#Camden Crawl

[manicdreampixie]

[melikemmm]

The Ultimate UK Pub Crawls: Legendary Routes for Every Pub Lover

There’s something magical about a proper pub crawl—hopping between historic taverns, lively bars, and hidden gems, pint in hand. You might fancy a classic ale trail. Perhaps a hipster bar hop is more your style. Or maybe an immersive historic adventure intrigues you. We have planned your next UK pub crawl. Let’s dive in! 1. The Historic London Pub Crawl 🏰 If sipping a pint in a 400-year-old…

[pubgoer]

The Ultimate UK Pub Crawls: Legendary Routes for Every Pub Lover

There’s something magical about a proper pub crawl—hopping between historic taverns, lively bars, and hidden gems, pint in hand. You might fancy a classic ale trail. Perhaps a hipster bar hop is more your style. Or maybe an immersive historic adventure intrigues you. We have planned your next UK pub crawl. Let’s dive in! 1. The Historic London Pub Crawl 🏰 If sipping a pint in a 400-year-old…

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Domesticity”

Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Part six of Camden’s sin but can be read as a stand alone

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to read the previous parts

Summary: You and Alfie are officially together now, and living with him meant two things: discovering his softer, more domestic side… and getting bent over every surface in the house.

WC: 7.3k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, fingering, dirty talk, oral (f&m!receiving), creampie, face riding, alfie is sweet in his own way, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister

After the night Tommy found out about you and Alfie, you stopped hiding—there was no need to anymore. It was official now: you, a Shelby, were Alfie’s girl.

It was raining the first time Alfie took you out in public. He looked at you like you’d been carved out of something holy. Your dress was silk, low-backed and clinging, in a shade of blood-wine red that made his knuckles twitch the whole drive there. Your lips matched. Your hair was pinned, a few defiant strands curling loose at your neck

“You planning on staring all night?” you teased.

“No, no,” he replied, voice thick. “Plannin’ on makin’ everyone else stare, yeah? And then I’ll bloody kill them for it.”

The club was crawling with familiar faces — gangsters, smugglers, business sharks in tailored wool, girls with flapper bobs and diamonds sharp enough to cut.

And Alfie, ever the king of contradictions, didn’t just walk you in. He announced you. Arm wrapped tight around your waist, he muttered through clenched teeth to anyone who dared look too long, “Yeah, that’s right, mate. That’s mine. She’s mine.”

He introduced you like royalty. “This is her. This is my girl. No, no— don’t just look. Take it in.” Like your presence beside him made him ten feet taller. Like you gave him license to glow.

All the men around would look at him and politely say ‘Congratulations, Alfie. She’s beautiful.’”

Alfie barely restrained himself and bark after they walked off “Course she fuckin’ is,” he muttered. “What, he think I was gonna shack up with a goat?”

You snorted.

“You really love showing me off, don’t you?”

He turned toward you then. Fully. His face softened — not weak, never — but something real shone through all that bravado.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, love. I fuckin’ do.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

He answered instantly.

“Cause you’re the best fuckin’ thing that’s ever looked in my direction. Let alone chosen me. Let alone let me put my hands on you. Let alone let me love you, right? So yeah. I want every bastard in this city to see it. To see you. And to know I get to go home with you.”

Within fifteen minutes, every glass in the club was full. Champagne, whiskey, gin, and whatever else the barkeep could pour fast enough. Alfie stood on a bench, arm around your waist, pulling you up with him so you were taller than the crowd.

He lifted his glass and shouted:

“All right, you cunts! Shut your traps, right? I got somethin’ to say.”

The room hushed.

You tried to step down, already mortified. He didn’t let you.

“This woman — this woman here — she’s my girl. You believe that? Mine! Look at her. Now look at me. What the fuck is that? That’s a miracle, that is!”

Laughter. Cheers. Whistles.

He grinned like a lunatic, beaming, sweaty, overwhelmed with his own joy.

“So you’re all gonna raise your fuckin’ drinks, yeah, and you’re gonna toast to her. Not to me — fuck me. To her. The most beautiful, most fuckin’ clever, sharp-tongued, impossible, perfect woman this city’s ever been cursed with.”

He looked at you, softer now, voice dipping low, but still for everyone to hear:

“And I get to have her. Me.”

“So — drink to her, you lot! Drink to the Queen of Camden!”

The room roared. Glasses clinked. Everyone drank.

You stared up at him, dizzy and flushed, and whispered against his shoulder, “You’re mad.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “Mad about you, love.”

For the last couple of weeks, you’ve slept in Alfie’s bed every single night. His house had become yours too.

It was quiet. He didn’t like having people around; you were the only exception. Alfie’s house was bigger than people would expected. A house meant to impose, to display wealth. But it wasn’t posh; it was lived in. Stone, wood, and brass. A little neglected even—but it was his. And now, for whatever godforsaken reason, it was yours too.

There were papers strewn across every surface, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air like a second skin. Brass fixtures dulled by time, floors that creaked under your bare feet in the morning. It was chaos and quiet and the pulse of something ancient—like the house itself had been waiting for someone like you.

You haven’t heard about your family ever since, and honestly you preferred it that way. You still couldn’t shake off Tommy’s last words “Tell Alfie to watch his back.”

They echoed sometimes—when the house went too quiet, and you’d hear it again, that cold finality in your brother’s voice. The weight of it. You knew Tommy, knew he wasn’t one to rush things, he would wait for the right moment to make his move.

But you were too occupied with your new life next to Alfie. If Tommy wanted war then he’d have one. You’d already chosen your side.

Three days ago, one rainy afternoon, you were curled on the couch, reading a book. The house was quiet—Alfie had already left, said he had some business to take care of back at the distillery.

Then a loud knock startled you. Sharp. Heavy. No rhythm. Not Alfie.

You tightened the knot of your robe, heart already ticking faster, and made your way to the door.

Polly stood on the other side. Her eyes sharp, her expression unreadable. You blinked once before pulling her into a hug without thinking. She smelled like cigarette smoke and perfume. Familiar. Home.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, giving you a once-over. “Look at you, like bloody Mrs. Solomons.”

You pulled back, eyes wide. “How did you—did Tommy tell you?”

“Oh please, don’t be daft,” she scoffed, brushing past you. “I knew the moment you came home stinking of rum and cock. Your brothers were just too thick to put two and two together.”

You closed the door and gestured toward the lounge. Polly hesitated for a moment, gaze sweeping over the foyer like she was stepping onto enemy territory. Then, finally, she crossed the threshold. Her heels echoed on the wooden floor. Her shoulders tense. Like the walls themselves might whisper back to Tommy.

“If you knew… why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, following her.

“Because I thought it was just a fuckin’ phase. A week. Maybe two,” she said coolly. “But now you’re here. In his house. Walking around in his bloody robe like you’ve been here forever.”

“Are you angry with me?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“Angry? No. I’m past angry. Bit disappointed, maybe. Out of every man in England, him? Alfie Solomons? I raised you better than that.”

“I didn’t plan for it to happen…” you murmured. “I really tried to stop it. For a long time.”

She exhaled, her tone softening. “Does he treat you well?”

“Like a queen,” you said instantly, without hesitation, and a smile flickered across your face before you could stop it.

Polly narrowed her eyes at you. “And in bed?”

Your smile turned into a smirk. “He’s amazing. God, he’s like—”

“Alright, enough.” She waved you off, face contorting. “I don’t need details about Solomons’ cock, thank you very much.”

You laughed lightly, but it didn’t last. Your smile faded. “Is Tommy too angry? Has he told the others? Arthur?”

“Love,” she said carefully, “Arthur? If he knew, he’d have knocked the fuckin’ door off the hinges by now. No. Tommy’s keepin’ it quiet. For now.”

You nodded and Polly continued: “He doesn’t like the way Alfie’s parading you around like you’re his.”

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t flinch.

“I am his.”

Polly’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, more like a flicker of something between pity and grudging respect.

“It’s all about power, love. Tommy thinks it makes him look like an idiot—that Alfie’s flaunting you around like you’re already married,” she continued. “It makes the Shelbys look like we’ve lost our edge.”

Your brow furrowed. “How does that even make sense?”

She rolled her eyes, taking a drag from her cigarette. “Because now the word out there is Alfie got you. That he took what the family couldn’t keep. You know men and their bloody pissing contests, always trying to measure who’s cock swings lower.”

“Polly…” you stepped closer, eyes pleading. “You need to help me. Talk to him. Make him come to his senses before he does something stupid.”

She looked at you for a long moment. That unreadable expression back in her eyes.

“You put too much trust in me. You know what he’s like—He doesn’t listen to reason, he listens to himself. Always has. You should be the one talking to him.”

“I tried,” you said, voice catching. “I love him, he’s my family. But Alfie… Alfie’s the man I want a future with. And I’m not giving up that future. Not even for Tommy.”

Polly didn’t argue. She just looked at you with something between resignation and reluctant understanding.

“Look, I need to go,” she said finally, straightening her coat. “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t hold your breath.”

You pulled her into another hug, briefer this time. Tighter. She squeezed you back, kissed your cheek, and then she was gone.

Living with Alfie was strange sometimes. You were so used to seeing him in two moods: either completely focused on business and the violence that surrounded it, or totally unhinged and desperate for you.

But now you were seeing a different part of him—sleeping at night and snoring like a bear, sprawling, muttering filth in his sleep. But if you moved too far away in the bed, even for a second, his arm would shoot out, dragging you back to him. Sometimes he’d wake halfway through, groggy and possessive, tugging you tight against him with a rough sound in his throat—like even in sleep, his body knew exactly where you belonged.

Trying to make a decent breakfast for you, shirtless, glasses crooked on his nose, squinting at a recipe book while trying to make tea and toast without burning either. He looked ridiculous, domestic in the most terrifying way—scars on display, grumbling at a jam jar like it was a personal enemy, muttering your name in every complaint, like you were both the problem and the solution.

He let you see him. Not just the part that barked orders and threatened the living daylights out of other men. But the part that sang badly under his breath while chopping carrots. The part that forgot where he put his spectacles. The part that grumbled when his joints ached and let you press warm cloths to his knees while pretending not to enjoy the care. The part that read the same newspaper three times because he kept getting distracted thinking about something you said the night before.

Living with him also meant seeing a softer side of him, a side that was all about the little things. Like him reaching over you in the morning to shut the window because the air might be too cold. Like his giant hand resting absentmindedly on your thigh while you ate breakfast. Like him growling when you were doing the dishes, calling you a fucking queen and insisting you sit down.

“I ain’t lettin’ the woman I fuckin’ love scrub me bloody pans, am I?” he scoffed, brow raised like you’d insulted him. “Nah, treacle. I’ll get someone else to deal with that shite, yeah? You—” he waved a hand at you, eyes softer now—“you don’t touch the pans. You touch me.”

It was chaos too. It was breakfast sex and broken dishes and lectures on Jewish philosophy at three in the morning. It was threats to your enemies and kisses on your ankles. It was a man who would kill for you, die for you, and still complain if you left crumbs on the counter.

It was love, in its most fucked-up, beautiful form.

You saw that one night, when he came up behind you while you were combing out your hair in the bathroom mirror. His arms circled your waist, lips brushing the curve of your neck.

“Stayin’ here’s done somethin’ to me fuckin’ head, right?” he muttered, brow furrowed like the thought offended him. “I used to be alright on me own. Fuckin’ liked it, actually. Thought all this… intimate bollocks, yeah? Waste of bloody time.”

You glanced at him in the mirror. “And now?”

“Now I think if I come home and you ain’t here, I’ll burn the whole bloody city down.”

“You’re getting soft,” you teased.

He looked up, eyes sharp, lips twitching with something feral. “Now listen, right—I ain’t gone soft, yeah? Let’s get that straight. What I am is possessive as fuck. You’re mine. That don’t change just ‘cause I’m not railin’ you up against a fuckin’ wall this second.”

And there it was—that violence tucked beneath the tenderness, the threat that sounded like worship. The only kind of love a man like Alfie could give.

…

One evening a few days ago he was feeding you bites from his spoon. In between, he had told you about the man he’d threatened that morning, about the dog that wandered in from the street, about the girl who sold flowers and winked at him, and how he didn’t like that one bit. No, he fuckin’ did not.

“So I bought all her fuckin’ stock,” he said, smirking.

“Why?”

“Yeah, so she’d fuck off, right? Before I did somethin’… inadvisable. You don’t get to smile at Alfie fuckin’ Solomons like that when he’s already spoken for, do ya?”

You blinked. “You bought her entire cart of roses just so she’d go away?”

He shrugged. “They’re on your pillow.”

You laughed so hard you almost choked.

He liked that. He told you so—told you he’d kill a man for your laugh, that it was the sound of God forgiving him for every sin.

But his filth didn’t stop either. If anything, it got worse now that he had access to you the entire time.

Like when in the morning, after you wake up his first words aren’t good morning or anything sweet. It’s him telling you the wet dreams he had of you during the night.

“I had a dream you were wearing nothin’ but pearls, lookin’ like a fuckin’ goddess. I nearly came in my sleep.”

You chuckled as his hand made its way in between your thighs “Alfie…”

“You’re in my bed now, darlin’. That means I get to touch what’s mine whenever the mood takes me. And this mornin’, it’s taken me fuckin’ hard, yeah.”

“You know what this is, right?” he growled, hand dragging slow up your thigh like he owned the whole bloody map. “This—this is mine now. You live here, yeah? My bed, my food, my fuckin’ shirt. You even breathe in my space like it’s your birthright. So all o’ this—” his hand slid between your legs—“belongs to me now, don’t it?”

…

Or another day, when you were sitting at the little table by the window, reading one of his ledgers. You’d taken over part of his accounting, mostly to keep yourself occupied—and because you liked the way he looked at you when you made sense of his messy, scattered books like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You were wearing nothing but a slip. Thin. Ivory. Your legs curled up on the chair. And he just stood there. Staring. His hand sliding up your ankle, over your calf, to your thigh.

“Can’t concentrate with you dressed like that,” he said.

He pushed the ledger aside, sat on the chair, and pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap. And just like that—without warning—he was inside you.

“Yeah,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips. “That’s what I fuckin’ needed.”

You moved like that for a while—slow, grinding, the kind of lazy morning fuck that felt endless and indulgent. The kind where your fingers laced behind his neck, his eyes half-lidded, lips brushing your collarbone between praises and curses. Every inch of him pressing deep inside you with reverence and need.

…

You also remember that morning you were in the kitchen, making breakfast for him, before he had insisted on hiring a cook so you didn’t have to get your hands dirty. He didn’t want you lifting a finger.

He was close. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, naked behind you, breathing slow and heavy.

“I been starin’ at your arse for ten bloody minutes, love.” His voice was thick, indulgent, edged with amusement. “That robe’s a suggestion, nothin’ more. Might as well’ve wandered down here wrapped in fuckin’ hope and sin.”

“Alfie—”

“Shh,” he muttered.

His hand slid around your waist. Down.

“Let me finger you,” he said flatly, like he was asking for the butter dish. “It’s the domestic routine now, innit? You make the tea, I get me fingers in your cunt while the kettle has a bit of a scream. That’s life, that is. That’s livin’ together.”

“Apparently,” you whispered, already arching back into him.

Your robe slipped lower as he pinned you to the counter, his fingers pushing deep, curling up as your thighs trembled and your breath fogged the window.

He fingered you hard, one arm locked around your waist, the other fucking into you like he owned you—and he did. In that moment, you were his. Every breath, every whimper, every drop of slick that soaked his hand.

You came before the kettle stopped.

…

He would also leave letters around the house now. Filthy, deranged little notes in his scrawl—tucked in the breadbox, in your coat pocket, under the soap. One morning you opened the wardrobe and a crumpled sheet fell out:

“Treacle—

I fucked you in my dreams and woke up angry that it wasn’t real.

Wait for me in bed by the time I get back, or I’ll lose what’s left of my fuckin’ mind.

Yours,

Your mad bastard.”

You found him in the hallway later, grinning like a demon.

“Did you like it?” he asked, arms out, tone cheeky and dangerous all at once. “Bit o’ romance for the mornin’, yeah? Alfie-style. Comes with a side of cock and compliments.”

“You’re insane,” you said.

He kissed you. “Only for you.”

You laughed, but your thighs pressed together under your nightgown. He noticed. Of course he did.

…

Other random evening, you found him sitting at the kitchen table long after you’d gone upstairs—shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, ink smudged on his fingers. He was writing. Not business. Notes. Filthy notes for you.

He didn’t notice you until you leaned against the doorframe.

