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ilium-ilia · 5 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Sixteen: don't ask, don't tell

tw: none

Breakfast is ready.

Simon’s message stares at you through your phone screen, and you can do nothing but stare back. Blank eyes, slow blinks—you could smell its arrival before it even buzzed. Sausage links, almost burnt toast, pancakes (or, maybe that’s waffles you smell). He’s been cooking for a while. Slaving over the stove with quiet strings of curses as various utensils clatter to the floor. It’s similar to the events of last night when you’re pretty sure you heard him burn himself on the stovetop. The kitchen sink didn’t run for too long before he texted you that dinner was ready, but despite all his efforts you couldn’t bring yourself to eat.

The screen turns black and you drop your phone onto the mattress. Pristine white paint coats the ceiling above you as you stare, eyes bleary with less than restful sleep. You attempt to recall the events of yesterday in a way that doesn’t upset your stomach too mercilessly, but it’s an impossible task. Uncovered secrets, acrimonious betrayal—Simon’s eyes. While he assisted you in setting up his room for you to rest in, every time he looked at you all you could see was pain. As if—for once—he was the one hiding the wounds. Every time he looked at you, it was like rubbing salt in the gash.

He hasn’t slept. You’re certain of it. All night long you could hear the droning of the television from the other side of the door where he rested in the living room. Every half hour, he would rise and march off through the front door where he’d vanish. When he returned, the strong scent of tobacco would waft into the room through some unseen cracks. It would seep beneath the door as if it was a love note instead of ash. After a handful of times, he stopped leaving. The scent of tobacco waned, and he stayed bound to the living room where you could hear the tiniest metal tinkering and quiet muttering; fingers much too twitchy to stay still.

Guilt absumes you. Patiently and gradually. You think of Simon having to shove himself on some couch in his own home—how you had just fought against the idea only a few days ago—and your self hatred grows. It swells in your chest, expanding to the point where you’ll burst. It forces you to bury your face into the pillows beneath your head, but hiding from a man in his own bed only unravels you further.

Every scrap of cloth that makes up this bed smells like him. Like Simon. Earthy and warm—if you would have known the very scent that comforted you in Manchester would only rip you apart once you returned to London, you don’t think you would have ever allowed yourself to become so attached. But it’s too late. You are swathed in it. It permeates the clothes you wear and the hair on your head, and you can’t escape it. You’ve never been good at running from the things you fear, let alone the things you love.

Heavy footsteps drown out your sniffing as they approach the door. It’s sudden. Sneaky. Heart stopping, you hold your breath as you await something. You think Simon will burst through the door—he’ll shake some sense into you, spit out that you’ve had enough time to think through your feelings. Instead, there’s nothing but the gentle knock of china against the wood floor just beyond the door, followed by fading thumps.

Your phone buzzes again.

Food is at the door for when you’re ready, sweetheart.

Simon sets his phone on the coffee table and then stares at his food. He tells himself it’s nothing special, but it is. More effort was put into this meal than ones he usually makes for himself, and his heart aches as he stares at it. He wants to hear your fork scrape against the plate and your teeth grind the food. He wants to hear every time you swallow a sip of water; wants to feel your weight next to him on the couch. Instead, all he gets is the quiet sound of running water spewing through the showerhead in the master bathroom.

Once it’s evident that you—once again—will not be joining him for the meal, Simon eats. Each bite is hesitant. He isn’t exactly a cook, but he knows he’s not terrible and nothing is tasting how it’s supposed to. It’s not as vibrant or as welcoming. It’s just some pale imitation of what food is supposed to be. Each bite slithers down his throat as he contemplates his options; the things he needs to do to keep you safe. His mind is frozen on the images of you from last night. Curling away from his touch with wide eyes—that betrayal scrawled over your face.

Despite the churning in his stomach, Simon finishes every bite of breakfast. Heavy weights pull at his shoulders as he cleans up the mess he made in the kitchen, but his ears stay perked for the sound of creaking wood. He yearns for it; the sound of you exiting the bedroom. The quiet rumble of your voice as you say his name. He gets nothing but silence, and that terrible void persists even as he goes to check the plate of food he left for you. Everything is just as he left it. Not a single crumb out of place.

It goes into the bin. When you eat, he’ll make you something fresh; he wouldn’t make you scarf down something cold.

Things are still quiet by the time lunch rolls around. Simon’s thumbs tap away at his phone as he texts you another pathetic message over another ready meal. When he hits send, he scrolls back through his previous messages. Several unanswered messages stare back at him. He informed you breakfast was ready this morning, and dinner the night before, and you ignored both of them.

It’s been nearly twenty four hours since you last ate. He’s been counting the hours. The minutes. The seconds.

When ten minutes pass and you’re still locked away in the confines of his bedroom, Simon rises to his feet. Plate in hand, he approaches the door with attentive ears. For a moment, he stands and listens for any signs of life: a sniffle, a shuffle, anything. Some proof that you’re there.

There is nothing.

“Sweetheart?” He knocks on the door with a single knuckle and it still feels too loud. Too harsh. Like the sound alone will shatter you. “Baby?”

He waits with bated breath for anything from you. Eyes wandering to the sandwich in his hands, he sighs before knocking on the door once more.

“Chip… you don’t have to talk to me, but I’m not gonna let you starve yourself. You gotta eat something.”

Silence stretches for so long that his hand nearly shoots to the knob, fearing the worst, but before his fingertips even graze against the metal, the door opens with a small gust of wind. The faint scent of your body soap washes over him and for a moment, all the frayed nerves sizzling in his body settles. He holds out the plate for you to take, and you stare up at him and his bobbing throat before you relieve him of the object.

“Let’s eat.” Your voice is hoarse. Rough like your vocal cords are too tight, but he doesn’t mention it. Surprised that you don’t just take the plate and run back into hiding, he nods and steps to the side to lead you into the living room.

Neither of you speak while you sit together, though Simon tries. His weight shifts on the couch as he pushes a glass of water your way, muttering something about you being dehydrated. He’s not wrong. Your tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth and you can feel the way your skin shrinks around your body, pulling everything taut to the point of snapping. So you sip. Enough to wet your tongue and get your throat to stop sticking to itself. Enough that Simon’s shoulders slouch, no longer plagued by tension.

“I have work tonight,” you blurt out. “Here in a few hours, actually.”

Simon swallows the last bite of his sandwich before dusting his hands clean. “You should call out. Would be better if you weren’t workin’ for now.”

You scoff. The words that leave his mouth sound utterly insane. You attempt to recall the last time you called out of work willingly. A time that wasn’t Bruce fathering you and forcing you to go home for your own well being. There are bills to pay—debts you owe—and the thought of skipping out on work makes your stomach sink.

“I can’t just stop working,” you retort. You speak to him like he’s a stranger. As if he’s overstepping further than he should. “I don’t exactly have an exorbitant amount of cash in my savings. I’ve still got rent and-”

“I’ll take care of that,” Simon interjects. “Anythin’ you need. Money, clothes, food. I’ll take care of it.”

If the previous words Simon spoke were insane, then this is barbaric. Hands gripping your plate, you look at him with narrowed eyes. “I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s safer this way,” he attempts to assure.

“So I’m just supposed to stay here? Just want me to lounge around under lock and key and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist? That’s not realistic and you know it.”

“Andrei had pictures of you.”

Everything goes quiet. So much so that you swear you can hear your heart rattling in your chest. It echoes up your spine, along your neck, and reverberates in your skull like a wailing drum in the distance. You think of what he means by that: pictures of you. Then, your mind wanders. Someplace dark and macabre. It wanders far enough that—for a fleeting moment—you swear you smell mint.

Once more, your throat goes dry and your fingers itch for the glass of water in front of you, but you aren’t brave enough to reach for it.

“What do you mean?” you choke out.

“That night in the alley? Andrei met up with someone who works at Terminus,” Simon explains, voice careful and even. “Some poor kid just tryin’ to make his way through uni. Someone Andrei probably cornered tryin’ to go into his shift. I talked to ‘im to figure out what he wanted with you. Kid said Andrei was askin’ questions ‘bout why you were at the club, things of that sort. Even had pictures of you so the kid would know who he was talkin’ about.”

“Pictures?” you repeat.

Simon nods. “Didn’t see ‘em myself, but the kid said the pictures were taken through a window of what looked like a restaurant. Means they probably follow you ‘round more often than you think. I don’t feel comfortable with you bein’ there if they’re lurking. It’s harder to protect you that way. Best if you stayed well away from Terminus, too. Bastards have eyes everywhere.”

He sounds so… nonchalant. Like these words have been rehearsed and thought again and again until every detail is ironed and neat. Twitchy fingers rise to his chin as he scratches at the stubble growing there, eyes finally finding you. The alarum raging in your stomach rolls off of your body in visible swirls. He sees the way it churns in your eyes; the gravity of the situation crashing down upon you. Its weight crushes you, and you choke on your own spit in an attempt to wet your tongue.

“Okay. Fine, so I stay here then,” you give in. Your attempt at sounding strong and sure of yourself fails the moment your breath shakes. “But I’ve still got my apartment to worry about. All those bills, paying Marco back…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Simon reiterates. “All of it. Any damages left at your apartment, the debt Marco forced on you, all of it.”

You scoff, but your bottom lip is quivering. “I know better than to get tangled up in shit like that. There’s not a single bit of coin in the world that doesn’t come without strings attached.”

“You wouldn’t owe me anything. I don’t work like that.”

“Yeah, but Marco does,” you snap. You let out a heavy sigh as you rub at your still swollen eyes. “Look, I get it. I know Aelin asked you to look after me, and I’m sure John’s little mafia—or whatever—has more resources than I can fucking imagine, but… I don’t think you understand. Simon, I don’t get to just go on living knowing the things that I do. There’s not a chance in hell they’ll let me live a normal life. Not after the debt is paid—not even for all the money in the world. They don’t… they don’t care about the money. Not really. They just wanna keep me stuck here.”

“I got Tommy out of his mess with Marco, I’ll get you out of yours too.”

There’s a brief moment where Simon’s words refuse to properly string themselves together in your mind. Tommy. Mess. Out. Marco. Disconnected and disjointed. Raddled, you shake your head like you can’t understand a single word that leaves his mouth.

“He went after your brother?” you ask in disbelief.

For the first time since you’ve met him, Simon looks away from you. Leaning back, weight settling into the couch, he stares at the television with empty eyes as if the images flashing before him are not the ones he’s truly witnessing. Your fingers interlace with one another as if you don’t know what to do with your hands if you cannot hold or be held.

“I used to box back home in Manchester when I was younger. Illegally, of course,” he begins. “Underground sorta shit where people would place bets. Every time I won, I would get a cut of the pot, which I’d give to my mum. Tommy was into drugs at the time. Real deep and lost in that shit. He would beg her for money, and she’d give it to him because she loves him. She didn’t wanna see ‘im out on the streets, but I didn’t wanna see her wastin’ away, so I did what I could.

“Price approached me one night after a match. Said he liked my skills. Wanted to hire me, but I knew exactly what he was talkin’ about. Didn’t want any part of whatever the hell he was doin’ so I told ‘im to fuck off. Bastard gave me his card anyway, and I tossed it in the bin as soon as I got home. I told myself that, no matter what, I wasn’t going to stoop to that kind of life. I was gonna keep my nose clean for the sake of everyone I cared about.

“But it ended up coming in handy because Tommy ended up getting into the shit with Marco’s boys. Some sort of bullshit dispute about drugs. I was workin’ as a butcher at the time, and he came stormin’ into the shop beggin’ for money like some goddamn vagabond. Turns out, he was actively on the run from Marco’s men, and they followed him. Pulled a knife out ready to gut him and everything.”

Simon stares at his hands—taut skin stretches over wide palms roughened from old work and new work. Still stained with viscera and blood like a noisome odor that he can’t wash away.

“What… What happened?” you question cautiously. Pulling your legs up onto the couch, you turn to fully face him. He’s never spoken to you like this before. As if he’s in the past, telling you some story where he can share the parts of him that haven’t seen the light of day in eons.

“I fought. As hard as I could. Tommy might be older, but I’ve always been bigger. Too strong for my own good. It all happened so fast—things like that always do. I… ended up killing one of them. He pulled a gun and shot me and I just… I don’t regret it. I’d do whatever it took to save him. Cops and ambulances came, got patched up at the hospital, they determined everything was done in self defense, all that shit. They let us off the hook, but Tommy wasn’t safe. I knew he wasn’t. They’d just keep coming, so I called Price. Had to dig through the bin in order to find his damn card again. Took his offer just to save him.

“I hardly started working for him, and he gave me the money Tommy owed like it was nothing. Seventy five thousand quid like it was fuckin’ pocket change.”

Eyes widening, something flickers inside of you. A sputtering sanguinity that sparks and wavers, trying so hard to tear tinder from your bones and ignite into a blaze. It buzzes and vibrates until you can hardly sit still.

“And they let him go? Once everything was paid they just…?” You try to choke the question out, but the idea of freedom is so foreign to you that it refuses to dance on your tongue.

Simon’s lips press together as he shakes his head. “Course not. They always want more. But I did it. Settled his debt, and got Makarov’s men to fuck off outta Manchester. Been over six years and they haven’t so much as looked his way.”

Nodding, you swallow. “What… What more did they make you do? To fully forgive the debt?”

A commercial blares over the television. Advertisements always seem twice as loud than the program they play between, and you nearly flinch at the upbeat music and overly joyous narrator. Simon doesn’t. Steady as a rock, he continues to stare at his hands. Stiff fingers clench and unclench, joints aching with abuse.

“Nothin’ good,” he answers truthfully. “Doesn’t matter. I’d do it again. I’d do all of it again. No one messes with my family. No one messes with—” my girl “—you and gets away with it.”

