#sad wet welsh man

[suis0u]

Still a work in progress, it's slow but I'm working on stuff!

[theoldsports]

yes.

remus lupin x reader. 2k words.

drunk behavior, drinking, smoking, marijuana, mentions of death, vaguely nsfw.

It was cold and wet out. It was usually cold and wet just outside of London, but especially tonight. All there was to be done was read and sit unmovingly still while the rain pattered against the windows agonizingly. Tonight, [Y/N] was immersed in the pages of a muggle novel a friend from home had mailed. An Issac Asimov novel. It was pretty dense. There was a stiff glass of whiskey on the coffee table next to a stack of magazines and some pamphlet she’d been handed on the street.

[Y/N] thoughts kept drifting away from the pages of her book to her plants outside. She would surely have to drain them well after this. What a pain. She had a sip of whiskey. Another sip was sure to follow. On the second sip, she thought about Remus Lupin.

Remus Lupin was beginning to become a problem.

Another thing [Y/N] had stationed on the coffee table was the telephone that few of her friends rung up on. Remus was one of them. And Remus had stopped calling. It wasn’t as if she were counting the days, but it surely had been near a month since Remus last called.

It wasn’t as if he had to call over either. He didn’t most summers they were growing up. But it was different now because the world was different now. It was courtesy to call so you knew who was still alive. His name and jagged, scraggly face hadn’t appeared in any obituaries. [Y/N] was sad to consider that these were the sort of days where you had to check the obituaries.

She wouldn’t have had to check the obituaries if he would call.

Maybe she had done something wrong that made Remus not want to call. There was no particular event she could remember. She couldn’t remember the last time she’s seen him so why recall the last interaction. She downed the rest of the glass of whiskey next to the phone on the coffee table and abandoned the book with it too. There was no focusing now. There was only the steady rain against the windows to serve as a metronome for listing off her own shortcomings.

Ultimately, it wasn’t as if Remus had to call because it wasn’t like he was hers, or something. He was a friend.

But didn’t friends call?

There was a particularly huge crack of thunder. [Y/N] was not a fan of that.

Then there was a pounding knock at the door. The kind of knock one hears before the SWAT team swings in through the windows in films. Every hair on her body stood up.

She thought about the obituaries.

[Y/N] procured her wand and attempted to walk silently towards the door (with a charmed chain and a deadbolt). She leaned into the peephole.

And then undid the chains and deadbolts in a flash.

“RJ?”

Sure enough, Remus John “RJ” Lupin looked back at her, bruised and scabbed more than he normally was.

“Hi. I have to tell you something.” He slurred.

With a wand still extended, [Y/N] still had something to do. “RJ, tell me the last time you called me.”

Remus’s big green eyes widened and rolled back as he tried to remember. The only thing he could think about was how he had promised to call.

But he hadn’t.

His wet hair hung around his eyes, under which bruises were beginning to form and swell. His eyes were clear as the eyes of an intoxicated man could be, though. Remus’s thick Welsh accent always got thicker when he was drinking and he muttered:

“I don’t know, [Y/N]. I last saw you three weeks ago. You smoked with me behind Three Broomsticks. But I’m thinking I was probably supposed to’ve called you at least a week ago, hm?”

[Y/N] lowered her wand. The Three Broomsticks. That was when she last saw the tall boy. How could she have forgotten? He’d leaned over and kissed her right on the mouth between puffs on a joint. And he’d said I’ll call you next week and we can go for drinks. If you’ll have me. “Alright, get in.” So much for memorable.

She grabbed Lupin by his jacket collar and pulled him in. He was a little unsteady on his feet. She helped the man discard his shabby wet coat to the coat rack beside the door. He’d once said it would be a useless purchase. Fuck him. “I thought you died,” she smirked. [Y/N] stepped back to look at him properly.

Aside from his old, alluring scars he hated so much, there was a black eye beginning to form, a split lip, and a handprint on his neck. That was just what was visible. Merlin…

“You look—“

“Ah, ah. You should see the other guy.”

She hit him hard on the arm. Remus winced with an ‘oi, watch it.’

“‘The bloody hell happened to you, RJ?”

There was a second of silence. “Uh. You did, sort of. But listen, I have to—.”

“Me?”

She had been assuming this was something he’d done to himself, out of his own control as always. But he wouldn’t normally show up on her doorstep after a full moon gone awry. She didn’t think it had even been a full moon.

“I mean. It was my fault. You didn’t do anything. I did. Obviously,” Remus sighed. “Jeez. Fuck me, do you mind if I smoke in ‘ere?”

“‘Course not,” [Y/N] moved toward the kitchen counter and pulled herself up on it. “You can have a smoke after you come over here and let me clean you off. Rem, really.”

Remus already had a cigarette halfway out of the pack and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He rolled his eyes, but left the pack on the counter as he limped over. Remus look like he hurt everywhere. The state of his sleeves revealed some unfortunate bruising on his knuckles and hands. His dirty boots lead him across the carpet to the tile of the flat kitchenette where [Y/N] sat. His eyes were ringed red, but his brow still seemed determined.

“So you got into a fight the muggle way with some bloke? You went to a muggle bar or something?”

Remus couldn’t meet [Y/N]’s eyes while she soaked a rag in warm tapwater and started cleaning off his cuts and nicks.

“I went to the Leaky Cauldron with James. We just wanted a few drinks. I promised I’d speak with him about… But I also wanted to ask him his opinion on… But, shit, see, I—“

“You smoke a lot tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“You can barely string a sentence together. You’re getting muck on my tile. You smell like pot.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, sweetheart.” He took a step closer and pressed his thighs on the counter that separated them.

[Y/N] lowered the rag. This was more unusual still. Remus wasn’t a particularly direct person. And he didn’t do petnames. He only acted in a vaguely meaningful way when he was stoned. And when sunrise came, he would clam up and dodge phone calls again. Remus would be gone in a cloud of cigarette smoke before [Y/N] even woke up.

“What’s your problem, Remus,” she said. Remus raised an eyebrow. She only ever called him RJ, really. “You’re my best friend, you like me, you ignore me and then you show up at,” she glanced at her watch. “Almost one in the morning so I can patch you up because you got into a scuffle with some guy that doesn’t like Velvet Underground, or because Sirius needed backup. Or what. I can’t keep doing this.”

Remus sighed and put his hands on either side of her on the counter. He dropped the act as he leaned his battered body back and away from [Y/N]. “Remember Rosier?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

“He was at the Cauldron tonight. And I was talking about how the fuck I’m supposed to try to land you, and Rosier… He comes over to me and James. He wouldn’t shut up about you. Your looks, blood-status, your… body,” Remus lifted his gaze to meet [Y/N]’s. Carnal. “I couldn’t take it. I wanted to murder him.”

[Y/N] halved a smirk and lifted the rag to his face again. “I’m sure you did.” She said has he pushed her hand away.

“[Y/N], I’m not going to just sit there and let some posh tosser talk about the girl I’ve wanted since I was fifteen. I just… I felt like I blacked out and then Prongs was pulling me off and… And I walked here.”

“You’re crossed. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Would you fuckin’ listen to me!” Remus shouted. “Stop deflecting. I’m the one that deflects. Please. I’m tryna tell you that I met up with my childhood best mate because I wanted to ask him for some help. Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to take you out for years and I get too scared, or too stoned, or in my head or not enough. Whatever. Please. I’m talking too much.”

[Y/N] eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty. “Please what, RJ?”

“Please let me kiss you proper.”

“And then what?”

“I…”

[Y/N] sighed. Remus always put up this front of emotionlessness. Cool and breezy. He was the unreadable one in his miserable band of brothers in school and he still was. “I’m sorry, lemme just patch you up and you can take the floo.”

“No. Let me stay here. And let me keep coming back. And… and I dunno, let me take care of you. Take you to the cinema. And buy you tickets to the Spinning Goblins show you were talking about. Listen to you complain about that asshole from the shop. Oh, and go to work parties with you. And, like, share an ashtray with you. All the normal stuff. I’ve wanted that since I was a kid. Don’t make me wait any longer. It’s my own fault I’ve waited so long. If you’ll have me.”

“Will you be here when I wake up? Or are you just gonna keep dodging me?”

Remus blinked. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then kiss me proper.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” [Y/N] rolled her eyes and grabbed Remus’s shirt collar that peered out from underneath his jumper and pulled his lips onto her own. He was damp and tasted strongly of cigarettes, marijuana and the pints and firewhiskey he’d downed. But the smell of his shampoo and parchment lingered. He always smelled of old parchment and his fingers were always stained with ink. [Y/N] had always wondered what he was writing all the time.

Those same bruised and ink-stained fingers came around the back of [Y/N] neck to tangle in her hair, holding her impossibly tighter. Remus’s grip was vice-like and permanent. His mouth was pressed against hers so completely that they would be one person if he were any closer. He wanted to prove how badly he wanted this and that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“‘Want you.” He muttered against the lips that were growing to be as bruised as his.

“Why, Mr. Lupin...”

Remus kissed down her neck desperately slow. “No, shut it. Not even like… I just… want you. All of you,” he murmured between kisses. “I want you to be mine. Or the other way ‘round. For real.”

[Y/N] let out a moan as his lips met her collarbone. Her fingers slid down his spine. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. You want me to say it again?”

“Yes.” She felt the word vibrate against her chest.

“YES.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

As Remus kissed his way across the plane of her chest back to her mouth, she stopped him before one last kiss. “Come on, dry clothes and a smoke. Then bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow?”

“That so?”

[Y/N] laughed. Merlin, he loved that sound. Clear as church bells with a gentle wheeze. “Yes.”

“What’s on the agenda?” He smiled dumbly.

“Making up for lost time, stupid… Just… Say yes.”

[blueberry-ovaries]

no one asked for it but here it is!