“What?” he barked, brows lifting. “Man can’t compose his own fuckin’ thoughts in peace now, yeah? Can’t write down a few words without bein’ spied on?”

“You’re writing me another filthy note, aren’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “It ain’t filthy. It’s romantic. Poetry for you.”

You walked in, pulled the paper toward you. He reached to stop you, but not fast enough.

“You’ve got the kind of cunt a man builds a fuckin’ synagogue around, yeah, and worships till his knees give out. If God exists, he’s a bloody pervert for makin’ you, ‘cause no holy thing should smell like that or sound like that when I’m inside you.”

“Told you it was romantic,” he said.

You would argue some days. Alfie wasn’t a man made for peace. It sat on him wrong—like an ill-fitting coat.

Sometimes it was over books; he still pretended not to understand numbers.

“Why the fuck would I care?” he asked once, feet up on the table, one hand lazily stroking your bare thigh. “You’re the one who’s good at the maths, darlin’. I’m just here to make sure no one dies slow unless I want ‘em to.”

“You’ll care when the distillery budget collapses.”

“Nah,” he muttered. “You’ll care for me. That’s what you fuckin’ do. That’s what wives do, yeah?”

“Not your wife, Alfie.”

“For now.”

…

Other times he’d grumble about your perfume being too sweet, then leave his shirt collar open for it to cling to. He’d snap about you using his straight razor to shave your legs, then leave it cleaned and waiting for you the next morning. He’d scoff every time you read in bed, then fall asleep with your book tucked against his chest.

He’d kiss you harder after fights. Grip your jaw like he needed your mouth to shut him up before he said something he’d regret. And he always softened. Always gave in. Eventually.

…

Some other days he was a nightmare. He’d pace the length of the house like a lion in a cage, cursing at the walls, talking to ghosts only he could hear.

He’d come home soaked in rain, blood on his cuffs, something wrong behind his eyes—and you’d know before he opened his mouth that it would be one of those nights.

Nights where he couldn’t sit still. Where he needed the gramophone blasting, needed every candle lit, needed something to throw across the room or slam down on the table just to feel something through the rage curling inside him like smoke in his lungs.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me, treacle, not now.”

He’d snap like that. Bare teeth. Wild-eyed. Then he’d apologize not long after. Usually with his mouth between your legs or a ring you hadn’t asked for tossed onto the bed.

…

You’d learned to read the signs. The twitch of his jaw. The shake in his hands when he couldn’t light his own cigarette. The way he gripped his cane just a little tighter when something was wrong.

Some nights he’d wake you, dragging you into the lounge because he couldn’t sleep. Because he needed to talk. Or pace. Or fuck. Or just be near you like the silence would eat him alive otherwise.

“I can’t do it without you, d’you understand me?” he rasped, breathing ragged. “I’m too far in, yeah? Too fucked up. You’re the only thing left that feels like—like it ain’t all rottin’ from the inside.”

You’d pull him into your lap like a wounded animal. Stroke his back, run your fingers through his beard. Let him rest in your shoulder, even if he cursed himself for being so weak while shaking.

…

One night, after a particularly nasty shouting match in the distillery with a supplier who’d shorted him, he came upstairs, shaking. His hands were covered in someone else’s blood.

And when he saw you waiting by the foot of the bed, silent, calm, he didn’t speak. Just walked to you, dropped to his knees, and pressed his forehead to your belly like a penitent man.

“Please,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, raw as gravel. “Please just—just tell me you fuckin’ love me.”

“I love you, Alfie,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his curls.

“And you won’t ever leave?”

You tilted his chin up. Looked him dead in the eyes.

“I won’t.”

This morning Alfie found you sitting on the kitchen counter, bare-legged, still in one of his shirts—buttons uneven, collar too wide. You looked like sin after sleep.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you,” he growled, voice low and near reverent. “You wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt again, treacle? What—you tryin’ to kill me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s mine too now. Is there a problem with that?”

“Problem is,” he murmured, dark eyes dragging down your body, “I’m gonna rip it right off, yeah? Then fuck you right here—on the floor. Don’t even care if the bloody tiles are cold.”

You blinked slowly. “Maybe after breakfast.”

His grin widened—wolfish.

He leaned in close, hand firm on your waist, nose brushing your cheek. “I am your breakfast,” he muttered. “An’ that cunt? That’s my breakfast.”

“Alfie,” you warned.

“It is, though,” he insisted, brushing his lips against your cheek, trailing them toward your ear. “C’mon, sit on me face. Let me make you scream before your tea goes cold.”

Your stomach clenched. Heat surged. But you bit your lip. Smiled through it.

“Tea first,” you said. “Then maybe.”

“No. No time for fuckin’ tea,” he growled, voice rough with need. There was a fire in his eyes.

He grabbed you by the arm and dragged you to the living room. His grip was firm, not cruel—desperate. You stumbled after him, pulse already thundering in your ears, heat coiling low and tight in your belly.

He laid down on the couch, head resting on the arm of it. Sprawled like a king, or a beast.

“Oi—get over ‘ere,” he said, patting his mouth with two fingers. “C’mon now, ride me fuckin’ face, yeah?” His voice was low, rough as gravel, already thick with anticipation.

You climbed over him, moving up his body until your knees were bracketing his head, heat pulsing between your legs as you hovered over that greedy, unshaven mouth. His eyes locked on yours, wide and wild like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“God almighty, would you look at this,” Alfie groaned as you moved toward him. “I could eat this sweet little cunt ‘til I fuckin’ drop dead—face first, no regrets, right?”

You stayed there for a moment, cunt just inches above his mouth but without touching him yet.

“Nah, don’t get all shy on me now,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours, voice molten. “Sit down proper, treacle. Don’t hover—I want all that weight, yeah? Wanna feel you fuckin’ smother me. Want to forget how to fuckin’ breathe.”

You let yourself sink down. His tongue met you instantly—wet and hot and already groaning into you like a madman. Tongue flat and heavy as it licked a long, slow stripe through your folds, pausing to suck your clit into his mouth until your legs shook.

“That’s it,” he choked out with a wicked grin as you sank onto him. “Fuckin’ hell—sit on it like you mean it, yeah? Wanna choke on you, love. Ohh, what a way to fuckin’ go, suffocated by a cunt like this—fuckin’ poetic, innit?”

His beard scratched perfectly against the insides of your thighs, and his hands gripped your ass tight, pulling you down like he needed you there.

Alfie’s tongue moved everywhere—through your folds, sucking your clit in between his lips, spreading you open and devouring like he hadn’t eaten in days. He alternated between slow, wet drags of his tongue and tight, desperate sucks on your clit, making obscene noises as he slurped and groaned like a man starved.

You started grinding without thinking—hips rolling slow over his face, using his mouth, riding it.

“Yes—fuckin’ yes, just like that,” he moaned, voice muffled against your heat. “Go on, use me. Use me for it, darlin’. That’s what I’m here for, innit?”

“You’re so fucking good at this, Alfie. It’s disgusting how good you are…” You moaned louder now, hand buried in his curls as you rode his face.

You braced your hands on the couch, moaning, gasping, hair falling wild around your face as you rode him—back arched, thighs shaking. His tongue flicked fast, then slow, then hard pressure right where you needed it, like he knew every inch of you already.

“You hear that?” he growled between frantic licks, tongue relentless. “That right there, that sound—you fuckin’ whimperin’ on me tongue, yeah? That’s what heaven sounds like, love. That’s music to me ears, that is. You drippin’ all over me fuckin’ beard.”

“Fuck—your tongue, Alfie… don’t stop… don’t you dare stop…”

He couldn’t have if he tried. He was possessed, moaning filthy praises into your cunt, drinking you in like he wanted to die that way. His hands gripping your ass tight, helping you grind his face faster.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, barely pausing for breath, reverent in his filth. “This cunt—this fuckin’ cunt—just sittin’ on me face like it belongs there. And it does, don’t it? Fuckin’ made for me, yeah? Tailor-fit from the bloody angels.”

You were shaking now—hips stuttering, thighs clenching as your orgasm started building fast. He felt it too. Started sucking your clit harder, tongue flicking rough and desperate, one hand slapping your ass as you rode out the waves.

“Go on then,” he snarled, voice nearly feral. “Cum all over me fuckin’ face. Do it. Let me taste it—every fuckin’ drop while you fall apart on me mouth.”

You cried out, body locking up as you came—soaking his beard, grinding down on his face like you were trying to fuse into him.

He held you there. Didn’t stop. Just kept licking through it, swallowing every drop, making filth-soaked sounds like he was in ecstasy.

You lifted off, with the little strength you had left on your shaky legs. Your thighs trembled as you rose, every nerve still sparking.

You looked at him, mouth, nose, beard, even cheeks glistening, completely soaked with your slick. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, drunk on the taste of you.

“Shit— you look a mess,” you tried to say. Your voice was hoarse, ragged at the edges, like it had been wrung out of you.

“No, no, treacle,” he said, voice thick, lips shiny with your slick. “I look like I’ve been baptized, yeah? Baptized by your fuckin’ cunt. Holy fuckin’ spirit in me beard, innit?”

He grinned—lazy, filthy, triumphant—as if he’d just tasted proof of God. His lips glistened when he licked them again, slow and indulgent, dragging his tongue across the corner of his mouth like he wanted to savor every drop, like he wanted to keep the memory of your taste alive on his tongue. He leaned back on his elbows, chest rising and falling with slow, worshipful rhythm—like he’d been through something holy.

Slowly Alfie stood up from the couch. His fingers moved to his belt—yanking it open, pulling his trousers down with rough impatience. His cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking. It slapped up against his belly with force, thick and veined, tip flushed an angry pink. The head glistened with pre-cum, a fat bead pooling at the slit before it trickled down the shaft.

“You see this?” he said, stroking himself, towering above you. “This cock’s fuckin’ mad for you. Hasn’t been the same since the first time I put it in that filthy sweet cunt of yours.”

His fist wrapped tight around the base, pumping once, twice, slow and mean, like he was daring you to look away. His eyes never left yours. “It’s yours, innit? Always fuckin’ has been.”

You looked up at him, breath catching at the sheer size of him, the thickness of it in his hand, veins throbbing, the tip flushed and glistening like it was weeping for you. Your thighs rubbed together instinctively.

You removed his hand from his shaft, falling down to your knees, eyes wide, lips already parted.

“Wanna return the favor.” You said it softly, but the hunger in your voice made him twitch in your hand.

“Yeah? Yeah, I fuckin’—I’ll let you then, won’t I? Look at that—look at you, down there, all eager like, yeah? Fuckin’ beautiful, innit? Like some bloody angel just—kneelin’ for the devil, yeah?” he muttered, breath shallow, voice thick with reverence and filth.

You kissed the base of him first, right where the coarse hair met thick, veined skin. Then your mouth trailed upward, lips dragging along the underside, tongue tracing every ridge. You heard the sharp inhale above you—his hips jerked, one hand gripping the armrest with white knuckles.

“Ohhh, f—fuck me, yeah, that’s it, darlin’—fuckin’ hellfire, that’s it right there.”

You wrapped your lips around the head and sucked, slow, steady, swirling your tongue as you took more of him in.

“Mouth like velvet, yeah? Fuckin’ velvet.” He laughed breathlessly, full of awe. “You were designed, right? Purpose-built—fuckin’ engineered by someone clever—just to do this to me.”

You moaned around him, taking more, eyes locked on his face—his mouth slack, eyes nearly rolling back, jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

“That’s it, take it—take all of it, love. That’s my girl, innit? Look at you. Fuckin’ takin’ it like the dirty little miracle you are.”

You bobbed your head, slow and steady, spit trailing down your chin, his cock glistening as you worked him with your mouth and hand in tandem. You hollowed your cheeks, sucked harder, and he swore, the filth falling from his mouth thick and unchecked.

“Oi, look at me,” he groaned, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “Come on—look at me while you do that, yeah? ‘Cause I need to see it, don’t I? Need to watch you ruin yourself for me. Fuckin’ glorious, that is.”

Your eyes flicked up through your lashes, meeting his—dark, wild, rimmed red and soaked in awe. That look of a man being undone by pleasure. Of a man who still couldn’t quite believe this was his.

You moaned again, low and sweet around his cock, and the sound nearly broke him.

“Fuuuckin’ ’ell,” he hissed, hips stuttering. “You hear that? Hear yourself, yeah? Sound like you’re enjoyin’ it more than me—an’ I’m ‘ere tryin’ not to fuckin’ die.”

You flattened your tongue along the underside, dragging slow as you pulled back, then sank down again—deeper this time. His thighs trembled under your palms.

“Jesus Christ—fuckin’ hell, deeper, yeah, just like that, just like that. Gonna ruin that pretty little throat, ain’t I? Not that I’m complainin’—fuck no.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him growl, his grip tightening in your hair—not pulling, just grounding himself.

Your jaw burned. Spit slicked his cock, dripping from the corners of your mouth. Your hand pumped at the base, wrist flicking in tandem with the bob of your head, a perfect rhythm of filth and focus.

You pulled off with a wet pop, tongue dragging across your lips. His cock twitched again, glistening, and you smiled, breathless, wicked.

“Couldn’t help myself.”

Alfie stared at you like you were God’s last good idea—and his dirtiest. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your chin, eyes filled with something between awe and animal hunger.

“Aight, hands and knees on the couch,” he said, voice gruff with need, “and keep that pretty arse up.”

Your knees hit the cushions before he even finished speaking, spine arching, skin prickling with anticipation. You felt him behind you—close enough to taste the heat coming off him—his breath like a growl at your back. You could hear him breathing—sharp, ragged, like it took effort not to take you in one brutal stroke. His hand came down to grip your arse, spreading you open like he was starving for the view.

“Most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice breaking. “Like a fuckin’ miracle between your legs. Look at that—look at that, yeah? Shinin’ for me. Beggin’ for me.”

He spit—hot and filthy—right between your cheeks, then smeared it in with his thumb, slow and deliberate, like he was blessing you with it. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as his tip found your entrance, dragging through your slick folds with a possessive hunger.

He grunted, hips twitching as he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your dripping hole like it was the first fuckin’ time all over again. “Christ almighty,” he murmured, breath shaky, “you’re so ready—like your body’s got its own memory of me, like it knows what’s comin’. Fuckin’ welcomes me home.”

And then—without warning—he pushed inside. The stretch stole your breath. It always did. The first inch felt like a burn, like your body had forgotten how to take him and was relearning every inch of him by force.

Your walls clenched tight, fighting the intrusion and welcoming it in the same breath. You keened into the cushion, hands clawing at the fabric as your body fought to accommodate him.

“Jesus, Mary, and fuckin’ Joseph—” he gasped, bottoming out. “Tightest—wettest—fuckin’ perfect, love, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

His hips stuttered, forehead falling to the base of your spine for a moment as he tried not to cum too fast. “Every time—every bloody time—it’s like this cunt’s fuckin’ new.”

“Move, please, Alfie” you begged, already clenching around him. Your voice broke on the plea, needy and half-wrecked. “Need you to ruin me—fuck me like you mean it—please, Alfie, please.”

He pushed all the way out, the head of his cock glistening as it hovered for a moment, and slammed back into you like he was punishing himself for wanting you so much. The force of it knocked the breath out of you, his cock battering your insides, pushing you open all over again like he hadn’t already ruined you.

Each thrust sent the couch creaking, your cries muffled by the cushion as you buried your face in it, trying to hold yourself together. You were drooling, gasping, broken open for him, cunt stretched wide and slick, gripping him like a vice.

His pace was brutal, relentless, like he was trying to chase every thought out of your head but his name. Skin smacking, wet and obscene, filled the room like music made just for the two of you.

He was grunting behind you now, half-growl, half-moan—feral and starved.

“Fucking hell, listen to you,” he rasped, “drippin’ on me cock like that, makin’ that sweet little noise every time I slam into you. Like your body begs for it. Like you need me to ruin you.”

You whimpered at that, cunt fluttering around him, your thighs slick with your own arousal and the proof of how good he made you feel.

You were begging for it, in every way your body could.

He looked down between you, at where you took him to the hilt like you were made for it, like no one else ever could.

“No one else gets this, yeah?” he growled, eyes wild. “No one else gets to see how good you look takin’ me. No one gets to fuck the most beautiful cunt in the whole bloody country—England’s treasure, right here on me cock.”

His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise. He was panting now, fucking you like a man unhinged. His thrusts grew rougher, almost desperate, like he was trying to carve himself into you, like he needed it to stay. Like if he fucked you hard enough, you’d never be able to take anyone else again. And he was right.

