative was a long, protracted legal battle that would have exhausted them both. But Elain wasn’t stupid, either.

She knew Lucien wanted a full share and her out of his life, and it was probably much easier to annoy her into quitting.

Elain clipped out, heels echoing as she made her way through the nearly completed castle. As she went, Elain looked out one of the hatched windows to the moody sea in the distance. She could see it just beneath her bedroom window, crashing against the cliffside her castle stood atop. He’d get tired, too. Lucien would bore of all this eventually and return to London and she’d be free of him.

Elain brought the envelope of wallpaper samples to him, dropping it loudly on the mahogany desk he still sat at. Lucien reached for it with long, strong fingers while Elain sat in the chair opposite him. 

“When is your wedding, again?” he asked in that bored tone. She must have told him a thousand times. Elain’s stomach clenched as she answered.

“Five months from yesterday.”

He nodded, his eyes landing on her. She didn’t think he could see much of her, and still squirmed under what he might find, regardless. 

“You must be dying to return.”

“Of course.” But that was a lie. Elain and Gray were fighting, though she wasn’t entirely sure he was aware of it. And truth be told, Elain was starting to get cold feet. Did she want to marry him?

Everything had happened so quickly, a whirlwind of romance that culminated in a marriage proposal before she’d ever managed to catch her breath. She’d liked how honest he was, how he wasn’t immediately taken with her face like everyone else was.

But sometimes she thought it might be nice to feel beautiful. Or wanted. Or even special. Graysen didn’t think any of those things were necessary.

You already think so highly of yourself. Why should I add to it? 

“How long for the honeymoon?”

“Trying to get rid of me? Or are you mourning the loss of Graysen?” she asked snappishly.

The corners of Lucien’s mouth twitched, like he was suppressing a smile. “I’m told he’s very handsome.”

“He is,” she said defensively, nearly adding, unlike you. But that seemed cruel and was an incredible lie. Lucien was the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life and she dreaded when Graysen realized this. He, like everyone else, imagined Lucien as a stuffy old man. Elain had never corrected this misconception as it made her life far easier.

Graysen was coming to visit in the next month and Elain knew it would be a miserable fight the second he laid eyes on Lucien. 

“How terrible to be away from him,” Lucien said crisply. “I would think you’d want to spend every moment possible with him.”

“I’d think you would have learned to mind your own business by now,” Elain retorted. Lucien did smile then, and she wished he wouldn’t. It was far easier to hate him when she wasn’t reminded that he was beautiful. 

“Pick a sample, Lucien, or I’ll do it for you. And I’ll make it ugly and claim it was your design.”

Lucien, who was so fashionable, scowled. “Yes, that is exactly the sort of immature antics I’d expect from you. Do whatever you like—in truth, I don’t care.” “Of course you don’t. This has just been a week of wasted time,” Elain snapped, rising from her chair to gather up her samples. 

“You’re not in London, are you?” he replied smoothly 

“Mind your own business, while you’re at it,” Elain ordered, storming from the room before Lucien could say anything else that might convince her to finally wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. 

-*-

“This looks nice,” Elain lied, staring at the garish pink couch now sitting in what would become her lounge. “Very vivid.” “I thought you’d enjoy it,” Lucien murmured. He had one earbud in, listening to something softly on his phone. She knew he wanted her to throw a fit over how ugly that sofa was. She refused, if only because Elain couldn’t stand to see Lucien happy. Irritating her pleased him, and so Elain would merely vent her frustrations to her sisters later when he wasn’t around.

Lucien didn’t notice the shovel in Elain’s hand. That wasn’t his fault, given Lucien could just barely see when his hand was two inches from his face. 

Elain liked to think that if Lucien could see her, he would have known not to try her when she was so capable of digging another flowerbed out back where his lifeless body would become nourishment for generations of tulips. 

Elain trekked out into the first warm, sunny summer day. She’d been growing most things indoors using little planters, and over the next week, Elain intended to begin repotting it all into the yard. She had her classic English garden to add a lively bit of color to the grounds, and then her herb and vegetable garden so she could boast of having both on her website. 

Lucien very rarely bothered her out on the ground, primarily because the guys who were supposed to be laying down her path kept rescheduling on her. Lucien didn’t like the uneven ground, which made it the perfect place to avoid him. 

Outside was Elain’s sanctuary. She had a little glass greenhouse for her tomatoes, and other things she wanted to grow when it got too wet and rainy to support much outdoors. And she had a pretty, white shed that she stored all her things in—of which, Elain had a lot. Gardening had fast become her hobby.

Elain had a green thumb and, beyond that, loved the peace of doing something gentle. Elain felt most herself when she was in her garden, and could easily forget all her worries, her insecurities, her sense that the world was all wrong and only she could see it. 

And for all his snobbiness, Lucien had never once made a comment about her broken nails or her sunburned cheeks when she returned inside. Of course, Lucien couldn’t see those things, but still. It was nice not to have him constantly scrutinizing her appearance. 

It was a low bar to not dislike Lucien simply because he couldn’t see her, but it seemed like lately all Graysen did was comment on her appearance. She’d once loved that he was taken by her beautiful face. Graysen had joked he ought to have taken her swimming so he could see the real her beneath.

Though, during one rather heated argument, he’d said her looks were passable at best, and hardly special compared to other women he’d known. And though it was shallow, his words still bounced through her head on occasion. Why did she care?

But if Elain wasn’t beautiful, what was she? No one had ever valued anything else, and neither had Elain. It was, occasionally, pathetic how much she cared and how hard she tired. She knew everyone thought so. Both her sisters found her shallow and insipid and in love with London’s social scene. 

Elain had never been happier than she was in the castle. If Lucien would just go, Elain thought she, too, might retreat entirely from life in the city. And maybe it was a good thing he stuck around, given Elain would definitely have postponed her engagement forever if she’d had that kind of peace. 

Elain pushed those thoughts from her mind. For six blissful hours, Elain did nothing but practically bathe in dirt. She returned that afternoon sweaty, her overalls caked in fertilizer and soil and with two broken nails. She came back happy.