My ranking on which Band of Brothers characters I think i could beat in a fight:

for context i am 5”4, like 60kg soaking wet, but filled with rage and self belief - my entire fighting ability is based solely on the fact i grew up as the only girl and learnt to fight dirty

Dick Winters: First and foremost. I would NOT fight this man, i feel like it would be like hitting my mum, he just gives me disappointed mum vibes. secondly, i have no doubt that man can fight, and i would be folded like a deck chair - HOWEVER: i feel like he would help me stop the nose bleed i would get from him breaking my nose

Lewis Nixon: I feel like i could beat nix in a fight, just something about him screams like he would not be able to fight in like an anything goes street style fight? maybe it’s the Yale student in him.

Carwood Lipton: Again, i feel like it would be like hitting my dad. Also i know that man would be able to kick the shit out of me. Like we saw his arms in the baseball scene? yeah. no way would i be able to beat that man in a fight

Ronald Spiers: I wouldn’t even attempt to fight that man. He would rock my shit. There is no doubt about it. I may be delusional but i’m not THAT delusional

Harry Welsh: I feel like this one would be pretty easy, and i think i would win. Like he’s a loveable guy yaknow? but also if i had to i would beat him. However, i would probably feel pretty bad about it if im being honest

Joe Liebgott: now, i understand this man is probably like a foot taller than me, and very angry. BUT. i feel like this a a 50/50, in the sense that i feel if i could get him onto my level, it would a fair fight. HOWEVER, i feel this man would fight dirty if need be.

Joe Toye: no way. nuh uh. we’ve all seen his arms, they are bigger than my head, his brass knuckles?! yeah no way would i win that fight.

Bill Guarnere: again, i feel like this is similar to Joe Toye, in the fact that i feel like this man is filled with a lot of rage and would definitely knock me on my ass. Like i would put up a fight and maybe get a few punches in but, he would put me on my ass fs

George Luz: no offence but i would for sure win. Like love George but, if i had to fight him, i would win. But i don’t think i would ever want to fight George, look at that face and tell me you would want to harm it

Skip Muck: look at that face and tell me you would want to hit it. I would however win, i feel like there isn’t much height advantage for him to have, and even if there was i am used to fighting people bigger than me. So in short, yea i would win but i would feel bad about it

Don Malarkey: hasn’t he been through enough!? But seriously though, i think he would probably win based on arm size alone. Like he would crush me with his arms, even if i could fight back.

Frank Perconte: i would win. no doubt in my mind. That’s not saying this man wouldn’t be scrappy, because he gives me scrappy vibes, but i would win this one.

Babe Heffron: My beloved, my special guy, my pookie, i would NEVER. However, i think it would be a pretty 50/50 fight if i was able to get him to my level. That is if my ass wasn’t kicked my Bill first.

Bull Randleman: look at me. look at me. Bull Randleman would rock my shit. I would be folded like a pretzel. He would knock me on my ass, and most definitely brake a bone in my face. Look at him!!!!

Shifty Powers: it would feel like punching a sad little puppy :( i don’t want to fight him! Like i physically don’t think i would even fight him, and i feel he would feel bad if he hit me… maybe we go out for breakfast and don’t fight

David Webster: now i have full faith in my ability to beat this man in a fight. I feel he would be a pretentious harvard man and i would definitely be able to beat him, especially if it’s an anything goes brawl.

Johnny Martin: This man would eradicate me with a single death glare. He is TIRED of everyone’s shit, and i think he would use that to just decimate me off the face of the earth.

Chuck Grant: Now, we’re talking pre head wound chuck, he would probably beat me, PROBABLY. I feel like that man would fight dirty, but there would be a chance for me to win. So maybe like a 70/30 chance his way?

Floyd Talbert: This man would flirt his way to victory. He would make me turn red at the compliments and sweet talking and i just would not be able to fight him. And to be honest, i would let him

Eugene Roe: Again, i would NEVER want to fight this man, he has been through enough!!! But the fact he would be able to throw me like a sack of potatoes would wound my ego severely. Like dude is strong! he’s carrying around injured people all day! Which means he would most definitely win.

Buck Compton: This one’s a tricky one for me to say, i want to say he would win. BUT, i feel like he would fight fair yaknow? So maybe if i caught him off guard and like, bite him maybe i would win? But who knows for sure.

Skinny Sisk: This man has to deal with Web and Lieb. HE IS TIRED!!! I would not fight him based on the fact that he needs a break. Give him a break. BUT i think it would be pretty 50/50, he seems beatable but also seems like he could kick my ass yaknow?

[ofstoriesandstardust]

chapter 6 - hate to be lame but i might love you (b.r.b)

a/n: sorry still no happy ending yet!! it’s gonna get worse before it gets better hehe!! thank you to @struggling-with-delia​ who read the first draft, rightfully told me it was shit, and helped me create this.

summary: Rooster and Maverick have a heart to heart. 

title comes from finneas and lizzy mcalpine’s “hate to be lame”

main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist | flight risk masterlist | chapter 5 - same boat | chapter 7 - discussions, divorces, and decisions (oh my!)

folks who wanted to be tagged: @justanothermagicalsara​ @fangirl-316​ @herladyshipxx​ @parker-natasha​ @myhomeworksnotdone​ @pulisvertz​ @lass-that-is-gone​ @frenchtoastix​ @coco-loco-nut​ @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy​ @torresbarnes​ @supernaturaldawning​ @you-had-me-at-dead-welsh-kings​ @katiemcrae​ @gretagerwigsmuse​ @the-winter-marvel33​ @some-lovely-day​ @unordinare​ @hotch-meeeeeuppppp​ @annedub​ @hope-love-equality2​ @coyotesamachado​ @hopefulinlove​ @mak-32​ @daisyhollyxox​ @loveforaugust​ @earth-to-lottie​ @sometimesanalice @cheezit-bradshawseresin​ @none-of-your-bullshit​ @jstarr86​ @caatheeriinee07​

warnings: swearing, alcohol, canon death/near death experiences

word count: 1,932

His thumb runs over the slowly peeling label on the beer bottle as the condensation makes the sticker wet. The beer is starting to warm, making him cringe as he takes small sips of the liquid, trying to keep his thoughts at bay. 

He tries to not let his mind wander too much, to not replay the last few days over on an endless loop in his head as they have been. He tries to focus on the sound of something, to latch on to any other thoughts than the silence haunting his home. 

It’s futile, the bar far too quiet for his liking. There’s only a few patrons, making background noise nothing but a low murmur. His crew has yet to arrive, leaving him with only his thoughts and no distraction. 

He tries not to think about the last time he was here, when another officer from base had flirted with you, buying you drinks and chatting you up. How he had been able to do little but watch as this man tried to feign interest in lending you a shoulder to cry on regarding your divorce. 

He knew what the man really wanted, knew what he was after. 

You’d been nothing but polite to the man, showing no real interest, but Bradley couldn’t help the jealousy that had sparked in his gut, wanting nothing more than to go over there and show the man just who you belonged to. 

Despite the strong urge to march over there and intervene, to stop it, to tell you just how much he loved you, he reminded himself that it was he who had asked for the divorce since the beginning. Had pushed for it, in an effort to not hurt you. 

He was afraid he was pushing you right out of his life.

He can’t unhear the way you had begged him to just look at you on the drive home. He can’t unhear the crack in your voice as you promised you weren’t the one who had spread the news about the divorce, that you never wanted his private life to become so public to his colleagues. 

He didn’t know how to tell you that it wasn’t you. That it wasn’t because others on the base had found out about the divorce. That it had long since been public knowledge ever since Fritz had drunkenly blabbed to another pilot that wasn’t it so sad.

He didn’t know how to tell you he couldn’t look at you without grabbing you by your shirt and kissing you silly. He couldn’t look you in the eye and not tell you that he loved you, tell you that you were all he ever wanted. 

Things had been weird since the night of the gala, since the two of you had stood on the precipice of almost in his hallway. 

But that night last week had made things go from awkward to unbearable. You’d pulled away, no longer going out with him and his friends, no longer even speaking to him. You had distanced yourself from him despite living within the same house and Bradley couldn’t believe that his one stupid moment of jealousy is what had driven the wedge between the two of you. 

He couldn’t quite understand it to be completely honest. 

“Bradley.” 

He blinks once, and then twice, recognizing the figure of his godfather standing to his right. Mav’s hand is on his shoulder, warm and steady. “Hi Mav.” 

His godfather squeezes his shoulder, offering him a small smile as he takes the seat next to him. “You doing okay there Baby Goose?” 

He shrugs, taking a sip of beer, and cringes again, realizing just how warm it’s become. Mav lets out a little chuckle, shaking his head as Penny sits two beers down in front of them. “Thanks Pen.” Mav says, offering the women a soft smile. 

“Of course, you boys let me know if you need anything else.” She says, returning the smile Mav’s offering her. 

He studies his godfather for a moment, taking in the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the light in his eyes, the smile he always wears, the way he seems truly content. 

He’s happy to see his godfather look that way after all these years. 

“So, what’s going with you and Sunshine these days?” 

“I’d really rather not talk about her.” He says gruffly, picking at the label of the fresh beer bottle. 

“Ice tells me you guys are signing the divorce papers in a few days.” 

“Yep. Tuesday morning. Soonest the notary could see us.” 

“And then she’s back on her way to Boston?” 

He nods, sighing a little. “Yeah. Think her flight is the same day.” 

Mav hums, taking a long draw of his beer before setting it on the counter. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it Baby Goose?” 

The chuckles he lets out is more than a little pained. “There’s nothing to talk about, Mav.” 

His godfather studies him for a minute before he sighs, lifting his arms to be propped up on the counter. “I don’t want to pry Baby Goose, because it’s really none of my business-” 

“So don’t.” He snaps, feeling himself start to get defensive. 

“-But if this is hard for you or you’re struggling with it, I want you to know it’s okay to talk to me about it. That I’m here for you.” 

“I don’t get a right to be upset.” He mutters, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, distantly feeling like a small child again. 

“Why not? Divorces aren’t easy.” 

“I was the one who pushed for this. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it. And it doesn’t matter because she’s just my friend.” 

Mav sighs again. “Brad, you and I both know that’s not true.” 

“So what if isn’t? So fucking what? I pushed for this, this was my idea, and I now I have to answer for what I wanted. End of story.” 