It was a rhythm now, like he was orchestrating sin itself—your slick folds catching every stroke, the lewd slap of your soaked cunt meeting his cock, your strangled moans swallowed by the room. You were soaked, ruined, dripping down your thighs, and Alfie groaned when he looked down to see how wrecked you were for him. His cock was glazed with you, every inch coated, your hole red and raw and greedy around him.

“Cunt’s the tightest, prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had,” he panted. “Made just for me. You ruined me, woman. D’you hear me? You fuckin’ wrecked me.” He gasped again, kissing your jaw, your temple, your mouth in frantic bursts. “You’re it. I’ll never touch another. I’ll never want another. You hear me? You’re it for me. You fuckin’ are.”

Your vision blurred. Your mouth hung open, drooling into the cushion as your orgasm built—hot and inevitable—tightening in your gut like a coil about to snap. Your whole body was one trembling nerve. The rhythm of him inside you pushed you closer, closer, until you could barely form words.

One of his hands slid up your back, palm flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you down further into the cushions, forcing your arch deeper so he could drive in even harder. The angle was brutal. Perfect. Devastating. You sobbed into the cushion, tears streaking your face from how good it was.

You could feel how far he reached, how full he made you. You were stretched wide, raw, desperate—and he still wanted more.

“Stay right fuckin’ there,” he growled, voice low and guttural. “Arch that back—yeah, like that. Let me see it, let me see this perfect fuckin’ cunt swallowin’ me whole.”

“Please—don’t stop. I need it, Alfie. I need you.” You moaned. “I don’t wanna feel anything but you.”

He leaned over you, chest to your back, teeth dragging along your shoulder as he muttered filth into your ear—things that made your toes curl and your pussy clench tighter around him.

“You’re fuckin’ mine, y’hear me? Makin’ it fit, makin’ it stay. Gonna stuff you full, treacle—gonna make it take.” His thrusts were erratic now, driven by hunger and love. It was obsession, pure and feral.

His breath came in ragged bursts, teeth clenched, a string of curses and praise pouring from his lips as he drove himself into you over and over again. His thrusts grew rougher, almost desperate, like he was trying to carve himself into you, like he needed it to stay.

“Come on, treacle,” he growled, voice rough and ragged. “Cum for me. That’s it, yeah—let this cock fuck it out of you.” His hips slammed forward with each word, punctuating them like a command, fucking the orgasm from you before you could resist.

His hand reached down, finding your clit with ruthless precision, his fingers circling it in hard, fast motions that bordered on brutal. “Give it to me,” he commanded, voice breaking again. “Let me feel you break for me. Let me feel what I do to you.”

And you did. With a scream that sounded more like a sob, you came around him—body seizing, back arching, muscles clenching so tight around him he nearly lost it too.

You gushed around him, soaking his cock, the couch, everything—your cunt milking him like it knew what came next.

The world shattered in white heat. You were nothing but sensation, a pulse around his cock, your cries muffled by the cushions as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

“Shit— fuck—,” he breathed, slamming once, twice more before groaning like something broke inside him. You felt the heat of him spill into you, thick and endless, filling you up until it dripped out of you.

His hips jerked uncontrollably as he emptied himself inside, growling through clenched teeth, fingers leaving fingerprints on your hips.

He sank to his knees behind you again, groaning like a man possessed, one hand spreading you open while the other slid between your thighs—slow, deliberate, hungry. His breath hitched as he watched it—his cum, thick and white, dripping down your inner thighs, shining on your skin like something sacred.

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Fuckin’ painted you, didn’t I?” He swiped a thumb through it—slow and greedy, gathering the mess he’d made of you, eyes locked on the slick that glistened across your folds, mixing with your arousal like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

“All of this,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “every last drop—mine. You fuckin’ keep it, yeah? Carry me with you.”

Then his fingers were at your mouth, two of them slick and shining as he pressed them to your lips.

“Open,” he rasped. “Be good for me. Taste what we did.”

You obeyed, and he groaned, watching as you sucked them in, your tongue lapping up the mix of both of you—his cum, your slick, your ruin.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed, his cock twitching again, half-hard already. “That’s it, love—take it. Don’t waste a fuckin’ drop.

“My cunt,” he whispered, eyes locked on the mess between your thighs. “Most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. More sacred than shul. Holier than bread and wine. I’d die for it. I’d fuckin’ die worshippin’ between your legs.”

He kissed your folds, your thighs, your trembling ass—like he was making offerings at an altar.

You let out an exhausted chuckle, the kind that trembled through your sore, spent body. “You’re insane.”

Alfie didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Just pressed a kiss to your spine, reverent and aching.

“Yeah, and you keep sayin’ it like it’s some bloody revelation, right? Ain’t exactly news, is it?” he muttered.

For a long moment, the room was quiet—just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of London outside, and the soft kiss of skin on skin as he held you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Alfie nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his voice softer now, almost shy. “D’you know how long I prayed for somethin’ like this? Somethin’ real. Somethin’ holy.” He kissed the back of your neck again. “And it turns out God was listenin’. Gave me a fuckin’ miracle with a filthy mouth and the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled, breath hitching with emotion. “You’re a poet when you’re cunt-drunk. A mad one.”

He huffed a low laugh, burying his face in your hair. “Nah. I’m just honest.”

He kissed the top of your head—rough lips gone tender, his big hands still cradling you like you were something precious, fragile, something that could shatter if he let go.

And then there was only the quiet.

The world beyond your house—beyond the warmth of him, the sweat drying on your skin, the evidence of your bodies still clinging to your thighs—ceased to exist.

You stayed there, tangled in each other’s limbs, your breath slowing in time with his, your heart tethered to his like a secret vow.

No words. Just the weight of it. The raw, unspoken promise curling between you like smoke—unchangeable, immovable, eternal.

You were his. And he was yours.

And not even God would dare touch that.

READ NEXT PART HERE

A/N: First of all, as some of you might know, this is the last part before the final chapter, which will be posted next Saturday (It’s gonna be a long one, prob long over 10k and will bring closure to the story)

I hope you enjoyed this part as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for your constant support!🩷🫶🏻

@rach5ive @namelesslosers @meetmeatyourworst @itisjustwhatitis

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[babyfacebuttercup]

Brown Sugar

A/N: this was a request a few years ago I think and I’m finally done. Also be warned it’s 18+ lot of sexual themes here😅 I might have gotten carried away.

She hadn’t been in Camden Town long. Alfie Solomon’s blood ran in her veins but the two shared little in appearance. Alfie was crude unpolished and menacing. Y/N was poised silent and observant. A woman who understood exactly how much power lived in quiet corners and deep glances. The bakery wasn’t her idea of peace but it was her uncle’s territory and therefore the safest place for her to begin again.

The first time Thomas Shelby saw her it wasn’t love it was war. His steel-blue eyes landed on her like a storm. The kind of gaze that stripped skin from bone and she didn’t flinch. She simply looked back eyes unblinking head tilted just slightly as if to say she’d seen better men try harder.

“You don’t look like the rest of the help” Tommy said as he pulled out a cigarette letting it rest on his lips before lighting it slowly.

“I’m not” Y/N replied her voice smooth and low like melted molasses dripping slow and sticky with heat. Alfie had sent her to bring him tea. That’s how it started.

Their rendezvous began innocently in alleys behind the bakery late at night when the scent of smoke and rye bread still lingered. Words were traded like weapons and every accidental brush of her hand against his was a fuse waiting for fire. Y/N liked the way he watched her mouth when she spoke the way his breath hitched when she leaned too close. He was dangerous and she was curious. That’s all it took.

The first time they kissed it was in the back of Alfie’s office behind crates of aged scotch. His hands gripped her hips with the reverence of a man who’d been starved. Her soft skin gleamed like polished mahogany in the half-light and his lips pressed hot and slow against hers. She gasped when he pushed her against the brick her thighs parting for him instinctively. There was no talk only touch. Only the rasp of his voice in her ear telling her he’d dreamt of this.

Her moans echoed off the cold walls when his mouth found the curve of her breast tugging at her neckline until one dusky nipple was between his lips. He sucked it greedily hands slipping beneath her dress to stroke the soft skin of her thighs. She whimpered fingers tangled in his hair while he murmured her name like a prayer he didn’t believe in. When he entered her slow and deep she bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He didn’t stop moving until her legs trembled around him and her back arched from the crates.

After that Tommy became reckless. She’d find him waiting outside in his motorcar cigarette burning low between his fingers jaw tight until she slid in beside him. Sometimes he’d take her to the Garrison push her into the back room and pull her onto his lap letting his hands explore her beneath velvet skirts while she rode him slow and shameless. Other nights they didn’t speak. He’d undress her in his bedroom like she was silk and she’d press kisses into the scars on his chest until he forgot his name.

It couldn’t last and they both knew it. Polly caught them first.

She opened the door to Tommy’s office and froze. Y/N was perched on the edge of his desk her brown skin glowing with sweat hair wild dress pushed up to her hips as Tommy thrust into her from behind one hand locked around her throat the other digging into her waist. Polly didn’t scream. She simply turned walked out and poured herself a drink.

Alfie was another story.

He found out two days later. The bruises on her thighs were like fingerprints and she didn’t bother hiding them. She walked through the bakery with her chin up hips swaying the scent of Tommy still clinging to her skin.

Alfie cornered her in the storeroom voice raised face red with fury.

“ You lettin’ that fuckin’ gypsy crawl up between your legs now is that it” he snapped pacing like a lion ready to maul.

Y/N didn’t deny it. She simply said “I’m not a girl anymore Alfie. You don’t get to decide who I let love me.”

He raised his hand like he might slap the truth from her mouth but he didn’t. Her eyes didn’t blink and he saw something in them he hadn’t seen before.

“You better hope he means it” Alfie growled before storming out. Tommy did mean it. But in the Shelby world meaning something didn’t mean it was safe.

He kept seeing her. Every stolen moment more dangerous than the last. He started talking about taking her away about marrying her about making her the only softness in his life of iron and war. And Y/N believed him. Not because she was foolish but because she saw the man he was when the world stopped watching. The man who kissed every inch of her skin as though her body was scripture. The man who whispered “Mine” every time he buried himself inside her like he was afraid she might vanish.

Y/N didn’t know how it would end. Whether blood or fire or something worse. But when Thomas Shelby looked at her like she was the only thing in Birmingham that made sense she knew she’d burn for him. And she knew she wouldn’t regret it.

But the fire never came. Not the kind she feared.

What came instead was a knock on her door one morning before the bakery opened. Rain dripped off Tommy’s coat and his cigarette was soaked through between his fingers but he didn’t care. His jaw was locked like he’d already made up his mind and the storm behind his eyes wasn’t rage. It was decision.

He stepped inside before she said a word. Took her face in his hands. Looked at her like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Then he kissed her slow and deep and when he pulled away he spoke so clearly it left no room for questions.

“I want you in my house not just in my bed. I want your mouth on my name and your name on my hand.” Y/N didn’t move at first. Just stared at him while her breath evened out and her heart kicked hard behind her ribs. Then she smiled slow and dangerous and let her fingers slip beneath his soaked coat.

“Then you better tell my uncle before I do.”

It didn’t go quietly. Alfie shouted. Broke a bottle. Called Tommy a walking corpse and a curse. But Y/N stood between them calm and sharp like a blade. Tommy didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He said he wasn’t asking. He said she wasn’t property. He said he’d kill for her or walk away if that’s what she chose.

And she chose him.

The bakery didn’t feel like home anymore. Her hips didn’t belong in flour-dusted aisles. They belonged in silk sheets and quiet mornings and on Tommy’s lap with his hands resting on her thighs like that was where he’d found his peace. She moved in without a word. Claimed drawers. Left perfume in his bathroom and hairpins on the table. Her presence filled the house until it stopped feeling haunted.

Polly didn’t speak on it but she bought Y/N a new coat and told her to wear darker lipstick. Ada just laughed and said it was about time Tommy met his match. Arthur stopped calling her “that girl” and started calling her “our girl” when he was drunk.

Tommy never asked her to change. Never told her to quiet down or sit back. He let her argue. Let her curse. Let her walk into his meetings in a fitted dress that hugged every inch of her figure like it was stitched to her skin. She sat at his left side while old men blinked too hard and choked on their smoke. Tommy just smirked like he wanted them to.

One night she came home late from the Garrison alone. He was in bed already cigarette burning low one arm stretched across her side of the mattress.

“Where’ve you been?” He says with a cigarette in his mouth looking over us glasses. while looking over some paperwork. 

Saying without a glance to him. “Running your business better than you do.” He smiled without looking at her and patted the bed once.

“Come home then.”

She slid in beside him skin warm from the fire in the sitting room and pressed her lips to his chest slow and steady.

He caught her hand before she could move lower. Reached into the drawer. Pulled out a box. No words. Just opened it.

A gold ring. No stone. No fuss. Real. Solid. Heavy.

Y/N didn’t ask if he meant it.

She put it on and kissed him like an answer.

When they married it wasn’t a wedding. It was a decision. A signed name. A quiet promise. No flowers. No church. Just silk against skin and his hands around her waist when he said mine in front of the only people who mattered.

There were still nights full of teeth and bruises and sweat-soaked sheets where she rode him until he was too gone to speak. There were still mornings where he left blood on the doorstep and ash in the fireplace. But she never left. And he never asked her to.

Y/N Solomon-Shelby became the thing no one expected. Not just the woman in Tommy’s bed. But the one he built a life around. And when people spoke her name in whispers it wasn’t because of scandal anymore.

It was because they knew, she was the only thing in Birmingham. That could bring a man like Tommy Shelby to his knees.

[moonchild-in-blue]

I come crawling on my knees bc who better to ask this than the number 1 Espera fan. 🥺 I've just been thinking about Sleep Token (what a surprise lol), and I'm curious if there's any info on how Ves and the Espera ladies met? Everyone in this band seems so close, so I've been questioning how they all became colleagues and friends. 🥺❤️

AAAAAAAA Crow!!! Thank you sooo so much for this question!!! This is something I've been wondering myself for a long time now, but somehow never really delved into it - this gave me the perfect excuse to do so! 💙

I'm gonna preface this by saying we do not actually have much info about that. This is simply me connecting dots with what little information we have publicly available.

So! We can't really talk about Espera, without talking about Exploring Birdsong. As we all know, they were the opening band for Sleep Token on their first headliner ritual, the infamous St. Pancras Old Church ritual, back in 2018.

This is the first time Exploring Birdsong comes in contact with Sleep Token, and they would be their staple opening band up until January 2020. From there on forward, only their lead singer Lyns and the backing vocalists Paige and Mattie (later known as the collective group Espera) would continue to be performing with the band as live backing vocals (as of 2023 they seem to be permanent live members, as before they didn't tour with them every time).

Now, how did they meet? That's the big question here.

Exploring Birdsong were founded when Lyns, Matt and Jonny were studying music in Liverpool (in LIPA to be precise), back in 2015/16 if memory serves me right. Starting in 2017, they released a couple of singles and started to perform live (with the other 2 Espera girls, before they were a thing). Most (if not all) of their shows at the time were set in Liverpool, Manchester, or around that area.

Sleep Token at the time was playing shows mostly in London and around the south, opening for other bands and such. Quite the geographical difference, so it seems unlikely they would've met then. Even in terms of music, Sleep Token was more involved in the UK metal sphere at the time, while EB were very much in the prog-rock side of alt. music.

In fact, there's this one 2020 interview of EB, right after they finished touring with ST for the last time, that mentions that difference in public between EB fans and ST fans. Here's that excerpt:

To further emphasise that EXPLORING BIRDSONG are making waves they were hand picked to support the enigmatic SLEEP TOKEN on a handful of UK dates which gave them the ideal chance to test the waters and see how their offering would fare in a more metal focused environment.

“The reception was very warm!” Lynsey exclaims. “The crowd were really receptive to our songs. We’re not in a totally different vein to SLEEP TOKEN but I was intrigued to see how we would get on with a more metal oriented crowd. There are definitely elements of our songs which are similar but I was apprehensive how they would react but people came up to us afterwards telling us how much they enjoyed it so I’m really glad.”

Every publication dating 2020 and back that mentions Exploring Birdsong and Sleep Token together, references the fact that EB were hand-picked by ST to open for them (again, they were the staple opener for Sleep Token during that 2018-20 period, save for a couple of dates where schedules didn't align). Which again, is a bit odd given they were in very different scenes, both geographical and musical. As far as I know, none of them (EB) have any connection to any of the guys' past projects, so that can't be it either.

HOWEVER, back in March 2018, Exploring Birdsong announced they would open for the Welsh prog-rock band Godsticks in May 2018, in the Camden Assembly (London).