Lucien paused, walking the familiar path from his bedroom to the dining hall. “What’s got you so happy?” “How can you tell I’m happy?” she replied, as if she wasn’t grinning ear to ear. Even Lucien couldn’t ruin the good day she’d had. 

Lucien frowned. “You’re glowing.”

Elain might have asked him to expand on that had she not been so surprised. Lucien continued forward, his immaculate shoes clipping over the wood floors they’d bickered over for weeks. Elain hated that Lucien was right—both the herringbone pattern and the crisp, light wood had been the right way to go. 

She watched him go, eyes narrowed. That was, perhaps, the nicest thing Lucien had ever said to her. Elain wasn’t even certain he’d paid her a compliment at all. Arms crossed over her chest, Elain turned for the winding stairs that would take her far, far away from him.

Not even Lucien could ruin a perfect day. 

-*-

Lucien was insane. That was the only way to describe what was currently happening in the courtyard. He’d lost his mind, holed up with only Elain for company, and was now certifiable.

How else did one explain the four roaming hens making a mess of things. 

“Lucien!” Elain screamed, hands balled into fists. 

He took his time, dressed immaculately in a butter yellow button up and charcoal slacks. Elain marched toward him, leaned against the archway that led back in.

“Do you think I won’t make you try and catch them?” she asked him, furious he’d brought livestock to the castle. “Because I will, Lucien. I swear to God—”

“You wanted farm to table, Elain. Now you have four egg laying hens, and a pen just out back by your greenhouses. What could you possibly be upset by?”

“You’re a stupid blighter, Lucien,” she snapped, resisting the urge to shove him. “You know this isn’t what I meant.”

He pressed a hand to his broad chest. “How could I possibly know anything about what you mean when you refuse to speak to me?”

“I wonder why!” 

“I thought you wanted to be partners,” he chided, making a mockery of her.

“I did, Lucien. You’ve been nothing but rude and petty this entire time!”

“Yes,” he replied dryly, his eyes wholly focused on her. She wondered if she was glowing to him now, or if some other color had overtaken her. “I have been the problem.”

“You have,” she snarled, taking two steps forward to jam her fingers into his chest. “Spoiled, princely Lucien Vanserra didn’t get his way. Has to share one of his toys with me. You could have left me here and stayed in London, but you couldn’t stand—”

“That’s enough!” Lucien snapped, his chest rising and falling. “You’ve said quite enough. Anymore and I think it’ll be unforgivable.”

Elain yielded a step, unsure when she’d come so close to him, or when she’d begun to notice he smelled like warm cinnamon and leather. 

“The hens aren’t going back, Elain. They’re a gift.”

With a huff of air, Lucien turned, walking off like he’d been the one injured and not her. Like she hadn’t just dumped a bunch of brown and white hens in the middle of her lap with no concern given to their lives or her ability to even care for them.

Elain was a plant girl—not an animal one. She sighed, bending as one particular white feathered bird rubbed its face over her leg. 

“Alright,” she grumbled, holding the bird in her hands. “I suppose we ought to get you four settled.”

By the time Elain had corralled all four birds, she’d also given them names, marked by yarn she’d tied gently against one of their legs. Henrietta wore pink, while Laya green, Cooper yellow, and Meggatron wore purple. Elain spent the rest of her day in the village, talking with a local farmer who had, coincidentally, sold Lucien the hens, on how best to care for the birds while dodging his attempts to unload several more on her. 

Elain would have her revenge in the form of the sweetest hen, who, over the course of several irritating days, became her strange companion. Henrietta followed her about, weaving through her flower beds and her newly laid path, clucking her observations while Elain pretended she knew what was being spoken. 

Lucien could now join her outdoors if he wanted—and he often did, if only to annoy her. Henrietta didn’t like him. Perhaps she remembered how he’d dumped her out here to fend for herself. Maybe he just radiated something the chicken didn’t like. Whatever it was, Henrietta’s feathers would ruffle, flapping as she chased after him and nipping at his ankles until he was far from Elain. Only then would Henrietta waddle back, preening and waiting for Elain to stroke her feathers. 

“She’s a menace!” Lucien snarled one day, watching Elain from the patio, arms crossed over his chest. 

“She’s a gift,” Elain replied, throwing his own words right back into his face. Lucien had given her, perhaps, her first real friend. A bird friend, but a friend all the same. Every morning Elain traded her hens eggs for breakfast, and every afternoon while the other ladies traipsed about, clucking gossip and exploring their enclosure, Henrietta inspected the grounds, kept Lucien far from Elain, and Elain got to waste time outdoors while Lucien focused on their internal operation.

It was always meant to be that way in Elain’s mind. She’d handle the aesthetic, the day to day, and Lucien would oversee the financials, the business-y things Elain couldn’t be bothered with. Elain still had hope that could be their arrangement if Lucien ever got over his desperation to be freed of her. 

Elain was careful that evening with her hens, looking up at the sky which seemed moodier than usual. The air whipped around her, far colder than the day had been, and beneath her, Elain could hear the ocean crashing against the cliffside chaotically. 

She debated bringing them inside, weighing the damage they might do indoors with what a storm would do outdoors. Elain locked them up, deciding they’d be fine. She was anxious, though, watching the windows all evening as if a raging hurricane was going to just appear on the horizon.

By the time Elain fell asleep, the night was merely windy and nothing else. She felt silly for how stressed she’d been.

And vindicated when she woke to the sound of glass breaking in the distance. The castle had come with old, thin stained glass she and Lucien had argued endlessly about keeping. Most of it had been ruined, but some had managed to survive centuries of abuse. Lucien had wanted to carefully cut it out and preserve it while Elain wanted to keep it in the windows. She’d won that argument, perhaps to her detriment.

Elain kicked off the blankets, heart pounding. Dressed in a thin tank top and hip hugging shorts, Elain flew down the hall toward the sweeping steps that would take her to the grand hall. All she could think about was her chicken, locked outside in that rickety pen.

Elain’s bare foot hit the wood, propelling her forward. She ran for the door and might have made it had a strong arm not caught her around the middle. Lucien hauled her off her feet, stumbling when she flailed. The two of them hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, just barely visible to her in the dark.