“Brad-” Maverick pauses as he chews on his bottom lip, struggling to figure out what to say. “Brad, you’re clearly hurting and I want you to know that it’s okay to talk to me about this. Regardless of if this was your idea or not, you’re still hurting. This is still hard for you and I want you to know that I’m perfectly happy to be the outlet for you to express your anger and hurt.” 

“You shouldn’t.” He mutters, finally taking a sip of his beer. 

“What?” Mav’s brows furrow at the words, a clear signal of his confusion. 

“You shouldn’t be happy to do this for me.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t fucking deserve it.” He snaps. “I’ve been awful to you, said horrible things to you, things I didn’t even mean. I lied to you about her, I asked her to lie to you, I didn’t talk to you for over a decade for fuck’s sake!” His chest is heaving as he stares his godfather down. 

Mav says nothing for a moment, hand coming up to grip Bradley’s shoulder tightly once more. “Brad, yes I should.”

“How?” His voice comes out as no more than a croak, suddenly overcome with tears. “After everything I’ve done, how can you say that?” 

“Because you’re still my son.” Mav whispers, squeezing his shoulder. “You are my greatest accomplishment Baby Goose.” 

It’s quiet for a moment as he leans into his godfather’s touch, unsure of what to say or how to move froward. 

“There’s going to be people in your life who love you unconditionally. Your parents loved you conditionally. I love you unconditionally. And Sunshine well-” Mav breaks off with a chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, if there’s anybody who loves you unconditionally, it’s that girl.” 

“I don’t-” He cuts himself off, unsure if he doesn’t understand or doesn’t want to admit that he has always understood. 

“C’mon Brad. Even if she doesn’t know how to express it, she does. She flew out her for you, lied to me for you, and never even dated anyone else while you risked revealing the truth on more than one occasion. She looks at you and sees the whole world. Some part of you has to know that.” 

He sighs, hanging his head as he breaks eye contact with his godfather. A heavy silence falls in between them as he struggles to cough up the truth that’s been haunting him since the day he thought he might never see you again. 

“You know, when you and I were sitting up there in that F-14, when it seemed like death was inevitable—God, this sounds so stupid—all I could think about was that phone call. It’s so stupid that in what I thought were going to be my last moments, I didn’t think of you or my parents or my own goddamn mortality, but a girl from my undergrad that I hadn’t seen in over a goddamn decade. I just kept thinking about her, that sweet girl getting a phone call from a number she didn’t know, and being informed that her husband was dead. I didn’t know what was going on in her life, if she still even cared about me at all, but all I could picture was that girl and getting that phone call, finding out her friend was dead.”

It’s quiet for a minute more as he returns his his gaze to his godfather. “Mom got that phone call.” Mav nods slowly, his thumb gently rubbing circles into his shoulder as he continues. “Mom got that phone call, and I- Once Hangman took that shot, when I finally realized we had escaped death, I swore to myself that I would never let her go through that pain, that I would-” He swallows, taking a shuddering breath. “This divorce was the only way I knew how to protect her.” His voice drops to a whisper. 

“Brad.” Maverick whispers but he drops his head once more, struggling to meet his godfather’s gaze, a stray tear rolling down his face. Mav’s quick to wipe it away, his calloused thumb rough against his cheek. 

“I know- I know that I love her, Mav. I know that now. I have always loved her, maybe. Maybe I’ve been too scared to admit it, maybe been too scared to believe it, maybe been too scared to let her love me back. But Mav- Mav my life doesn’t change if I tell her that I love her.  My job doesn’t change, the very real possibility that I could die at any time. I won’t- won’t let her go through that.” 

His godfather surges forward, wrapping him into a tight hug. The angle is awkward but he allows himself to wrap his arms tighter around his godfather, the way he did when he was 5 and scrapped his knee on the playground, when he was 11 and didn’t make the baseball team, when he was 17 and saying goodbye to his mother. 

“I care about her Mav. I care about her so much, but I’m hurting her. I don’t know how- I don’t know how to fix it.” 

Mav swallows, pulling back slightly from him. “Brad, if you love her, you need to tell her. Start there. The two of you can’t move forward if you aren’t honest with each other about how you really feel.” Maverick shifts, pulling him into another tight hug, squeezing him. The words muffled, whispered into his jacket, but he hears his godfather’s words all the same. 

“Let her love you.” 

[boggywitchin]

What You Can Find At A Dig: Chapter 12

---

Armel had to dig deep to find the courage to continue, “My third flaw is I’m absolutely terrified of people leaving me. Sometimes it feels like everyone I love could disappear at any moment and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” He gave a derisive snort, “I also have hard time trusting people for some reason. To trust that they like me for me or.. or that they won’t betray me in some way. I- sorry, this is stupid.” Armel began to shake his head, but Merlin was off his stool and at his side in an instant, a hand pressed against his cheek.

His gaze was unwavering, “It’s not stupid, Arthur. After everything you went through, after everything that happened. Gods, none of it, none of it, was your fault. It was mine, and I’m so so sorry.”

Merlin’s presence was overwhelming; a sudden intensity charged every word, movement, and look. Even the hand pressed against his cheek conveyed a sense of urgency.

Armel wet his lips searching Merlin’s face for an answer, “Who’s Arthur?” 

It was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Armel watched helplessly as Merlin retreated into himself, his eyes becoming unfocused as his hand fell away, looking like he would collapse any second.

“Hey, stay with me Merlin.” One hand caught him around the waist and the other pressed Merlin’s hand back to his cheek. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Look at me Merlin.” When Merlin wouldn’t look at him, Armel tried again but with more authority, “Merlin, look at me.”

Merlin’s eyes were still glazed over and his pupils blown wide, but at least he was looking at him.

He pressed their foreheads together continuing to talk Merlin through whatever memory gripped him. Armel burned with curiosity to know how this Arthur could inspire such love and such agony at the same time. What had happened to Merlin that he could privately smile when he thought of him, but then have a panic attack at the mere utterance of his name? ---

What you can find at a dig (41170 words) by Boggywitchin Chapters: 12/20 Fandom: Merlin (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Armel Characters: Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Several other OC, Emrys (Merlin), Armel Griffiths Additional Tags: Archaeology, Camelot, University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Merlin Waiting for Arthur Pendragon's Return (Merlin), Sad boy Merlin, Angst, Gay Sex, Crazy Emrys, college students, Parties, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, dead mom, Slow Burn, soul mates, Wales, Magic, PTSD, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Arthur 'I can fix him' Pendragon, Armel 'I can fix him' Griffiths, OC death, everyone is bi, Marijuana Use Summary: Crazy Old Man Emrys has wandered the Welsh country side for 1500 years hoping that one day Arthur would return to him. When a university archaeology team shows up on Emrys's patch, they have amongst them a young man named Armel Griffiths, who just so happens to look exactly like the Once and Future King. When Emrys learns their site is next to the ruins of Camelot, he joins the team as Merlin in hopes to influence what they find at the dig. But as friendship between Merlin and Armel grows, he has to choose whether he can put a millennia of devotion aside and let himself truly love another or if the risk of heart break is too much.

[qqueenofhades]

The Green Knight and Medieval Metatextuality: An Essay

Right, so. Finally watched it last night, and I’ve been thinking about it literally ever since, except for the part where I was asleep. As I said to fellow medievalist and admirer of Dev Patel @oldshrewsburyian, it’s possibly the most fascinating piece of medieval-inspired media that I’ve seen in ages, and how refreshing to have something in this genre that actually rewards critical thought and deep analysis, rather than me just fulminating fruitlessly about how popular media thinks that slapping blood, filth, and misogyny onto some swords and castles is “historically accurate.” I read a review of TGK somewhere that described it as the anti-Game of Thrones, and I’m inclined to think that’s accurate. I didn’t agree with all of the film’s tonal, thematic, or interpretative choices, but I found them consistently stylish, compelling, and subversive in ways both small and large, and I’m gonna have to write about it or I’ll go crazy. So. Brace yourselves.

(Note: My PhD is in medieval history, not medieval literature, and I haven’t worked on SGGK specifically, but I am familiar with it, its general cultural context, and the historical influences, images, and debates that both the poem and the film referenced and drew upon, so that’s where this meta is coming from.)

First, obviously, while the film is not a straight-up text-to-screen version of the poem (though it is by and large relatively faithful), it is a multi-layered meta-text that comments on the original Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the archetypes of chivalric literature as a whole, modern expectations for medieval films, the hero’s journey, the requirements of being an “honorable knight,” and the nature of death, fate, magic, and religion, just to name a few. Given that the Arthurian legendarium, otherwise known as the Matter of Britain, was written and rewritten over several centuries by countless authors, drawing on and changing and hybridizing interpretations that sometimes challenged or outright contradicted earlier versions, it makes sense for the film to chart its own path and make its own adaptational decisions as part of this multivalent, multivocal literary canon. Sir Gawain himself is a canonically and textually inconsistent figure; in the movie, the characters merrily pronounce his name in several different ways, most notably as Sean Harris/King Arthur’s somewhat inexplicable “Garr-win.” He might be a man without a consistent identity, but that’s pointed out within the film itself. What has he done to define himself, aside from being the king’s nephew? Is his quixotic quest for the Green Knight actually going to resolve the question of his identity and his honor – and if so, is it even going to matter, given that successful completion of the “game” seemingly equates with death?

Likewise, as the anti-Game of Thrones, the film is deliberately and sometimes maddeningly non-commercial. For an adaptation coming from a studio known primarily for horror, it almost completely eschews the cliché that gory bloodshed equals authentic medievalism; the only graphic scene is the Green Knight’s original beheading. The violence is only hinted at, subtextual, suspenseful; it is kept out of sight, around the corner, never entirely played out or resolved. In other words, if anyone came in thinking that they were going to watch Dev Patel luridly swashbuckle his way through some CGI monsters like bad Beowulf adaptations of yore, they were swiftly disappointed. In fact, he seems to spend most of his time being wet, sad, and failing to meet the moment at hand (with a few important exceptions).