As far as I can tell from their FB page, this would be their first time as a band performing in London. As we all know, Sleep Token have performed in Camden in the past (Camden Rocks festival in June 2018 actually!) In fact, Camden is a known spot for alt music and culture, so it would make sense for locals (musicians and fans alike) to frequent these places and get to know bands that way.

Funnily enough, Enter Shikari have performed in the Camden Assembly, one of the first bands signed to Basick Records - Sleep Token's first label.

It is very likely that Sleep Token (and I'm gonna go on a limb and say Vessel himself, given the similarity in music influences he has with EB, as opposed to ii and iii who come from VERY different, much, much heavier musical backgrounds) may have seen their opening set, and got in contact with Exploring Birdsong then. They were only announced as opening acts for the ST Pancras show in September, which gives them plenty of time to get acquainted with each other and have that first ritual together.

Exploring Birdsong were already set to be in London in October to support Godsticks again, so it's possible they took the opportunity and invited them to the inaugural ritual.

Now, what's really funny too, is that even though EB would only release their first EP in 2019, they had quite a few singles/repertoire ready (including a few vocal-only covers on their socials).

The most notable is actually their (Don't Fear) The Reaper cover, which was recorded right after their Camden show, and released later that summer, which was recorded in Liverpool's Anglican Cathedral - that's right! They performed in a church months before Sleep Token did 😌

The cover itself is beautiful, the girl's voices are pretty much center stage, and the whole vibe feels both eerie and sacred, not unlike Sleep Token's (especially at the time). I've reccomended it here before, and really can't overstate how beautiful that cover is.

Would that maybe influence ST's decision to have them on board? Maybe 👀 This cover was also featured in Kerrang! Radio (which is a big deal given they don't usually feature covers), so you can say it definitely caused an impact.

This is honestly my best guess as how they came together. I can't find any more links between Sleep Token and Exploring Birdsong aside from this, and given their overlapping schedules prior to this, it seems unlikely they would've come across each other.

I think it's really sweet they heard this random band one day and went - "Yeah. These are the ones, this is it." And to see that friendship continue to exist (the girls now being a seemingly permanent part of their live acts; the guys still supporting each other) is really really cute.

Fun fact, although EB stopped opening for ST in 2020, they were actually all together in 2023, where both Sleep Token and Exploring Birdsong were playing Radar Festival. Given their history, and the fact that the girls were part of both sets, it's likely they were all watching each other and having a good ol' time 🥹💙

If anyone has any more info about how Sleep Token and Exploring Birdsong met, I would really appreciate that!! This is as far as I managed to gather.

I'm also gonna leave a link here to my Exploring Birdsong propaganda post, in case anyone is curious about their music and wants a place to start.

[asmallpinkfan3]

Early morning cuddles- Hobie Brown

writing this at 3 am because I fucking fell asleep at 5 pm and woke up at 2 am.

Warnings: none

GN reader

You were over at Hobies place as you had decided to stay the night, however you ended up falling asleep early, at 6pm. 2:34 am. When you woke up you groaned softly as you sat up looking over to see if your partner was there, he wasn’t. Laying back down you pulled out your phone and just scrolled through it to pass time because god knows your not going to sleep anytime soon.

4:45am. A thud on the deck of the boat caught your attention as you were pulled from your trance of endless scrolling on your phone. Pulling yourself out of his warm bed you walked to the deck seeing nothing as your hair was a mess and you rubbed your face. Turning you went back to Hobies bed and crawled into it as you pulled the covers over you and you got comfortable under it.

“Feelin lazy luv?” A voice rang out and you perked your head up to see your lover standing over the bed, spider mask in hand as he put it down on his bedside table. You gave a small yawn as you rolled over to his side, seeing him climb in tiredly you opened your arms for him. He took no time putting himself into your arms and pressing his face into the crook of your neck humming softly.

“You fell asleep early”. He said softly rubbing your back subconsciously as you messaged his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to”. You responded softly as you yawn again. “How was your night?” You questioned because you know he’s spider punk to which he snorted softly. “Eh, the usual fought a couple thugs and that’s bout it”. He replied while shifting you closer to him. “What time you wake up?” It was his turn to question you about your night.

“..2 I think”. You replied quietly as he nuzzled your neck with a sigh. “Now you done messed up ya sleep schedule huh?” He asked and you nodded to which he only chucked to. “Hey you got a worse one then me”. You joked half way because he does go to bed at like 7 am because of the fact he stays up all night to patrol around Camden. “You got me there luv.” He mumbled tiredly as he yawned.

[hero21us]

Gold Tracks & Chav Dreams: The Chavformation of Trey

Trey, an Olympic medalist in track and field, had been looking forward to a vacation for months. After years of intense training and competition, a crisis of identity and months in stasis, he was finally taking a real vacation, heading to London to unwind. As his plane ascended into the sky, exhaustion took over, and he drifted into sleep.

In his dream, Trey wasn’t just any tourist—he was already in London, but not the London from postcards. He was a full-blown chav, repping the Golden Army. “Oi, mate, it’s Trey ‘ere from the Golden Army, innit?” he declared in the dream, swaggering down the street. “We’re proper celebratin’ St. Paddy’s Day, yeah? It’s all green flags and golden vibes today, bruv. Gotta do it right, you know, like proper legends.”

He remembered every detail—the green and gold tracksuits, gold chains glinting over their chests, and shamrock balloons in hand as they paraded through the high street, chanting something vaguely Irish-sounding. They ended up at Wetherspoons—‘spoons’ as he confidently explained—where cheap Guinness flowed like a river. Green face paint smeared across their cheeks, a shamrock disaster etched onto Danny’s forehead. Karaoke erupted next. Dazza queued up an Irish drinking song playlist, and Kevin belted out “Whiskey in the Jar” with all the enthusiasm of a Celtic bard.

And then, the pièce de résistance—the Golden Army Parade. Green smoke bombs, golden confetti raining down, people cheering (or gawking), and Trey leading it all like some chav-king of Camden. It was wild, chaotic, and exhilarating. “Unity, laughs, and a bit of over-the-top madness,” he remembered thinking. “That’s what it’s all about.”

Then, just as quickly as the dream had begun, it faded.

Trey woke with a jolt as the plane touched down at Heathrow. Shaking off the bizarre dream, he grabbed his duffel bag and made his way through customs, ready to enjoy London. But something felt different. The dream had left a strange impression on him, as if it were foreshadowing something.

His first few days were standard tourist fare—Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, fish and chips—but one night, while wandering through the city, he took a wrong turn and stumbled into a group of young men huddled outside a convenience store. They wore similar track suits and chains from his dream, and their conversation was peppered with slang he recognized.

“Oi, who’s this then?” one of them said, eyeing Trey curiously.

Trey hesitated. “Uh, just exploring.”

One of the chavs smirked. “Explorin’, yeah? You look proper lost, bruv.”

There was something oddly inviting about their energy. Trey had spent years around disciplined athletes, all focused on precision and order. But these guys? They were free. Reckless. Alive.

They invited him to hang out, and soon, Trey found himself immersed in their world. He learned the slang, the mannerisms, the art of posturing with confidence. But more than that, the transformation began in earnest.

It started with his appearance. His stylish, athletic travel wear gave way to a loud Adidas tracksuit gifted to him by one of the lads. It felt alien at first, the polyester brushing against his skin, the gold chains heavy around his neck, but soon it felt like armor. He traded his minimalist sneakers for chunky white trainers, worn laces, and scuff marks included. His clean-cut hair was buzzed down and styled with a thick dose of gel into a messy, lad-ready look. His American accent softened, slowly blending with the rhythm and slang of his new mates.

He laughed louder. Walked with more swagger. Took pride in posturing outside corner shops with a cheap lager in hand. Trey had never felt more seen.

His diet flipped from grilled chicken and protein shakes to kebabs, crisps, and fried everything. Instead of early morning runs, there were late-night pub crawls. He started to recognize the regulars at ‘spoons and could name every grime track that came on the speaker. He wasn’t just mimicking them—he was becoming one of them.

Then, one night while they were all pre-gaming for a warehouse rave, one of the lads opened his jacket to reveal a gold tattoo on his ribs—the Golden Army insignia. Trey blinked. "You lot are part of the Golden Army?" he asked, stunned.

The others grinned knowingly. "Course we are, bruv. You think that dream of yours was just a dream? We saw you there too. St. Paddy’s Day was mental, yeah?"

Trey’s jaw dropped. Somehow, the lines between the dream and reality blurred. These weren’t just random chavs—they were brothers in the same golden cause. It explained the familiarity, the strange pull he’d felt toward them, the déjà vu at every turn. And with that realization, Trey felt the final pieces of his old self slip away. This wasn’t just transformation—it was destiny.

At first, he told himself it was just for fun—an immersive cultural experience. But the more time he spent with his new mates, the more he felt like he belonged. There was no pressure to be an Olympic medalist here. No expectations, no cameras, no rigorous training schedule. Just vibes, music, and the thrill of the moment.

As his vacation drew to a close, Trey faced a choice. He could return to his carefully curated life back in the States, or he could stay, embrace the lifestyle, and disappear into this new identity. His flight was scheduled for the next morning, but as he sat on a park bench, the lights of London twinkling around him, he realized he already knew the answer.

His phone buzzed—his coach checking in. Trey stared at the screen, then answered.

“Oi oi, Coach, it’s Trey, innit?” he said, voice dripping in East London swagger. “Look, bruv, I’m not comin’ back to the States, yeah? Nah, I’m stayin’ ‘ere with the mandem. This life—this vibe—it’s me now. Tracks and medals? That’s old news. I’m rockin’ a diff kind of gold now, feel me?”

There was a long silence on the other end, but Trey didn’t wait.

“Ain’t gone mad or nothin’, Coach. Just found somethin’ real out ‘ere. I’m not lost—I’m finally where I belong, proper. And listen yeah, tell PDU-055 I’ll hit him up soon, innit.  He’ll clock what’s goin’ on. He gets it.”

He ended the call with a sharp “Safe,” tucked his phone into the deep pocket of his gold tracksuit, adjusted his thick gold chains, and strutted down the street, head high. Just another chav in London—but one with a mission, a brotherhood, and a golden destiny.

Do you want to become part of our chav brotherhood? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold , @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-001.

[acheronist]

hold on WHAT i was lovingly invested in peglarmitage and all the updates as like. my beloved ghost blorbo-in-laws from you but can we. if that was the speedrun can we snail crawl. can we go back to literally all of that how do i learn more??

TAKE MY HAND !!!!!!!!!! COME WITH ME

ok so fair warning a lot of the dates are accurate bc i'm a freak & i can get screenshots of all the lines henry wrote if you want, but i'm lazy and this answer is already going to be long as FUCK so lmk if you want to see those later. and also i'm looking at this whole thing with my rpf goggles SECURELY FASTENED bc i like my yaoi historically accurate and well cited. ok buckle in for this snail crawl thru the approximate timelines of their lives.

december ?? 1805 - thomas armitage born

april 24, 1807 - thomas armitage baptized

february 22, 1812 - henry peter peglar born

november 29, 1813 - henry and his older sister elizabeth are baptized in a two-for-one dunk'em special in westminster. their family lives like a 3 minute walk away from the abbey.

january 9, 1821 ~ march 27 1822 - thomas working as shipsboy on hms bulwark. he is sixteen.

march 28 ~ december 5 1822 - thomas working as shipsboy on hms gloucester

december 6 1822 ~ november 30 1823 - thomas working on hms briton and goes from ships boy, then seaman (dec 1 1823 - august 31 1825)

august 4, 1825 - henry is admitted to the marine society "for destitute boys and training seamen". he is thirteen. his dad owns a gunsmithing shop but clearly they are a working class family. his dad votes for politically radical figures (politician who thinks workers deserve some say over the land and work they tend to, rather than abiding by traditional english landlord/farmer dynamics)

september 1825 - henry is assigned to hms solebay as an extra shipsboy for training after a single month in the navy's charity bootcamp for miserable boys who can't afford their own dinner.

december 14 1825 - henry is discharged from solebay with good character and gets sent to hms clio. within months he's transferred again to hms magnificent, which was a hospital ship, and he works as a shipsboy. he sailed to jamaica for the first time

1826-1827 - henry works on hms rattlesnake. in his career account he mentions working on hms serapis (stationed in port royal) but there are no ship records / musters which include him being aboard at this time. its ok though i trust him. he should have seen inagua, port au prince, havana, montedo, santiago de cuba, chagres, bermuda, and halifax.

october 26, 1826 - thomas armitage (bachelor) and celia murray (spinster) married in gillingham parish (his parents are their witnesses. presumably no one in the family is literate as they all sign the wedding certificate with Xs. (this is the same parish that the hartnell brothers attended btw which has nothing to do with anything but i think is interesting. neighbors!)) thomas is twenty one.

july 6 1827 - thomas and cecila's first child (also named cecila) is christened

september 1 1827 - henry is paid off from hms rattlesnake at woolwich dockyard. here's some maps for your context and interest

september 3 1827 - henry joins hms perseus at the tower of london.

september 14 1827 - henry is sent to hms prince regent in chatham.

end half of 1827 - henry is involved with Something (the portion of the page in his account where he talks about this is straight up missing / disintegrated due to damage from the arctic) involving an apprentice, and thusly he is discharged from prince regent as a consequence (?) for it. no source no facts no evidence but i suspect he was supposed to be training someone in the rigging and they fell and died on his watch.

april 29 1828 - henry joins the east india company aboard the marquis camden heading for st helena, mumbai, and china. henry writes that the ship was struck by lightning and he sees a sergeant and a private killed by the lightning strike. henry is seventeen. the marquis camden stops by paracels, singapore, and krakatoa before returning to the english channel in july

july 1828 - henry joins the blockade ship ramillies, which was investigating smuggling btwn england and france. the captain of this ship is a notorious sadist who issued crazy numbers of lashings as punishment like they were nothing and henry said Okay fuck this i'm out, and moved to the tender ship hms antelope which was also involved in this smuggling investigation work in the same area at the same time.

december 3 1828 - thomas and cecila's second child (gabriel) is christened

1829 - henry returns to the navy abord hms talavera. the same sadist captain from the ramillies takes over the ship and henry gets spooked. probably from all the lashings.

september 15 1829 - henry writes to be discharged from talavera and rejoins the marquis camden

october 20, 1831 - thomas and cecila's third child (elizabeth) is christened

february 14 1832 - henry's still on on the marquis camden (sailing for st helena, mumbai, penang, singapore, and macau)

january 1833 - henry does NOT include this year in his account of his career due to the fact that he was disrated from foretop captain to ordinary seaman, confined in irons, and punished with 2 dozen lashes for drunkenness and mutinous conduct and probably didn't want FE searchers to think badly of him for this. he DOES write that a chief mate was shot while he was aboard tho. #hesinnocent #freepeglar #solidarity

may 12 1833 - thomas and cecila's fourth child (joshua william) is christened

april 4 1834 - henry joins hms gannet, but somehow, gets disrated four times in four years. so he's going from foretop captain -> gunner crew -> coxswain -> able seaman. later on in the arctic, while writing his career account, henry claims that he "joined tom ship gannett" while running out of space on the page, which isn't quite accurate bc henry was aboard gannet first and then tom arrived, but russell potter and i both think this may just be a reference to the fact that their friendship started around this time. and he literally has brain scurvies :( he can misremember a little bit its fine i trust him.

may 7 1834 - thomas joins hms gannet (gunroom steward) and signs an X (still illiterate) for his allotment to be sent home to cecelia.

christmas thru NYE 1834 -> 1835 -

!!!!! RPF SPECULATION ALERT!!!!!!! but in the wallet henry mentions a party that happened in "the old sitty of cumanar" i.e. cumana venezuela. this is the only point in his entire career where he's spending time in cumana. he crashes a beach christmas party which is hosted by some american girls, one of whom is quite hauty and reminds him of queen caroline (who got very publicly divorced in westminster in the 1820s and he probably remembered well from his childhood). another fragment from the wallet mentions "the party wot happened at trinadad" which is the next nearest port, and again, this is the only time in his career where henry would have logistically been able to stop and visit and party at this port. its literally the holidays who fucking careesssss. Another page from the wallet mentions "[...] trinadad laying in asham bay" and is likely also in reference to this period of his life. so anyways i think this is when he and tom started having an affair & part of why henry was getting disrated so often is part of his 'punishment' for getting caught screwing around with thomas.