“The chickens, Lucien, let me go—”

He’d pinned her back to his chest, wrapping muscular legs around her waist to keep her trapped on the ground.

“Don’t be a muppet,” Lucien grunted, struggling to keep her from breaking free. “That storm will blow you right off the cliff.”

Elain’s panic threatened to overwhelm her. “Lucien, Lucien please, please let me go—”

Somewhere in the castle, more glass shattered under a deafening crack of thunder. Lucien’s strong arms came up over her face, pulling her closer as if he expected that glass to explode around them. Elain turned into him, feeling his thudding heart through her skin. Lucien wasn’t wearing a shirt, she realized. Just a pair of loose trousers slung low over his hips. 

“I’ll be fine,” she breathed, ignoring the way the wind howled. She’d be lucky if all her plants survived this night. “Let me go.” Lucien’s hold on her relaxed enough for her to stand. Elain took his hand in hers, knowing that if she was struggling to see, it would be twice as bad for Lucien. He allowed her to haul him to his feet, fingers laced as the pair of them went toward the door. Elain didn’t dare look up at him, nor did she drop his hand as she unlocked the front door and pulled.

Wind slammed into the pair of them, causing a jumpy Lucien to shove her behind his much larger frame. The world was a violet shade of black, and moving sideways in the rain. She could see nothing at all and knew, looking outward, that Lucien was right. It was foolish to go out there and risk being harmed. 

“Elain,” he warned, one arm thrown out before her. “You can’t.”

A soft sob escaped her. “I knew I should have brought them in.

It took Lucien effort to close that door, leaving the fury of nature to rage against the wood and stone. Instead, Lucien took her hand again, either to steady himself or to comfort her. She assumed it must be the former, given how little he thought of her.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her to the left. Elain flipped lights on as they went, which improved the confidence with which Lucien moved, though he never dropped his hold. He took her to the study they shared, a familiar battle ground and the only place the two of them willingly went to see the other.

Lucien put Elain in a chair before seating himself not behind the desk as he so usually did, but on the arm, the two facing the wall of windows behind the desk that would tell them when the storm ended. 

“You can go back to bed,” she told Lucien, angling her body so her legs were tucked beneath her. Her head was just a tad too close to his thigh, something that would have bothered her any other time. Now, it seemed almost comforting to have him so close.

“I’m fine,” Lucien replied, his eyes not on the windows, but on her. Maybe it was her fear—or maybe curiosity finally won out—but Elain couldn’t help herself.

“What do you see?”

His eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Very little,” he admitted after a moment. “Shapes, color. The further away I am, the more of a haze it appears.”

“And when you’re close?”

“Even if we touched nose to nose, I’d never truly know what you look like.”

Elain nodded. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” he murmured, turning his head away. “Not anymore. 

It was the end of her questions. Anything else was obscenely personal and though she and Lucien had struck a strange, almost friendly truce in the moment, she knew once the storm quieted, she would pay for this moment of weakness. 

Elain fell asleep to the sound of thunder and the worry that all her chickens—including her beloved Henrietta—would be dead in the morning. 

She woke to Lucien’s voice. “Hey,” he murmured, poking her in the ribs. She opened her eyes to find him crouched before her, this time in a plain white shirt. And tucked beneath his arm was a bleary eyed, rather exhausted looking Laya. 

“Henrietta?” she asked, thinking only of her favorite.

“Tried to murder me on sight,” he replied dryly, giving Elain the bird. “But they’re all alive…as well as your plants.”

He’d never been so close to her. In the hazy morning glow, Elain saw the shadow of a beard grazing his sharp jaw. She thought of his chest, all carved muscle now hidden beneath a t-shirt stretched over his body, and how he’d held her down with so little effort.

How he’d used his own body to shield her not once, but twice. 

“Thank you,” she told him. Lucien didn’t quite look at her, nodding silently. He rose to his feet, tall as he looked down his nose at her.

“Get that bird out of our house, Elain.”

And that was that. 

-*-

“What happened to your face?”

Graysen’s question drew Lucien’s attention from across the room. Eyes narrowed, knuckles white as he gripped his pen. Elain hated that every time Graysen spoke, she found herself looking at Lucien. She ought to look at Graysen, who she wanted so badly to be happy to see. She’d been right to think Gray would hate Lucien, but she’d also thought Lucien would like Gray.

She’d been very wrong. Lucien loathed Graysen for reasons that eluded her, and the entire week had been either avoiding the pair of them entirely, or trading verbal insults with Graysen. He’d also begun joining them at dinner, providing a buffer between her and her tense fiance. 

“It’s a sunburn, Gray,” Elain replied, embarrassed to have both of their attention on her. 

“Ah, of course. My wife is so very common.”

She hated when he called her his wife. He made it sound like something filthy, something insulting. 

“Did you not see the vegetables Elain has been growing?” Lucien inquired, his expression betraying the fight that was brewing. His fingers drummed against the wood grain of the desk while

Graysen sat in the same chair she and Lucien had slept in not a week before. 

“I saw the livestock,” Graysen replied, his brown eyes laser focused on Lucien. “Elain says that was your doing.”

Elain winced.

“Yes,” Lucien agreed, reclining back in his chair. He was so obviously the lord of the castle, and though she was loathe to admit it, her ally in that moment. “They are like children to me.”

She stifled a laugh. 

“I was just telling Elain how capable you seem. Everything is in order, is it not? She could return this evening with me. Tell her, Vanserra, that she’s not needed.”

Elain looked up at Lucien, who in turn was staring right back. Was she a haze to him? Could he feel her desperation, her sinking misery as she realized Lucien was about to get everything he wanted. Graysen would needle her into going home, into finishing their wedding planning. As Elain was hit with the realization she didn’t want to marry Graysen—like, at all— Lucien replied,

“Elain is very needed. None of this works without her.”

“Oh, that seems impossible,” Graysen snapped, his temper rising to the surface. “I see her little touches, but what does Elain know of running a business? I assumed that was what you were for.”

“You assume wrong. I merely pick out paint swatches,” Lucien replied dryly. “And, of course, tend to my beloved chickens.”