For a moment, you believe him. That you can get out of this mess. You think of how he fought Andrei and won. How those hands broke a man’s nose and then turned to gently lead you to safety. You think about how those hands held you in Manchester close to a warm chest, how those scarred lips pressed against the crown of your head, and you think—for the first time in a long time—that you might be okay. That you can finally exist without strings attached.

“Thank you.”

Those words finally pull Simon’s attention away from his hands. He looks at you tenderly as you curl into the couch; some feral stray finally settling into the warmth he brings.

“I’ve got work tonight. I’ll talk to Price, assumin’ he’s back from his trip. See ‘bout getting gettin’ the money and we can take it from there,” he says with a curt nod.

“What?” you breathe. “No. No, no you can’t tell John about this. Or Aelin. Anyone. Please, promise me you’ll keep this between us.”

Brows furrowing together, Simon shifts on the couch. “They’re not gonna hold this against you, sweetheart.”

“I got Aelin’s dad killed,” you retort, voice fracturing. The words shatter in your throat. They bleed all over your tongue. The taste makes you sick. “She can’t… I couldn’t face her if she ever found out. If she ever put two and two together knowing about Marco’s involvement. If you tell them I’m in the shit with Makarov- fuck, she’s too smart. Simon, it’d fucking kill me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t ever face her with the truth.”

“That wasn’t your fault. They’d know it was Makarov’s fault, not yours,” he attempts to rationalize. “You were just caught in the crossfire.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Your words are sharp. Honed enough to slice the molecules in the air. Surprised the very atmosphere itself hasn’t ignited, you stare at him with wide eyes as you try to suck in the breath to continue. “It doesn’t matter. All of this, it stays between us. Please. Tell me you’ll keep this secret.”

All rationality leaves Simon the moment your voice begins to warble. Eyes glistening with fat tears lurking in the corners of your eyes, his fingers twitch. His thumbs crave the moisture. He wants to wipe at them until they’re nothing but a memory. Then he remembers yesterday—how you flinched at his touch—and he keeps his hands to himself.

“Okay. Just you and me, then,” he confirms. “It’ll take me some time to get the money then, but we’ll sort this out, yeah?”

It feels like forever since he’s last seen a smile flicker along your lips. It’s puny. Hardly noticeable, but it’s there.

“Thank you,” you choke out.

“Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

Simon rises after that. Towers to his feet where he bends to grab the dirty plates sitting before you on the coffee table. He makes no comment about your half finished sandwich, but he does motion toward the unfinished glass of water.

“Should drink up. Last thing you need is to be dehydrated,” he fusses.

His footsteps grow quiet as he leaves the living room and you are left alone with nothing but the company of the television still droning in front of you. Water gushes through the faucet in the sink, and you hear the gentle clinking of china as he washes up. The domesticity of it all isn’t lost on you, and for once it isn’t agonizing to experience. You can sit there on that couch and reach for the glass before you and not feel the hot breath of obligation down the back of your neck. All Simon has ever done is give and give, and never once has he taken a single thing in return.

When you raise the glass to your lips, you realize things feel lighter. Not enough to keep from crushing you—not enough to cleanse you—but enough for you to notice. It’s contradicting. Subtle, yet glaring. For the first time since you got in this mess, you realize you finally have another shoulder to bear this burden. There are hands to dust you off when you fall to the ground; to pull the glass from your palms and bandage them. A heart to listen to when yours refuses to quell.

Finally, you are not alone, and what a terrifying thought that is.

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kathlare · 3 months ago

Text

accidental introductions

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: A simple evening takes an unexpected turn when a FaceTime call leads to an unplanned introduction between Amelie and someone very important in Lando’s life.

Wordcount: 2.3 k

Warnings: use of substances

full masterlist // request over here!

April 25th, 2020 - London, United Kingdom

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and garlic and something else that was probably burning, but neither Lando nor his mum seemed all that bothered.

—You’re supposed to stir it, not mash it,— Cisca teased, elbowing her son gently as she took the wooden spoon from his hand. —You’re ruining the risotto, chef boyardee.—

—I'm doing my best,— Lando whined, dramatically wiping invisible sweat from his brow. —You didn’t tell me this was gonna be so intense. I feel like I’m on MasterChef—

—And you’d be the first one kicked out,— she smirked.

Lando grinned, rolled his eyes, and turned to wash his hands. —Be right back. I need the bathroom.—

He disappeared upstairs, leaving his phone on the counter beside the stove, unlocked.

Not even thirty seconds later, the screen lit up with a familiar contact photo: Amelie’s name, with a tiny Mexican flag and a cherry emoji, danced across the screen as the FaceTime call came through.

Cisca glanced at it, then at the stairs.

Rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

—Oh for heaven’s sake,— she muttered, wiping her hands on a tea towel before tapping the green button and holding the phone up. —Hello?—

The image that appeared made her blink.

A girl, beautiful, messy-haired, wearing a black hoodie way too big for her, squinted at the screen, clearly not expecting this face. Her brows furrowed before her mouth parted slightly.

—Oh… oh shit.—

—You must be Amelie,— Cisca said with a warm smile, already amused. —Hi, love. I’m Lando’s mum. I think he ran away from the kitchen before he could burn anything else.—

Amelie blinked, frozen in place like someone had hit pause on her entire existence.

—You’re… you’re his mum?— she repeated, eyes wide. Her voice jumped half an octave. —Oh my god, hi! I didn’t... I didn’t mean to... shit. I mean. Sorry. Hi. I didn’t know he wasn’t gonna answer.—

Cisca laughed, the kind of laugh that made you want to be friends with her immediately. —It’s alright, darling. I’ve heard your voice coming out of that phone so many times, I feel like I already know you.—

Amelie looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a very charming British Range Rover.

—He talks about me?— she asked before she could stop herself, her voice too hopeful, too curious. Her brain immediately screamed at her to shut the fuck up, but it was too late. Words were out. The damage was done.

Cisca raised an eyebrow, clearly clocking that exact tone. —Not in so many words,— she teased, stirring the risotto again with one hand, —but he smiles at his phone like an idiot when he’s talking to you, so I’ve put the pieces together.—

Amelie groaned and let her head drop into her hands. —Okay, I’m logging off forever. Tell Lando he can find another gaming buddy. Or a funeral livestream.—

—Oh, don’t be silly,— Cisca chuckled. —I like hearing him laugh. There aren’t many people who get him out of that little brooding cloud he likes to live in. You’re good for him.—

Amelie peeked up through her fingers, cheeks fully pink now. —I’m not… I mean, I just... we’re just friends.—

Cisca gave a sly smile. Uh huh. Sure.

The camera shifted a bit as she walked over to the stove and gave the risotto a final stir. Amelie could now see the cozy kitchen in full—warm wood cabinets, vintage tea tins stacked by the window, a spice rack that clearly got used—it all felt like a real home. The kind you actually missed when you were away.

The sound of feet bounding down the stairs broke the moment.

—Did I miss something?— Lando called, and then paused as he stepped into the kitchen. His eyes landed on his mum holding his phone, then on the screen.

He blinked. —Wait, are you... did you answer my FaceTime?!—

—She’s lovely, by the way,— Cisca said, completely ignoring him as she handed over the phone like nothing had happened.

Lando looked from her to the screen and back. —Mum! You can’t just... Jesus.—

Amelie was still recovering, trying very hard to look casual as if she hadn’t just been mid–existential crisis. —Hey, chef boyardee. Your mum’s iconic.—

He groaned and covered his face with one hand. —I’m never leaving my phone unattended again.—

—Probably smart,— Amelie teased, regaining her usual confidence now that the shock had passed. —Your mum just called me “good for you.” What are you gonna do about that, huh?—

Lando turned roughly the shade of a strawberry. —I’m gonna pretend that didn’t happen and continue burning dinner. Cool? Cool.—

Cisca, of course, wasn’t done. —You know, Amelie, if you ever fancy some actual food and not whatever abomination he microwaves for himself most days, you’re welcome here anytime.—

—Mum!— Lando hissed, completely scandalized. —You're literally inviting a girl I game with across the ocean in the middle of a pandemic.—

—Well, if she ever does end up in London, don’t be an idiot and make her stay in a hotel,— Cisca said, winking at the screen. —She can have the guest room. The good one, not the one that smells like damp towels.—

—Is this a British mum thing?— Amelie deadpanned. —Because my mum would interrogate anyone who so much as looked at me too long.—

—Oh, don’t worry, darling. That’s just the second meeting.—

Lando practically faceplanted against the counter. —This is a nightmare.—

—You’re welcome, sweetheart,— Cisca sang, and then turned away like she hadn't just completely rearranged her son’s emotional equilibrium.

Amelie bit her lip, trying hard not to grin too much. Her heart was hammering way harder than it should have been. She met his mum. By accident. And his mum liked her. That shouldn’t have meant anything. They were just friends. Just friends.

So why did it feel like a door had been kicked wide open?

She watched Lando glance at her again, his cheeks still flushed, but his eyes soft. He looked completely knocked off balance.

And for a second—just a second—Amelie wondered what it would be like to not run from that idea.

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liked by charleslemonade, lanmelieupdates, and others

twitchquintetdaily: 🚨 THEY’RE LIVE 🚨 Amelie, Charles & Lando just went live playing Fortnite and the chaos is already off the charts 😭 catch them third-wheeling each other in real time rn 🕹️🍿 twitch.tv/landonorris 🎧💅

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f1streamshenanigans: Lando yelling “BABE REVIVE ME” and Charles just watching him die is cinema → daymaniac4life: @f1streamshenanigans I SWEAR he forgets we can hear him 😭 → lanmeliecore: @f1streamshenanigans “babe” ??? be serious rn → fraudnando: @f1streamshenanigans that was a jump scare and a proposal in one breath

charleslemonade: Charles trying to build and just spinning in a circle is the reason I believe in God → amelieonscreen: @charleslemonade he really plays like someone’s dad at an arcade → quintetchaos: @charleslemonade Amelie: carrying the whole team

lanmelieupdates: the way Lando keeps asking if she’s “got heals” like he’s not fully blushing → maxiewrld: @lanmelieupdates mans is down BAD on main and on twitch

fortnitelando: Charles saying “I feel like a chaperone” is the most accurate commentary of the night → camillesburner: @fortnitelando he’s the only thing keeping this from becoming a romcom speedrun → streammama: @fortnitelando and he’s failing. they’re one flirting session away from eloping on mic.

lanmeliefan72: Lando pretending he’s not obsessed with her while missing every shot is SO FUNNY → fortnitegf: @lanmelifan72 bro’s aim gets worse the closer Amelie’s avatar gets 😭😭

charleslemonade: Charles is 100% third-wheeling and knows it

ameliesbangs: why does Amelie trash talk like she’s in a 2004 CoD lobby 😭 → vroomygirlie: @ameliesbangs she called Lando a “pink helmeted liability” and I haven’t recovered

twitchgirly999: Charles every 2 seconds: “GUYS? where are you?” → scuderiacore: @twitchgirly999 literally the forgotten middle child of the squad rn 💀 → chilis4lyf: @twitchgirly999 justice for charles but also this is hilarious

ameliesburnbook: they’ve been live for 10 mins and Lando’s already offered her a medkit and all his dignity → charleslemonade: @ameliesburnbook he’s practically on one knee with a chug jug

lanmelieupdates: Lando: “wait don’t push yet, Amelie’s still looting” …she’s got him TRAINED → ghostedbygasly: @lanmelieupdates soft launch speedrun

alexisbored: she made fun of his aim and he giggled. i’m gonna go lie down → fernsandfriends: @alexisbored why is he BLUSHING through a headset

gaslysrevenge: charles third wheeling with grace, like a true gentleman → tifosithotwife: @gaslyrevenge he’s been through it before. he knows the signs 💀

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After two hours of failing spectacularly at Fortnite, Amelie was certain the universe was punishing her. The stream had been chaos: Charles kept blowing himself up with rockets, Lando was giggling more than shooting, and Amelie, well… she’d mostly been too distracted. The chat had loved it—clips were already going viral of her mock-raging at Charles in dramatic Spanish while Lando wheezed in the background—but the moment she clicked end stream, the silence in her house returned like a tide.

She sighed, pushing back from her desk chair. The light from her dual monitors flickered once, then dimmed into standby as she stretched, spine cracking from hours of bad posture. Her hair was a mess, her hoodie half-on, and her knees were cold. Classic gaming aftermath.

In the bathroom, the shower hissed to life, and she let herself stand under the hot water longer than usual. Let it sting a little. Let it soak through the ache in her chest—the kind that never fully left. Not since him. Not since Cameron.

But this wasn’t a bad day, not really. Just… a soft one. A quiet kind of ache. She could feel it in her bones, and apparently, so could Björn.

When she stepped back into the living room wrapped in a towel and her old Mariah Carey shirt, she found the usually aloof cat curled on her blanket nest, tail flicking softly, yellow eyes watching her with more attention than usual.

—Okay, now you want to hang out?— she asked, padding barefoot across the hardwood and collapsing onto the couch beside him. He didn’t bolt. Instead, Björn stretched—long and lazy—and allowed her to scratch behind his ears.

It was strange. He’d been distant all week. Moody, almost. And now here he was, purring like an old car engine.

She settled into the cushions, tugging the blanket around her legs and reaching for her phone to order food. Thai, maybe. Or sushi. Or both. Screw it—she was hungry, and emotionally delicate enough to justify a feast.

As she scrolled through delivery apps, Björn shifted again, pressing the full weight of his body into her thigh like a little heater. His purring deepened. She raised an eyebrow at him.

—You okay, buddy? You’re not usually this clingy.—

He blinked slowly up at her and bumped his head against her arm. She sighed, her chest tightening for no good reason, and kissed the top of his head.