.......meanwhile…......

january 2 1835 - thomas and cecila's fifth child (harriet) is christened

june 23 1835 - thomas leaves gannet (i suspect as punishment for screwing around with henry)

june 24 1835 ~ march 14 1836 - thomas joins hms serpent as captain's steward

march 5 1837 ~ january 14 1839 - thomas joins hms hercules as gunroom steward. his character is noted as good.

february 1838 - henry gets discharged from hms gannet and joins hms temeraire as an AB seaman. his service and conduct is "indifferent". he probably loses this job bc temeraire (despite an impressive record of never dying at sea or in battles) gets ordered to be broken up. here's a beautiful painting by jmw turner FROM 1838!!! OF THE SHIP!!! so this is what it looked like when henry was there :)

1838 - henry briefly joins hms ocean to reclimb the rank back up to captain of the fo'c'sle.

february 11 1839 ~ october 14 1839 - thomas joins hms cleopatra as gunroom steward. his character is noted as good.

november 22 1839 ~ may 6 1839 - thomas joins hms fantome as captain's steward, and then works as ship's cook from may 7 1842 ~ december 31 1842, and then commander's steward from jan 1 1843 - october 20 1843. his character is noted as "very bad" (!!!!!!!) while aboard fantome.

december 2 1839 - hms wanderer heads for the west coast of africa to work in anti-slavery patrols along the west coast of africa. there's a looooooot of british colonial powergrab nuance here which you can look into on your own time. i don't want to speculate about how henry felt during all of this so i shall simply say: #yfip

august 1842 - wanderer sails for india and then china and sees some heavy action in the first opium war. george hodgson and william gibson are also aboard wanderer at this time #bestievibesonly there's malay pirates and chinese sailors trying to kill these british fuckos and everyone gets incredibly fucked up and a lot of people almost die (not henry tho. he gets a promotion and is officially captain of the foretop again. his character is very good). another great instance of #yfip can someone please get the callout post drafted already

june 27 1844 - henry gets discharged in england from wanderer. he spent a few months on shore FINALLY and i hope he got to see his family a little bit at least but it seems like he was most likely busy trying to purchase a pub in westminster so he could retire from being used and abused by the imperial navy war machine, and then ran out of money. he's a real one for sure.

july 8 1844 ~ april 25 1845 - thomas working as gunroom steward aboard hms dee. his character is noted as good.

march 11 1845 - henry signs onto hms terror as foretop captain under captain FRANCIS RAWDOG MOIRA CROZIER. henry leaves no allotment so he was keeping his paycheck for himself.

april 29 1845 - thomas joins hms terror as the gunroom steward he DOES leave an allotment so his paycheck is getting sent home to cecilia and he still signs off on this with an X (still illiterate). i can't even begin to imagine how fucking crazy it must have felt for them to see each other on the deck of terror for the first time and realize they've got the next several years stuck together on the same ship in the arctic. l m a o.

winter 1845 ~ 1846 - the expedition overwinters at beechey island. jorrington and jartnell and liam die and get buried. jarts and liam were erebus' problem, but it's very very very likely that thomas was helping out peddie and mcdonald on terror and acting as an in-situ nurse/assistant while torrington was sick and dying. i like to think maybe henry had some useful advice for tom from his time as a shipboy on a hospital ship (magnificent). rpf is fine. henry begins writing his backwards ass diary somewhere around here.

april 21 1847 - henry writes the open c poem

september 1847 - henry writes down another page and to be so real with u i can't tell if it's poetry or if it's a journal due to a big ass hole in the center of the page. but he wrote it! and the top is dated september __ 1847

april 20 1848 (probs) henry writes a coded diary page about what's going on aboard terror / officers are promising the men new boots (likely their normal seaboots with nails stuck thru to act as cleats on the ice) before they all abandon ship and begin walking / how he thinks tom has left clothes out that wont thaw in time / someone who looks like a marine is getting bossy

1848 ~ EARLYYYYY 1850 I'M NOT GIVING THEM MUCH MORE TIME TO LIVE THAN THAT TBH - henry continues to write poetry about sailing on open water, and writing backwards diary entries , and archiving his recollections of his time in warmer climates when he was young and handsome and attending parties with fruit where people were singing and dancing. there are several references to tom in his journals, most notably is a tangent thought in the middle of a sentence abt smth else where henry refers to him as 'all my art tom'. henry notoriously has difficulties with knowing where Hs actually go in words, and he likely meant "all my heart tom". at some point he is so concerned about the potential of being lost and forgotten in the arctic that he wrote down an account of his own career and he keeps it in his wallet next to his navy ID papers. at some point henry dies, probably from lead poisoning / scurvy / the cold / etc. it was awful to live thru and we know this. thomas survives him, and carries henry's wallet as the surviving men continue trekking south under crozier's command. i imagine initially it was a "i'll make sure this gets home for you" sort of thing based on their history together, and then turned into "oh god i'm not getting out of here either, time to bet everything i have on keeping his writing safe for when someone finds our dead remains in the future"

1850(ish i think) - thomas leaves terror camp in just his steward's uniform, with a clothes brush, a folding hair comb, a six pence coin, a half sovereign coin, no shoes (?), and henry's wallet containing his poetry (safely wrapped in newspaper and leather and tucked against his chest) and walks to the south shoreline of king william island. he probably admires the ocean for one last time, presuming it wasn't frozen over, and then lays down on top of the wallet, facedown, and dies.

march 3 1854 - all franklin expedition personnel are declared dead. his arrears are given to next of kin (i can't figure out if they're sent to his older sister elizabeth or his mother sarah)

may 25 1859 - francis mcclintock (my fucking enemy. me in hell like WHERE IS MCCLINTOCK.) is searching king william island at the behest of jane franklin for clues about WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED. he comes across thomas' skeleton, disarticulated but still face down along a ridge peninsula known as gladman's point. these are the only human remains within a 30 mile stretch from the last sign of terror camp at washington bay. mcclintock takes henry's wallet and the comb/brush/some surviving buttons/tom's neckerchief with him back to england but leaves thomas' skeleton behind. here's an engraving of mcclintock finding tom + a stenograph of the artifacts they took from him (left hand side, you can see the clothes brush getting moved btwn shots). the folding hair comb initially had brown hairs still caught in the teeth, but the hairs have since disappeared </3 but thomas and henry both were listed on official paperwork as having brown hair. make of this what you will.

??????????????? idk. thomas skeleton continued exposure to the elements :(

july 20 1973 - the 1st battalion royal canadian regiment is doublechecking mcclintock's notes and refind the skeleton. they take photos of thomas' bones in situ and also after they'd been arranged on a piece of plywood. they decide somehow the partial skeleton was a guy that was 6 ft tall which is generous but technically in line with thomas' height considering he wasn't fully there and there's some room for error. they find some cloth covered buttons, a pearl button, and some scraps of wool coat. they then shipped his bones to the canadian museum of history in ottawa. allegedly the museum received the bones. they make a cairn tho + put up a plaque on the spot though

hi tom.

2018 - i watch the first ep of the terror by amc and get bored bc its a lot of white guys who look the same. i have college to be worrying about at this point lol

2020 - i finish watching the terror by amc and go Hey was that subplot about the gay dude with the wallet real or what. can i see what he actually wrote? not really? damn thats crazy ok anyways whatever time to be really depressed

2022 - thomas' skeleton whereabouts are still "unknown" by the canadian museum of history in ottawa when current FE researchers start asking Hey what the fuck man

2024 - i rewatch the terror and get SERIOUS about a facsimile, and start blogging about my descent into madness <3

2025 - actual historians start helping me out with sourcing legible copies of the papers inside the wallet so i can do the facsimile. i continue blogging like an insane man trying 2 spread the good word about these dead dudes. and you're up to date now congrats

[highinmiamiii]

NO FEELINGS - ch. 02

🇬🇧 a prelude 🇬🇧

A/N: heeey yall, it’s been a second i’ve been feeling some of that good ol’ block lately. i wanted to make this second chapter a lot more detailed and maybe get a little nasty with it already but i fear my brain just wouldn’t allow me…so i hope you enjoy this flashback/prelude chapter with that tattoo scene in a little more detail that i had sitting in my drafts for what it is. leave a comment if you wanna be apart of my permanent taglist and any feedback or suggestions are welcome. thank you all so much for following and reading i love you so much! enjoy this while i sort out this blockage and come back stronger, better and hornier 😈 also i hope the switching back and forth isn’t confusing i attempted to differentiate for ya’ll

Her POV: back of steakhouse (present)

She leaned against the grimy counter, staring at the faded ink on her arm as her mind drifted. It hadn’t taken much—just one look at him sitting out there. The way his jaw clenched, cigarette hanging from his lips, the same damn way it used to back in London. She hadn’t expected to ever have to see him again, and now, as the memories came flooding back, it felt like a sucker punch to the gut.

London in the 90s. A wild, rebellious time. The city had swallowed her whole, but she’d been too busy chasing the dream to care. The music. The crowds. The life. And then there was him—Billy. She wasn’t sure what she saw in him at first. Maybe it was the same reckless abandon she had, or maybe it was the fact that he didn’t give a damn about anything, including her.

Butcher’s POV (Present)

He lit another cigarette, taking a long drag, eyes narrowing as the smoke curled up toward the dim lights. Christ, she’d aged, just like him, but the fire in her eyes hadn’t dimmed much. Still that spark, that defiance. But behind it, he saw something else. Pain. Maybe even a little bitterness. The last thing he had in mind when coming here was to dredge up all these old memories. If he’d known *she*, of all people would be the one serving him piss poor American whiskey in a tiny little white sheer tank top, he wouldn’t have dared to show up here…or would he?

But London… yeah, he remembered. He could still see her, standing there in that grimy club, screaming lyrics at the top of her lungs. The way her fishnets dug into the meat of her thighs, her big messy carefree hair to match her attitude. That night had been pure chaos—loud, electric, full of bad decisions. She’d been wearing some old Nirvana shirt, looking every bit the rebel without a cause. That’s what caught his eye. A Yank, lost in a sea of Brits, and still holding her own.

Her POV: Camden, London (Flashback)

The club was packed, bodies pressed together in the heat of the moment. The shitty Sex Pistols cover band’s rendition blared through the speakers, the crowd was a frenzy, and she loved every second of it. She’d never felt more alive, more free. And then, through the haze of booze and music, there he was. A cocky grin, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes dark and sharp. He looked like trouble, and that’s exactly what she was after.

They’d met by accident—literally, she’d spilled her drink on him. He’d smirked, tossed a sarcastic remark, and she fired one right back. That was how it started. The banter, the late-night pub crawls, the music they bonded over. Sonic Youth. The Clash. Pearl Jam. They’d spent hours talking about bands, trading tapes, dissecting lyrics. He was tough, but he got it. He understood the frustration, the rebellion that was running through her veins. And she loved him for it.

Butcher’s POV: (Flashback)

She’d been a live wire from the moment they met. Mouthy, sharp, full of opinions. But bloody hell, she knew her music, and she didn’t take shit from anyone, of course it didn’t hurt that she was the sexiest damn woman he’d ever seen in his life. They’d spent that whole night drinking and talking, getting lost in the chaos of London’s underground punk scene. She wasn’t English, not by a long shot, but there was something about her—something that felt familiar.

Maybe that’s why he stuck around. Maybe that’s why they became inseparable after that night. Camden was their playground, the pubs their refuge. They were both running from something—her, from a life that didn’t suit her, him from his demons, the ones that always seemed to creep in when the booze ran dry.

Her POV: Streets of London (Flashback)

They’d wander the streets of London at 3 a.m., talking about everything and nothing. She’d ramble about her dreams, how she’d saved up for years to get to London, only to find out that the dream wasn’t as glamorous as it seemed. He’d listen, nod, offer some witty remark, and she’d laugh, feeling lighter for a moment.

Then there was that night—the tattoo. They’d been drunk, of course, stumbling out of a pub when he saw the tattoo parlor.

“Go on, love, get somethin’ that sticks. Like us,” he’d slurred, smirking like the devil himself.

She rolled her eyes, but she was too far gone to resist. “You’re full of shit, Butcher.”

“Am I, now? Bollocks to it. Get the ink, love.”

And so she did. Never Mind the Bollocks. The same words that were now permanently etched on her skin, a reminder of those wild nights, of him.

Butcher’s POV: Tattoo Parlor, London (Flashback)

He couldn’t forget that night. Hell, he couldn’t forget any of it. She’d been so fiery, so full of life. He’d loved that about her, even if he didn’t say it. They’d been reckless, sure, but wasn’t that the whole point? To live fast, to not give a fuck?

But then Lenny died. And the whole world went to shit.

He’d shut down, shut her out. There were no more late-night pub crawls, no more snarky conversations over cheap pints, no more music. Everything that once felt like an escape, even her, turned into a reminder of what he’d lost. And what was worse, he couldn’t pull her into the darkness that now consumed him. She was too bright, too full of life—life that he no longer wanted a part of.

He’d ghosted her, plain and simple. He’d watched her from a distance, knowing she’d be heartbroken, but he couldn’t give her any more of himself. There wasn’t anything left to give. And London, once the vibrant backdrop to their wild love, became a suffocating city, drowning him in grief.

Her POV: Pub in London (Flashback)

She sat alone at their favorite pub. The one they used to haunt after every show, after every wild adventure through London’s underground. She kept checking her phone, waiting for a message that never came. The hours passed, the pint in front of her went warm, and still—nothing.

He was gone.

She didn’t want to believe it at first. But night after night, the calls went unanswered, and slowly, it started to sink in. He wasn’t coming back. Not for her, not for the life they’d carved out together. London, once her grand adventure, started to feel like a prison without him. The streets that used to be filled with music and laughter now echoed with silence. And every time she looked down at her arm, at the ink that now felt like a cruel joke, her heart twisted in pain.

Butcher’s POV: Steakhouse Booth (Present)

He snuffed out the cigarette, a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the smoke. Sitting here now, seeing her again after all these years, the memories were crawling back. The nights they spent in each other’s arms, the reckless abandon, the laughter… and then, the way he left her. Cold. Brutal.

He had his reasons, sure, but none of them would make a difference now. She hated him, that much was clear. And maybe she had every right to. He’d left her to fend for herself, knowing she’d have no way of surviving in London without him. But at the time, it felt like the only way to save her from the wreckage of his life.

Her POV: Backroom of the Steakhouse (Present)

She could hear the chatter of customers, the clatter of plates in the kitchen, but it all faded into the background. All she could think about was the way her life had fallen apart after he left. She’d had to scrape by, working whatever jobs she could get, barely keeping her head above water before finally fleeing back to the States.

And now, here he was. As if none of it had happened. As if he hadn’t left her stranded in a foreign country with nothing but a damn tattoo and a broken heart. She could feel her pulse quicken, her chest tightening with anger, with hurt. She wanted to storm out there, demand an explanation, shout at him for all the years she lost trying to pick up the pieces.

But instead, she stayed put. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d wrecked her. Not after all this time.

Butcher’s POV: Steakhouse Booth (Present)

He knew she was out back, probably stewing in her thoughts, just like he was. A part of him wanted to go to her, to explain, maybe even apologize for how things ended. But the other part—the part that still felt the weight of Lenny’s death, of everything he’d lost—kept him glued to the booth.

What was the point in dredging it all up? She’d moved on. She had to have. Just like he had. But then again, why did it feel like seeing her was pulling him back into that old life, back into those nights where it was just them against the world?

He reached for his glass, took another slow sip, eyes fixed on the dim light of the restaurant. Whatever they had back then, it was long gone. But seeing her now, it felt like a piece of him still lived in those London nights, still ached for the chaos and the connection they shared.

Her POV: Backroom of the Steakhouse (Present)

She pushed away from the counter, straightened her apron, and steeled herself. He could sit there and sulk all he wanted, but she wasn’t about to fall back into the past. Not with him. Not after everything. The memories still hurt, sure. But she wasn’t that same girl anymore, and she’d be damned if she let him drag her back to that place.

As she headed back out into the dining area, she caught sight of him again, sitting there like a ghost from her past. It was strange, how someone could look so different and yet so much the same. His face was more lined, his hair grayer, but that smirk, that swagger—it was all still there.

She had half a mind to walk right past him, pretend like he didn’t exist. But something inside her—maybe the part that still hurt, still remembered what they had—wouldn’t let her.

Butcher’s POV: Steakhouse Booth (Present)

And there she was, moving through the restaurant, that same defiance in her step. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret—just a small one, mind—but it was enough to remind him that they hadn’t been all bad together. They’d been wild, reckless, and young, but they’d had something real in the middle of all the madness.

As she came closer, his gaze locked onto hers. It was a silent challenge, like it always was between them. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him first, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to back down, either.