“What exactly is going on between you two?” Graysen demanded. He rose from his chair, eyes on Elain. She hadn’t told Graysen that Lucien couldn’t see, which might have settled some of the jealousy now careening through him. He went to her, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist. Funny, how common and mediocre she was right up until another man might have even a passing interest. 

“Nothing, Gray, come on—Graysen he’s blind, he can’t see you!” she snapped when he pressed his mouth possessively against her own. He’d begun to grope her through her dress, which filled Elain with miserable shame. 

A lazy smile graced Lucien’s handsome features. “If Elain wants to return and plan her wedding, she knows she always has a place here. That won’t change.”

Elain wrenched herself from Graysen’s grasp, striding across the room. Elain couldn’t be sure Lucien was being honest. For one terrible moment, she considered leaving with Graysen and going back to London, where she knew she’d fold like cardboard. Graysen’s family was without titles, was self-made in the same pretend way her father was—generational wealth that went back generations, had allowed both her father and Graysen’s to create new business ventures that had become wildly successful. 

“You heard him,” Graysen followed Elain out of the study and into the hall. “Go pack your things. This has gone on far too long.”

“You’re right,” Elain agreed, whirling on her heel. Lucien would hear the entire thing, which embarrassed her more than she was willing to admit. Better him than all of London when she was fleeing the altar at the last minute. At least Lucien would merely mock her in private. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Graysen’s features hardened. Elain took a step back, positioning herself in the doorway, trapped between Lucien at the desk and Graysen in the hall. “Can’t do what anymore?”

Elain couldn’t breathe. She hated confrontation. “I—”

“Sounds like she’s breaking up with you, mate,” came Lucien’s steady, cool voice. “What else could that possibly mean?”

Lucien was just behind her. She could smell the warm cinnamon and leather of his body, was certain if she took a step back she’d be touching him. 

“Who asked you?” Graysen demanded, hands balled into fists. “I don’t seem to recall wanting the opinion of a lowborn bastard—”

“Graysen!” Elain snapped, eyes wide. She threw out a hand as he surged forward, clearly looking to vent his fury on Lucien. In his haste, Graysen shoved Elain with more force than, perhaps, he’d meant to. She hit the corner of the door frame with a gasp, collapsing at Lucien’s feet from the echoing pain ricocheting through her temple. 

A crack of bone and Graysen’s groan told Elain that Lucien had retaliated. He’d hit him. Lucien had hit Graysen in the face. Graysen stumbled backwards, blood dripping from his nose. His eyes were wild with hatred and as Lucien began to crouch to help Elain to her feet, she saw what Graysen intended to do.

Lucien, of course, did not. She flung herself upward as Graysen lunged, sending both her and Lucien flying to the floor. Elain screamed, her fall broken by Lucien’s body. They knocked over a small table, shattering a lamp and sending several well chosen books thudding to the ground with them.

“Don’t!” Elain demanded breathlessly as Lucien locked his legs around her. They were sitting on the floor, chest to back, staring up at a bleeding, enraged Graysen. “Don’t you dare touch him!”

Something like regret flitted over Graysen’s features. He offered Elain his hand and Elain, in turn, pressed closer to Lucien. “Get out, Gray.”

“Don’t you ever come back,” Lucien added roughly from behind her. 

Graysen set his jaw. “I get it, Elain. Why you’d prefer someone who can’t see how terribly mediocre you are. How utterly plain—a disappointment to everyone who loves you.”

Lucien started to stand, but Elain grabbed his wrist, pulling him back to the ground. She’d expected this lashing out. Hurting her to make himself feel better. That was Graysen’s way.

He left her there on the floor, raging as he made his way upstairs for his things. Elain winced, rising to her feet only when she heard the front door slam.

She brought Lucien with her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking out his bruised, bleeding hand. “Hitting him was a mistake.”

“Are you hurt?” Elain asked, though what she wanted to say was, why did you hit him? 

The sound of rubber against pavement drew them further apart. Elain knew their engagement wasn’t over. Graysen would go home and sulk for a day or two before he tried calling. Tried reframing what happened as somehow her fault, or Lucien’s, or some trauma from his childhood that still haunted him. 

That would be when they’d truly be done. Elain would say it again, with feeling, and then she’d deal with the ugly fallout. She’d make all the apologies and let Graysen paint her as a whore, shacking up with Lucien Vanserra out in the country, despite her and Lucien just barely able to tolerate each other.

Or, she thought anyway.

“No,” he murmured, looking at his hand before reaching for her face. Lucien’s thumb swept over the forming bruise, eliciting a hiss from Elain. She jerked from his grasp.

“I’m fine. It was an accident.”

“Sure. How often do these kinds of accidents happen?”

And Elain hated him, because she couldn’t say it was the first time she’d been shoved by Graysen. Or the first time she’d excused it as an accident. Her silence was damning. 

“Right,” Lucien finally said, drawing a deep breath. “Well, far be it from me to tell you how to live your life, but—”

“It’s over,” she said softly, swallowing the urge to cry. “There’s no need.”

She started to walk away, intending to ice her face and lay down and pretend none of this had happened. Lucien would let her, she thought. He’d go back to ignoring her, just as she’d been ignoring him.

Elain turned. “Thank you. For ah…”

He nodded, clenching his jaw. “It was nothing.”

How wrong he was.

-*-

Elain and Henrietta were pulling weeds from a crack along the sidewalk when Lucien’s shadow blotted out the sun. Henrietta immediately began squawking, lunging for his ankles. Elain caught the bird as Lucien stopped back, brows furrowed. 

“That bird is a menace.”

“You bought her,” Elain reminded him, not for the first time. “You brought your own worst enemy into our home.”

“So I did,” Lucien murmured, blinking against the brightness of the day. 

“Did you want something, Lucien?” she asked, shifting from foot to foot before him. Lucien so rarely came to see her unless he wanted to complain or pick a fight. Despite a shared moment with Graysen–who still hadn’t called her, despite going on day five—she and Lucien had slid right back into their usual squabbles with no trouble at all.