The film unhurriedly evokes a medieval setting that is both surreal and defiantly non-historical. We travel (in roughly chronological order) from Anglo-Saxon huts to Romanesque halls to high-Gothic cathedrals to Tudor villages and half-timbered houses, culminating in the eerie neo-Renaissance splendor of the Lord and Lady’s hall, before returning to the ancient trees of the Green Chapel and its immortal occupant: everything that has come before has now returned to dust. We have been removed even from imagined time and place and into a moment where it ceases to function altogether. We move forward, backward, and sideways, as Gawain experiences past, present, and future in unison. He is dislocated from his own sense of himself, just as we, the viewers, are dislocated from our sense of what is the “true” reality or filmic narrative; what we think is real turns out not to be the case at all. If, of course, such a thing even exists at all.

This visual evocation of the entire medieval era also creates a setting that, unlike GOT, takes pride in rejecting absolutely all political context or Machiavellian maneuvering. The film acknowledges its own cultural ubiquity and the question of whether we really need yet another King Arthur adaptation: none of the characters aside from Gawain himself are credited by name. We all know it’s Arthur, but he’s listed only as “king.” We know the spooky druid-like old man with the white beard is Merlin, but it’s never required to spell it out. The film gestures at our pre-existing understanding; it relies on us to fill in the gaps, cuing us to collaboratively produce the story with it, positioning us as listeners as if we were gathered to hear the original poem. Just like fanfiction, it knows that it doesn’t need to waste time introducing every single character or filling in ultimately unnecessary background knowledge, when the audience can be relied upon to bring their own.

As for that, the film explicitly frames itself as a “filmed adaptation of the chivalric romance” in its opening credits, and continues to play with textual referents and cues throughout: telling us where we are, what’s happening, or what’s coming next, rather like the rubrics or headings within a medieval manuscript. As noted, its historical/architectural references span the entire medieval European world, as does its costume design. I was particularly struck by the fact that Arthur and Guinevere’s crowns resemble those from illuminated monastic manuscripts or Eastern Orthodox iconography: they are both crown and halo, they confer an air of both secular kingship and religious sanctity. The question in the film’s imagined epilogue thus becomes one familiar to Shakespeare’s Henry V: heavy is the head that wears the crown. Does Gawain want to earn his uncle’s crown, take over his place as king, bear the fate of Camelot, become a great ruler, a husband and father in ways that even Arthur never did, only to see it all brought to dust by his cowardice, his reliance on unscrupulous sorcery, and his unfulfilled promise to the Green Knight? Is it better to have that entire life and then lose it, or to make the right choice now, even if it means death?

Likewise, Arthur’s kingly mantle is Byzantine in inspiration, as is the icon of the Virgin Mary-as-Theotokos painted on Gawain’s shield (which we see broken apart during the attack by the scavengers). The film only glances at its religious themes rather than harping on them explicitly; we do have the cliché scene of the male churchmen praying for Gawain’s safety, opposite Gawain’s mother and her female attendants working witchcraft to protect him. (When oh when will I get my film that treats medieval magic and medieval religion as the complementary and co-existing epistemological systems that they were, rather than portraying them as diametrically binary and disparagingly gendered opposites?) But despite the interim setbacks borne from the failure of Christian icons, the overall resolution of the film could serve as the culmination of a medieval Christian morality tale: Gawain can buy himself a great future in the short term if he relies on the protection of the enchanted green belt to avoid the Green Knight’s killing stroke, but then he will have to watch it all crumble until he is sitting alone in his own hall, his children dead and his kingdom destroyed, as a headless corpse who only now has been brave enough to accept his proper fate. By removing the belt from his person in the film’s Inception-like final scene, he relinquishes the taint of black magic and regains his religious honor, even at the likely cost of death. That, the medieval Christian morality tale would agree, is the correct course of action.

Gawain’s encounter with St. Winifred likewise presents a more subtle vision of medieval Christianity. Winifred was an eighth-century Welsh saint known for being beheaded, after which (by the power of another saint) her head was miraculously restored to her body and she went on to live a long and holy life. It doesn’t quite work that way in TGK. (St Winifred’s Well is mentioned in the original SGGK, but as far as I recall, Gawain doesn’t meet the saint in person.) In the film, Gawain encounters Winifred’s lifelike apparition, who begs him to dive into the mere and retrieve her head (despite appearances, she warns him, it is not attached to her body). This fits into the pattern of medieval ghost stories, where the dead often return to entreat the living to help them finish their business; they must be heeded, but when they are encountered in places they shouldn’t be, they must be put back into their proper physical space and reminded of their real fate. Gawain doesn’t follow William of Newburgh’s practical recommendation to just fetch some brawny young men with shovels to beat the wandering corpse back into its grave. Instead, in one of his few moments of unqualified heroism, he dives into the dark water and retrieves Winifred’s skull from the bottom of the lake. Then when he returns to the house, he finds the rest of her skeleton lying in the bed where he was earlier sleeping, and carefully reunites the skull with its body, finally allowing it to rest in peace.

However, Gawain’s involvement with Winifred doesn’t end there. The fox that he sees on the bank after emerging with her skull, who then accompanies him for the rest of the film, is strongly implied to be her spirit, or at least a companion that she has sent for him. Gawain has handled a saint’s holy bones; her relics, which were well known to grant protection in the medieval world. He has done the saint a service, and in return, she extends her favor to him. At the end of the film, the fox finally speaks in a human voice, warning him not to proceed to the fateful final encounter with the Green Knight; it will mean his death. The symbolism of having a beheaded saint serve as Gawain’s guide and protector is obvious, since it is the fate that may or may not lie in store for him. As I said, the ending is Inception-like in that it steadfastly refuses to tell you if the hero is alive (or will live) or dead (or will die). In the original SGGK, of course, the Green Knight and the Lord turn out to be the same person, Gawain survives, it was all just a test of chivalric will and honor, and a trap put together by Morgan Le Fay in an attempt to frighten Guinevere. It’s essentially able to be laughed off: a game, an adventure, not real. TGK takes this paradigm and flips it (to speak…) on its head.

Gawain’s rescue of Winifred’s head also rewards him in more immediate terms: his/the Green Knight’s axe, stolen by the scavengers, is miraculously restored to him in her cottage, immediately and concretely demonstrating the virtue of his actions. This is one of the points where the film most stubbornly resists modern storytelling conventions: it simply refuses to add in any kind of “rational” or “empirical” explanation of how else it got there, aside from the grace and intercession of the saint. This is indeed how it works in medieval hagiography: things simply reappear, are returned, reattached, repaired, made whole again, and Gawain’s lost weapon is thus restored, symbolizing that he has passed the test and is worthy to continue with the quest. The film’s narrative is not modernizing its underlying medieval logic here, and it doesn’t particularly care if a modern audience finds it “convincing” or not. As noted, the film never makes any attempt to temporalize or localize itself; it exists in a determinedly surrealist and ahistorical landscape, where naked female giants who look suspiciously like Tilda Swinton roam across the wild with no necessary explanation. While this might be frustrating for some people, I actually found it a huge relief that a clearly fantastic and fictional literary adaptation was not acting like it was qualified to teach “real history” to its audience. Nobody would come out of TGK thinking that they had seen the “actual” medieval world, and since we have enough of a problem with that sort of thing thanks to GOT, I for one welcome the creation of a medieval imaginative space that embraces its eccentric and unrealistic elements, rather than trying to fit them into the Real Life box.

This plays into the fact that the film, like a reused medieval manuscript containing more than one text, is a palimpsest: for one, it audaciously rewrites the entire Arthurian canon in the wordless vision of Gawain’s life after escaping the Green Knight (I could write another meta on that dream-epilogue alone). It moves fluidly through time and creates alternate universes in at least two major points: one, the scene where Gawain is tied up and abandoned by the scavengers and that long circling shot reveals his skeletal corpse rotting on the sward, only to return to our original universe as Gawain decides that he doesn’t want that fate, and two, Gawain as King. In this alternate ending, Arthur doesn’t die in battle with Mordred, but peaceably in bed, having anointed his worthy nephew as his heir. Gawain becomes king, has children, gets married, governs Camelot, becomes a ruler surpassing even Arthur, but then watches his son get killed in battle, his subjects turn on him, and his family vanish into the dust of his broken hall before he himself, in despair, pulls the enchanted scarf out of his clothing and succumbs to his fate.

In this version, Gawain takes on the responsibility for the fall of Camelot, not Arthur. This is the hero’s burden, but he’s obtained it dishonorably, by cheating. It is a vivid but mimetic future which Gawain (to all appearances) ultimately rejects, returning the film to the realm of traditional Arthurian canon – but not quite. After all, if Gawain does get beheaded after that final fade to black, it would represent a significant alteration from the poem and the character’s usual arc. Are we back in traditional canon or aren’t we? Did Gawain reject that future or didn’t he? Do all these alterities still exist within the visual medium of the meta-text, and have any of them been definitely foreclosed?

Furthermore, the film interrogates itself and its own tropes in explicit and overt ways. In Gawain’s conversation with the Lord, the Lord poses the question that many members of the audience might have: is Gawain going to carry out this potentially pointless and suicidal quest and then be an honorable hero, just like that? What is he actually getting by staggering through assorted Irish bogs and seeming to reject, rather than embrace, the paradigms of a proper quest and that of an honorable knight? He lies about being a knight to the scavengers, clearly out of fear, and ends up cravenly bound and robbed rather than fighting back. He denies knowing anything about love to the Lady (played by Alicia Vikander, who also plays his lover at the start of the film with a decidedly ropey Yorkshire accent, sorry to say). He seems to shrink from the responsibility thrust on him, rather than rise to meet it (his only honorable act, retrieving Winifred’s head, is discussed above) and yet here he still is, plugging away. Why is he doing this? What does he really stand to gain, other than accepting a choice and its consequences (somewhat?) The film raises these questions, but it has no plans to answer them. It’s going to leave you to think about them for yourself, and it isn’t going to spoon-feed you any ultimate moral or neat resolution. In this interchange, it’s easy to see both the echoes of a formal dialogue between two speakers (a favored medieval didactic tactic) and the broader purpose of chivalric literature: to interrogate what it actually means to be a knight, how personal honor is generated, acquired, and increased, and whether engaging in these pointless and bloody “war games” is actually any kind of real path to lasting glory.