—Yeah. Me neither.—

She placed the order—pad see ew, tuna nigiri, spring rolls—and set the phone aside. A movie would help. Something easy. Familiar. Howl’s Moving Castle was already in her continue-watching queue, so she hit play and pulled Björn closer. The opening credits rolled, music soft and glittering through the speakers, and for a while, she let it wash over her. No pressure. No expectations. Just her, a weirdly affectionate cat, and Studio Ghibli.

Her phone buzzed once. Then again.

She blinked, leaned forward, and saw the name lighting up the screen.

Lan

She didn’t hesitate this time. She swiped to answer and lifted the phone to her ear, voice still a little soft from the mood.

—Hey.—

His voice came back warm and easy. —Hey, Ames. You okay?—

Her eyes flicked to the TV, then to Björn still purring against her side. She hesitated a second too long.

—Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.—

A pause.

—Bad day?— he asked gently.

She smiled a little, eyes dropping to the blanket tangled around her legs. —Not bad. Just… you know. Soft. Missing people. That kind of thing.—

He didn’t fill the silence right away, and she was glad. Sometimes the right kind of company was the kind that didn’t rush in with solutions. Just let it sit.

—My mum thinks you're lovely, by the way,— he said finally, and she could hear the tiny grin in his voice.

Amelie groaned, flopping back against the cushions. —Oh my god. Are we still talking about that? I’ve never been more humiliated in my life.—

—You were humiliated? She called me Chef Boyardee in front of you. I’ll never recover.—

She laughed. The first real one of the day. —You kind of deserved it, though. That risotto looked like baby food.—

—Excuse me. That was a brave artistic take on Italian cuisine.—

—That was a war crime.—

He chuckled. Then, a beat later, —I’m glad you called. Even if you ended up talking to my mum.—

Amelie traced a finger through Björn’s fur. Her chest didn’t feel quite as tight anymore. —I didn’t mean to. I just… wanted to hear your voice, I guess. That sounds lame. Never mind.—

—It’s not lame. I like when you call. Even when you’re yelling at Charles in three languages.—

Her heart did that annoying thing where it squeezed and fluttered and pulled all at once. She swallowed, the quiet of the living room somehow louder than it had been.

—You always call at the right time,— she murmured.

—Yeah?—

—Yeah.—

Another pause, but this one felt warm. Intentional.

Then Lando’s voice, soft and low and maybe a little shy: —Do you want to fall asleep on the phone again tonight? I can stay on while you eat, if you want. Or just… be there.—

She blinked, surprised by the sudden sting behind her eyes.

—Yeah,— she whispered. —I’d like that.—

—Okay. Good. I’ll stay.—

Björn shifted again, curling even closer.

On the screen, Howl floated down from the sky, Sophie’s hand in his.

And for the first time all day, Amelie didn’t feel quite so alone.

69 notes · View notes

evans23 · 8 months ago

Text

RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 2 - SECRET WATCHING

Pairing : Judge Turpin x OC

Summary : 5 years. 5 years that The Death's Judge had noticed you. 5 years he was watcing you in silence. But now, it's time to speak out if he doesn't want to lose you... for ever.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Angst. Violence towards a woman. Manipulation. Deceptiveness.

A/N : I didn't proofread, therefore let me know (or not) if there are any too obvious mistakes.

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

It had been a long time since he had noticed you. 5 years, 8 months, 23 days and 6 hours to be exact.

Lord Richard Turpin, High Judge of London, The Death's Judge, was a man of precision, even more so when it came to you.

It was a cold and foggy evening in November that he had noticed you. You were walking down Fleet Street, your bun letting loose little unruly hairs that flew in the wind and in your hands, you held books. On your back, you had a coat much too thin for the harsh winter that was coming.

Who were you ?

This question haunted him the second you raised your big green eyes to him without seeing him.

That evening, he had followed you under the pretext that nothing happened to you. After all, the streets of London can be dangerous, especially in the middle of the night, when they are lit only by the weak lanterns that adorn the sidewalks of the City without really illuminating it.

A creature as beautiful as you... what an unconscious judge he would have been not to stay hidden in the shadows to watch over you... and find out where you lived.

You entered a small modest house in a poor neighborhood of Bloomsbury, in a small shop where the sign read [[Y/S] - Watchmaker].

Now that he knew your address and your supposed last name, he rushed to his gloomy mansion without wasting a second. In the comfort of his leather armchair, far from the slums of London, he waited for his faithful and deceitful secretary while watching the wood fire crackling in the fireplace of his office. He found himself wondering if you were shivering with cold in your small house that must have let the wind through every window. If that was the case, he wanted to be the one to warm you up... even if he had to learn that you were married.

"BEADLE !" he had shouted, putting down the book that he wasn't even trying to call a book.

"My lord ?" The Beadle had asked in his honeyed voice, appearing out of nowhere, like a rat waiting for a good reason to come out of its hole.

"Find me everything you can about a young woman. Her name is [Y/S]. She lives in the deprived area along Goodge Street."

It didn't take much for The Beadle to come back in just a few days with everything Richard was burning to know.

Your full name was [Y/N] [Y/S]. The watchmaker's shop you had entered belonged to your father, but it barely allowed you to live decently. You weren't married and no fiancé was in sight. This last piece of information had strangely relieved Richard.

You were a little schoolteacher with no real official qualification except for a certificate with no real value, but the little informal girls' school you worked for didn't care about your qualifications. You knew how to read, write and count to teach these poor little girls to do the same in addition to learning sewing, embroidery and all those domestic tasks that would become theirs.

Richard deduced that you had to work hard for a salary that must have been very meager, but according to The Beadle, that didn't stop you from doing your job well. Your students liked you, especially since you were the only teacher who didn't beat them with that long wooden stick that bruised the hands of the other little girls in the school and the parents had no complaints about you.

And after that, he had continued to observe you. For a long time. Without ever trying to approach you, but not without acting. Indeed, strangely enough, your father had found himself counting lords and important men among his clientele. Your school had received new notebooks and the stoves that heated the classrooms had never run out of coal in 5 years.

And yet, he had never tried to speak to you. Certainly not because he was too embarrassed by your 20-year age gap or your differences in social class. No, it was much darker than that. You exuded innocence, purity and Richard, in his depraved nature, wanted to take all that away from you. He knew that the moment he allowed himself to be close to you, that he would say hello and let you know that he had noticed you, he would ruin all that pure beauty that was in you. Because he wanted you and what he wanted to do to you would have made God himself blush.

5 years he had been watching you, his heart singing for you every time he saw you while you were in total ignorance. How could you have suspected for a single second that you had made the terrible Lord Turpin fall in love ?

Oh, you knew his name, he was certain of it. Everyone in London knew the terrible Richard Turpin, The Death's Judge. But no one could have imagined that a man like him could have let such a pretty little thing as you creep into his mind so much that it was your face that he saw when he was fucking the whores of Whitechapel.

In five years, he had never seen you with any friend. Sometimes your father accompanied you on your walks, but most of the time, you were alone. Always impeccable, despite the modesty of your outfits, always friendly and smiling, there was nevertheless no one around you.

Until last week. For the first time, Richard felt his heart pinch, almost break, at the sight of a young man who walked beside you, a stupid smile on his face. He was clean on him, of a higher class than yours, but certainly not higher than Richard's.

Jealousy completely consumed Richard in the face of this sight.

It hadn't taken more than half a day for Richard to have a detailed report on this young man who answered to the name of Robert Crawford. He had hoped to find something, anything, to send this impertinent little boy who had set his sights on you to the depths of a colony in Australia. But nothing. He had found nothing and neither had The Beadle and it made Richard sick.

He could not bear that you had finally found the one who was going to take you away from your father and take your purity, especially this purity.

Robert came from a family of rich merchants and he himself was a fierce and renowned trader. However, there was something about this Robert that Richard did not like. He could not say what, but there was something disturbing about this young man.

Perhaps it was this reserve that you always seemed to have around him. You only half smiled and in truth, you did not really seem in love with him. But it was not surprising. Few women had the luxury of dreaming of love, even less when, like you, they had no money. Marriage was not a matter of the heart but of pragmatism.

On the contrary, Robert never failed to smile in your presence, but it seemed false to Richard. This man was hiding something, he was certain of it, his cold, calculating and manipulative nature had never deceived him and he promised himself to keep an eye on this young man.

For the first time, he had hesitated to come and talk to you. He could have easily torn you away from this boy, but it would have been so hypocritical of him. It was surely not better, he who had often wondered what he would feel if he took you on his desk in court between two trials.

Months passed and this young man became more and more present in your life, until Richard saw a ring with a tiny diamond adorning your finger. And yet, you still did not seem happy. There was no excitement in your eyes, only resignation.

And once again, he did nothing, waiting to see the banns announce your marriage and when they finally came out, he felt his world collapse, his certainties fly away, his heart break for good, he who had always thought he was made of nothing but ice. In two months, you would become Mrs. Crawford.

It was three weeks before your wedding that something changed. You were crossing the street when Richard saw you, but what he noticed most was the bruise on your cheek. Black. Painful. And finally, he understood why this Robert was bothering him so much, why his instinct was screaming at him to send this man to the end of the world or to the end of a rope.

Taken by an impulse, Richard crossed the street to find himself in your path and gently jostled you, as if nothing had happened, making the books you were holding in your trembling hands fall.

"Forgive me, miss, I was distracted," Richard lied.

"It's nothing," you replied as you bent down, not even daring to look up at him.

He bent down to help you, holding out a hand to help you up while his other hand held two of your books. You finally looked up at his, your big green eyes widening in surprise when you recognized the man who had just helped you.

"Lord Turpin," you said in a breath.

"So you know who I am," Turpin said softly with a sad smile.

He was not fooled, if you knew his name, it was because of his terrible reputation and nothing was made up. What earned him the nickname The Death's Judge came from his ruthless judgments, his austere nature and his ability to manipulate the course of events to his will.

"Your cheek," he said softly, unable to take his eyes off the dark stain, that even though didn't spoil your beauty.

"I fell against a piece of furniture," you whispered, looking away.

Liar, Richard thought. You had been slapped. Hard. Probably hard enough to make you fall. But that mark on your face was a mark made by a hand. The hand of a man. Certainly the hand of the man who would soon swear to love and protect you.

A shiver ran down Richard's spine thinking about it. You were going to marry a man who was going to make your life hell, who would beat you every chance he got and who would make a shadow of you. In three weeks, you would no longer be allowed to teach. You would be a prisoner in your own house and corrected for every sideways glance. He would teach you not to think for yourself anymore, because every time you tried to contradict him, he would remind you of your place with a good slap... or worse.

"A very brutal piece of furniture," Richard said coldly.

"Yes, indeed," you answered in a whisper.

"Can I walk you home, miss..." he asked, pretending not to know your name.

"[Y/N], my name is [Y/N] [Y/S]."

"A very pretty name, Miss [Y/S]," he said before asking you again if he could walk beside you.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Richard hadn't missed the glint of panic that had crossed your eyes. The hold had already begun. You couldn't even talk to a man without fear of being punished. He wondered if your father knew or if you had told him the story of the furniture and he had believed it.

"In that case, be careful. The streets of London can be dangerous in the dark for a woman," he said without taking his piercing gaze away from your small, frail figure.

"Closed doors are even more dangerous," you replied in spite of yourself before greeting him respectfully and leaving.

Indeed, closed doors could be dangerous, but enough of watching you in secret. Richard knew. Richard was going to act. This marriage would not take place, he promised himself that.

The Beadle was tasked with finding something, anything that could legally indict this young man from a good family. Richard had to play it smart, he wasn't going after some scumbag from the London slums. The Crawford family, though untitled, had some good allies thanks to their money.

But when, three days later, he saw you with a split lip and a new bruise near your nose, a dull anger filled him, and nothing was going to stop him from getting rid of this Robert.

"Miss [Y/S]," you heard behind you.

You turned around with a start before raising an eyebrow in surprise when you recognized Lord Turpin.

"Your furniture seems to particularly hold a grudge against you," Richard said immediately without giving you time to greet him formally.

"I..."

"No lies, miss. I am the High Judge of London, I punish lies," he interrupted you.

You looked down, not knowing what to say.

"Is it the action of your fiancé ?"

You looked up at him questioningly before looking away again, unable to meet his piercing gaze.

"Miss [Y/S], are you in danger ?"

"I don't know," you answered in a breath, tears in your eyes.

Richard grabbed your arm roughly and dragged you inside the courthouse to his office. You didn't even have the strength to protest, too surprised by his actions, also afraid that someone in the street had seen you and would report it to Robert. That you had let another man touch you would earn you a new punishment, you knew that.

"Sit down," Turpin ordered you, closing the heavy wooden door of his office behind you.

You obeyed without daring to look at him, wondering what he was going to do. You had nothing to reproach yourself for, but you were not afraid that he would imprison you. Your recent experiences had taught you that there were many other things you had to fear from a man.

"When did it start ?" Richard asked, coming to sit in front of you.

"Why do you care ?" you asked, raising your chin a little.

Richard smiled imperceptibly. You were certainly not broken. You still had the strength to rebel, your flame was not extinguished, this man had not yet completely subjugated you by making terror your worst enemy.

"Miss [Y/S], it is my duty to worry about the citizens of London."

You finally looked him in the eye, a small ironic smile on your lips that Richard didn't miss.

"I can protect you, Miss [Y/S]. But you have to tell me the truth for that."

You hesitated. Even though he was the highest authority in the court, you weren't sure that a man like him could be trusted. Not without having to pay the price. But at this point, it was after all, choosing between the plague or cholera.

"I..." you began, hesitant, not knowing what to say.

"Is he your fiancé ?" Richard asked again.

"Yes," you finally answered.

"When ?"

You shook your head, hoping to stop the tears that had just welled up in your beautiful, bruised eyes from flowing.

"A little after the marriage proposal. He..."

The tears began to flow in spite of yourself. Richard handed you his handkerchief embroidered with his initials. You took it, trembling, and you finally tell everything.