“Would you come to the village with me?”

“Me?”

But Elain knew why he wanted her to go with him. It was new and unfamiliar, and even with his cane, Lucien was wary of places he’d never been before. There were whole swaths of the castle Lucien had never ventured, places Elain would retreat to when he was especially irritating. 

Lucien said nothing at all, waiting for her to either tell him yes or no. Elain sighed softly. 

“Yes, I’ll go, but only if you swear to be polite to everyone we meet.”

He pressed one of his large, strong hands against his chest. “I am always polite.”

As if his knuckles weren’t still bruised from hitting Graysen. 

“You have never been polite a day in your life.”

“You wound me,” Lucien said in the driest tone known to man. She didn’t know why it made her smile.

“I’m starting to think you’re quite charming.”

“I am incredibly charming,” Lucien told her, following behind her as she went to secure Henrietta away.

“What does that say about me, then?” she wondered, more to herself than to him. 

“You are terribly unlikable,” he said, her voice suggesting the opposite was true. Elain didn’t dare touch that, opting instead to brush her fingers against the back of his hand. 

“This way.”

He brought his cane with him, rolling it over the pavement as they walked. He still kept close, his free hand occasionally bumping the back of hers as they went. 

“Step,” she murmured, grabbing his hand as the path became steep and narrow, carved out centuries ago when people didn’t have such wide feet or were somehow better able to balance themselves. 

“Thank you,” Lucien replied, squeezing her hand as they went down together. 

“So…your brother,” Elain began, wondering what topic was safe to broach. Probably not the rumors his mother had killed his father.

Surely Eris Vanserra was safe to discuss.

“Like his movies, do you?”

“He’s very handsome,” Elain said by way of agreement, unwilling to admit that Lucien was far lovelier. 

Lucien scoffed. “Wait until you meet him.”

“Is he coming here?” she asked. Lucien had never mentioned his family and they’d never come to visit, either. She was surprised he’d kept this from her.

Pink stole over his cheeks. “I’m sure he will,” Lucien mumbled. “He’s a nosy fucker.”

“Is he as charming as he seems?”

“Hardly,” Lucien replied, some of his embarrassment fading. “Eris is an asshole and everyone who knows him well thinks so.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him. And…and your mother? She was an actress, wasn’t she?”

Lucien nodded, his grip on her hand tightening. “Before my father.”

“You didn’t want to act?”

“I don’t have the face for it,” Lucien said. 

 Elain, forgetting that he was talking about his scars, retorted, “You must be the best looking man I’ve ever seen. Of course you have the—”

Lucien was grinning ear to ear. “You’ve ever seen?”

They’d readed the edge of the village, which was more of a sprawling town than anything. Elain quite liked it, with the cozy farmland that stretched further inland, and the vine covered structures that made her feel as though she’d stepped into the pages of a storybook. 

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“You must be looking at some dreadful men.”

“I think I proved I was,” she grumbled, pulling her hand from his. Lucien was still smiling, still so obviously delighted by her admission. “Surely you must know that.”

“It has been said before. Usually with the caveat that the scar diminishes it.”

“Well,” Elain murmured, feeling more stupid by the moment. “It doesn’t.”

“I’ll take your word for it, given how lovely my mother assures me you are.”

It was Elain’s turn to look at him. “Your mother said that?”

“She said a lot of things about you.”

“Such as?”

“That you were quite accomplished and that I ought to endeavor to be a little nicer.”

“Well,” Elain sniffed, secretly pleased that someone's mother liked her. “She’s right.”

“So I’m learning. We got off on the wrong start. I’ll take all the blame for that.”

“Why did we?” she asked, falling into step with him as they began walking the uneven cobblestone streets. Elain was tempted to take his hand again under the guise of keeping him from tripping, though in truth she liked the steady warmth of his touch. 

He blew out a breath. “You aren’t the only one with a failed engagement.”

“You—?”

“Not me,” he interrupted, a dark shadow passing over his face. “Her. She—”

“Was stupid?” Elain offered in the most light hearted tone she could imagine. “And you’ve been hiding out here ever since?”

A whisper of a smile slid over his face. “Something like that.”

"I suppose we can hide together now. I doubt I’ll be able to show my face in London anytime soon.”

Lucien glanced down at her. “I could live with that.”

“Well that’s good,” Elain said lightly, ignoring the jolt that passed through her when his fingers brushed hers. “Because you have no choice.”

“Neither do you.”

Elain had to look away to keep him from seeing how she smiled.

No choice sounded so good. 

-*-

Lucien found Elain in the drawing room, staring at her phone with misty eyes. She heard the clipping tones of the soles of his shoes before she saw him, dressed in black trousers and suspenders hugging a muscular frame. She liked the navy of his shirt, liked how he always rolled his sleeves to his elbows. 

“There you are,” he murmured, dropping a stack of envelopes in Elain’s lap. He didn’t know she was sad, nor did he care. “It’s time to start thinking about hiring staff.” “What is this?” she asked, clearly her throat. Lucien paused, brows knitting together.

“Resumes…is…are you well?”

“Perfectly content,” she lied. Feyre had texted that she was getting married to a man Elain had once to be nothing more than a fairytale. In a month, no less. It was dredging up old feelings—of wanting to be married and how Graysen was still ignoring her, waiting for her to come crawling back to him. It put a giant question mark on everything. If she’d been less of a coward she would have just called him and ended things definitively. 

Elain never wanted to talk to him again. The bruise on her face had just faded, and Lucien’s knuckles were no longer swollen. It was as if Gray had never been there. Almost like she’d never met him, despite the engagement ring sitting on her desk upstairs. She needed to return it to him. 

“I ah…” Lucien cleared his throat. “Did something happen?”

“No. My sister is getting married,” she said, careful to adopt her cheeriest tone.

“Ah,” Lucien replied, coming around the sofa. Elain pulled her legs back quickly before Lucien sat on them, leaving a cushion of space between them. “You’re missing Graysen, then?”

“No,” she said too quickly. She sounded like a liar. “No, I don’t miss him, I just…I don’t know. My whole life I thought I’d be married first. It was…” How embarrassing to admit it had been her biggest goal. “It was what was expected of me.”