The film’s treatment of race, gender, and queerness obviously also merits comment. By casting Dev Patel, an Indian-born actor, as an Arthurian hero, the film is… actually being quite accurate to the original legends, doubtless much to the disappointment of assorted internet racists. The thirteenth-century Arthurian romance Parzival (Percival) by the German poet Wolfram von Eschenbach notably features the character of Percival’s mixed-race half-brother, Feirefiz, son of their father by his first marriage to a Muslim princess. Feirefiz is just as heroic as Percival (Gawaine, for the record, also plays a major role in the story) and assists in the quest for the Holy Grail, though it takes his conversion to Christianity for him to properly behold it.

By introducing Patel (and Sarita Chowdhury as Morgause) to the visual representation of Arthuriana, the film quietly does away with the “white Middle Ages” cliché that I have complained about ad nauseam; we see background Asian and black members of Camelot, who just exist there without having to conjure up some complicated rationale to explain their presence. The Lady also uses a camera obscura to make Gawain’s portrait. Contrary to those who might howl about anachronism, this technique was known in China as early as the fourth century BCE and the tenth/eleventh century Islamic scholar Ibn al-Haytham was probably the best-known medieval authority to write on it extensively; Latin translations of his work inspired European scientists from Roger Bacon to Leonardo da Vinci. Aside from the symbolism of an upside-down Gawain (and when he sees the portrait again during the ‘fall of Camelot’, it is right-side-up, representing that Gawain himself is in an upside-down world), this presents a subtle challenge to the prevailing Eurocentric imagination of the medieval world, and draws on other global influences.

As for gender, we have briefly touched on it above; in the original SGGK, Gawain’s entire journey is revealed to be just a cruel trick of Morgan Le Fay, simply trying to destabilize Arthur’s court and upset his queen. (Morgan is the old blindfolded woman who appears in the Lord and Lady’s castle and briefly approaches Gawain, but her identity is never explicitly spelled out.) This is, obviously, an implicitly misogynistic setup: an evil woman plays a trick on honorable men for the purpose of upsetting another woman, the honorable men overcome it, the hero survives, and everyone presumably lives happily ever after (at least until Mordred arrives).

Instead, by plunging the outcome into doubt and the hero into a much darker and more fallible moral universe, TGK shifts the blame for Gawain’s adventure and ultimate fate from Morgan to Gawain himself. Likewise, Guinevere is not the passive recipient of an evil deception but in a way, the catalyst for the whole thing. She breaks the seal on the Green Knight’s message with a weighty snap; she becomes the oracle who reads it out, she is alarming rather than alarmed, she disrupts the complacency of the court and silently shows up all the other knights who refuse to step forward and answer the Green Knight’s challenge. Gawain is not given the ontological reassurance that it’s just a practical joke and he’s going to be fine (and thanks to the unresolved ending, neither are we). The film instead takes the concept at face value in order to push the envelope and ask the simple question: if a man was going to be actually-for-real beheaded in a year, why would he set out on a suicidal quest? Would you, in Gawain’s place, make the same decision to cast aside the enchanted belt and accept your fate? Has he made his name, will he be remembered well? What is his legacy?

Indeed, if there is any hint of feminine connivance and manipulation, it arrives in the form of the implication that Gawain’s mother has deliberately summoned the Green Knight to test her son, prove his worth, and position him as his childless uncle’s heir; she gives him the protective belt to make sure he won’t actually die, and her intention all along was for the future shown in the epilogue to truly play out (minus the collapse of Camelot). Only Gawain loses the belt thanks to his cowardice in the encounter with the scavengers, regains it in a somewhat underhanded and morally questionable way when the Lady is attempting to seduce him, and by ultimately rejecting it altogether and submitting to his uncertain fate, totally mucks up his mother’s painstaking dynastic plans for his future. In this reading, Gawain could be king, and his mother’s efforts are meant to achieve that goal, rather than thwart it. He is thus required to shoulder his own responsibility for this outcome, rather than conveniently pawning it off on an “evil woman,” and by extension, the film asks the question: What would the world be like if men, especially those who make war on others as a way of life, were actually forced to face the consequences of their reckless and violent actions? Is it actually a “game” in any sense of the word, especially when chivalric literature is constantly preoccupied with the question of how much glorious violence is too much glorious violence? If you structure social prestige for the king and the noble male elite entirely around winning battles and existing in a state of perpetual war, when does that begin to backfire and devour the knightly class – and the rest of society – instead?

This leads into the central theme of Gawain’s relationships with the Lord and Lady, and how they’re treated in the film. The poem has been repeatedly studied in terms of its latent (and sometimes… less than latent) queer subtext: when the Lord asks Gawain to pay back to him whatever he should receive from his wife, does he already know what this involves; i.e. a physical and romantic encounter? When the Lady gives kisses to Gawain, which he is then obliged to return to the Lord as a condition of the agreement, is this all part of a dastardly plot to seduce him into a kinky green-themed threesome with a probably-not-human married couple looking to spice up their sex life? Why do we read the Lady’s kisses to Gawain as romantic but Gawain’s kisses to the Lord as filial, fraternal, or the standard “kiss of peace” exchanged between a liege lord and his vassal? Is Gawain simply being a dutiful guest by honoring the bargain with his host, actually just kissing the Lady again via the proxy of her husband, or somewhat more into this whole thing with the Lord than he (or the poet) would like to admit? Is the homosocial turning homoerotic, and how is Gawain going to navigate this tension and temptation?

If the question is never resolved: well, welcome to one of the central medieval anxieties about chivalry, knighthood, and male bonds! As I have written about before, medieval society needed to simultaneously exalt this as the most honored and noble form of love, and make sure it didn’t accidentally turn sexual (once again: how much male love is too much male love?). Does the poem raise the possibility of serious disruption to the dominant heteronormative paradigm, only to solve the problem by interpreting the Gawain/Lady male/female kisses as romantic and sexual and the Gawain/Lord male/male kisses as chaste and formal? In other words, acknowledging the underlying anxiety of possible homoeroticism but ultimately reasserting the heterosexual norm? The answer: Probably?!?! Maybe?!?! Hell if we know??! To say the least, this has been argued over to no end, and if you locked a lot of medieval history/literature scholars into a room and told them that they couldn’t come out until they decided on one clear answer, they would be in there for a very long time. The poem seemingly invokes the possibility of a queer reading only to reject it – but once again, as in the question of which canon we end up in at the film’s end, does it?

In some lights, the film’s treatment of this potential queer reading comes off like a cop-out: there is only one kiss between Gawain and the Lord, and it is something that the Lord has to initiate after Gawain has already fled the hall. Gawain himself appears to reject it; he tells the Lord to let go of him and runs off into the wilderness, rather than deal with or accept whatever has been suggested to him. However, this fits with film!Gawain’s pattern of rejecting that which fundamentally makes him who he is; like Peter in the Bible, he has now denied the truth three times. With the scavengers he denies being a knight; with the Lady he denies knowing about courtly love; with the Lord he denies the central bond of brotherhood with his fellows, whether homosocial or homoerotic in nature. I would go so far as to argue that if Gawain does die at the end of the film, it is this rejected kiss which truly seals his fate. In the poem, the Lord and the Green Knight are revealed to be the same person; in the film, it’s not clear if that’s the case, or they are separate characters, even if thematically interrelated. If we assume, however, that the Lord is in fact still the human form of the Green Knight, then Gawain has rejected both his kiss of peace (the standard gesture of protection offered from lord to vassal) and any deeper emotional bond that it can be read to signify. The Green Knight could decide to spare Gawain in recognition of the courage he has shown in relinquishing the enchanted belt – or he could just as easily decide to kill him, which he is legally free to do since Gawain has symbolically rejected the offer of brotherhood, vassalage, or knight-bonding by his unwise denial of the Lord’s freely given kiss. Once again, the film raises the overall thematic and moral question and then doesn’t give one straight (ahem) answer. As with the medieval anxieties and chivalric texts that it is based on, it invokes the specter of queerness and then doesn’t neatly resolve it. As a modern audience, we find this unsatisfying, but once again, the film is refusing to conform to our expectations.

As has been said before, there is so much kissing between men in medieval contexts, both ceremonial and otherwise, that we’re left to wonder: “is it gay or is it feudalism?” Is there an overtly erotic element in Gawain and the Green Knight’s mutual “beheading” of each other (especially since in the original version, this frees the Lord from his curse, functioning like a true love’s kiss in a fairytale). While it is certainly possible to argue that the film has “straightwashed” its subject material by removing the entire sequence of kisses between Gawain and the Lord and the unresolved motives for their existence, it is a fairly accurate, if condensed, representation of the anxieties around medieval knightly bonds and whether, as Carolyn Dinshaw put it, a (male/male) “kiss is just a kiss.” After all, the kiss between Gawain and the Lady is uncomplicatedly read as sexual/romantic, and that context doesn’t go away when Gawain is kissing the Lord instead. Just as with its multiple futurities, the film leaves the question open-ended. Is it that third and final denial that seals Gawain’s fate, and if so, is it asking us to reflect on why, specifically, he does so?

The film could play with both this question and its overall tone quite a bit more: it sometimes comes off as a grim, wooden, over-directed Shakespearean tragedy, rather than incorporating the lively and irreverent tone that the poem often takes. It’s almost totally devoid of humor, which is unfortunate, and the Grim Middle Ages aesthetic is in definite evidence. Nonetheless, because of the comprehensive de-historicizing and the obvious lack of effort to claim the film as any sort of authentic representation of the medieval past, it works. We are not meant to understand this as a historical document, and so we have to treat it on its terms, by its own logic, and by its own frames of reference. In some ways, its consistent opacity and its refusal to abide by modern rules and common narrative conventions is deliberately meant to challenge us: as before, when we recognize Arthur, Merlin, the Round Table, and the other stock characters because we know them already and not because the film tells us so, we have to fill in the gaps ourselves. We are watching the film not because it tells us a simple adventure story – there is, as noted, shockingly little action overall – but because we have to piece together the metatext independently and ponder the philosophical questions that it leaves us with. What conclusion do we reach? What canon do we settle in? What future or resolution is ultimately made real? That, the film says, it can’t decide for us. As ever, it is up to future generations to carry on the story, and decide how, if at all, it is going to survive.