But the years between them? The ones filled with silence, with her hurt and his guilt—they hung in the air like smoke from a freshly lit cigarette.

And in that moment, Butcher couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, some things weren’t meant to be left in the past.

————————————————————————

current tags: @butchersdarkbird @scrmqwn

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 10

Read on AO3. Part 9 here. Part 11 here.

Summary: You're starting to think you're never getting back home.

Words: 6800

Warnings: Serious attempts at historical war nerdery

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia

Hi, quick note here - we are not following the timeline of the film, since it's completely fucky and doesn't really adhere to any of the major battles closely enough for our nerd-brains to enjoy. As such, please note that the Battle of Camden occurred on August 16th, 1780, not whatever time the movie made up in 1778.

HELLO, WELCOME BACK. Sorry for the delay! We've had an insanely busy two weeks with family visiting, work being insane, and just generally having way-too-much-shit going on. However, we plan to have a new chapter out next week (though the one after that might be... uh, LONG), so please keep in mind we're doing our best to keep to a schedule of every 1-2 weeks!

(I used to write shit that was like, 2k words per chapter. What happened to that??? lmao how did I even do that. I don't even know)

THANK YOU EVERYONE for your very kind words and thoughts for last chapter. We were SO excited to write it and honestly I have been thinking about it non-stop? Idk I just want his cock so bad.

ANYWAY CHAT SOON <3

William.

William.

He’d asked you to call him William.

It had been about forty-two hours (not that you were counting) since your thoroughly unwise, thoroughly unfinished tryst with the colonel of the Green Dragoons. You had spent that time trying to purge yourself of his scent, his touch, his taste. So far, your greatest measure of success had been in slapping your hand whenever it crawled to relieve the pressure between your legs.

You cupped your hands in the creek, splashed your face cold.

Your thoughts needed to be clearer than the damn creek. To even offer this desire a place in your mind would encourage it. And the memory of his name in your ear continued to invite it to stay.

Another palms-worth of water, another splash.

Even more infuriatingly, it had managed to wriggle its way into your thoughts. Most of the time, he passed through your mind as Tavington, or Colonel, or both of them together. But there were moments. Weak, inane moments, wherein the only representation of him bore the name William.

William, as if he were a man who had introduced himself with a bow, a man who might call on your father and ask permission to write, a man who’d done anything other than everything he had done.

William, a name so representative of nothing William Tavington was to you.

And yet, in the dark of night, your fingers itching to chase away lust, that name drifted like foam on the sea of your thoughts; a word whispered in your voice; a soft, reluctant plea; a fantasy of a fantasy—that not only was he your relief, but a man who deserved his name at all.

You groaned, thrust your face in the creek and screamed into the rocks. A voice called your name from beyond the surface, and you jerked back to sit on your heels. Panting, water dripping down your face, you turned to see Lottie.

“Is everything all right?” She studied your expression. “This is, what, the third time you’ve dunked your face in there today?”

You exhaled, waving her off dismissively. “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” you replied, wiping the remaining drops from your face. “Warm day, isn’t it?”

She nodded, gazing back toward camp, squinting in the sun. “I suppose we’d best try to enjoy it before autumn comes.” Her attention turned back to you. “Did you want to play cards before dinner? Best out of seven?”

“Seven?” You grinned, pushing yourself to your feet. “Omitting last night, are you? Fairly certain I recall a winning streak.”

“I don’t know at all what you mean,” she replied with a smile. “Come! I’ve grown weary of stitching circles and gossip.”

You looked to the sky. The sun was cresting away from high noon. Daylight was in waning supply, and this was the first time since the storm that Tavington had left camp—your first chance to venture off without fearing him heeling at your shadow. There was no telling when he'd return, but you'd already spent at least thirty minutes of that time trying to wash him from your thoughts. You needed to get going.

“I thought I’d eat a bit later, actually.” You offered an apologetic smile. “I wanted to forage for some supplies before the day is out.”

“Later?” Lottie tried and failed to conceal a grimace. “With, er, everyone else?”

“Yes.” You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Oh, well I…” She looked at her shoes, rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet. “It just may be uncomfortable. With Alice.” When you replied with only a confused blink, she continued, “She’s still, ah, a bit upset.”

“Still?” You scowled, folding your arms. “Why?”

A sigh escaped her as she searched the ground. “I don't suppose it's that strange,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “Her miscarriage was only a month ago.”

“So?” Snorting, you rolled your eyes. “I said I was sorry. To her face, even.”

Lottie nodded sympathetically. “You did,” she said. “But—”

“But nothing,” you said. “I apologized. It’s done with. She needs to gather her skirts and start anew.”

“Perhaps…” Lottie pursed her lips, regarding you as she considered her words. “Though I'm sure she feels differently.”

“Perhaps she shouldn't have started it, then.” You shrugged. “I certainly don't start arguments that I don't plan on winning.”

“As I've come to learn.” Lottie smiled wryly. “Give her time. Alice clings to her grudges even tighter than she does to her Bible, I think.”

You nodded. “Precisely,” you said, comforted in your knowledge that Alice was the problem and definitely not you, or anything you’d done. “She won’t disturb me. I’ll scrounge some food and find you afterwards.”

“Lovely,” Lottie replied. “Don’t stay out too late. Benedict said we’ll be moving to Camden soon, and you know how the colonel is about giving notice for such things.”

“Camden?” You frowned. “Did he say why?”

Lottie shrugged. “Apparently we are to meet the general and his men there.” She wrung her hands. “Do you suppose it’s to do with those rebels who attacked us?”

“Most likely.” You sighed, forcing down a disquieted squirm. “Though if they know what’s good for them, they’ll have long since turned tail by now.”

If only you didn’t suspect that to be a false hope.

“Might they still be in the area, though?” A little line of concern folded along Lottie’s brow, and she glanced out toward the woods. “Planning an… an ambush, or something?”

“I doubt it,” you said. “Those men got a whipping they shan’t soon forget.”

Lottie let out a relieved half-laugh. “They did, didn’t they?” Skipping forward, she took your hands in hers. “Still. Do promise to be careful.”

“Of course.” You offered a small smile. “I’ll not allow Alice the satisfaction of my abduction.”

She grinned and pinched your arm. “Don’t say such things!”

“You’re right,” you said through a giggle, flinching from her. “Far more likely I’ll be tarred and feathered.”

“Oh, you!” Lottie swatted at you as you retreated, lip pinched between your teeth.

“Strung up as a warning,” you said, pantomiming your own hanging as you flounced away.

“Cards. Tonight.” Lottie shot you a final, quelling look as she began to turn back. “This time you’re done for!”

“You’re on,” you said, and watched as she departed toward camp.

Smile withering on your lips, you breathed deeply, turned your head north. Continentals were not only patrolling the road that direction, you knew militia were stationed toward that way as well. If the Wilksburg company had joined up with them, then that would be the best opportunity you had to find someone—anyone—who knew anything about your father.

In an ideal world, of course, he would be there when you arrived. But you knew better than to practice idealism.

After casting around to ensure that you weren’t being watched, you started down the road. Keeping to the sides, in the grass, was the best strategy for now. It gave you plausible deniability if someone from Tavington’s legion did happen across you.

You hadn’t considered, yet, what you’d even do if and when you found the Continentals. You just knew you needed to do something, anything to peel the guilt from behind your eyes. Kissing Tavington had been an incredible mistake that would require incredible redress. Providing the Continentals with whatever knowledge you possessed was your first attempt to achieve that.

The sun dripped down the sky as you walked, a bead of honey making its way to the horizon. Its heat had gathered sweat at your temples by the time you reached the bridge crossing. With a strange pang of disappointment, you found it deserted, the ground scarred by boot and hoof. The Continentals must have made good on their plans to fall back, spooked by the numbers they encountered at Tavington’s camp.

Huffing a sigh, you hiked your skirts and started over the bridge, reveling for a moment in the rush of cool air above the river.

There was always the possibility that you wouldn’t find the Continentals at all. That they had retreated all the way back to North Carolina, and you were following their long-cold trail. That no trace of them would be found by the time evening fell and forced you to circle back.

Or perhaps you wouldn’t circle back. It would be so simple. All you would have to do is continue walking. Forever. You would never have to see or touch or taste or dwell upon thoughts of William Tavington ever again.

And without you, your home would be burned.

And without you, Grace would be killed.

And you would never know if your father would live to learn of any of it.

Anger lashed you, quickened your steps. It settled into its chosen home of late: a dull, scraping throb in the back of your skull.

No, such whispers of despair would not seduce you. You would keep its lips just as far from your ear as you would keep Colonel Tavington’s lips from your own.

Continentals had to be here. You would find them. And this cacophonous discord in your mind would finally cease, so long as you could affix your sights upon—

“Madam? Madam, can I help you?”

To the west, a nearly-familiar voice. You turned to meet a mounted horse trotting over the hill. As the rider drew closer, you recognized his face.

“Wilson?” you said. “Is that you?”

Wilson gaped, kicking the horse to a canter until he reached you. Your heart was torn between relief and elation, tempered by confusion, since the last time you’d seen Wilson he was waiting out a hanging in Dorchester. Given his appearance now—closer to a bedraggled, bearded orphan than a soldier—you would’ve thought he’d just escaped.

“By God, it’s you,” he said, examining you. He glanced around. “What are you doing out here?”

You grimaced. Perhaps Wilson was trustworthy. But this wasn’t something you wanted to bet your safety on. You needed someone of higher rank.

“There’s a lot I need to explain,” you said. “How did you manage to get out of Dorchester? Do you know anything about my father?”

“Your…” Wilson frowned for a moment before realization dawned across his face.. “Of course. Your father broke us out of that lobster pit. He’s back at camp.”

“What?” It was definitely elation, now. You sidled up to the horse, grabbing at the cantle. “I must see him.”

“Indeed you must.” Wilson held out a hand and vacated his stirrup, letting you clamber onto the back of his mount. “We’re only a couple miles over the valley.” He urged his horse into a trot and laughed. “Oh, he’s going to be thrilled to see you, kid.”

Your chest tightened with excitement. “I know,” you replied, smiling.

You explained on the short ride to camp that you’d been paroled, but omitted anything about working for the British in the encampment down the way. And obviously omitted anything having to do with any superior officers or your attraction to them and how that potentially endangered everyone in your life.

Guilt trailed the horse’s stride. You’d be rid of it soon. Your father—your father—was at the camp. Safe. Alive. You brought your focus to that and that alone. It didn’t matter, the weeks of struggle, the fear and torment over your family’s well-being, the weight of it on your shoulders. It would all be worth it to hear your father’s voice.

A white mass of canvas bloomed into your field of vision, split into distinguished tents as you rode nearer. When you were close enough to shout at them, you could restrain yourself no longer. Squealing, you hopped off the horse, stumbling to the grass and nearly grinding your face into the dirt. You didn’t care. You scrambled to your feet and ran, ran toward the camp, waving your arms above your head, calling a single word out to the air.

“Papa!” you cried. “Papa!”

A dozen heads poked out of or around the side of the tents, squinting in the direction of the wild running woman. Realizing you weren’t their daughter, they dismissed you, nudging their comrades to look in your direction. It wasn’t until a head crowned in a tricorn hat emerged from the crowd that you met recognition in someone’s eyes.

First it was disbelief. Then a yielding, laughing shake of his head. Then he stepped, ambled, bounded toward you, his arms outspread in joy. To see his face was to see a mirror etched with age. He called out your name.

“My girl!” your father hollered. “It’s my girl!”

In long, loping seconds, you crashed together, your arms curling around him, his own embrace crushing your shoulders and head against his chest. You laughed, burying your face in his shoulder, every single shred of shame, panic, and fear withering to the ground. He was warm. He smelled like home.

Papa. Papa was here.

“Papa,” you mumbled. “I’m so glad you’re faring well.”

Papa squeezed you again before holding you at arm’s length, and looking you over. “No worse for wear, yourself.” He met your eyes. “Now what in God’s holy blessed green-and-blue earth are you doing here, cub?” His attention fell to Wilson, riding up behind you. “Where did you find this rascal?”

“She was looking for us, Captain,” Wilson replied with a sheepish shrug.

You fought off a grin, tilting your chin to the sky. “I found him,” you said, fixing your hands on your hips. “And we have much to discuss, Papa.”

“Oh-ho.” A laugh broke out of him, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into another hug. “Of course you did. Of course we do.” He rubbed your back before guiding you around to face the camp. “But first—let me introduce you to everyone!” Papa led you forward, hand raised triumphantly in the air. “My girl is here!”

As you entered the Continental campground, men parted for you, greeted you, tipped their hats in your direction. Miss, missus, good day, pleased to meet you, pleasant to make your acquaintance; all floated in your ears, the words melting together in unfamiliar groups of sound. Never had you been treated with such deference. And never had men seemed so interested in earning your favor.

Even back in Catawba, where Papa was well-known and well-regarded, the local boys had grown up with you. Knew you too well to try speaking to you any more often than courtesy demanded To the Continental men, you were a potentially pretty stranger exposed only through anecdotes shared by a respected, impressive man.

Unfortunately for them (and, given your recent inclinations, perhaps you as well) not one of them impressed you. Though they were, potentially, not at fault for that.

Men shambled through the camp without shoes, without trousers. Handfuls waddled in mud only draped by blankets. Those who sought you to introduce themselves appeared to have gone without shaving—or washing, given the crescents of dirt under their nails—for days. Wilson had not been unique in his swamp-mongrel regalia, you realized.

The condition of the Continental encampment was abominable.

You looked to your father. Glee beamed from him like sunlight. If he was concerned about the deplorable circumstances of his soldiers, it didn’t show. He directed you toward a fire, where several men were seated in a circle, all of them outfitted in some sort of blue coat. They each eyed you as you approached, their gazes flitting between you and your father in confusion.

“Gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward you, “this is my daughter.”

You gave them your name, bowing your head toward them. One of the men shot to his feet, his eyes wide and locked onto you. The rest of the men followed, standing and nodding toward you as they introduced themselves with names you didn't remember. The first man to stand tipped his cap in your direction.

“Miss.” He was dressed in an outfit that resembled your father’s and stood tall, with tawny hair and high cheekbones. “Captain Pearce. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Your heart stalled. Pearce. That name pierced your memory in a clap of thunder, a flash of lightning. Your eyes widened, and you offered him a tight smile in the most normal manner you could possibly muster.

It had been dark. Storming. He hadn’t been the one speaking to you, and no hint of recognition stirred within his gaze. When you met his eyes, he grinned and returned to a seat around the fire. Your chest fell in relief.

You planned to tell your father what you’d been doing, but involving anyone else seemed foolhardy. If Tavington learned from some desperate Patriot soldier that you’d been dipping between camps with the desire to undermine him, you didn’t think you’d be able to get to Grace before he strung you up on the nearest tree.

Besides, the thought of even considering, let alone explaining, what sort of game you’d been playing with him made your stomach sink. Now that you knew your father was alive and occupied by the war, you could even dare to hope you might never play that game again.

The thought sparkled like a distant star. You imagined bidding your father farewell, escaping back to Catawba, whisking Grace away to Pennsylvania and never seeing William—Colonel—Tavington again.

Why, oh why did some awful, craven piece of you wilt at the very thought of it?

“Cub?” Papa said. “Everything all right?”

You blinked alive. You’d been staring into the fire. “Oh!” you said, laughing. “Yes, yes, Papa, sorry.”

“Go ahead and have a seat, my girl.” He sat on one of the benches by the fire and patted the spot next to him. “You said we have much to discuss.”

Nodding, you took the seat. Your hands folded into the fabric of your dress, your palms sweat onto your knees. You weren’t sure why you were nervous.

“I have information. About the British Army.” There was something important Lottie had mentioned earlier, too. “And about Camden.”

One of the named-but-forgotten men sat forward. “You know about the attempt—”

“Hold on.” Pearce extended his arm as if to quiet him. “Hold on, now.” He met your eyes before setting his jaw, sitting up taller. “By what means did you attain this information?”

You stiffened, looked toward Papa. “I’d rather reveal that to only my father, thank you.”

“Is there a reason you refuse?” Pearce sat forward, gesturing to his uniform. “I’m a captain, just like your father.”

“That’s evident,” you replied, “but my father you are not.”

Pearce glanced at Papa before continuing. “Well, yes, miss. I understand. But I can assure you that I, too, can be provided with sensitive information. My accomplishments in the war—”

You frowned. “I care little for your achievements, Captain Pearce,” you said. “Your behavior is what engenders my trust, and I have seen nothing of that thus far.”

Papa held up a calming hand. “Pearce, it’s all right. She’s a skeptical type. As well she should be.” He grinned at you. “We can talk in a moment.”