Lucien raised his brows. “So you want to be married?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. 

“Who is she marrying?”

Elain looked back at her phone. “Rhysand Campbell—”

“Oh.”

Elain stared him down. “What do you mean, oh?”

“You can’t be too mad about that. He’s a Campbell.”

“That’s meaningless to me, Lucien.”

“A Marquess, the Duke of Campbell's only son. Distantly in line for the throne, I’m sure. Obscenely wealthy. I’m surprised they managed to keep it a secret.”

“You don’t know Feyre, then,” Elain murmured, resting her head on her elbow against the back of that ugly pink couch. “I’m sure this quick wedding is her attempt to keep things quiet.”

“Are you going?”

“Of course. I’m going to offer some of the things I already put deposits on.”

The air was thick around them. “It gets easier,” he finally said, misunderstanding her.

“I don’t miss Gray. We moved so fast, and…” And it was all wrong, though she didn’t know how to say that outloud, either. “Your fiance left you, I take it?”

“For another man,” Lucien murmured, his eyes far away. “They’re married now.”

“Do you miss her?”

He frowned. “No. I forget about her entirely most days. But when it first happened, I felt adrift. Pointless. I loved her and how could I not see she’d fallen out of love with me?”  

Elain said nothing. What could she possibly offer to him that wouldn’t sound cheap or meaningless? They were just barely friends, still sniping more often than they didn’t. It felt less antagonistic to her, now, and more like a byproduct of clinging to their former dynamic in favor of whatever this was. 

“You’ll always be the one who got away from him,” Lucien finally told her. “So, at least you have that going for you. And, if what my mum says is true, you’ll be married by the end of the year to someone new.”

Elain swore she detected the faintest hint of bitterness in his words. “You know what we should do?” she asked, tossing his resumes to the coffee table.

“What?” he asked warily.

“Get drunk and watch a movie.”

A smile crept up his face. “Are you hiding a television somewhere, Elain?”

She grinned. “In my bedroom.”

It was how they found themselves sitting on her rose and cream duvet, surrounded by several bottles of wine—no cups, which Lucien swore wouldn’t be necessary—a few bags of crisps, and a selection of the worst horror movies known to man.

“Here are the rules,” Lucien began before pulling the cork of his bottle of red out with his mouth. “Drink every time someone makes an unfathomably stupid mistake. Drink every time American politics get referenced. Drink if two people have improbable sex during the worst possible moment.”

Lucien had told Elain he enjoyed movies, despite his limited sight. In the driest tone imaginable, he’d said, “I do possess an imagination, you know,” which had shut her right the hell up. 

“Also drink anytime something horrible is a reference to being a woman,” Elain told him, earning an arching look. 

“I’ll leave it to you to let me know when that happens.”

“Oh, I will be,” Elain assured him. It should have been strange to have this man she’d hated for so long stretched out against her bed. Instead, Elain thought it was so normal it was above approach. She turned on the movie and immediately the pair began drinking. More rules were added—every time someone pulled off a shoe to throw it at the murderer, every time someone tripped over a tree root, every time someone stopped running to scream.

Elain was well and truly drunk by the time they were halfway through. Lucien was laying against her pillows, hand on his stomach as he laughed himself stupid. Elain was on her stomach, head propped up on her hands, defending the choice to go into the cellar.

“The door locks!” she insisted while Lucien wheezed, laughing harder than she’d ever seen.

“God, Elain, I’m begging you, stop. I can’t breathe—”

“You’re being an ass,” she grumbled. Lucien had paused so he could try and choke down his laughter.

“You’re telling me, if someone broke into our castle, you’d go running for the dungeons?” he asked, wiping at the tears beneath his eyes. “Would you chain yourself up for them, too?”

“I’d leave them to Henrietta,” Elain snapped.

Lucien chuckled, about to make some remark about Elain’s chicken when her phone rang shilly. Lucien, startled, rolled off the side of the bed with a heavy thud. Elain giggled, reaching for the device on her nightstand.

Graysen. 

Elain hit answer, putting him on speaker before she could chicken out. “Hello?”

“Darling,” Graysen began. Lucien’s head popped up from behind the bed, tendrils of copper-colored hair falling against his face. “I need you to come home this weekend.”

Lucien crawled back up the bed, mouthing what?! as Elain shrugged helplessly.

“For what purpose?”

But she knew. Graysen was going to pretend nothing had happened. He’d spent the week mulling over what had happened and must have come to the conclusion that he was wrong. He couldn’t apologize, though, so instead he’d pretend nothing happened. Let her slide back into the familiar dynamic without risking a fight.

“Father will be in town and wants to discuss some aspects of our wedding.”

“No.”

Lucien gave Elain a thumbs up and a smile.

“No?”

“We broke up,” Elain reminded him as everything she’d rehearsed flew out the window. Lucien’s presence was helpful. She kept her eyes on his hand pressed against the bed. It was a reminder of what he’d once done, and what he might do again. 

“You can’t mean it,” Graysen protested after a moment of silence. “Elain, it was one fight.”

More lies. “I’ll send the ring back. Keep whatever deposits you can get back.”

“Elain, talk to me—”

“I don’t want to,” she whispered. And with that, Lucien reached over and ended the call. 

“He doesn’t get to ruin tonight,” Lucien told her, blocking Graysen’s number before he could call again. “Or any other nights.”

Elain sighed. “I don’t know if I can.”

“C’mon,” Lucien said, clearly rallying for her. He thrust his bottle of wine into her hands, nodding at the neck. “Drink.”

Elain did, and as it turned out, Lucien was right. Drinking masked how badly she felt until she didn’t feel bad at all. Of course, then Elain felt nothing, which explained how she found herself asleep in bed, still in her sage colored sundress from the night before. One leg was thrown over Lucien's waist, her cheek stuck to his bare chest, unbuttoned but still technically draped in the navy button up. He had one hand resting on her hip, the other dangling from the edge of the bed. 

For the life of her, Elain could not remember how they’d ended up like this. She didn’t remember the end of the movie, either. 