(And to close, I desperately want them to make my much-coveted Bisclavret adaptation now in more or less the same style, albeit with some tweaks. Please.)

Further Reading

Ailes, Marianne J. ‘The Medieval Male Couple and the Language of Homosociality’, in Masculinity in Medieval Europe, ed. by Dawn M. Hadley (Harlow: Longman, 1999), pp. 214–37.

Ashton, Gail. ‘The Perverse Dynamics of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Arthuriana 15 (2005), 51–74.

Boyd, David L. ‘Sodomy, Misogyny, and Displacement: Occluding Queer Desire in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Arthuriana 8 (1998), 77–113.

Busse, Peter. ‘The Poet as Spouse of his Patron: Homoerotic Love in Medieval Welsh and Irish Poetry?’, Studi Celtici 2 (2003), 175–92.

Dinshaw, Carolyn. ‘A Kiss Is Just a Kiss: Heterosexuality and Its Consolations in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Diacritics 24 (1994), 205–226.

Kocher, Suzanne. ‘Gay Knights in Medieval French Fiction: Constructs of Queerness and Non-Transgression’, Mediaevalia 29 (2008), 51–66.

Karras, Ruth Mazo. ‘Knighthood, Compulsory Heterosexuality, and Sodomy’ in The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality, ed. Matthew Kuefler (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), pp. 273–86.

Kuefler, Matthew. ‘Male Friendship and the Suspicion of Sodomy in Twelfth-Century France’, in The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality, ed. Matthew Kuefler (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), pp. 179–214.

McVitty, E. Amanda, ‘False Knights and True Men: Contesting Chivalric Masculinity in English Treason Trials, 1388–1415,’ Journal of Medieval History 40 (2014), 458–77.

Mieszkowski, Gretchen. ‘The Prose Lancelot's Galehot, Malory's Lavain, and the Queering of Late Medieval Literature’, Arthuriana 5 (1995), 21–51.

Moss, Rachel E. ‘ “And much more I am soryat for my good knyghts’ ”: Fainting, Homosociality, and Elite Male Culture in Middle English Romance’, Historical Reflections / Réflexions historiques 42 (2016), 101–13.

Zeikowitz, Richard E. ‘Befriending the Medieval Queer: A Pedagogy for Literature Classes’, College English 65 (2002), 67–80.

[dream-a-little-bigger-darling000]

Author's Note: Hi that isn't my GIF. But this is my fic and I would really appreciate it if you told me how you thought it was, and if you especially like it, my requests are open friends. :3 I have the spicy sad right now, and needed a little angst with a happy ending. Ok, be fed I guess.

This has 3,000+ words, are you proud of me or what!?

From the prompt: As teenagers, a boy and a girl agree to marry if neither have by their 35th birthday. Follow the boy as he attempts to sabotage every relationship the girl has until then.

"Hey Tommy? I was thinking."

"That's a shit idea, you should stop doing that"

You swiped at the back of his head.

"Shut up you ass, I'm serious."

"Hi serious I'm- OW fucking hurt is what I am it's a joke, learn to take a-AH." You hurdled a handful of playground pebbles at the 17 year old.

"Alright, alright gorgeous, hit me- No! I meant hit me with the question you little shit." It was getting hard to breathe when he got you to giggle so hard.

You're laughter died down. You looked down, unsure if you could look at his face when you said this.

"I don't have a boyfriend." He abruptly stopped laughing, hiding the obvious fact that he almost choked on his own spit. You breathed a laugh again.

"I don't have a boyfriend. And you don't have a girlfriend." Your smile slipped off.

Tell him. Tell him, you're almost there. I don't have anyone, and you don't either except we do we have each we have each other we have-

You looked to Tommy, his boyish presence fitting on the swing set made for much younger kids. You were much younger kids when you met for the first time, on this very swing set. You think about telling him you fell in love with him when he pushed Jackson Paloski down on the asphalt because Jackson said trailer-trash can't play on the nice swing set. You didn't know it was love though, you were in the fourth grade but your heart still beat a little faster and when you asked him if you could sit beside him during lunch he huffed and complained, showing off he was moody and tough and haughty, but he very obviously made Michael Welsh move from his spot beside Tommy so that the pretty new girl could take her place beside him. And you stayed there. For years. Right beside him.

You felt the breath leave your lungs as you thought about telling him you can't stop thinking about him lately.

Can't stop hoping your skin will touch when he asks you to pass him something.

Can't help feeling like punching every girl that makes a scene trying to gain his attention. You're usually so focused on glaring at the girl that you miss the way he shrinks in on himself, the way he actively turns his body to you.

You think about telling him. And how telling him could mean you could do more, be more.

You think about telling him. And you think about him pulling away from you, gently gathering his things as he stumbles over how to let you down easily, unaware that that's not an option any more. Tommy letting you down would mean shattering.

You clench your jaw. His eyes try to tell you something.

"So. So since. We don't have someone." You look toward the Shell gas station across the street. Tommy wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue.

Your throat twinges, the twinge you get when you're trying to hold back tears. You shrug to yourself and let out a breathy laugh.

Coward.

"So since we don't have hot dates, we should make a deal." You make your voice upbeat. You know Tommy can call your bullshit but he doesn't, sit's quietly.

"If by the time we're 35, and we don't have a, someone, to, ya' know. We should get married." Your heart clenches. "If we don't have. Like if I don't have a husband, and you don't. Have a girl, or-" Tommy is quiet. White hot panic races up your spine. You look over at him.

Tommy looks-

He looks like he's frozen, like he's still a few sentences behind, and you're about to throw in the towel and swallow a few of these pebbles so you'll choke and die and won't have to hear his laughter tear apart your heart.

Then Tommy blinks and kind of hunkers in on himself, looks anywhere but you, eyes shifting and darting. His smile isn't his when he manages it.

"Oh, you're so on, sweetheart."

It's not quite right. The atmosphere is still tense and you feel like there's a conversation you're meant to be having, like there were supposed to be different words spoken and heard during that time.

But having Tommy, even if it's like this, even if he doesn't want you like you ache for him, is better than not having him at all.

Beside you, while you hurt quietly beside him, watching the sun set, rocking back and forth on the too low swing, Tommy swallows down self-hatred and overwhelming feelings. Instead, he schemes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's been five years since you've made your little deal with Tommy. Five years, and every single time you've tried to move on from the man, it's ended in catastrophe.

The time you two had just graduated high school and drove to Tommy's house so his older brother could congratulate you two. Brendan had had a buddy over that night, not much older than you, and you would be lying if you said you didn't flush appreciatingly at his sly smile toward you and the way he actively tried to add you in on the conversation.

The night ended rather abruptly when Tommy had spilled hot tea all over the guys front. Tommy was always collected, and it was rare moment when he was clumsy. Never mind the fact that Tommy never drank tea, and actively made fun of you drinking the stuff.

Or the time you two reluctantly went to Brendan's wedding. You loved Tess, and thought they were a great couple, but stomaching an entire ceremony of the two being gross and affectionate, all while you and Tommy couldn't boo and throw miscellaneous items at them? The entire evening was spent with Tommy snuggly against your side snarking quietly in your ear, so close you could feel his warm breath on the entire side of your face.

Yes, your plan of moving on was going swimmingly.

Then Tommy went to the bathroom, and a handsome man smiled at you across the room. You tentatively smiled back, and he moved as if to cross the distance. Then immediately stopped, his face dropping and his eyes widening slightly as he spotted something a little over your shoulder. You saw him clear his throat and veer toward a large group laughing.

Your felt your face slightly warm and your heart drop a little, self consciously looking over your shoulder.

And let out a noise of surprise.

Tommy stood behind you, so close for a second you thought a very well dressed wall had somehow appeared while you weren't looking. You had just enough time to see 'The Expression'.

Tommy was an amazing fighter. And all throughout high school, he made sure while he minded his own, he could also hold his own, and everyone knew it. He had developed an expression, one that scared every single boy in this town shitless. It was a mix between unbridled rage and open invitation. The message was pretty clear and universal.

Come get some.

You usually laughed and teased him about it, because to you it just looked like he stubbed his toe and he was trying not to yell.

You weren't expecting to see it at his brother's wedding, and you certainly weren't laughing now.

In a blink it was gone from his face, and he turned to you with his beautiful sweet smile, the smile that showed just a little peak of his slightly messed up front teeth. He usually reserved that smile for you. You had never seen anyone else on the receiving end.

"Tommy, why were you just-"

"This blows, I just passed Tess and Brendan flirting. They're already married, why would they keep doing that." He rolled his eyes, moving to your side as his hand disappeared behind your back.

"Tommy did you just square up to the guy checking me ou-"

"Brendan's friend is here, the one who can can do a Kick Up."

You stared at each other for a long moment. You felt his hand barely ghosting over the small of your back. His eyes where sharp, a little desperate.

"Tommy."

"There's also a rumor he killed a guy with just a playing card."

You licked your lips. He raised his eyebrows, his lips getting distracting.

"Shit Conlon, why didn't you start with that, take me to him."

Or the time, more recently, when you went to a match to watch Tommy completely destroy his opponent. You loved going out to see him fight. Loved the adrenaline and the satisfaction when Tommy won, making him less timid, a little more rowdy and confident, a little more touchy and feely.

You've kind of given up on the whole moving on thing, even if it was driving you up a wall.

Tommy had just won, and you were eagerly waiting to congratulate him, excited to hug him freely, without him wondering why you were hugging him to begin with. And maybe to hold on a little tighter. Maybe to allow your hands to rove a little more freely.

Hey, was it not a night for celebration?

A man started to chat you up. You smiled patiently and gave some noncommittal grunts and affirmations as you continued to scan the crowd, looking for the familiar mass of Tommy, all hard edges and bulk. You were bouncing on the balls of your feet.