“Thank you, Papa.” You folded your arms over your chest.

Pearce huffed, but relinquished, easing back and glancing around. “Very well, then,” he said. “Should we gather the militia?”

“No need,” Papa said. “I’ll inform Colonel Martin later. He and his boy went out scouting a couple of hours ago.” He nodded toward you. “Go on.”

You took a breath, glanced around the circle of men, then at the fire. Your chest tightened. You swallowed the feeling.

“First,” you began, “how long since your forces returned to South Carolina?”

Papa pursed his lips, glanced at Pearce. “Six days, I believe,” he said. Pearce nodded in agreement.

“And how far out have you managed to scout in that time?”

Pearce straightened, shifted where he sat. “Well…”

“Not as far as we’d have liked, cub,” Papa said, raising a hand to the back of his neck. “Our General, you see—”

“Our resources are occupied elsewhere at this time,” said Pearce, a hint of what almost resembled distrust flickering over his face as he regarded you.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“Yes,” Papa said, and you caught a mote of frustration in his tone. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“Show me the most current map you have,” you said. “Much has changed, even since you were last here, Papa.”

Papa nodded, then gestured to a man seated across from him, who sprang to his feet and made for one of the surrounding tents.

“Changed, how?” Papa asked, turning back to you.

“Well,” you sighed. “The British have not rested a day since taking Charleston. They fan the flames of Loyalism across the colony as we speak. By force, or by…” You swallowed. “Enticement.”

Papa frowned. “This land has more backbone than that, surely.”

“Evidently not,” you returned, perhaps too sharply. “More towns pledge fealty to the crown by the day. Lord Cornwallis has dispatched entire legions of men to sweep the countryside and ensure it.”

“Perhaps they lie,” offered Pearce. “Swear whatever oath they must to be left in peace, while their allegiances truly lie elsewhere.”

“Precisely,” said Papa, holding a hand out as if to showcase Pearce. “The soul of liberty is not so easily snuffed.”

You met Pearce’s eyes. His shoulders rolled back. Words of doubt on your lips were distracted by the soldier returning with the requested map. He held it out to your father.

Papa frowned. “I wasn’t the one who asked for it, Private.”

The private’s back hunched in submission and he handed it over to you. As you spread it on your lap, he retreated to his seat around the fire, and you shot him a glare for good measure.

“So.” Your finger swirled over a swath of land in the backcountry. “All of these towns have sworn loyalty to the Crown over the past months.”

Scrutinizing the map, you hummed, leaned forward, and plucked an old charred stick from the edge of the fire pit.

“And there’s a road you’ve not accounted for. Here.” You scratched a charcoal line into the map. “It’s part of what they’re calling the King’s Highway. Supplies move from Charleston to be disseminated to outposts across the backcountry. These seem to be their primary fortifications, as far as I know.” With each new trail, you drew a new, black line. “Fort Ninety-Six, to the west. Stono Ferry, in the south. And Fort Carolina, here in the north.”

“New points of attack,” Papa said, staring into the map. “They’ll be vulnerable along those routes.” He gazed at you, face splitting with a smile before he slapped your back so hard he earned a small oof. “That’s my girl!” He looked to Pearce. “I told you that she was quite a woman, didn’t I?” Before you could begin to question that that meant, he continued, “Do you have anything else, cub?”

“What about the movements of their officers?” Pearce asked.

Your mouth parted as your pulse skipped. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Captain.”

Pearce sighed. “We believe colonel of the Green Dragoons—William Tavington, if you know him—”

If only he knew how well.

“—was spotted here not more than a couple of days ago after our patrols encountered a redcoat encampment. We nearly captured him.”

Papa nodded. “Too bad, too,” he said. “Would’ve been excellent information for Gates.”

“General Gates continues to resist suggestions for the procurement of further intelligence,” Pearce said, partly to you, partly to your father.

“Well.” Papa scoffed. “Gates is a damn fool.”

Pearce gave a commiserating look before turning back to you. “We have reason to believe Tavington’s legion is in the area.” Grey eyes scrutinized you, flicked over your face and hands before meeting your gaze again. “Do you know anything about that?”

Had it been Papa asking, your answer would have been instant. But this was something you didn’t want to confirm for a stranger who could sell you out with the right amount of pressure. And you couldn’t discern Pearce’s intention, couldn’t figure if he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. He was studying you in a way that made your skin want to flutter off in flakes.

“No.” You spun to face your father. “I have something I want to discuss with you.” You glanced at Pearce. “Privately.”

Pearce frowned, looking between you and Papa like he was lost. Papa scanned your expression, chewed his lip before acknowledging Pearce, nodding at him and the other men around the fire to dismiss them. Exhaling, Pearce’s shoulders sank. He stole a final glimpse of you before tipping his hat again and following the rest of the soldiers to the tents.

Before he could speak, you lowered your voice. “Papa, how are you men surviving?” you said. “The state of this camp is horrific.”

Papa grinned, shaking his head. “Don’t be preposterous! No, it isn’t.”

“It’s atrocious.”

“What do you mean?” Papa craned his head, surveying the grid of tents. “Can you not see the fervor here? The thirst for revolution?” Like a poor boy on the eve of Christmas, the reality of his circumstances were obscured by delirious thrill. “These men are Patriots! They believe in something.”

From your perspective, it was difficult to identify what they believed in other than not being fully dressed. Perhaps the British encampment wasn’t possessed by passion, but they at least had the provisions to make it through a single battle. You weren’t sure how the Continentals had gotten this far.

“I’m just a bit concerned with the state of your men right now, is all.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “The colonel of our militia is a legend from the French and Indian war. If I could only tell you of his feats at Fort Wilderness.” He looked at you with utter conviction. “A word from that man could stir even the most phlegmatic hearts to fervor.”

You nodded. “All right then. Perhaps I need time to see it.” Giving him a sly grin, you added, “As of now, I see no such stirring man.”

“Not one?”

“Not one.”

“Ah…” Papa rubbed his knees, shooting you a rueful grin. “So, Captain Pearce didn’t impress you?”

Your brow furrowed. “No, he didn’t,” you replied. “Speak your meaning plainly, Papa. From where did this question arrive?”

He leaned back, sucking in air through his teeth. “Oh, I don’t know, cub,” he said. “He’s been a great help to me, and he’s around your age. He’s intelligent. Ambitious. I know you’re not easily impressed, so I thought maybe…” He waved you off. “Forget it, forget it.”

“Wait.” Your jaw dropped. “Were you trying to…” A laugh of disbelief escaped you. That’s why Pearce had been acting so strangely in front of you. “You were trying to arrange something with him?”

Papa threw up his hands defensively. “No!” he insisted. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I just thought perhaps if you met him…”

“What, he’d—he’d… wing me away in a fit of infatuation?”

“Not a fit—no!” He clapped to silence further discussion. “Anyway. Just. Forget all of that.”

You grumbled, but nodded along anyway. Papa had never cared if you were married and had never tried to foist a man into your arms regardless. The romance of war had swept him in flight. He’d simply hoped to pass it on to you, as he’d done with all of his other idealistic aspirations.

The relics of your rage from a couple of nights prior resurrected themselves. If it hadn’t been for these very idealistic, romantic aspirations over something incredibly dangerous, you wouldn’t even be sitting in this camp. The three of you could have fled the encroaching war together, could have done something sensible for once.

Instead, just one of you was left with obligation.

Just one of you was left to put out the candles, to sweep the porch, to lock the doors, to tuck the sheets under the mattresses.

What had Tavington said, that first night you’d met him?

Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?

You ground your teeth together. He wasn’t right. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t allowed to be.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” you said, shaking off all thoughts of the colonel and how right or wrong or whatever he was. You dropped your volume to a whisper. “I’ve been traveling with the British army since mid-June. Grace and I were taken—”

Papa’s eyes widened. “You—cub, you’ve been what?”

“That’s where I came from!” You inched closer to him. “Tavington’s legion is just south of the river. That’s where I’ve been. Papa…” You glanced around. “Do your men mean to advance on Camden?”

His face fell. He drew in a long inhale, gazing into the fire. “Dammit. So they know, do they?”

“You must withdraw,” you said. “Cornwallis is on his way north to defend it. Whatever you’ve got planned, it won’t be enough.”

Papa nodded, silent, chewing on his cheek in thought. “Thank you,” he said, finally. “Though I’m not sure what good it will do with this fool Gates commanding us. I doubt he’ll hear a word of it.”

“Then you must make him hear. Relief though it brings me to have informed you of it.” You could let the load of this war die in its own wake. After seeing the state of the Continental camp, you were more determined than ever to get home and get Grace out of South Carolina. “More relief still to know you’re alive. I’ve spent all of these weeks thinking you might have been dead. Or hurt, or… I don’t know. Worse.”

“And that’s what had you out here staying in… did you say Tavington's legion?”

“I did.”

He hummed, giving another knowing shake of his head. “Tavington isn't known for being obtuse. Or charitable.” He laughed. “You might have gotten yourself killed.”

Or worse—deflowered. “I can handle myself,” you said. “Besides—”

“I know you can,” Papa said. “Just don’t give them too much hell when you get back there.”

Your fingers wound around each other. There, as in return to the British encampment. Not head home. You swallowed, panic creeping up your neck and bringing a wave of sweat with it. You’d thought it would be clear for you to abandon this entire charade and put the devilish whims of war—and Tavington—behind you.

Had you been neglecting some duty when considering your plan? Was there some important piece of information you’d omitted?

“But…” The word sounded wrong on your tongue. “How will I… what will I be doing?”

“What you’ve already been doing,” he said. “We need Tavington crippled. He’s been slaughtering us.”

“But how will I get you information?”

He shrugged. “Write letters to Grace, if you’d like. She can keep them for me. But I’m not worried about the information. I trust you to do what’s right.”

It wanted to leave again. “But I…”

You would never do that. There was no way you’d even accidentally implicate her anything. The fact that he’d even suggested it irritated you.

“Of course.” And then, with far more acidity than you realized you’d been holding, “Grace is well, by the way, since you asked.”

Papa frowned, face drawn with concern. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said, “I’m glad she is. But I never doubted she would be with you there.” He paused, considering you. “Everything all right, cub?” He nudged you playfully. “Aren’t you inspired?”

Shame consumed you. Your stomach fell to your feet. You hadn’t been careful. You’d been selfish. That was the problem.

You held importance to people like your father, who was clearly awe-struck by the vigor of rebellion. You served a crucial point in preventing him from coming to harm. At least with the information you’d given him today, he might stand a chance in escaping certain death from a confrontation at Camden.

This was your father. Of course he trusted you, of course he assumed the best in you. How was it possible you considered doing anything but what he hoped for?

You’d been so stupid.

Nodding, you looked at Papa. Forced a smile just like you had when he told you he was heading off to join the Wilksburg company.

“Yes, Papa,” you replied. “I’m going to do my best for you. I promise.”

Papa smiled and pulled you into a strong, close hug. You closed your eyes, a knot bubbling in your throat and escaping as a pained laugh. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck.

“I lost your boots,” you whimpered.

His body shook with a chuckle. “My boots?”

You nodded. “Redcoats took them.” Your voice strained the words. “I’m sorry.”

“Damn the boots,” Papa said, holding you closer. “Damn the redcoats, too. It’s hardly the most consequential thing they’d take from us, given the chance.”

Warmth spread through you. Your father was right.

Tavington hadn’t been, wasn’t, and would never be right.

You allowed yourself to feel safety in your father’s arms for a few more moments. The sun was painting purple streaks through the sky, and you needed to return to camp with at least a few plants in your pocket. But for just a few seconds, none of that mattered.

After you bid Papa farewell with another long embrace, you waved at the Continental officers and their poorly-clothed subordinates. Wilson offered a ride at least to the bridge, but you declined it. You were not going to put yourself or anyone else at greater risk than you were already in.

The walk back to camp was long, but helped to soothe your racing mind. And at least it gave you the opportunity to collect whatever vegetation you could find. You managed to snatch a handful of a few different prophylactics for swelling along the way—the sumac and plantain would be best for that—and added in some dogwood to help reduce fever.

By the time you returned to camp, the sun had tucked itself into the trees, the eastern skyline bleeding black into the dying day. You neared the perimeter, and a couple of soldiers seated by a tent spotted you. Their eyes widened. One stood and slipped into camp.

Your mouth dried. Instead of waiting to find out what that was about, you scurried to the hospital tent, hoping to make yourself appear very busy instead of very delinquent. It was empty when you entered. You couldn’t decide if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Holding your breath, you hovered over one of the work tables and grabbed your mortar and pestle along with a few bottles. There had to be something you could start on that would allow you to perform innocence. If William—Colonel, dammit—

The flap to the hospital tent parted. Colonel Tavington stalked through.

You turned to see his brow relax when he saw you, only for his jaw to shift and tighten when his eyes met yours. His lip twitched.

You looked at your hands. “Good evening, Col—”

“Where were you?” He stepped toward you, hands behind his back.

“Sir?” You gave him a placating smile, gesturing to your bottles. “I was out gathering supplies.”

Tavington raised a brow. “Is that so?” Nodding toward the table, he said, “Show me, then.”

“What I gathered?”

“Unless you believe there’s something else I’d rather see as proof of your reason for absence.”

You pulled your lips in over your teeth and retrieved the vegetation from your pockets, spreading them all on the table. They sprinkled across the surface like a handful of hay on a pig’s belly. The amount now seemed pitiably inadequate for the time you’d been gone. Heat flushed your neck.

He stepped closer to you, looming over your shoulder. A slow breath left him as he examined them.

“This,” he said, pitch lower and quieter than you anticipated, “is all you managed to find?”

Ignoring the twist in your lower abdomen, you shrugged. “This was all that was worthwhile. And they’re all that I needed.”

He reached around you, lifting one of the crimson sumac clusters from the table and spinning it in his fingers. “Tell me about this, then.”

“That’s staghorn sumac.” You forced a small grin. The breadth of his chest, the rumble of his voice there almost unsteadied you. Almost. “Helpful for inflammation.”

“Sumac,” he said, twirling it again. “I remember you asking me if I could identify it.”

Your heart thumped against your chest. “I did.”

“Does it always look like this?” He slid his thumb up the tender stem, flicked it across the base of the fruits. “This color.”

“It does.” Your chin quivered, your insides writhing in a knot. The very fact he’d even asked made you want to hop on the table and wrap your legs around his waist. “You'll…” You exhaled a steadying breath. “You'll know it, now.”

“I should hope I never need to.” You didn’t reply. Only watched as he laid the sumac on the table and cradled one of the white flowers in his palm. “What does this do?”

“Dogwood,” you murmured. The heat from his body was not distracting. You were not thinking about how his palms would feel on your hips, your breasts. “For. Ah. For fever.”

“I see.” He brought the flower—and his arm—closer to your waist. “Have you noticed any…” he said, the next word hanging on his tongue, “neglected instances of feverish behavior recently?”

“No.” You swallowed. “Just preparation.”

“Ah.” Returning the dogwood, he picked up a plantain leaf, humming thoughtfully. “And this?”

“It’s good for insect bites,” you murmured. The memory of his lips, the moan he’d made into your mouth stole the stability from your knees, and you braced yourself on the table. “I know the men have been complaining of mosquitoes recently.”

“How thoughtful.” He stepped closer, hips grazing yours. “And unlike you.”

“Perhaps so,” you said quickly, stupidly. You needed him out of your space. “But I’ve found them bothersome as well.”

His tone grew cold. “I believe that’s the first honest sentence out of your mouth all evening.”

You straightened, moving to the side. “I really must ask—”

Tavington gripped the table, barring your escape with his arm. Spinning to face him, you found his chest an inch from yours, his gaze boring into you. Every good intention you had to tell him to leave chilled to ice.

“Where were you?” His tongue rolled in his mouth. “This,” he said, crushing a handful of the flowers in his palm, “did not take you hours.”

“We’ve been camped here for weeks. I’ve picked these woods bare,” you replied. “I had to go far out into the field.”

His eyes narrowed. “To find scraps?”

The wicked edge in his tone cut a shiver up your spine. You could almost taste his lips again, could feel the yearning to dissolve against him. Clearing your throat of need, you lifted your chin to the air.

“I’m being honest,” you lied.

“Honest, are you?” That smirk that you found so irritating, so devastatingly irresistible, quirked on the mouth you did not want to kiss. “Then tell me this, my little soldier.” Tavington’s hand drew close to your hip, found the edges of your skirts, tugged at them by only an inch. You flinched. “Do I detect the vestiges…” He leaned close to whisper with soft, trembling rage. “... Of desire?”