You had met Robert by chance in your father's shop and he had courted you almost immediately. You weren't really interested in this young man, but he was kind, well-mannered, and above all he had money. It was this last criterion that had pushed your father to encourage you to frequent him. Your father was not unaware that when he died, you would inherit nothing and he could not bear the idea of you ending up on the street. It was not your meager income as a schoolteacher that could have supported you.

At first, Robert was only kind. He covered you with gifts, his parents seemed happy to welcome you into the family, and you had ended up telling yourself that with time, you could learn to love him. But after the marriage proposal, he had changed. It had first been a slap in the face because you had reprimanded him for a simple language error. Then another, and another, until he promised to "re-educate" you once you were married. As if to prove his point, he had hit you with the hand that held your family's signet ring, splitting your lip. Each time, it was for stupid reasons. Because you were too smart, because you were too intelligent, because you had said no.

"And your father, does he know?"

"No !" you cried, "he must not know. He would kill Lord Turpin and I do not want my father to be hanged," you said quickly.

Richard clenched his fists. He too wanted to kill him, this Robert who thought he could beat you for his own pleasure.

"And he believes your stories about falling on a piece of furniture ?" Richard asked coldly.

"I don't think so," you murmured, "but I don't want my father to get into trouble."

Richard's features softened slightly. Of course, as a good, loving daughter, you didn't want your father to have blood on his hands because of you. But you were the one who would end up dead if this match went through.

"Do you really have to marry him ?"

"I said yes, the banns have been published," you answered as if it were obvious.

"You could go away, hide yourself," Richard suggested.

"But where would I go ? I only have my father and he's too old to start a new life anywhere else. All he has is here in London and his job has worn him down more than he'll ever admit."

Richard watched you, letting the silence settle between you. You shifted slightly, uneasy under his scrutiny. He had a plan. A plan that wouldn't alienate anyone, an immediate solution to get you out of this situation. After that, he would have plenty of time to take care of this Robert Crawford.

"I have a home in Scotland. You would be safe there. The governess who lives there and takes care of the house will watch over you. You would be housed and fed and you would want for nothing."

You raised your head, surprised by this proposal.

"Going to Scotland ?" you asked suspiciously.

"Indeed."

And be his without really being his. To be far from this Robert. Protected. This country house in the depths of the Highlands was occupied only by a governess and by the ghosts of his past, the screams of his mother and the sound of his father's belt falling on his back at the slightest reason. A house filled with shadow and bad memories that he had not been able to bring himself to sell after his father's disappearance. His mother had stayed living in their main home, leaving Richard this place that he had never liked but that today would finally find its use.

"I... I don't know," you said, hesitant.

"You will be very alone, I'm afraid. But no one will come looking for you there. You will be fine there and protected, I promise you."

"But... and my father ?"

"I will keep an eye on him, but it might be wiser not to tell him where you are going."

"And the wedding ?"

"You want it to happen ? You know the miserable life you'll have if you marry this man. And if you ever have children, they'll live in fear. Fear of their mother getting beaten, fear of their father's violence falling on them while you stand there, too afraid of getting another beating after the children," he spat vehemently.

You shuddered as you heard him say the cold truth, a truth you guessed he had known when he was younger.

"What's the price ?" you finally asked.

"The price ?" Richard repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"What's the price of your protection, Lord Turpin?"

Richard, fascinated by your frankness, wanted to tell you that the price would be that you would be his. But he said nothing. You would become his, but at your own pace. He wouldn't force it on you, and you'd end up believing it came from you.

"Nothing at all, I promise you."

"I don't believe you. Everything has a price. You're The Death's Judge. I can't believe you are doing something for free for a complete stranger," you said briskly.

"Believe me, miss [Y/S], you're not a stranger to me," he replied mysteriously.

A cold sweat ran down your spine. He had noticed you. You weren't sure if that was a good thing.

"If you agree, we'll go see your father and tell him why we're going to scare you away. But, we'll be careful not to tell him where. If you want to write to him, you will have to address the letters to me and I promise to get them to him."

You felt trapped. Trapped on all sides. Trapped by this marriage that you didn't know how to get out of, trapped by Lord Turpin who had just made you an offer that you feared was poisonous. But you also knew that he was right. Robert had shown you his true nature. He would end up breaking you.

"What if he hurts my father ?" you asked.

"Do you think he is so influential ?"

"He certainly does. And his family is rich. Money rules everything, you must know that, Lord Turpin."

"Indeed, Miss [Y/S], but his family is only a small merchant family. They do have some contacts in high society, but certainly not in the nobility," he said firmly, "and... they have me as an enemy now," he added coldly.

You shivered when you heard him say that, but when he gently moved his hand towards your scarred face, you didn't move. However, he gave you the space you needed to do so, you could have backed away a thousand times before he gently placed his warm palm against your cheek. He gently caressed your bruises before whispering:

"Accept, miss [Y/S], and I promise you that you will be safe."

And without even realizing it, you whispered yes.

Richard didn't wait a second longer to send The Beadles to get your father. The poor man arrived all trembling in the judge's office, but when he saw you, his protective instincts immediately kicked in awake.

"[Y/N], are you in trouble ?" he asked you, genuinely worried.

"Indeed, mister [Y/S], trouble that you should have noticed instead of encouraging your daughter to marry that Crawford," Richard scolded.

Your father looked at him with wide eyes, but his face darkened when Richard told him what you had been through when you weren't even married yet. Your father didn't like the idea of letting you go, especially not without knowing where and especially not under Lord Turpin's tutelage, but when you told him that you were afraid Robert would kill you, your father finally gave in.

That same evening, he had you get into one of his carriages. After you kissed your father one last time, Richard had you get into the carriage, cozy and provided with blankets and soft cushions.

"My coachman is a trustworthy man. You will arrive in Scotland in a week and he will keep you safe the whole journey."

"You promise to watch over my father ?" you asked gently.

"I promise," Richard replied firmly before handing you a letter, "don't open it until you arrive in Scotland. Please."

The please, spoken with such vulnerability made your heart beat a little faster.

"You are intelligent... and brave. You deserve the best. I promise you that you will have nothing to fear in Scotland, no one will come looking for you there."

Before you could answer, Richard had already turned away, his gaze dark, already busy thinking of a plan to get rid of Robert Crawford.

Throughout the journey, you clutched the letter in your hands, aware that it must contain much more than just words, but you held on without ever opening it. The journey was long, tiring and the coachman was not very talkative, but as Richard had promised you, he had watched over you like an eagle.

Once you arrived in Scotland, you were greeted by a stern-looking lady, the famous governess of the mansion.

"Miss [Y/S], I presume ? I have received a letter from Lord Turpin announcing your arrival. Come in, I will show you to your room."

The natural authority of the old governess did not make you want to upset her. She looked a lot like her master, you thought with a small, discreet laugh. She briefly introduced you to the mansion before showing you to your room.

"I'll let you settle in, miss," she said before leaving, leaving you alone.

It was a large room with off-white walls. Thick velvet drapes framed large windows that looked out onto a magnificent garden that winter had not yet extinguished with its biting cold.

You waited for nightfall and, after sharing dinner with the governess who was much more kind than you had imagined, you retired to your room. With trembling hands, yous grabbed the letter, opened it, and by candlelight you lost yourself in Richard's words, words that filled an entire page in firm handwriting.

"Miss [Y/S],

[Y/N],

I haven't been completely honest with you. It's been a long time since I noticed you. 5 years, 11 months and 28 days, to be exact.

I don't know how to reveal the depth of what I feel for you without scaring you, but the truth is that my heart started beating faster the moment I looked into your green eyes without you even really noticing me.

It's not for lack of courage that I never approached you before that day when I understood that your life was in danger. It's out of love that I never wanted to enter your life.

My nature... my nature is not the noblest. You are such a pure creature [Y/N] and I refuse to corrupt this beauty, this purity with the darkness that surrounds me.

Here, in Scotland, you can choose to start a new life, far from London, far from memories that you probably want to forget.

[Y/N], I love you and when I come to see you, it will not be as a judge, it will not be as a protector. It will be as a man in love and I will leave you the choice to do what you desire with my heart.

Richard Turpin"

You had a lump in your throat, you didn't know what to think. Millions of emotions passed through you, violent, like waves that submerged you. That night, you didn't sleep. The following nights, you only fell asleep after rereading the letter, again, again and again.

Meanwhile, in London, Turpin and Beadle Bamford were working on a... Machiavellian plan.

"I have a plan, my lord. It will require... some financial means of course," Beadle told Turpin with a sly smile.

"It doesn't matter as long as there is nothing to link us to what is going to happen," Turpin replied in a cold voice.

"Believe me, my lord, you will never be implicated."

"What part will that little rascal you found, Bamford, play ?"

"A foreign investor. He will flatter your nemesis by promising to make him even richer than his own father. A personal fortune that he will think he can build on his own without papa's help."

"Good. Good. I know men like that well. They always want more and they take even when they don't deserve it," Turpin muttered darkly.

It had only taken one poor but desperately rich young man to bring Robert down. In a luxuriously decorated office rented by Turpin in a prestigious club in central London, the young man dressed like a true gentleman by Bamford stood before Crawford with a simple but terribly dishonest offer. Richard knew the world well enough to know that every man, even the most perfect, had flaws and for the majority of them, money was their greatest weakness. Despite his family's wealth, Robert was one of them.

"Don't worry, Mr. Crawford. The deals I propose are common in our circles. Money is moving discreetly, and I promise you that your income will be... tripled."

The man hired by The Beadle had learned his lines well. The deal was simple: he would get Robert involved in suspicious business and in exchange he would receive a substantial sum of money... on the condition that he go into exile in Australia where an honest job was already waiting for him for a certain Elliot Marston, a cousin of Richard who would keep an eye on the corrupt man if ever he got the idea of blackmailing the High Judge of London.

"Laws are made to be circumvented," Robert replied, "I am not a novice. Prepare the documents and let's conclude this matter quickly."

And while hidden in the shadows, Richard watched with the hint of a carnivorous smile, the trap had just closed on Crawford.

A surprise inspection of the goods received orchestrated anonymously by Richard and the rumor was launched. Robert, ruined, was not a man to be trusted. He laundered money, made fraudulent investments and in less than a month, the reputation of the entire family was tarnished and Robert, arrested, was brought before Richard.

"Mr. Crawford, you have flouted the laws of our beautiful country. You have humiliated yourself and you have humiliated the name of your family! The evidence is overwhelming: commercial fraud, money laundering and fraud," Turpin listed, icy.

"That is false! It's a plot!" cried Robert in a vain attempt to defend himself.

"Out of kindness to your parents who have a respected name in worldly circles, I will spare you the rope. In the name of the Crown, it will be forced labour in a sugar colony in America," said Turpin without blinking.

He struck his gavel without a glance at Robert, but inwardly Richard gloated. He did. He left the courtroom and went to his office. He threw his powdered wig on a chair before turning to Beadle with a broad smile.

"My friend, once again you have been brilliant," Richard whispered.

"I live only to serve you, my lord," Beadle replied, honeyed.

A week later, Robert boarded a ship for the Americas without his family even trying to buy his freedom. The Crawfords were far too humiliated by their son's actions and in a hope of not falling out of the good graces of the nobility, Crawford senior had publicly disowned his son.

In the cab that took him to Scotland, Richard was torn. Now you knew he had noticed you and if you had read his letter, you knew he loved you. But could you ever love him back ?

What does it matter, he thought. He had gotten rid of that parasite Robert and he would never touch you again. If you were Richard's, his hands would never lay on you to hurt you. Oh, he would make you scream, for sure, but only from pleasure. But would you be able to see beyond the shadows that surrounded him ?

As Christmas approached, that holiday that Richard abhorred more than anything, the Scottish moor was already covered in a thin white film. The smoking smoke from his house indicated that you were nice and warm and he had no doubt that the old governess was watching over you as he had asked her to.

"Lord Turpin," you murmured when he came back into the living room where you were busy embroidering a handkerchief.

"Miss [Y/S], I wanted to come in person to tell you that you have nothing more to fear. Never."

You looked down, intimidated, before telling him in a whisper that you had read his letter. Richard looked at you attentively but you did not dare to look up at him. For the first time, he was unable to probe the mind of another human being.

"And ?" he finally dared to ask.

"5 years is a long time," you said, finally plunging your eyes into his, "why did you never say anything ?"

Richard sighed, searching for the right words without scaring you.

"Because I am a coward," he finally said. "Not in a courtroom, not in the middle of a crowd of nobles, not in a political plot. But in front of you, I am nothing more than a man and a coward."

His raw sincerity disarmed you for a moment.

"But why me ? I'm just a merchant's daughter. A little governess barely educated enough to teach other little girls to read. And you... you're Lord Richard Turpin."

Richard approached you gently and reached out to caress your cheek. You shivered slightly but at no point did you try to pull away.

"You are the sweetness. The light. Perhaps my redemption," he replied softly.

You looked at him, not knowing what to say. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you, but he finally pulled away. Immediately, you missed the warmth of his hand on your cheek.

"Will you come back to London with me?" he asked you with ill-concealed hope.

"Yes," you breathed with an emotion you couldn't quite define.

The journey home was long, but Richard made sure you had everything you needed. Every time you shivered, he would adjust a blanket around your shoulders, pay for the best rooms in the best inns, and make sure the journey didn’t take too much of a toll on you.

“We’ll be back in time for you to celebrate Christmas with your father,” he said one day as you struggled to stay awake.

But to your surprise, when you arrived in London, Richard didn’t take you back to your father. He showed you into his imposing mansion. The interior was just as impressive as the exterior, but not as ornate as you’d imagined, nor as well-kept as one would expect for a man like Richard. There were many cobwebs and a certain amount of disarray. Books were scattered everywhere, and as he led you up a large wooden staircase, you noticed very few servants milling about the manor.