“Lucien,” she whispered. He grunted in response. 

Elain tried to pull away but Lucien’s grip tightened.

“Don’t,” he rasped, eyes shut tight. “If you move, I think I might throw up.”

“I have to pee,” she said, rolling over clumsily only to fall out of bed. The whole room was spinning, and Lucien wasn’t wrong. Elain used the bathroom and was braced over the sink, wondering if she was going to puke, when he came stumbling in and occupied the toilet.

“We drank too much,” he gasped as Elain tumbled to the floor so she could hold his hair. Cheek resting against the cool wall, Elain nodded. 

“It was fun, though. Right?”

“It was,” he agreed. “I can’t wait to do it again.”

-*- 

Was Elain insane? 

Yes, Lucien was good-looking. That was like saying the sky was blue or her name was Elain. It was merely a fact, one she’d always been aware of. What was new to Elain was thinking Lucien was hot. He’d tied his hair into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, had rolled the sleeves of his white shirt, and sat with his ankle over his knee just beside her as they began the process of interviewing new staff members.

Elain couldn’t focus. She kept staring at the veins running from his hands into the corded muscle of his forearms. Elain was hyper aware of his thighs, outlined in his nice pants, and the cut of his jaw. Lucien was wholly unaware of her attention, and why shouldn’t he be? Just that morning Elain had called him a wanker over toast and jam. 

Lucien offered up a dazzling smile to the young woman they were meeting with before sending her out. He waited until the door closed to sigh, stretching long legs out in front of him. Elain had to look away.

“That’s the last one,” he said, stretching his neck. “Who did you like?”

“Er–” You. “They were all good.”

“That is my exact problem, too. Probably later tonight we should go back over resumes and pick who is best qualified.”

“Yeah. Maybe over dinner?” she suggested, well aware what she was asking him for was a date. She was losing her mind. 

“That works for me,” he said absently, glancing over at her. Elain was dressed far too nice and she knew it—Lucien couldn’t see the swell of her breasts or the way the skirt of her dress was riding up her thighs. Elain didn’t know how else to communicate to him that she liked him—or even if she wanted him to know. 

He stood and so did she, unsure why. You’re losing your mind, Elain. Sit back down. 

Lucien glanced over. “Are you okay?”

“Tired,” she said too quickly, the word half a squeak. “Just–tired.”

He looked like he might say something before nodding, leaving her alone in the drawing room. Without his presence, Elain felt almost rational. Normal. 

Well, normal except for wondering what his mouth would feel like pressed against her own. But otherwise Elain was totally normal.  Sane, even, when she went into the dining room to find Lucien undoing his top button. He had a glass of what looked like gin and something set before him, along with a spread of resumes. Elain indulged in a quick fantasy of him tossing them to the floor, grabbing her by the waist, and hoisting her atop the table where he’d kiss her until someone of her good sense returned. 

“Want to get started?”

I’ll show you started— “Yeah,” she managed, sinking into a chair. Lucien joined her at the head, drumming his fingers absently against the table. 

It was hell. That’s where she was, that’s what was happening. Sitting three feet from him, his shirt unbuttoned just enough that she could see the barest hint of his chest. Broad hands gripped around that glass he kept bringing to his lips. She was, as she so often was, grateful he couldn’t see any part of her. It was bad enough her fidgeting occasionally drew his attention.

They were getting nowhere, thanks to Elain’s distraction. He did notice that.

“Nervous about going home?”

“Huh?”

“Your sisters wedding?” he clarified, pink creeping up his neck. That was interesting, she decided. What was he embarrassed about?

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose I am a little distracted.”

“We’re nearly done,” Lucien hedged, tilting his head in her direction. “Though, just in time for the off-season.”

“I was thinking that, too. Maybe we should…maybe we should slow down a little? Focus on finishing our renovations and look at hiring in February?”

Which, of course, wasn’t selfish at all. 

“What were you thinking?” he asked, unaware that Elain was merely trying to buy more of his time. 

“Well,” she chewed on her cheek. What was she thinking? “I—”

“Maybe we should consider installing televisions in the bedrooms?” he interrupted, back to drumming his fingers on the table. “And I was thinking it would be nice if we had a restaurant instead of the a la carte we were thinking.”

“Yes!” Elain breathed. Yes, getting a restaurant in one of the large halls would take so much extra time, which meant the two of them could continue living alone, sniping over the details. “I love that idea.”

More color flushed over his features. “We could go into the village tomorrow and see what…ah…right.”

Elain’s stomach sank. She’d be on her way to Feyre’s wedding tomorrow. “Well…you could always go without me. Tell me what you learn.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, and Elain swore there was heat beneath those two words. 

“It’s just a few days,” she added, wondering what would happen if she just left the morning after the wedding. “It won’t change anything.”

He nodded, rubbing his fingers over his lips. “No, you’re certainly right.”

Lucien rose from his chair, shaking out his hands. “I ah…well, I should er…go…give the bad news.”

Elain watched. “Okay.”

Lucien seemed flustered and out of sorts—so wholly at odds with himself. He cleared his throat, looking as though he needed to say other things before finally leaving her, once again, alone to her thoughts. Elain stood, intending to follow him before she thought better of it.

Better to go to her own room before she did something stupid. Something rash. Her and Lucien were friends after six months of fighting. Why ruin it over a passing moment? Because somehow Lucien was still the nicest man she’d ever met? Certainly the best looking, which did little to help.

Elain slept like shit. She tossed and turned until she was miserable and dawn was peeking through her curtains. With nothing to do but shower and get herself ready, Elain whiled away the rest of her time at home curling her hair and checking her luggage one last time. 

Lucien was waiting in the hall just outside the door, pacing slowly back and forth. “I didn’t think you’d be awake,” she said, secretly delighted to see him. Lucien was casual, dressed in athletic shorts and a plain blue t-shirt.

It was his hair, though, that made her heart pound. He always had it pulled off his face but today he’d left it down to spill around his broad shoulders. While normally he seemed rakish and yet refined, that morning he was somehow undone. She’d seen him like that only once before when they’d drank too much in an effort to chase away her thoughts of Graysen.