The guy moved closer, making a joke you didn't really hear. You laughed, your eyes darting and searching.

"You look beautiful by the way. I saw you watching the fight, crazy that you're into this stuff. Not a lot of women I know cheer like that."

You finally glance over to the man, but quickly get back to standing on your tip toes, looking above heads.

He doesn't even look that bad, and it's obvious he wants to get your number. He's just not the man you want chat with, and definitely not tonight. Not on a night that Tommy just won, and a night he'll want to come over to yours, joking and teasing, touching you much more confidently than he normally would. Falling asleep much more easier with his head on your lap.

You tamp down a smile. You wouldn't want this guy to get the wrong idea.

"You know, there's a really good Thai place down the road- Ah, fuck, watch it buddy. Can you not look where you're go-" You hear the man choke off the sentence, trying not to smile as you imagine the other guy. probably a lot bigger than he is. Wouldn't want to completely ruin his night by laughing at the guy.

"Fuuck me, buddy, sorry. I did not know who I was talking to." You could hear the man swallow. "Hey, I think you did great in the ring tonight, real good job of... Knocking that guy out. With one punch."

You whirled around, smiling so wide you felt the strain on your cheeks. There was only one guy who did that tonight.

Sure enough, Tommy was standing there. He had put on a shirt and took his gloves off, but he was still sweaty and breathing hard. He completely stanced up, like he is in the ring, and his expression was-

Well, you chalked it up to the testosterone flowing freely through the place. Probably just mad that he ran into another dude.

It still didn't stop you from running and jumping directly on him, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, legs completely circling his torso. You giggled into his neck, exclaiming how proud you were of him, how good he looked out there, completely stroking his ego, but not caring at the moment.

You felt his arms immediately span your back, feeling like his hands where trying to be everywhere at once. That was new. That was new and you couldn't say you hated it.

What you didn't see was the look on Tommy's face. The cold calm of someone who just threw a punch so hard at a man who was bigger and faster than him and shut his shit down. Directed at another man, much slower and smaller in comparison.

You didn't see the stranger's face pale, but you distantly heard the sound of chairs clatter to the ground as he turned tail.

Five years of pining (not so) quietly for Tommy, the man you had fallen in love with, but without a doubt did not love you back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tommy knew without a doubt that he loved you.

All those years back in fourth grade, when he let it slip that his favorite snack was those crackers with the cheese filling, and you showed up with a whole pack of them to share, smiling this big goofy grin with your beautiful eyes and warm presence.

God how could he not.

The problem was how he was supposed to convince you to like him back. Him, Tommy, who fought most of his way through high school, who didn't like to get too close to people, who didn't like eye contact or conversation that ran too long or too forced. Who loved you though.

And who was very annoyed at the boy flirting with his girl.

It never failed to make Tommy's blood boil. He knew he had no right, because for one, he spent five years doing his damned best to break up every chance at you leaving him.

Just until you guys turn 35, right Tommy boy? You can probably keep that up.

Tommy breathed in a shuttering breath.

He just wanted to buy you your favorite drink at your favorite café. That's all he wanted to do. And maybe find and excuse to hold your hand without burning up from the embarrassment of actually having feelings (can you imagine?).

But of course, some dick-head always noticed how beautiful or kind or warm you were, and had to take their shot.

Well, Tommy was fucking sick of it.

Tommy thought of all the times, and there were a lot of times, when he had to step in and derail the situation. He knew this would be the last time. He had to do this, get rid of the unrelenting ache he felt while going to sleep, looking at you, thinking about you.

Tommy moved toward the you and the man you were talking to like he was entering the ring. With the mindset that he could get totally and irreversibly hurt, but he was gonna fight to the bloody end beforehand.

"Do you need directions?" Tommy asked as he slid up behind you, closer than he would have ever before. He felt your confusion even if he couldn't see your face.

"What?" The man was just as quizzical.

"Oh, I was just asking if you needed directions or if you could get lost on your own." Tommy raised his eyebrows, setting his hand on your hip, trying not to think about the many, many questions you'd have about that.

The man thought about arguing, but then he really looked at Tommy. Looked at you, then back to Tommy. Decided he didn't want to bleed tonight, and huffed out an angry sound.

You at least waited until he was out of ear shot before whirling on him.

"What. What was that?"

"Ok, I know what your probably thinking-"

"That you're out of your mind Tommy?! Are you kidding me right now? 'Get lost?' Get outta here with that shit, what was that?"

The two of you were pretty far back in the shop, but he still lowered his voice to make sure no one was bothered.

"Ok, yes, you're mad, I can see that-"

"Oooooh well I'm glad you can see that Tommy." You felt your face start to turn red, feeling exhausted and confused. "Explain. Explain to me Tommy, that every time a guy wants to have a nice, civil, God forbid, flirtatious conversation with me, he high tails it out of there just as fast, Tommy, explain."

Tommy felt an expanding ache somewhere behind his left eye.

"Ok. Ok I'm gonna say something stupid-"

"You always say something stupid, stupid-"

"Can you just. Can you let me finish." Tommy felt exasperated and a little insane. He was about to confess in a coffee shop to the girl he loved and things would never be the same again because she was about to leave, but fuck it if he wasn't at a boiling point.

"Ok. You know how we made a deal?" You looked at him, raising your eyebrows.

"About who could spray the most whipped cream in their mouth? Yeah it's me, it'll always be me. So you got so mad you're trying to, what, make sure I die alone, I don't..."

"What? No can you not, can you focus right now?" Tommy's palms were starting to sweat and he clenched his eyes shut tight. He breathed in and let it back out in one harsh huff. "When we were seventeen-"

"Seventeen?"

"When we were seventeen you said that if we weren't married by the time we were 35, that we should marry each other." He watched as your eyes widened and your face warmed a little. "Well, the deals off. I'm not doing it any more."

Tommy wasn't sure what to expect, but the flash of utter pain that tore across your face was not it. You stepped back, looked like you were about to bolt, your eyes wild. You tried to pull yourself together but it was really hard to breathe. No matter how many times you tried to prepare yourself for this day, you could have never imagined how it actually almost brought you know to your knees.

"So. Here's the new deal. If in like, five minutes, you're still single, and I'm still single..." Tommy swallowed hard, licking his lips. "We should just." His eyes darted to your lips.

You froze. Tommy caught his lush lower lip in between his teeth. He'd never been more nervous his entire life. So nervous for the inevitable laugh, the pity laced rejection, because really, it was one thing to be friends with a shy awkward boxer, but another to look at him and think, 'yeah, that'll do.'

Tommy had approximately five seconds to wallow in self deprecation and pure terror before he had a handful of you, and something that suspiciously felt like lips on his lips. But that's funny, because he's almost positive that that's not the case.

Then he felt your tongue swipe his lip and decided he cared fuck all and proceeded to get lost in you, your breaths, God he could feel, taste, your breath as you both got consumed by each other.

Someone coughed disapprovingly your way. The two of you broke apart, panting slightly.

"Ok, ok please don't. I really don't want you to hit me but I'm really fucking dense, right, and I just have to ask, you did that because you. You like like me- OW I said I didn't want you to hit me!"

You felt yourself laughing, felt your never ending ache subside and your love sky rocket.

"Oh, you're an idiot," You pecked his lips, he tried to catch your mouth fully but failed. "You are such and idiot- Oh my God we're both idiots holy- Hey. Hey, you, you've been. Have you been sabotaging-"

"Did you hear that?" Tommy tilted his head and looked toward the ceiling. "Ope- oh yeah. No. yeah, that's for sure the sound of-" He cut off, dropping his serious expression, grinning as he leaned down and kissed your mouth again, this time taking your words and any objections, affectively cutting off any questions that would leave him looking stupid.

You two would need to sit down, to talk about how you've felt all these years, how you were both so stupid that you both refused to confess to each other.

But for now, you lost yourself in the taste of Tommy, and the heady feeling of someone you've loved for seemingly forever, loving you back.

Real Quick: Would you be mad if in the next fics I write I called this man Tomithy? Asking for a friend.

[henrycavillobsessed]

Porcelain

Characters: Henry Cavill x Anwen Evans (fictional fiance)

Summary: Henry and Anwen’s life was perfect. Until one day, one phone call, changes everything.

Words: 3,444

TW/CW: Death, car accident, description of injuries, hospital, grief. Slight mention of implied sex; some bad language. 

Notes: So here it is, my latest fanfic. It’s been a while, due to a bit of a mind block. The idea for this came to me, after being inspired by the song Porcelain by Emarosa (link below in case you’re interested). This one is different to my other fics, for one it’s not the usual Henry x reader narrative. I have created a character this time to act as his partner. Also this one is LONG (3,444 words). I have enjoyed writing a longer and more complex story and I hope you enjoy reading it. (As a warning, it’s SAD. I am not ashamed to admit I cried just writing it.)

Link to song: https://open.spotify.com/track/7rk8cH53nI8ffb5ZccjfpT?si=QMVvEmA3TK-3WuQXJanMmQ

“Oww! Shit!”

Henry looked up from the book he was reading in bed. Anwen was rubbing her forehead and looking very wounded. She’d clearly just walked into the doorframe. Again. Henry laughed out loud.

“Don’t laugh at me!” A pillow flew through the air and missed its target of Henry’s face by a considerable amount. He laughed again. 

“I can’t help it. You are so clumsy!”

Anwen climbed into bed, still massaging the sore spot on her head. She scowled at Henry. “If I remember correctly Mr Cavill, it was because of me being clumsy that meant we met for the very first time.”

“Hmm,” Henry reached over and gathered her up in his arms, leaning back against the headboard. He kissed her gently on the faint bruise that was blooming on her pale skin. “I do remember,” he said fondly. 

          It had been over five years ago now. Henry was out with his friend and colleague Simon Pegg, drinking their way through some of London’s best nightclubs. It had been a great night so far, with both men enjoying their freedom; they’d recently finished filming their latest movie and were celebrating. Henry was feeling happily tipsy, and when Simon offered to go to the bar for another round, he didn’t refuse. 