"This whole part of the manor could be yours," Turpin finally said, stopping in the middle of a hallway that housed four different rooms.

"I don't understand," you said, turning your large green eyes toward him.

"The manor is austere, like me, but I'm sure your presence will brighten it. Robert... Robert won't come to haunt you anymore, but your engagement was announced and I don't want you to have to face the whispers and cruelty of the outside world. This manor could be your refuge."

"I... I don't want to force you into anything," you answered timidly.

“Miss [Y/S], you’re not forcing me to do anything,” Richard replied, taking your hand, “you deserve to be cherished, protected. And if you give me permission, I coulds give you all that and more. You deserve more than whispers in tea rooms or sideways glances on the street. Let me be your protector."

"I don't want you to be my protector," you whispered.

A shadow passed over Turpin's face as his heart clenched like a dagger had pierced it, but he recovered so quickly that you could have imagined the flash of pain in his hazel eyes.

"I want a husband."

Richard looked at you, eyes wide as you looked down, your cheeks tinging pink. With a finger, he lifted your head, forcing you to look at him.

"Are you sure about what you just said, [Y/N] ?" Richard asked in his deep voice, using your first name for the first time, "Because once you say yes, there's no going back."

"So be it," you whispered.

Without waiting, Richard's lips landed on yours with passion, ardor, desire. And for the first time, Richard thought that Christmas had a very nice surprise in store for him.

A year later

"My dear, if you continue to eat so many gingerbread cookies you'll get indigestion," Richard said as he sat down nonchalantly next to you on the library couch.

Wrapped in a blanket in front of the fireplace where a good fire was crackling, your aching legs resting on a stool and a book lying next to you, you made a little pouty face.

"It's not me who wants gingerbread cookies, it's the little inhabitant who keeps me awake every night and who prevents me from walking more than five minutes without my feet hurting," you replied as you grabbed another cookie.

Richard, smiled, a real smile, one of those that was reserved only for you. He still sometimes wondered how he had been lucky enough to marry you, you whom he had so often watched in secret, thinking he would never be able to have you. And yet, you had chosen him despite these faults. Your light was enough to balance his darkness.

"Enough biscuit," Richard finally said, taking the plate away from you as you were about to take a third, "it's time for bed, my dear."

And without giving you time to protest, he lifted you up as if you weighed nothing to take you to the room you shared. As often, he helped you take off your dress and put on your nightgown and while you settled under the covers, he came to sit next to you. In a caring gesture, he placed a hand on your round belly.

"It would be wise to let your mother sleep tonight. She is particularly insolent when she is sleep deprived," Richard said in a soft voice.

You smiled, shaking your head before placing your hand on his.

"I hope it will be a girl. A little girl who will give you a hard time," you joked.

"My dear, whether it is a son or a daughter doesn't matter to me, either one or another will be loved as much because they will be a part of you."

He kissed you tenderly, grateful for the second chance you were giving him, promising himself that the world would never come to hurt the child to come,. This child who was his redemption. He would watch carefully to it. In secret.

#rickmas2024 #alan rickman #judge turpin x reader #judge turpin #judge turpin x you #sweeny todd #evans23

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itsduckinghard · 6 months ago

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James May: why Top Gear didn’t need to sack Jeremy Clarkson

As his new programme about famous explorers hits Channel 5, the former Top Gear presenter talks to Andrew Billen about life after The Grand Tour

Friday January 31 2025, 12.01am GMT, The Times

We are, obviously, in a bar, although not the Royal Oak, the pub James May part-owns in the Wiltshire village where he lives, but the Cross Keys, near his other home in west London. We have secured an unheated games room at the back, but it does not stay unheated for long once May spots its wood-burning stove. He is soon making a fire. As he works, he delivers a mini-lecture on why the stove door should initially be kept ajar so as to adjust the ratio of oxygen to carbon dioxide, and what to do thereafter (close the door). I thank him for this gratis masterclass.

“But I don’t think anybody really knows,” Mays says. “Well, actually, the Scandis do, because they write big books about it. They love a bit of log bollocks.”

When we meet he is a week off turning 62, but although he trembles in the January chill, he looks otherwise as roadworthy as when he joined Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond on the BBC’s Top Gear two decades ago. This testy, testosteronic triumvirate became heroes of the counter-counterculture, reactionary in everything from their jokes to their alcohol consumption. (This mid-morning, May, a fan of beer, wine and spirits, is on the hot chocolate, because there is one beverage he hates and it is coffee.) When Clarkson crashed their telly vehicle in 2015 and was fired for assaulting a producer who had failed to conjure a steak after a day’s filming in North Yorkshire, May and Hammond resigned in solidarity, but the three did not have to wait long before Prime Video pounced on them. For another eight years, they bumped and bounced classic cars around the world until The Grand Tour was itself hauled to the scrapyard last year, by which time the trio were multimillionaires and — or so they would insist — heartily sick of one another’s company.

But age cannot depreciate May. His hair, for one big thing, remains defiantly Seventies roadie. “I either look like I’ve had some sort of weird Victorian ailment or a bit like Valerie Singleton in her Blue Peter days,” he says of having tried it shorter. With his white moustache and goatee, I say he is going a bit Big Yin. “I think,” he says, “men have a duty to experiment with facial hair.”

Last summer he broke his wrist falling off his bike after failing to negotiate a puddle, and without his regular ten-mile cycle rides he has felt “podgy and lethargic”. You will clock his bandaged hand on Channel 5’s James May’s Great Explorers, in which he disassembles the myths and scrutinises the nuts and futtocks of the voyages of Christopher Columbus, Walter Raleigh and James Cook. The three-parter is funny and irreverent — at one point he calls the British Museum “the world’s largest lost property office” — but also one of the most seriously educative series he has made (and he has made nearly 30 since 1998). For Channel 5, his signing is a big deal and its PRs have supplied him with briefing notes, because, he explains, they think he is senile.

“So it reads here, ‘Channel 5 is the destination for unmissable, high-quality factual programming.’ That’s not the sort of thing I am known for, is it?”

Or it. When Channel 5 launched, it was famous for its soft porn.

“Yeah, porn,” he says turning faux-naive. “Apparently a lot of teenagers look at porn now on the internet, whereas when I was a teenager, it was something you might find on a building site, if you were lucky.”

Or in a hedge on the way to school. Pretty vanilla by today’s standards (I believe). “Not even sex. In some ways I’m glad I’m not young any more. It sounds like hard work.”

The briefing notes put to one side, we turn to his series’ verdicts on history’s great grand tourists. He accuses Cook of being party to a “land grab by an empire [British] hellbent on world domination”, calls Raleigh a “wild boy with a taste for violence” and relays the unwelcome news that Columbus was the largest single trader of enslaved indigenous people of his era. Such debunking may surprise those who assume that Clarkson’s politics were something that his Top Gear amigos had also navigated towards. Does May, I ask, think Kemi Badenoch will approve of Great Explorers?

“Is Badenoch pro or against reparations? She would be against, wouldn’t she? Well, my first response to your question would be, I hope she enjoys it. And I hope…”

She learns something?

“I mean, I don’t want people to get the impression that this is a deep analysis of the psychology and policy of colonialism. It is really about navigation and sail technology and barrel-making and biscuits. Those ship’s biscuits are so awful.”

The thing is, I say, he is a centrist who identifies as a “bloke”, but the term seems to have been colonised by the right.

“I think the definition has changed. Being a bloke used to mean camaraderie. And then, at one point, it meant being dependable and handy, and then more recently it came to mean sort of endearingly hopeless. Now ‘bloke’ possibly means yob. Men are being, in many ways, belittled. My idea of man-ness — and I would say this, because I’m not a tough guy or anything like that — is a kind of dependability and practicality. Men are supposed to be able to do things. They’re not supposed to rejoice in their own uselessness and think it’s cute, because it isn’t. It’s feeble.”

I suppose people could be suspicious of him because his shows have featured so few women (although some are interviewed on Great Explorers including — political correctness gone mad — a female skipper). Does he enjoy the frisson of male-only company?

“I like the company of women because I find them really fascinating and they’re sort of the most wonderful thing on earth, but there is a camaraderie that men have when they’re trying to achieve something. You see it on building sites and factories where things are being made. There’s a bit of a movement going on, people saying, ‘Oh, we need to reinvent safe male spaces,’ and I used to think, ‘Oh, sod off. They’re called garages and workshops.’ ”

And if you’re posh, gentlemen’s clubs.

“I’ve been to a few of those places and if it’s blokes together eating too much red meat and farting a lot, I haven’t got much time for it, to be honest. But a load of blokes building a shed or playing darts, I could go for that. But I’m perfectly happy if there’s a load of women there as well.”

He has been with his partner, Sarah Frater, the dance critic, for 24 years (he has said he felt he left it too late to have children), but does he have platonic women friends? “Yes, loads. Some of them I’ve known for 45-plus years.”

I imagine his technique with women was to make them laugh.

“Well, maybe a bit later on. Not when I was young. I think I was actually too nerdy. I was a bit of a late developer.

Were there girls at his school?

“I went to a modern comprehensive. I had lots of girlfriends and things.”

But no sex involved?

“Not until I was about 16.”

That sounds quite early to me, I say (envious). “Sixth-form college. I must have been 17 actually.”

‘I don’t actually think our Top Gear had to end’

May hates the television cliché of celebrities on personal “journeys” in order to discover themselves. “I think, ‘Oh, f*** off!’ Find out some stuff and tell me something authoritative, or at least considered.” For him, one of the merits of Great Explorers is that it is about journeys to the end of the earth, not the soul.

Compare and contrast The Grand Tour, the diesel-oiled phoenix that rose from the ashes of Clarkson and co’s Top Gear. During its run, the show increasingly depended on our interest in its presenters. Particularly once the portable big-tent studio that substituted for the BBC’s aircraft hangar in Surrey was decommissioned, The Grand Tour no longer gloried in its cars. Instead, we watched hoping to observe the drivers’ characters revealed under pressure. The problem was, every time crisis stripped off a layer of self, the new layer revealed looked exactly as tough and leathery as the one before. And if it was insights into an inter-bloke dynamic you were interested in, you could never be sure the trio’s hostility was scripted or spontaneous. Someone’s car would break down and the other two would gloatingly zoom past. But why wouldn’t they, since a film crew with its attendant mechanics, was already at the beleaguered party’s side, ready to help?

I would judge last September’s feature-length finale of The Grand Tour a masterpiece, epic, funny and moving — because parting is always such sweet sorrow, even for frenemies. Only in the most limited sense, however, was The Grand Tour factual programming. In one scene the three smelted a pile of silver trinkets bought cheap in Zimbabwe and came up with the idea of moulding them into accessories for their cars, in May’s case a solid silver steering wheel. In the morning it had miraculously been fitted to his Triumph Stag. It was magic realism, I say, not documentary.

“It was a pantomime, really, I think. We ask you to go along with it. I mean, it was a mixture of things that were obviously deeply and knowingly contrived, but then a lot of the stuff that made it in was just stuff that happened. The expression in television is, ‘The universe will provide.’ If you’re going to drive across the spine of Africa or drive through India, stuff is going to happen. It just is. If the cameras are rolling, well, you’ve got your content.”

Perhaps, to continue this line of thinking, the universe provided for Clarkson, Hammond and May when stuff happened in that Yorkshire hotel in 2015. Perhaps ten years ago this spring the universe decided to give Amazon’s then newish streaming service a blast of front-page publicity and make three motoring journalists super-rich. Or perhaps the trio’s split from the BBC was avoidable?

“I thought it was very unfortunate and I don’t actually think our Top Gear had to end because of it. I think it could have been patched up and put down to a bit of high stress and flightiness, to be honest. It happened. It’s regrettable and it’s unfortunate, but it didn’t need to lead to the collapse of something very successful. Maybe these things are ordained and it was time for us to move on. We had been doing it by then for a decade, I think, more. And I never imagined it would last as long. I went into it from magazine journalism and I thought it would be a good laugh probably for a couple of years.

“I mean, without being big-headed about it, we were Top Gear and we were one of the biggest TV shows in the world at the time. It was quite an intense environment and it’s not entirely surprising that it occasionally went off the rails. If we’d been AC/DC or Thin Lizzy, nobody would have been the slightest bit surprised.”

And they were blokes.

“We’re all blokes and we worked quite hard and quite long hours and it was exciting but it was quite difficult.”

Did they fight? “No, not seriously. We used to squabble but, no, we weren’t Fleetwood Mac. We didn’t get that bad. We didn’t end up absolutely loathing each other, taking legal action against each other or anything like that.”

Although I have always thought May and Clarkson shared the same speech patterns and that Hammond was Sorcerer Clarkson’s devoted apprentice, the three, May says, were never very alike. “I like to think of myself as fairly liberal. I think of the other two as Stuckists, trying to live in the Twenties. I’ve always said Jeremy is a bit of an Edwardian and Hammond is Toad of Toad Hall with his little waistcoat and his vintage car.”

On location, May and Hammond convened meetings of “James & Richard’s Debating Society” (up for debate one night: how do you know a dog is a dog?) and the club has never been dissolved. “Jeremy never really got involved in that. I think he just thought we were being boorish or something. Or maybe he doesn’t have very many views on, say, a society that grows vertically and then falls over.

“I think Jeremy likes to have strong opinions. It’s what on the internet would be called, ‘Trust me, bro.’ But then again, when we went to the North Pole years ago, I spent many days sitting alongside Jeremy Clarkson and indeed sharing a tent with him, and we had some very entertaining discussions about banalities like food from our childhood and people’s trousers. Stuff like that.”

Does he share Clarkson’s view, as expressed on the GT finale, that electric vehicles are unreviewable as they are, like fridges, just “white goods”?