Your nails dug into the table. Finding his eyes, you did the only thing you could think to do.

“Lottie!” you shouted. “Lottie, come quick! I want to show you something!”

Tavington’s brows rose, and his jaw stiffened.

“I knew you to be a liar,” he muttered. “But I did not take you for a coward.”

With a short exhale through his nose, he withdrew from you. Seconds later, Charlotte Goddard charged into the tent.

“I’m here! I’m here!” She was heaving. “What, what is it? When did you get back?” Spotting Tavington, she stood tall. “Oh, Colonel! Excuse me, sir.” She bowed her head. “Good evening.”

Colonel—yes, Colonel, thank you very much—Tavington’s attention flipped between the two of you. He marched out of the tent without a word. Lottie looked to the table, then at you.

“About as good as that’s going to get,” she said, walking over toward you. “What is it you wanted to show me?”

A long, heavy breath slid from your nose. An ache lingered between your legs. There were so many things you could have shown her, could have told her. All of them had to remain secret to your grave. So instead, you scooped up the sumac, dangling the clusters from your hands.

“Look,” you said, half-grinning. “It matches your hair.”

[timeclipsed]

Timeclipsed!Ray — !!

➺ Full name is Raymond Camden Dallarosa. It's only uttered when he's in trouble with Mighty. Ray is a nickname, given to him by his bio parents to mean "ray of sunshine". ➺ Dallarosa is Mighty's surname; he took it after being adopted. ➺ Due to having positions in multiple fields that actively opposed Robotnik's reign, Ray witnessed his entire birth family get slaughtered. His aunt Mabel a historian, his father Dayton a wildlife preservationist, his mother Shaylene the head of multiple nonprofit charities dedicated to undoing the damage of Robotnik. ➺ His home was cast ablaze after the deed. The only reason he managed to escape is because he crawled through the upstairs bathroom window. ➺ Mighty was Ray's mom's friend before he was Ray's. Upon hearing about the tragedy, Mighty immediately took him in. ➺ It's nearly impossible to upset him. What are his triggers? Who knows. ➺ Not native, but he speaks pretty good Spanish! He picked it up from Mighty. ➺ When he's not traveling the multiverse with his dad, he works as a tailor. A surprisingly talented one, no less. ➺ So unbelievably pansexual. His type is older men and women. ➺ He's actually older than Sonic by a few years here! Whereas Sonic is 25, Ray is 28. They were raised as brothers for a short time.

[sevasey51]

Just read the London friend visits and pub crawl. Can you do an alternate where she and her friend reminisce when she went to go see her in London in nursing school break and they went through the city of London having fun, drinking lots of day drinking😂 and a concert at royal albert hall for 5SOS. Lots of funny stories of getting lost on the tube system, staying in bars until early hours and shopping.

Everyone is at Mollys as they talk about the crazy stories when she went to visit.

I love your page so much! Amazing writer you are! ❤️

Lost in London, Found the Tube - Part Three of “Old Friends, New Stories”

Summary: The night after seeing 5 Seconds of Summer live in Chicago, Y/N and her childhood best friend Sophie reunite with everyone at Molly’s for drinks and post-concert recovery. But as soon as someone asks, “Have you two seen them before?”—the floodgates open. From getting wildly lost on the London Underground, to day-drinking mimosas in Soho, to a Royal Albert Hall show that ended with kebabs at 3 a.m., the stories pour out fast and chaotic. As Connor and the rest of the crew listen, laughing and wide-eyed, it becomes very clear that sweet, calm Y/N? Once upon a time, she and Sophie ran London.

The booth at Molly’s was packed, buzzing with post-concert energy. Connor had his arm around Y/N, both still a little hoarse from singing more like screaming the lyrics to 5SOS at the United Center the night before.

Sophie—Y/N’s childhood best friend and honorary sister—was perched on the edge of a barstool with a cider in one hand and her accent turned up to eleven. Everyone else was gathered around: Jay, Will, Stella, Kelly, Sylvie, and Matt, all still recovering from work and leaning into the cozy, chaotic vibe.

“So,” Stella said, already smirking, “how many times have you two seen them live?”

Y/N and Sophie looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

“Define ‘seen them live,’” Sophie said, raising her glass.

“Because there was one time,” Y/N added, “when we barely made it to Royal Albert Hall.”

Connor turned to her, brows up. “You went to see them in London? When?”

“During nursing school,” she said with a grin. “I flew out to visit Soph on break. We meant to have a chill weekend. You know, museum walks, tea, maybe a bit of shopping.”

Sophie snorted. “She landed and we went straight from Heathrow to a pub in Soho for bottomless brunch. By 3 p.m., we’d had four rounds of mimosas, split a plate of chips with strangers, and almost joined a street magician’s act.”

“Almost?” Will asked, grinning.

“We were invited,” Y/N said proudly. “He said we had great stage presence.”

Kelly was laughing. “Wait—was this before or after the concert?”

“Oh, before. Way before,” Sophie said. “We were supposed to nap before the show, but instead we decided to go shopping.”

“And we got completely lost trying to find Camden Market,” Y/N groaned. “I swear we were on the Tube for two hours.”

“You changed lines four times,” Sophie said with a mock-glare. “We could’ve walked there faster, and I live in London.”

Connor laughed into his drink. “This is why you stress out about CTA transfers.”

“I have Tube trauma,” Y/N deadpanned. “Anyway, we finally make it to the show, but we’re late because we stopped for cocktails at some rooftop bar Sophie swore had the best view of the skyline—”

“Which it did,” Sophie defended.

“—and we miss the opening act, but it’s fine because 5SOS comes on and we’re right by the stage. And then Luke Hemmings smiled at us.”

“Direct eye contact,” Sophie added dramatically.

Will raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me this was a weekend of brunch, barhopping, fashion chaos, and Hemmings worship?”

“You forgot the 3 a.m. kebabs,” Y/N said. “And nearly getting locked out of the hotel because we forgot which entrance was open after midnight.”

“AND the part where you asked for directions from a man who was definitely not British,” Sophie said, cracking up.

“He was Australian! I panicked!”

“I think that was the night we slept in full makeup.”

“You two are chaos,” Jay said, clearly impressed.

Connor looked at Y/N, shaking his head. “You… you were a menace.”

“Was?” Sophie teased. “She still is. Just quieter about it now.”

Everyone laughed, and Y/N shrugged, raising her drink.

“Look,” she said, “we were young, caffeinated, full of cocktails, and emotionally vulnerable from listening to ‘Ghost of You’ live. Anything could’ve happened.”

Connor kissed the top of her head. “If I’d known you back then, I probably would’ve fallen for you twice as fast.”

“Aw,” she smiled. “Would you have carried me home after that third round of gin and tonics?”

“Babe, I carry you home now after too many ciders.”

“True,” she grinned.

As the night wore on and the stories kept coming, one thing was clear: Y/N and Sophie were the type of best friends who could turn even a random weekend into a lifelong memory.

And Connor, listening with his hand laced in hers, realized he’d married someone who wasn’t just steady and kind—

She was also, unapologetically, the kind of girl who once partied her way across London and lived to tell the tale.

[justforbooks]

‘The best way to discover hidden gems’: why you should try out a bookshop crawl

Like bar-hopping, but for browsing books: this trend, popularised on TikTok, makes for a great day out – and can help you discover unique literary spots

We’ve all heard of bar crawls, but what about a bookshop crawl? The premise is essentially the same – you hop from venue to venue – but instead of drinking beers you browse books. Having begun as a trend among TikTok users, mainly in the US, the idea has begun to be adopted across the globe.

There are a few “official” ways to try it out for your yourself: Bookshop Crawl UK organises the London Bookshop Crawl, as well as crawls across the country, Bristol Walkfest has organised a walking tour of the city’s numerous indies, and in April, the Chicagoland Bookstore Crawl ran an event for Independent Bookstore Day which rewarded participants who visited 10 shops on the day with 10% discount on books for the rest of the year. And the Global Book Crawl runs an annual event with 17 participating countries, from Ireland to Fiji.

But mostly, bookshop crawls are much more casual affairs, with groups of friends or individuals using them as a way to explore a city and find their new favourite bookish spot. In this spirit, on a recent trip to London, I decided to take myself on a solo crawl. First, I checked out New Beacon Books in Finsbury Park, which is the longest running Black-owned bookstore in the UK, then went to Camden Town Bookshop and Primrose Hill Books. I loved exploring different parts of London and was able to pick up not only newer books that were on my to-read list but also older editions of childhood favourites – such as Jacqueline Wilson’s The Illustrated Mum, which I picked up in an Oxfam in Bloomsbury for about £2. It felt like a real treat to spend a full day drinking iced coffee and browsing bookshops – and definitely something I’ll be doing in future when I visit a new city.

It was also helpful to have the specific goal of seeking out independent bookshops – so often when I’m looking to buy a book I just head to Waterstones or Foyles on autopilot. But indies can offer a sense of community and individuality that many of the big chains can’t, and are often beautiful, relaxing spaces to be in.

American TikTok influencer Eden Yonas says she has had “the best time” doing bookshop crawls when visiting new places. They are “an amazing way to prioritise indie bookstores that you may not visit in your day-to-day life,” she says.

Fleur Sinclair, owner of Sevenoaks Bookshop in Kent, and president of the Booksellers Association, says book crawls are a great way to “explore your local community and support local high streets” but also to find unique shops.

Independent bookshops “have handwritten reviews, an eclectic taste. We have the autonomy to have the books that we want to have, to celebrate what we want to celebrate and I hope that young people really love them and enjoy celebrating that individuality with all these book crawls,” she added.

The only drawback of doing a book crawl is that, tempted by so many amazing books on sale, “you can very quickly end up with more books than bookshelf space,” Bex Hughes, founder and executive director of Bookshop Crawl UK says. “Other than that, there are no downsides!”

“Oftentimes, the bookstores we go to are based solely on convenience,” Yonas says. “Putting aside the time on a weekend or a day off work to just say ‘here’s a list of places I’m going to check out, no matter how far or close’ is the best way to discover those hidden bookshop gems and give them the support that they deserve.”

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[man-reading]

Alan Bennett

“Books are not about passing time. They're about other lives. Other worlds. Far from wanting time to pass, one just wishes one had more of it. If one wanted to pass the time one could go to New Zealand.” “Sometimes there is no next time, no time-outs, no second chances. Sometimes it’s now or never.” “Life is rather like a tin of sardines - we're all of us looking for the key.” "Mark my words, when a society has to resort to the lavatory for its humour, the writing is on the wall." "If you think squash is a competitive activity, try flower arranging." Alan Bennett - "don't call him 'a National Treasure'; he won't like it," as Frances de la Tour says - is a man Francis Wheen once described as “the nation’s favourite teddy bear”. He (and the nation) celebrates his 80th birthday today. Tom de Lisle in Intelligent Life described him perfectly:

A founding father of modern British satire in Beyond the Fringe, a master of the television play with Talking Heads, a pillar of the National Theatre with The History Boys, an affable memoirist with Untold Stories and a sardonic diarist on the London Review of Books. He was a bright boy - a butcher’s son from near Leeds who went to Oxford, got a first and taught history - but a shy one. He was 26 when he took up comedy (via cod sermons) and 34 when he wrote his first play, Forty Years On. The history never melted away: he has turned George III, Auden, Britten, Burgess and Blunt into drama, and led the way in putting words in the Queen’s mouth. He has survived cancer, recorded Winnie the Pooh, given his papers to the Bodleian ("in gratitude to the nanny state") and campaigned for less famous libraries. He is an old leftie beloved of conservatives, a cosy uncle whose pen is a double-edged sword.

When asked by Sir Ian McKellen in 1997 whether he was heterosexual or homosexual, he famously said: "That's a bit like asking a man crawling across the Sahara whether he would prefer Perrier or Malvern water." Nonetheless, he and his partner of twenty years (journalist Rupert Thomas, editor of World of Interiors) "tied the knot" once civil partnerships became law. From an article by Mark Lawson in the Radio Times:

As with much in his life, Bennett’s own civil partnership provoked a comic anecdote. “I’d written about how my parents got married at eight in the morning and then my dad went to work and my mam went home. And I think they went to see The Desert Song in the evening.” Eight decades later, although Alan and Rupert were among the couples making social history, family history weirdly repeated itself - minus a screening of the movie. “There were just one or two people there, relatives of Rupert. And we couldn’t think of what to do afterwards so we were going to have some coffee and we couldn’t find anywhere. Eventually, we did get some coffee, but that was it. So it was a replay of my parents’ marriage. But it wasn’t a landmark because sometimes we can’t even remember the date of it. At Camden Register Office at that time they were trying to jazz things up a bit. They said, ‘Do you want flowers?’ and we said not really. ‘Do you want music?’ Not really. Disappointment on every score.”

Alan Bennett will be celebrated in a special interview with Sir Nicholas Hytner, to be broadcast at 9pm on BBC4 tomorrow (10th May 2014). A direct clash with the Eurovision Song Contest. Alan probably loves that idea.

[fuckyeah-dragrace]

Cruisin for a bruisin

did I create a whole new au because I was on my way to work and happened to be listening to the teen beach movie soundtrack? yes, yes i did. am i subjecting everyone else to read it? yes, yes i am and i hope you enjoy! also happy camden day to all who celebrate!!

——

Bosco pulled off her helmet, shaking out her hair and getting her normal bouncy curls back. They loved a good long ride on their bike but nothing quiet beat walking into the old familiar diner she’d spent most of her summer as a kid and teen.

“No way, Bosco?” A voice said before pulling the brunette into a hug. “Holy shit it’s been forever!”

“Daya!” They laughed and hugged back. “Good to see you too, you look good.”

“Woah, did I just get a compliment?” The blonde laughed. “Cities made you soft. Come on, I got a good booth.” Before she knew it, she was pulled into a seat with her friend, happily chatting about their lives now and everything that happened.

As she was listening to Dayas story, Boscos attention shifted over to a woman at one of the stools, seemingly sitting all by herself. She had a bikini on, the pastel pink gingham suiting her skin incredibly well but what really made her hard to miss was fiery red curls going down her back.

“Bos? Hello?” Daya waved a hand over their eyes, making her jump and focus back on her friend. “Thought I lost you a minute.” Her eyes followed where Bosco was looking before a smirk came onto her lips.

“What?”

“We’ve been talking for five minutes and you’re already sniffing out the pretty girls. You really can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Bosco shot Daya a glare, getting some chuckles from her friend. “I do admit, Camden is a beauty but there’s no ways she’d be into people like us.”

Camden. That’s her name, for her in a way Bosco couldn’t quite grasp fully. “She hasn’t met me yet.” She challenged and got up, ignoring Daya before heading over to the stools. “Mind if I take this seat?”

Camden looked over at her, lips painted with a light red. “Oh yes! Seats free so don’t worry about stealing.”

Boscos ears perked up at the accent, liking how it sounded. She looked Camden up and down, careful to be noticed by the redhead and went to open her mouth before she was stopped.

“If you’re trying to see if you can get a date out of me, the answer is no.” She said with a sharp quickness and a cutting stare, catching the brunette off guard. “I don’t go out with biker brats.”

“I was going to introduce myself but alright.” She said after regaining some of her composure, her cool persona and smile coming back to Camden. “I’m Bosco.”

“Bosco? Sounds quite interesting.”

“Has a fun story behind it if you’d want to hear it.”

Camden usually had no time for any of the bikers that crawled around the diner, always stopping in and trying to flash her some charm. But Bosco just seemed different m. There was mystery in her eyes and something that made her want to know more, almost like a sirens call deep in their eyes.

“Alright then, humor me with this story.”

“Took it from my dog. He died so couldn’t let a good name go to waste.” She said with a grin, although not as cocky as her previous one. Camdens eyes widened a little and her jaw dropped slightly. She had to cover her mouth to hide her little bits of laughter. Bosco smiled, a sense of ease coming over her.

“That’s an awful story.”

“I’m sorry, how about I make it up to you with a milkshake. On me.”

Camden thought about it playfully, liking how the brunette fiddled with her jacket sleeve slightly before smiling at her. “Deal.”

They grinned widely, slightly pointed teeth coming into view. “Perfect, I’ll see you here tomorrow then. It’s a date.” Boscos said with a victorious smirk before walking away, leaving a stunned Camden as she walked out, waving goodbye to Daya and getting back on her bike. She looked at Camden through the window and gave her a wink before getting her helmet on and riding away.

Camden couldn’t quite fight off the blush or the lingering thoughts about Bosco. Maybe she’d bend her rules, just this once.