Elain wanted to glide her fingers through the silken strands. 

“All set?” he asked when she was just in front of him. Elain plastered a smile on her face she knew he couldn’t see. He could hear it, though.

“I am,” she said brightly. “You didn’t have to see me off.”

But when she tried to push past him for the door, Lucien’s fingers curled around her wrist. “Elain,” he murmured, forcing her to look up at him. They were so close. She could have surged up on her tiptoes and kissed him if she liked. “Be safe.”

Elain kept her feet on the ground. “Of course. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Gently, she pulled her wrist from his grasp. Lucien wasn’t done, though Elain didn’t know it. He caught her elbow, pulling gently. Elain, head turned, started to ask what he was doing.

His lips connected with the corner of her mouth, though she suspected he’d meant to kiss her on the mouth. A rush of air escaped her and the kiss ended before she could lean into it. Before she could turn and grab him by the neck and kiss him like she’d wanted to the night before.

Lucien’s cheeks seemed to burn with heat. He blinked, dropping his hold on her, and before she could say a word, turned and left her there. 

Standing by the door.

Wishing he’d done far more.

[noneverwillisubmit]

I don't really like talking about politics on the permanent, infinite void that is the internet, but I feel like right now with the situation in my country. I don't have a choice.

I am mixed race, and a dual citizen born in another country (birth citizen of the UK though through my mother) - and I've lived my entire living memory in the UK. I am by all accounts British. I should not feel scared about existing in my own country because of the colour of my skin or the texture of my hair or any other factor beyond my control. And yet I do because of fascist radicals in my country. And I don't have south Asian heritage, I'm not Muslim, I have birthright citizenship, I'm half white and I am from a middle class family in the south of England. I am by all accounts among the safest POCs in the UK right now. And yet I am still scared. I cannot imagine how terrifying the current situation must be for people (especially Muslims and assylum speakers) living in and near areas that have been targeted for riots. This is unacceptable in a modern "democracy." And to see people defending the actions of these 21st century Blackshirts is immensely disturbing. If you felt like you could be targeted for violence for the colour of skin because you went down the wrong street, or even because you *live* on the wrong street, you might be a little bit more sympathetic to the people, the real humans beings with real lives and feelings than the violent crowds hunting them down. We should not tolerate this in this country.

And yet, I don't think that just because you joined these riots you're necessarily a terrible person. I mean, you're definitely very misguided and very ignorant, and demonstrating a shocking lack of empathy for the people who you're terrorising. But people in this country are sick of being mistreated by government, and sick or seeing society slowly crumble around them. And I can't fully imagine how scary the situation must be for people living in poverty in this country - as I said I'm from a middle class family in a not-quite-affluent-but-far-from-deprived region. And you're entitled to an opinion about immigration policy. I may disagree with it, but you're allowed to have it. But mindless violence bordering on domestic terrorism isn't the way to make your voice heard. People are sick of not being listened to. But you don't make allies by breaking into people's cars and homes and businesses. You just come across as.... Cruel and inhumane. Remember, you're not terrorising the immigration statistics. You're terrorising actual people who feel all the same things you do and all the love and fear and hope and hate that you do.

Remember, this does not define us. As a country we can - we must - work through this, and overcome this senseless violence and terror stronger. And together. We can't let the fascists win 🇬🇧

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

a list of things from my season 2 rewatch, in no particular order:

there's a mundane practicality to Nate that's kind of embarrassingly relatable. "I was going to buy a suit but it was really expensive so I borrowed one from my dad" in season 1; "he's going to use a lot of water" about Dani's breakdown in the showers in 2x01. This is... basically exactly how I would respond to both these situations

Very funny that the man Roy describes as "settling for fine" is almost exclusively shown telling stories about almost beating up elderly celebrities

"Do you believe the return of Jamie Tartt will impact that so called 'vibe'" I don't have a point I just love this line.

love everyone supporting Sam in the Dubai Air protest but I feel like researching the sponsorships is probably supposed to be someone's job? That being said they were already the sponsor in season 1 and Rupert probably wouldn't care that their parent company was polluting Nigeria, and I can see how re-doing all the due diligence on the established sponsorships wouldn't be high up in the line of priorities

start of some tonal problems — trying to reintegrate Jamie into the team by shouting and flipping tables comes off a bit weird as a comedy beat when the previous episode has Jamie openly discussing his abusive father

kind of hilarious that the kebab guy thinks Ted is Roy's dad when he's like. maybe 8 years older

the end of 2x05 is very clearly a reference to something (presumably a romcom) and I believe the fact that I don't know what it is makes it much funnier. I do feel kind of bad that Roy has to spend the entire match in a suit when it appears to be quite cold outside, though

"maybe there's a good reason she hasn't replied. maybe she got hit by a bus." (Isaac) "or a train?" (Dani) they are so good at comforting

I tend to need a fair bit of personal space myself so I absolutely understand where Keeley is coming from in 2x07, and the way Roy responds to learning that she feels smothered ("I feel like a fucking idiot," "you've been making out like I'm following you around like some creepy shadow" (paraphrased)) is obviously a product of his own insecurities and he doesn't initially seem to understand that alone time is a legitimate need that doesn't inherently reflect poorly on him,  but ultimately I think the problem itself is more a result of Keeley's difficulty expressing her own needs than of Roy failing to intuit them

The first time I heard Jamie say his thing about giving Richard space I thought he was trying to subliminal message Roy. He definitely wasn't but I was very impressed for a second there

The hug. The HUUUUUG. I am having a feeling

my controversial favourite episode is Beard After Hours — it feels like an episode of a different show, but TL is a bit of an outlier in terms of my tastes and 2x09 is closer to the norm. That being said I didn't start watching until after all of season 2 had come out and might feel differently if I'd been watching the episodes as they came out

the bit where they're singing at the funeral makes me want to crawl out of my skin with vicarious embarrassment. I have never managed to listen to this entire bit with the sound up.

Is sparkling water actually much more common in the UK than in the US? I'm Canadian and it's generally not the default kind of water to offer people, but it's also not as much of a novel concept as it seems to be to Ted.