“No. I completely disagree with him on that. We have debated that quite a lot. I think the electric so-called revolution — it isn’t one really, as we’ve had electric cars for well over 100 years — is a great experiment and it makes cars interesting to talk about again. I know what he means because he’s saying there’s no engine to fall in love with. We have become very obsessed with internal combustion mainly because it’s flawed and it’s the flaws that make it fascinating. It’s a bit like people.”

‘I saw Jeremy recently. He seemed all right. We just seem older’

It strikes me that TG and GT were never about friendship. They were sit-docs about people who had to work together, and more The Office than Last of the Summer Wine. May likes that thought. “We’re not natural friends. That’s actually why it worked. I often looked back at Top Gear and The Grand Tour and thought in many ways I didn’t really belong on it. But that’s exactly why I was on it. It needed one of each of us for it to work.”

At the end of the last Grand Tour, the three stood on a mound on the Makadikadi salt pan in Botswana and gazed in opposing directions. Then they roared off towards their different horizons and we saw May delete his colleagues’ numbers from his phone. He came up with the joke, he says, but when I ask whether they will ever work together again, he says he wouldn’t have thought so, no.

So how are Clarkson-May relations? The former has banned the latter from his pub, the Farmer’s Dog in Oxfordshire, but May says he wasn’t intending to visit it anyway, given it is 80 miles from his own hostelry. I ask whether, when Clarkson had his heart attack (which is how Clarkson described it to Newsnight in November), May rang him. “I didn’t read that bit. I thought he was warned that he would have a heart attack. I did actually see him a few weeks later, at a funeral, unfortunately, of someone we both knew. He seemed all right. We just seem older.”

The three have certainly ended up in different places, Clarkson, most successfully, on Prime Video’s Clarkson’s Farm, Hammond on his car restoration show Richard Hammond’s Workshop and May in his nerd-fest, James May and the Dull Men, shown, like Hammond’s programme, on Discovery+. None appears to be on a route back to the BBC, although May advised the corporation to release Top Gear from the state of permanent suspension it has been in since presenter Andrew Flintoff’s accident in December 2022.

“I think it should come back. There have been mutterings about Amazon reinventing The Grand Tour as a sort of Son of Grand Tour without us. I think it’s time to reinvent the genre of car programming. There must be another way of doing it, but it will require some other young and worldly people to work out what it is. I don’t really know what it is.”

For May, however, it does seem the end of the road for him and Prime Video, the streamer having terminated his shows Oh Cook!, in which he learnt to cook, and Our Man in…, in which he explained the ways of Japan, Italy and India to blokes. Has Amazon cancelled him?

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I remember at one point, Amazon told me they wanted to do either really big stuff like their James Bond series or Lord of the Rings, or very small things like Oh Cook!, which for them was a tiny budget programme. But then they changed again and just wanted to do really big things. So, that wasn’t me. I’m not big enough or I don’t have enough viewers. Channel 5 is a nice home.”

He muses on what he might do for it next. A surgery programme maybe. “I mean, I would actually like to film a hip replacement.”

I wonder, however, how much he misses the travel, given that for Great Explorers Channel 5 flew him no further than Seville, supposedly on the grounds that if you replicated their original voyages the series would take at least 11 years to make.

“Yes, I still get excited about getting on aeroplanes and passport control and so on. But I’m also quite enjoying staying at home or going to places in Britain like I did in my childhood. I’ve done enough deserts and rainforests. If I want to go to Italy or Scandinavia, which I also love, I can just go on a simple holiday.”

We must not forget that Amazon left May and his former colleagues so rich that a weekend break in Europe is the smallest of change, and even a divorce such as the one Hammond announces days after I meet May is quite doable. May never reveals how much Amazon paid him, but the fact he owns two homes, his own gin business, nine cars garaged in an underground bunker (in London he drives a VW Polo and a Tesla) and a light aircraft, gives us an idea. It is far from the middle-class comforts he grew up with as the son of an aluminium factory manager in Bristol, then Newport in Wales and then Rotherham. Although a good-with-his-hands Blue Peter lad rather than a groovy Magpie viewer, he resented the BBC’s assumptions about its audience.

“There was that show called Why Don’t You Just Switch Off Your Television Set and Go Out and Do Something Less Boring Instead?. There were always kids on who had things their grandpa had made them like a go-kart or they had a sailing dinghy or a radio-controlled aircraft carrier or something and you used to watch it and think, ‘Oh, f*** off!’ ”

Like those Enid Blyton children who lived in big houses and had uncles with another big house by the sea?

“And a cook. That used to really annoy me because it was very overindulged rich kids with things that I didn’t have.”

And now he has?

“I don’t really think about that. I think the secret to a happy life — and I always thought this and I pretty much stuck to it, even when I was flat broke in my twenties — is to live within your means.”

So he doesn’t really think about money? “No, not really.”

That is a luxury for most people, isn’t it? “Well, it probably is unless they strictly live within their means.”

‘I read a lot of poetry’

We know that Great Explorers, a series visibly intent on living within its means, is not about its presenter’s self-discovery. Nevertheless, watching it you glean hints of who May is when not being sitcommed on The Grand Tour. I ask which of Columbus, Raleigh and Cook is his favourite.

“Columbus was obviously a bit of a badass. He ended up clapped in irons by his own king and queen. He definitely enslaved people and he definitely brutalised people. Raleigh? I think in modern terms we’d call him a grifter, wouldn’t we?”

I thought May, who studied music at college, plays the harpsichord and collects art, might appreciate Sir Walter, the sonnet-composing renaissance man.

“And some of his poetry is quite good. Some of it is pretty awful. People like Sir Philip Sidney are rather better. I read a lot of poetry and I’ve even written a bit.”

Does he still?

“Not very much. I write haikus.”

Can he give me one?

“Forest of bamboo/ What then should we make of you?/ Probably a hat.”

Take that, Raleigh. So Cook, with his cartography and science, is his man?

“Because I think he’s a bit of a nerd.”

It is time to go. Gathering his briefing notes, May realises triumphantly he has not referred to them once. The wood-burner is dying down, but the fire in my interviewee’s belly? It burns bright. James May is the eternal combustion engine that never combusts into anger, the Grand Tourist more likely to write a poem than raise a fist, a bloke, but one suited to the age of the electric car.

James May’s Great Explorers starts on Channel 5 on February 13 at 9pm

#james may

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finitajarjarana · 1 year ago

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youtube

Why - poem by bob flanagan

Because it feels good;

because it gives me an erection;

because it makes me come;

because I'm sick;

because there was so much sickness;

because I say FUCK THE SICKNESS;

because I like the attention;

because I was alone a lot;

because I was different;

because kids beat me up on the way to school;

because I was humiliated by nuns;

because of Christ and the Crucifixion;

because of Porky Pig in bondage, force-fed by some sinister creep in a black cape;

because of stories of children hung by their wrists,

burned on the stove, scalded in tubs;

because of Mutiny on the Bounty;

because of cowboys and Indians;

because of Houdini;

because of my cousin Cliff;

because of the forts we built and the things we did inside them;

because of what's inside me;

because of my genes;

because of my parents;

because of doctors and nurses;

because they tied me to the crib so I wouldn't hurt myself;

because I had time to think;

because I had time to hold my penis;

because I had awful stomachaches and holding my penis made it feel better;

because I felt like I was going to die;

because it makes me feel invincible;

because it makes me feel triumphant;

because I'm a Catholic;

because I still love Lent, and I still love my penis, and in spite of it all I have no guilt;

because my parents said BE WHAT YOU WANT TO BE, and this is what I want to be;

because I'm nothing but a big baby and I want to stay that way, and I want a mommy forever, even a mean one, especially a mean one;

because of all the fairy tale witches, and the wicked stepmother, and the stepsisters, and how sexy Cinderella was, smudged with soot, doomed to a life of servitude;

because of Hansel, locked in the witch's cage until he was fat enough to eat;

because of "O" and how desperately I wanted to be her;

because of my dreams;

because of the games we played;

because I've got an active imagination;

because my mother bought me Tinker Toys;

because hardware stores give me hard-ons;

because of hammers, nails, clothespins, wood, padlocks, pullies, eyebolts, thumbtacks, staple-guns, sewing needles, wooden spoons, fishing tackle, chains, metal rulers, rubber tubing, spatulas, rope, twine, C-clamps, S-hooks, razor blades, scissors, tweezers, knives, pushpins, two-by-fours, Ping-Pong paddles, alligator clips, duct tape, broomsticks, barbecue skewers, bungie cords, sawhorses, soldering irons;

because of tool sheds;

because of garages;

because of basements;

because of dungeons;

because of The Pit and the Pendulum;

because of the Tower of London;

because of the Inquisition;

because of the rack;

because of the cross;

because of the Addams Family playroom;

because of Morticia Addams and her black dress with its octopus legs;

because of motherhood;

because of Amazons;

because of the Goddess;

because of the moon;

because it's in my nature;

because it's against nature;

because it's nasty;

because it's fun;

because it flies in the face of all that's normal (whatever that is); because I'm not normal;

because I used to think that I was part of some vast experiment and that there was this implant in my penis that made me do these things and that allowed THEM (whoever THEY were) to monitor my activities;

because I had to take my clothes off and lie inside this plastic bag so the doctors could collect my sweat;

because once upon a time I had such a high fever that my parents had to strip me naked and wrap me in wet sheets to stop the convulsions;

because my parents loved me even more when I was suffering;

because surrender is sweet;

because I was born into a world of suffering;

because I'm attracted to it;

because I'm addicted to it;

because endorphins in the brain are like a natural kind of heroin;

because I learned to take my medicine;

because I was a big boy for taking it;

because I can take it like a man;

because, as somebody once said, HE'S GOT MORE BALLS THAN I DO;

because it is an act of courage;

because it does take guts;

because I'm proud of it;

because I can't climb mountains;

because I'm terrible at sports;

because NO PAIN, NO GAIN;

because SPARE THE ROD AND SPOIL THE CHILD;

because YOU ALWAYS HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE.

----

Por qué? Poema por Bob Flanagan

Porque se siente rico;

Porque me da una erección;

Porque me hace eyacular;

Porque yo digo A LA MIERDA CON LA ENFERMEDAD;

Porque me gusta la atención;

Porque estaba solo mucho;

Porque era diferente;

Porque los niños me pegaban cuando iba a la escuela;

Porque fue humillado por monjas;

Por(que) Cristo y la crucifixión;

Por(que) Porky atado, alimentado a fuerza por un tipo siniestro en una capa negra;

Por(que) los cuentos de niños colgados por sus muñecas;

Por(que) Motín a bordo;

Por(que) vaqueros e indios;

Por(que) Houdini;

Por(que) mi primo Cliff;

Por(que) los fuertes que hicimos y las cosas que hicimos adentro;

Por(que) lo que hay adentro de mí;

Por(que) mis genes;

Por(que) doctores y enfermeras;

Porque me ataron a la cuna para que no me hiciera daño a mi mismo;

Porque tenía tiempo para pensar;

Porque tenía tiempo para sostener mi pene;

Porque tenía dolores de estomago horribles y sostener mi pene me hacía sentir mejor;

Porque sentí que estaba por morir;

Porque me hace sentir invencible;

Porque me hace sentir triunfante;

Porque soy católico;

Porque aún me encanta la cuaresma, y aún me encanta mi pene, y a pesar de todo no me siento culpable;

Porque mis padres dijeron HAZ LO QUE QUIERES HACER, y esto es lo que quiero hacer;

Porque sólo soy un llorón, y quiero quedarme así, y quiero una mami para siempre, incluso una pesada, especialmente una pesada;

Por(que) todas las brujas de cuentos de hadas, y la madrastra malvada, y las hermanastras, y cuan guapa era Cenicienta, sucia de hollín, destinada a una vida de esclava;

Por(que) Hansel, encerrado en la jaula de la bruja, hasta que era lo suficiente gordo para comérselo;

Por(que) "O" y por cuan desesperadamente quería ser ella;

Por(que) mis sueños;

Por(que) los juegos que jugábamos;

Porque tengo una imaginación activa;

Porque mi madre me compraba Tinker Toys;

Porque las ferreterías me paran la polla;

Por(que) martillos, clavos, perritos para ropa, madera, candados, poleas, armellas, chinchetas, grapadoras eléctricas, agujas, cucharas de madera, anzuelos, cadenas, reglas de metal, tubos de goma, espátulas, cuerda, cordel, prensas, ganchos, navajos, tijeras, pinzas, cuchillos, chinches, palos, paletas de Ping Pong, pinzas de cocodrilo, cinta americana, escobabas, pinchos, elásticos, caballetes, sopletes;

Por(que) los cobertizos;

Por(que) los garajes;

Por(que) los sótanos;

Por(que) los mazmorras;

Por(que) la Torre de Londres;

Por(que) la Inquisición;

Por(que) el potro;

Por(que) la cruz;

Por(que) la sala de niños de la familia Addams;

Por(que) Morticia Addams y su vestido negro con piernas de pulpo;

Por(que) la maternidad;

Por(que) las Amazonas;

Por(que) la Diosa;

Por(que) la luna;

Porque para mí es natural;

Porque va en contra de lo que es natural;

Porque es indecente;

Porque es divertido;

Porque viola todo lo que es normal (lo que sea eso) porque yo no soy normal;

Porque en el pasado pensé que era parte de un gran experimento y que había un implante en mi pene que me hacía hacer estas cosas y que dejaba a ellos (sean cuales sean) controlar lo que hacían;

Porque necesitaba sacar toda mi ropa y yacer dentro de una bolsa plástica para que los doctores pudieran recolectar mi sudor;

Porque había una vez un incidente en que tenía una fiebre tan alta que mis padres sacaron toda mi ropa y me envolvieron en sábanas mojadas para parar mis convulsiones;

Porque mis padres me querían aún mas cuando estaba sufriendo;

Porque la sumisión es rica;

Porque nací en un mundo de sufrimiento;

Porque es atractivo;

Porque es adictivo;

Porque las endorfinas en el cerebro son como heroína natural;

Porque aprendí a tomar mi remedio;

Porque me portaba muy bien al tomarlo;

Porque lo aguanto como hombre;

Porque alguien una vez digo, TIENE MAS COJONES QUE YO;

Porque es un acto de coraje;

Porque hay que ser valiente;

Porque me hace orgulloso;

Porque no puedo subir montañas;

Porque soy pésimo para los deportes;

Porque el que quiere pescado que se moje;

Porque la letra con sangre entra;

Porque uno siempre daña al que ama.

#poem #bob flanagan #traducción español #Youtube

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simstorian-blog · 2 years ago

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Agave Abode

(CC List + Links)

World Map: Oasis Springs

Area: Bedford Strait

Lot Size: 20 x 15

(1-bedroom, 1 Bathroom)

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Used

Cats & Dogs

Eco Lifestyle

Get Famous

Growing Together

Horse Ranch

Island Living

Jungle Adventures

Laundry Day

Strangerville

Build Mode

Felixandre – Chateau Pt. 2 (Marble Floor)

Felixandre – London (Paneling)

Harrie – Kwatei Pt. 1

LittleDica – Eco Kitchen (Upcycled Tile)

Buy Mode

Anye – Neomy Pillow

BlueTeas – Sheer Curtains

CharlyPancakes – Miscellanea (Book Collection)

CharlyPancakes – Telly TV (Modern Frame)

ClutterCat – Dandy Diary Bathroom (Small Mirror)

Felixandre – Florence Pt. 3 (Blob Mirror)

Harlix – Harluxe (AC control, Bed Base, Side table Left + Right)

Harlix – Kichen (Glasses)

Harlix – Livin’ Rum (All Glasses, Book Stand, Tiny Objects Tray, Tray)

Harlix – Orjanic Pt. 2 (Bench w. Blankets, Curtains + Rod)

Harrie – Shop The Look 1 (Armchair)

KiwiSims4 – Blockhouse Dining (Mirror)

KiwiSims4 – Blockhouse Kitchen (Oranges)

KiwiSims4 – Tui Dining (Round Table)

Ledger Atelier – Mohan Living Pt. 2 (Leyden Fireplace)

Littledica – Sleek Slumber (Bed Backing Desk)

Madlen – Niels (Bottles 2)

Myshunosun – Daria Bedroom (Double Mattress)

Pierisim – David’s Apartment Pt. 1 | 2 | 3

Pierisim – Domaine Du Clos Pt. 4 (Board w Tomatoes)

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 1 (SimStudio Display)

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 2 (Concrete Vase, Plant)

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 3

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 4 (All Pasta Jars)

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 5

Pierisim – Tilable (Accent Shelves)

Pierisim – Winter Garden (Old Rug)

Pierisim – Woodland Pt. 1 (Rug)

Sooky88 – Leaning Framed Posters 4 Frames

Sundays – Kediri Pt. 1 (Throw Pillow Solids)

Sundays – Kuta Pt. 3 (Armchair)

Sundays – Mochi Pt. 2 (Wall Sconce)

Sundays – Nisaki Pt. 3 (Throw Pillow)

Sundays – Sumba Pt. 1 (Duvet, Pillow Set I & II, Throw Blanket)

Syboubou – Advent 2022 (Ceiling Lamp)

Townie Project – Moderno (Throw Pillow)

Tuds – Casa Caipira (Duct Stove, Wood Burning Stove)

Tuds – Cave (Panel Lights)

Tuds – Ind 02 (Wine Rack)

Tuds – Turn Living (Couch)

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: Download

#simstorian #the sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 #cc #ts4 simblr #build #sims 4 build #oasis springs #agave abode #bedford strait #mid centruy modern #blacksimmer

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oudandleather · 1 year ago

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i’m outside london in the middle of nowhere but the house has a wood burning stove so i’m warm and content

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dnickels · 10 months ago

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It is an instructive irony of English political history that the Houses of Parliament were burned down not by revolutionaries but by bureaucrats. In 1834, John Phipps, an assistant surveyor for London in the Office of Woods and Forests, was tasked with finding more office space in the cluttered Exchequer buildings at Westminster. He discovered that a whole suite of rooms was being used for the storage of old tally-sticks, great stacks of obsolete financial records notched on wood. The tallies were ‘entirely useless’, according to the Treasury. Phipps and his colleague Richard Weobley came up with an economical solution: they would send the tallies, two cartloads’ worth of fiscal kindling, as extra fuel for the stoves under the House of Lords. The Times leader the next day called the conflagration, which began when two stoves ignited, a ‘spectacle of terrible beauty’.

#the LRB is fuuuuuuuuucking back

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writer59january13 · 1 year ago

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I hanker and pine for wood burning stove weather

I haint no spring chicken, ("Buk buk buk buk ba-gawk!") but in Summer re:

long in tooth sexagenarian

nostalgic for the following imagery evoked yesterday with very little effort (aside from sweat of my brow – just existing)

June twenty second hazy, hot, and humid

at least here within the environs -

of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania

tooth thousand and twenty four,

the air analogous to a steam bath outside, though such insight

strictly predicated on meteorologist as seen on the flat screen.

Now before scrolling down lemme forewarn you of dire prediction reading about how yours truly doth suspire for Old Man Winter

returning with a vengeance

delivering a white July Fourth, Halloween,

Thanksgiving, Christmas,

Groundhog Day, Saint Patrick's Day...

yours truly desiring experiencing

becoming comfortably numb,

after envisioning, invoking then summoning forth cold spell.

Should deep freeze rain (reign)

crystalline precipitation pure as the driven snow

blanketing large swaths of webbed wide world

wreaking havoc courtesy unparalleled blizzard conditions,

would stump and confound earth scientists

suddenly finding themselves pensively trumped subsequently becoming overnight skeptics and staunch Republicans to boot - argh,

who grudgingly, hesitatingly scrap

what seemed to be

irrefutable air tight evidence

with reams of data proving global warming and side with deniers –

mostly non Democrats

courtesy artificial intelligence hinting at inexplicable significant ice age approaching,

barreling, and coming fast as a freight train virtual models prognostication

would show Polar Vortex

engulfing the entire planet clamping down hard

much of the United States

likely a couple short months in the future,

forecasting temperatures to register absolute zero

taxing the electric grids to heat lovely bones chilling, freezing, immobiling civilization, whereby

government agencies regularly issuing permanent code blue declarations,

which teeth chattering cold scenario

impossible mission to imagine or avoid with wind chill factors in triple digits

Jack Frost overstayed courtesy welcome,

when climate controlled central heater allows, enables and provides man/woman made respite hooray,

apartment cozy as a poetry nook,

whereby yours truly his head he doth lay (under crocheted blanket)

quickly slipping into deep sleep; the missus (madre) and her padre

(me) taking a siesta until spring

in my dream I take treadway

from such new zzz land

to Piccadilly Circus, London,

welcoming me to early twentieth century

balmy weather all year round place named Willoughby, where one

unnecessary to get bundled

and wrapped up –

like a mummy dearest

kvetching in vain at frigid forecast oy vey,

where surveillance cameras take x-ray

of suspicious character - Not Me,

while actually in reality outside apartment B44

one after another Nor'easter howls like bajillion banshees

vents wind chill factor

as temperature dips into low double digits as high,

and subzero higher negative number as a low,

I summon (with a puff) fire breathing friendly quasi magic dragon,

an acceptable and laughable substitute

calls for none other than Barney purple anthropomorphic

Tyrannosaurus Rex dinosaur.

Though a non-smoker of cigarettes, I discover pleasure slowly puffing on my pipe, and chose one at random from among the collection

made of briar wood, meerschaum,

corncob, pear-wood, rose-wood or clay listening to crackling flickering hearth,

yours truly snuggling (curled up in a little ball) with favorite reading material close proximity warming, thawing, and quelling lovely bones.

For no particular rhyme nor reason I lapse into a reverie and hear the brutal and nasty wind plaintively howling the song Molly Malone

her lilting voice distinctly heard Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"

Meanwhile atavistic visitations hover after hypnotizing mindscape

of twenty first century Homo sapien as flashback visions of proto humans commingling with competing

short and nasty brutes brushes within subconscious purring, mew zing catacombs

jump/kick starting, harkening, dawning lion eyes zing

thawing ordinarily dormant memories,

where forebears alive bajillion years ago battle him of the republic

thumping their chests

and uttering primal sounds

against vastly outnumbered predators, who make mincemeat of weakest warbler similar to contemporary beastie boy punk bands

survival of the fittest

linkedin to anonymous

Monkey's Uncle recherché representatives toehold barely latched precarious niche easily activated punctuated equilibrium evolutionary quirk

imperceptibly bumped uglies begot robust progeny

offspring expanding comfort zones penumbra expanding edge of night dark shadows receding further

outer limits of twilight zone

phantasmagoric shifting shapes (hint... think Plato's Republic in general –

and Allegory of the Caves in particular - synonymous with Allegory of the Metals)

alluring, beckoning, daring...

establishing, foraging, growing...

harvesting, invoking, jabbering

kowtowing, livingsocial, Ashley Madison matchmaking tinder (ha)...

now lemme zip forward back to the future bajillion years somewhere in time circa 1970's British comedy troupe

nudge nudge wink wink,

say no more know what I mean courtesy Monty Python's Flying Circus

rollicking humorous sketches

oft times tackling primal urges

proto humans initially verbally grunted,

where guffawing laughter

rewarded survivalist basic instinct

temporarily staving rabid quivering premonitions outside

creature comfort boundaries, whereby Geico Caveman

will remain till... dis ember

by George thoroughly good appetizer, viz good chilled Wren plus

Pheasant under glass

burns away hunger pangs.

0 notes

stovebayno · 1 year ago

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Unlocking Efficiency and Style with Arada Stoves: A Look into the Arada Lagom, Arada Hoxton 7, and Arada M Series

In the realm of home heating solutions, few names stand out quite like Arada Stoves. With a reputation for innovation, efficiency, and timeless design, Arada has become synonymous with quality in the world of stoves. Among their impressive lineup, the Arada Lagom, Arada Hoxton 7, and Arada M Series shine as prime examples of the brand's commitment to excellence.

Arada Lagom: Finding the Perfect Balance

When it comes to striking a balance between performance and aesthetics, the Arada Lagom reigns supreme. This compact yet powerful stove embodies the Swedish concept of "lagom," meaning "just the right amount." Designed to provide optimal heat output while maintaining an understated elegance, the Lagom is the epitome of efficiency and style.

With its clean lines and minimalist design, the Lagom seamlessly complements any modern or traditional living space. Whether you're cozying up in a countryside cottage or adding warmth to a contemporary apartment, this versatile stove delivers both charm and functionality.

But it's not just about looks—the Arada Lagom packs a punch when it comes to heating performance. Equipped with advanced combustion technology, this stove ensures efficient fuel consumption and consistent warmth. Say goodbye to chilly nights and hello to snug comfort, courtesy of Arada's engineering prowess.

Arada Hoxton 7: Where Tradition Meets Innovation

For those who appreciate the timeless appeal of a classic wood-burning stove, the Arada Hoxton 7 is a true gem. With its traditional design elements and modern features, this stove offers the best of both worlds. Named after the vibrant Hoxton district in London, known for its eclectic blend of old and new, the Hoxton 7 captures the essence of contemporary living.

Crafted from high-quality materials and built to last, the Hoxton 7 exudes elegance and charm. Whether you're gathered around with loved ones or enjoying a quiet evening alone, the mesmerizing flames of this stove create a captivating focal point in any room.

But don't let its classic appearance fool you—the Arada Hoxton 7 is equipped with cutting-edge technology to enhance efficiency and performance. With its clean-burn system and airwash technology, this stove ensures minimal emissions and maximum heat output, making it both environmentally friendly and cost-effective.

Arada M Series: Power and Precision Combined

When it comes to heating larger spaces or achieving ultimate control over your heating environment, the Arada M Series rises to the occasion. Engineered for maximum power and precision, these stoves deliver unparalleled performance and versatility.

Whether you opt for the Mk2 with its sleek, contemporary design or the Ecoburn Plus, featuring advanced multifuel capabilities, the M Series offers something for every discerning homeowner. From cozying up on cold winter nights to enjoying alfresco gatherings on brisk autumn evenings, these stoves provide reliable warmth and comfort year-round.

With features like airwash technology, adjustable airflow controls, and optional extras such as a direct air supply kit, the Arada M Series puts you in the driver's seat when it comes to heating your home. Experience the perfect blend of power and precision with Arada's flagship line of stoves.

In conclusion, whether you're drawn to the understated elegance of the Arada Lagom, the timeless appeal of the Arada Hoxton 7, or the power and precision of the Arada M Series, one thing is clear: Arada Stoves is synonymous with quality, innovation, and style. With their commitment to excellence and dedication to customer satisfaction, it's no wonder StoveBay is the go-to choice for discerning homeowners everywhere.

#arada-lagom

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asidian · 1 year ago

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DBDA Meta Commentary Roundup

Okay, I'm getting tired of scrolling back to find my own posts, so it's time for a roundup post for my DBDA meta commentary.

Meta Commentary:

Why you should watch Dead Boy Detectives

Charles is a people pleaser

A very large snake as a reference to hell

The same lantern

Edwin knows the Misery Wraiths a bit too well

Why Charles is upset by more than just jealousy re: Monty

The white kimono

How Crystal and Charles' character arcs intersect to make an absolute trash fire

You can talk to me about anything

Edwin's hidden kindness as Charles dies

Edwin's hangups re: emotion and how it ties into his time in hell

The silliest Clue edition

The Cat King's design changes when he starts a new life

Counting cats

Where is the Doll House

Edwin and Charles acting like they've known each other forever in tiny details

Esther has the cops in her pocket

The lantern scenes as an extension of the theme "The good you do comes back around"

Why Charles opens up to Crystal so quickly

Payneland endgame nods through leitmotifs in the soundtrack

Charles is super sensitive to criticism, even when it's not intended

The Season 2 in my heart

The hidden nod to history in the WWI ghost's makeup

Why Charles' death is so much worse than it seems

The brilliance of the first ten minutes

The ship of all time

The incredible women of Dead Boy Detectives

Edwin's bowtie

Crystal and Charles as mirrors and projections

Bi disaster Charles Rowland

Edwin can knit

Chekhov's snake-slaying sword

Murder night movie time

Why Charles was more of a hero than he knew

What the doll placement says about Edwin's many deaths

Charles smiles for other people

The absolute fridge horror of That One Gate in hell

The only good thing generative AI has ever done

The wood-burning stove as part of Charles' cold trauma

Charles is so very brave for walking into hell

Charles' bad decision face

Edwin complimenting Crystal as a kindness to Charles

Charles' something-is-going-to-be-difficult tell Charles Rowland appreciation hours

Crystal's two character arcs

Niko's fear of death and her own mortality

Mick is great

How Edwin speaks of hell as character growth A reminder of home The secret in Jenny and Maxine's wine label

Set Design:

Charles' room

The London office

The boys' detective license and its source

Tragic Mick's shop

Niko's room

Cameos:

The boys' early relationship and how they've influenced each other

What the boys do together in their downtime as leisure activities

A brief in-character skit of an ordinary day at the office

Tidbits about the characters that didn't make it into the show

Input in developing Edwin as a character and suggested changes Imagining a Valentine's ep and Charles' thoughts on the holiday

Imagining a Valentine's ep and Edwin's thought on The Holiday

Color Symbolism:

Red

Blue

Pink

Green

Green (alt)

Purple

Orange

Brown

Black

White

#dead boy detectives #dbda #edwin payne #charles rowland #crystal palace #niko sasaki #tragic mick #esther finch #the cat king #payneland #meta commentary #set design

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londonchimneyliners · 2 years ago

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Wood Burner & Burning Stoves Installation in London London Chimney Liners provide wood burner and burning stoves installation at affordable prices. For more information and to hire us, dial: 0800 118 2129.

#StovesInstallationLondon #BurningStovesInstallationLondon

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profitable-tips-for-you · 7 years ago

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Buy an Environmental Stove, Upgrade To An Eco-Friendly Model

We are in the world with modern technologies which are growing in its way day by day. In addition to that, the general public’s also become more aware of the economic concerns and trying to move to an eco-friendly way of life.

More than one million British families make use of wood stoves to warm their cockles during the winter season. But, the recent announcement says that the government has…

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#Chimney sweep #Eco-Friendly Stoves #Environmental Stove #stove installation #stoves installation london #wood burning stoves #wood stoves

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sakamaki-paramour · 2 years ago

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~Once a coward, always a coward~

Ominis Gaunt x MC *With a hint of pining Puffskein Dunkein* SLIGHT NSFW in this part!

The door slammed behind you with a reverberating clash as you stepped out onto the cobbled stones that lined the street in front of your home. You were angry. Infuriated. You stormed along the pathway, turning to move into the alley way that lead to the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross Road, the old brickwork of the building calming your racing heart a little as it came into view. You did so love the ancient little pub.

Stepping through the threshold, you took a sobering glance around the room at the clientele, an eclectic range of witches and wizards old and young, (mostly old, if you were being honest) gossiping amongst their groups and laughing jovially. More than once, you witnessed sprays of liquid sloshing out of silver goblets and splattering over the tables (and people). The sight caused you to chuckle, momentarily forgetting your fury. You soured once more, thinking back not fifteen minutes ago to the heated argument that you'd had with your obstinate husband.

Ominis wasn't usually the type to become angry, especially not toward you. And especially not over something as god-damned insignificant as an owl from Duncan Hobhouse.

You scoffed incredulously to yourself, pulling up your long, green skirts in order to slide comfortably into a quiet booth in the corner of the pub. Resting your chin in the palm of your hand, your eyes scanned around the stuffy room again. The fingers on your free hand tapped against the wood , betraying your inner irritation. You thought of Ominis again and to the cause of your argument with a grimace.

*Earlier that day*

He stepped through the door of your lovely London apartment that morning, after quite a gruelling night shift at the Ministry, making his way through to your earthy and open kitchen. He could smell the strong scent of fresh basil leaves, knowing that you loved to grow the little herb and dot them about the place.

You smiled as you saw him enter the room, moving into his space gently to lean up and press a soft kiss against his sparsely freckled cheek.

A sigh left his lips, and he wound his arms around your waist with a smile, resting his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled your floral scent. He pressed his lips against the pulse at your throat, and your heart rate increased rapidly.

"Rough night, my love?"

Ominis pulled his mouth away from your skin reluctantly, and you took his cool hand in yours, leading him over to sit at the little table in the corner of your kitchen. He sat down, another sigh falling from him as he ran his long fingers through his fair hair.

Ominis worked in the Muggle Laison Office, ensuring that any official business of the Wizarding World that may or may not affect the day to day life of muggles passed by smoothly and without issue. As of late, he'd reluctantly taken over a few jobs that had required him to work overnight, hence the early arrival that morning.

"You have no idea. Fenwick bloody Taylorson somehow managed to reveal something quite confidential to some lower members of the muggle parliament whilst rip-roaringly drunk on a drink that they call 'gin'. Obviously, he neglected to obliviate the muggles, and I was called in to hunt them down again and perform the task! How he's still employed in our office I shall never understand."

You squeezed his hand sympatetically, a chuckle falling from your lips as you moved to the stove, the whistling sound of the teapot that sat there drawing your attention away.

"Fenwick is a bit of a dullard, always has been. What on earth is he doing getting drunk with muggles? That's a dangerous combination right there."

You removed the teapot from the heat, hissing slightly when you accidentally brushed your thumb over the burning steel. Ominis snapped his head in your direction, sensitive hearing alerting him to the sound of your pain.

"Did you burn yourself, darling? Are you alright?"

You smiled over at the exhausted man, affection flooding through your veins at his attentiveness. You continued to pour the hot water over a tea strainer into your favourite teacups, a beautiful little set that you'd received from Poppy Sweeting as a wedding gift. They were a white china adorned with tiny little golden snidgets, swirls of green and gold leaf patterning swirling around the birds and ending at the handle.

"You worry too much, Ominis. I only grazed the pot."

The blonde wizard scoffed a little from his seat, undoing the buttons of his forest green waistcoat as you carefully placed his earl grey tea down in front of him.

"My dear, given your track record and penchant for reckless behaviour, I do believe that I am quite entitled to "worry too much" about you. Remind me again what it is that you'll be undertaking at work in the morning?"

You laughed then, not even able to counter his 'reckless' comment. Given your affinity with magical creatures during your more turbulent years at Hogwarts, you had chosen to work with the Beasts Division of the Ministry. It seemed to fit. You never had fancied working inside a stuffy office, much preferring the great outdoors, not afraid to get your hands dirty.

"We need to help our female Graphorn give birth to her calf and then introduce the father to its new baby. Come now, Ominis, that hardly counts as reckless!"

You took a sip of your tea with a sigh, relishing in the citrus tang that hit your tongue. Ominis tutted stubbornly.

"Oh yes, I'm sure that dealing with one of the Wizarding Worlds most dangerous creatures, whilst in the throws of giving birth, will be as safe as gathering some honking daffodils!"

Your face shone with amusement as you pulled out your ebony wand, flicking it to the window to open the curtains there, letting in some of the morning suns rays. The warm beams of light hit your face, and you closed your eyes, feeling quite content.

"You know that I'm always careful, darling. I know what I'm doing."

You looked to your husband again, who was now leaning back against the wall, also basking in the warmth of the sunlight. Your heart flipped a somersault. Gods, he was beautiful.

"I know that you are perfectly capable at your job, MC. However, I do sometimes wish that all you had to deal with was something as simple as a puffskein."

A light flickered in your brain at his mention of the little fluffy creatures, eyes widening a fraction. You turned to pull open one of the kitchen drawers whilst Ominis was busy taking a sip of his tea. He could hear the rustling of papers and clinking of the various bric-a-brac that were muddled together in there.

"Aha! There it is."

You pulled out a neatly folded bit of parchment and opened it up, stepping towards the table and sliding it across the wooden surface so that Ominis could read it. Ominis placed his teacup back on its saucer and picked up his wand, preparing to go over the contents of the letter.

"It's from Duncan Hobhouse! You must remember him?"

Those were the words that started it all.

You continued to speak, failing to notice the rising iritation in your husband, his wand glowing red at its tip as he ran it over the parchment with a little more force than usual.

"He's asked if I'd meet with him tonight at The Leaky Cauldon for a catch-up. He actually works at a different branch of the Beast's division in Wales, believe it or not! Though I never took him as someone who'd end up working with creatures, if I'm honest."

You finished wiping down one of your side counters as you spoke before noticing Ominis' silence. The letter wasn't particularly long, so he should have finished reading it by now.

"You declined, I presume?"

He spoke with such a tone of finality that it halted you where you stood. You looked at him incredulously, trying to understand the meaning behind his assumption. He was frowning down at the parchment, fingers gripping into it so tightly it seemed as if he were holding back from ripping it up into tiny pieces.

"I did not decline, actually. It's been a good long while since I've seen him, and we were good friends at Hogwarts."

Ominis was glaring in your direction now, seemingly just as surprised at your answer as you were of his own. He crumpled the letter up in his palm and pointed his wand at its edge, muttering incendio. The parchment lit up in flames, disintegrating into nothing.

"You're not going, MC. I shan't allow it. Why on earth would you want to acquiesce a request to spend time with Puffskein bloody Dunkein!?"

It was your turn to frown now, your eyes narrowing in ire. Firstly, it irked you to no end that Ominis presumed that he had any say over whom you could meet and speak with.

Secondly, you had always hated that god-awful nickname that poor Duncan had to endure as a student. Yes the poor lad was known to be a bit introverted and afraid to step out of his comfort zones, and perhaps his fear of Puffskeins was a little bit silly, but you found the bullying to be completely unwarranted.

This was the reason that you had agreed to assist the boy when he'd approached you in the Defence against the Dark Arts tower that day. You'd completed the task at hand (not without a few stings left over from all of the bloody Devils Snare that lined the walls in that place) and handed over the largest Tentacula leaf that you'd ever come across. Of course, you'd also advised him with a smile that he should ignore all of the idiots that made fun of him in the halls, and perhaps it wouldn't hurt for him to learn to be a little braver. He'd thanked you profusely, face noticeably a shade darker, and then ran off to Merlin knows where.

You were brought out of your memories by a short, cold laugh from Ominis.

"I wonder if he's still as much of a coward as he used to be? If there was ever a reason for you to meet up with him again, it would be to find out that bit of gossip!"

You slapped the washcloth you were holding down onto the countertop, the reverberation causing the drying dishes there to clink together loudly. The sudden noise startled Ominis into silence, a sharp tension forming in the room as you glared at your husband dangerously.

"Ominis Gaunt."

Your voice was short and dangerous. You really disliked this side of the blonde man and only used his full name when you were particularly upset with him.

"Do you honestly still hold such animosity towards a fellow that you haven't even seen in over ten years? I know that you had some sort of issue with him at school, but I would like to remind you that he was, in fact, a good friend of mine. And I shan't listen to you slander him."

You folded your arms over your chest, awaiting his response. You did hope that he would relent in his behaviour. However, the part of you that knew your stubborn husband all too well was dubious about this.

Ominis scoffed loudly, shifting in his seat. He flattened his palms against the table to push himself into a standing position. He could feel the pressure of his wedding band digging into his finger as he did so. The frown had deepened into a scowl, his gaze boring into you from across the room.

"And what exactly, pray tell, do you believe was Hobhouse's reasoning for requesting MY wife's company this evening? And do not tell me that he simply wishes to "catch up" with you, as you stated. We both know that his intentions are below the board."

As much as a small flame ignited in you at the possessive way in which Ominis proclaimed you as his, you seethed with indignation at his underlying implications and stomped over to the tall man, jabbing a finger into his well toned chest.

"Just what are you implying, darling? Come now, don't be cryptic about it. You know that I have no patience for dancing around the issue. Say what it is you mean to say, for goodness sake!"

Your finger continued to press at his front, anger still evident all across your features. Ominis couldn't see your anger, but by Merlin, he could feel it. He brought a hand up to wrap around your petite wrist that was accosting his sternum, halting its movement. He dragged your hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips against the pad of your forefinger softly. It was barely a touch, but your traitorous body shivered involuntarily.

"MC, you must know that Hobhouse fancied you back in Hogwarts?"

He ghosted his mouth over your middle finger, and you tried to remain focused on your anger.

"You're being ridiculous, Ominis. Even if that were remotely true, why would that be an issue now? Do you think I'm going to take one look at the felllow and fall madly in love with him? Merlins beard! Prepare me a thestral and carriage, we're to elope at midnight!"

Ominis' face hardened, and he gripped at your waist tightly with his free hand. Even the hypothetical talk of Dunkein laying his lecherous eyes on his wife was enough to turn him into a ball of possessive rage. He leaned down to mouth a kiss at the thin skin along your wrist, the tip of his tongue running wetly across your quickening pulse. The hand at your waist pulled at your hips until they were pressed firmly against his, where you could feel his growing desire for you, pushing against the junction of your thigh.

You swallowed deeply, trying to will away your own arousal that showed its tell-tale signs in your abdomen. There was no way you were letting him fuck his way out of your bad books.

Taking a step away from the solid press of Ominis' form, no easy task due to his vice grip, you took a sobering breath and spoke firmly up at him.

"I've already replied and accepted Duncans request, Ominis. I'm heading out to meet him this evening at around seven. I would appreciate your understanding, at the very least."

~End of PT.1~

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