“Get some shots too!” he shouted at Simon’s back as he left their table. Simon waved a hand in response; Henry took that as a yes and smiled. He was just checking his Instagram on his phone when something- someone- crashed into him and he felt the cold wetness of a spilt drink over his shoulder and down his shirt. He looked up incredulously. A woman was stood there with an empty glass and an equally shocked expression.

“Oh, my go- I am so sorry!” she said in a very attractive Welsh accent, Henry thought. He felt his annoyance dissipate immediately. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it, accidents happen. How much have you had to drink anyway?” he asked cheekily. 

The woman’s ivory skin blushed, contrasting prettily with her ebony hair, which was cascading around her shoulders in thick waves.

“Um, I actually don’t drink,” she admitted. “I have just shown you how uncoordinated I am; I really don’t need to throw alcohol into the mix.” 

“Very wise. Hi, I’m Henry Cavill.”

“Anwen Evans, nice to meet you.” They shook hands and were making pleasant small talk when Simon returned with the drinks.

“What on earth happened to your shirt?” he asked Henry. 

“Anwen happened. Anwen, this is my friend Simon Pegg.” 

Anwen’s face lit up. “I love your movies! Hot Fuzz is just hilarious!” she said to Simon, who smiled widely and they spent the next few moments quoting lines from the film. Simon looked sideways at Henry, and saw the way he was looking at Anwen, and cleared his throat.

“Well, it’s been lovely to meet you, but I must get on. Henry, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, winking at his friend. Henry mouthed a silent thank you, grinning. 

After Anwen explained to her girlfriend’s that she was going to continue the night with Henry, prompting a lot of excited giggling and whispering, she sat herself down at Henry’s table. The hours flew by as they got to know each other. Anwen was an up-and-coming chef, who’d recently opened a new restaurant nearby in London. She told Henry about the restaurant’s menu, and Henry promised to try it out soon. In return, Henry told her about the films he’d been in. He was mock-outraged when Anwen admitted she’d never seen a Superman movie, let alone Man of Steel, and laughing, she promised she’d check it out soon. Conversation naturally flowed between them, Henry felt so at ease with her, and it turned out they had quite a bit in common. As Henry told Anwen about his akita Kal, Anwen told him she also had a dog, a golden retriever named Ciri.

“Ciri?” Henry had asked. “As in Ciri from The Witcher?”

“Yeah! I’m such a huge fan, I’ve read all the books, and I’ve played all the games!”

Henry laughed. “You are never going to believe who I’ve just been cast as for my next job…” Anwen’s jaw dropped to the floor when he told her. 

The night ended with Henry walking Anwen home to her nearby townhouse, and they shared their first kiss on the doorstep, swapping numbers with the promise to meet up again soon for a date.

          Now back in the present, nearly six years later, Anwen had moved into Henry’s penthouse, with Ciri who Kal adored. Both dogs were curled up at the end of the bed now, fast asleep.

In Henry’s arms, Anwen cuddled in close. “Yes, so if it wasn’t for me tripping and drenching you that night we wouldn’t be here now, so stop taking the piss!”  

“Okay, okay!” Henry laughed. “I do worry though, you know. You’re like… like porcelain. So easily broken. Be more careful, I’d hate for something to happen, for me to lose you. I love you so much, my Annie.”

“Don’t be so soft! I’m not going anywhere, not for a long time. And I’ll love you until the day I’m gone, and if I can love after, then I will then too. So shush,” Anwen replied, placing a kiss on his lips.

“Anyway, I’m not that breakable, I don’t think. Wanna test this theory?” 

Swinging her legs around Henry’s waist, Anwen straddled him and seductively removed her top. She was braless underneath. Henry whistled low, and licked his lips.

“Yes ma’am.”

          Henry and Anwen’s life continued in perfect bliss. Both had never been as happy as they were with each other. Anwen was now an established celebrity chef, having opened many more restaurants worldwide, written a few cookbooks and even been on television a couple of times. Henry’s career as an actor was skyrocketing, his role at Geralt in The Witcher making him a household name. This meant that he had to travel all around the globe for work, however this didn’t impact his and Anwen’s relationship in the slightest, as she regularly went with him, using the time to research new recipes for her business. When they had spare time, they enjoyed exotic holidays, and it was on the white powder sand of the Maldives that Henry proposed. Anwen had burst into tears and accepted immediately, and they’d spent the rest of that holiday on their private island mostly naked, enjoying each other as an engaged couple.           Their home life was refreshingly normal however. Behind closed doors, they were just Henry and Anwen, not the famous actor and the celebrity chef. They both took in turns to cook dinner, did the housework together and spent the evenings cwtched up on the sofa watching old movies. Laughter was a staple in their home, in fact they only ever rowed when England played Wales at rugby during the Six Nations. Life was indeed bliss, and it seemed nothing could burst this content bubble they were living in.

            One average day in late autumn, Anwen was sat at the kitchen table, with her laptop open in front of her and Ciri snoozing quietly at her feet. Dressed in a pair of comfy sweats and a loose off-the-shoulder jumper, her hair piled artfully messy on top of her head and holding a large cup of coffee in her hands, she was looking at wedding venues online, finally making a start on planning their special day. A huge binder was also open on the table with multiple sheets on paper sticking out of it. She’d made plenty of notes and had lots of ideas; it was now time to put them into action. Henry walked into the kitchen, looking very stylish in back jeans and a tight black t-shirt. He was holding Kal’s lead and the akita was tip-tapping on the tiles behind him, clearly very excited about going for a walk. Ciri didn’t even raise her head, happy enough to stay in with her mum and continue her nap. 

“I’m going to take Kal with me to the meeting with my manager,” he said to Anwen. “Then do you fancy meeting me after with Ciri and we’ll take them for a walk in the park?” 

“Yes, my love, sounds lush. How long will you be do you think?”

“Not sure, I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Sounds like a plan!”

“What are you up to today?” Henry asked, walking over to Anwen and kissing her on the top of her head. “Wedding stuff?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna send off some emails now this morning and then go to this bakery and try out some wedding cake samples,” Anwen smiled.

“Well, I’m jealous! Have a great day honey, I’ll call you later. Love you!”

“Love you, bye!” she called as he walked out the front door.

          Henry’s meeting was going well. His manager had quite a few prospective roles lined up for him, and Henry was interested in the majority of them. His mind wandered to Anwen every so often; he still missed her when they were apart. As the meeting was coming to a close and Kal started getting excited again at going for another walk, Henry’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID- withheld number. 

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr Henry Cavill? I’m a nurse here at London hospital. We have you down here as Miss Anwen Evans’s emergency contact.”

Henry paled. “Is she okay?”

“I’m afraid Miss Evans has been involved in a serious accident. We have her here at the emergency department. Can you get here straight away?”

          Henry had never moved so quickly in his entire life. After giving his manager a hurried explanation and asking him whether he’d look after Kal, he’d gotten in his car and sped through the streets of London, not caring that he was breaking the speed limit. He parked illegally, jumping out of the vehicle and sprinting into the hospital. His mind was in overdrive, all sorts of scenarios going through his head. He felt sick with fear and exertion. Flying into the emergency room, he looked around wildly, finding a nurse sat at the front desk.

“Anwen Evans? I’m here for Anwen Evans, I’m Henry Cavill,” he cried desperately. The nurse didn’t hesitate.

“Come with me.”

She explained to Henry what had happened on the way. “Anwen was crossing the road at a zebra crossing when she tripped halfway, according to witnesses. There was a speeding car, who didn’t see her. He… he ran right over her. He didn’t stop. There are police looking for the car and driver as we speak.”

The flash of anger that Henry felt was so severe that his steps faltered for a second. But then he pushed it away, to be dealt with later. All that mattered now was Anwen. 

“Mr Cavill, Anwen is in a bad way. She has a serious brain injury, and multiple body fractures. The trauma team managed to get her stable, but it’s touch-and-go. The next twenty-four hours are critical,” the nurse said gently. “Prepare yourself before you go in.”

She opened the door to the dimly lit room. The sound of machines beeping dominated the otherwise peaceful atmosphere. Henry moved closer to the bed, his mouth dry, hands shaking. His Annie was lying in the bed, connected to the machines, wires snaking out from every part of her it seemed. Her beautiful black hair was covered by thick white bandages wrapped around her head, and every part of her skin was purple and blue bruises. Her striking green eyes, usually so full of love and sparkle, were swollen shut. Henry had never seen anything so heartbreaking; tears coursed unbidden down his cheeks.

“Can I sit by her? Hold her hand?” he choked to the nurse. 

“Of course, pet.”

He pulled up a chair to her bedside and ever so gently took Anwen’s hand in his. It was reassuringly warm. He could do nothing for a moment but stroke it slowly. Worry filled every part of his being. 

“I’m here Annie. It’s your Henry. Come back to me, you can get through this,” he whispered, and then as sobs wracked through him, he added, “you said you’d love me until you’re gone and I’ll be damned if you’re going anywhere yet.” 

For the next few hours, Henry didn’t leave Anwen’s side; he didn’t let go of her hand. He held onto hope that she would get better. After all, porcelain could break yes, but it could also be fixed. And he would do anything to fix her. 

          As it approached eighteen hours since Anwen’s accident, a nurse came into the room and caught Henry fighting not to fall asleep. She softly tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mr Cavill, go and get some rest. You’re more than welcome to use the family room just next door. Freshen up, get an hour or so sleep. If anything changes, I promise I’ll come and notify you immediately.”

Henry considered this, torn between not wanting to leave Anwen’s side and the need to at least wash his face. 

“I’ll be half an hour, tops. Annie, I’ll be right back.” He put her hand down, and exited the room, rubbing his tired eyes as he went. 

He hadn’t been gone five minutes when a terrifying beeping screeched out from Anwen’s room. He ran out of the bathroom still with wet hands, his heart in his mouth. He halted in the doorway, petrified at the scene unfolding in front of him. 

A team of medics were working hard on her, the unrelenting beeping just adding to the frenzy of the situation. Anwen’s heart had stopped; someone fired up a defibrillator. The shock that went through her echoed in Henry. He just didn’t know what to do. He was vaguely aware of someone trying to lead him away but he just couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away, panic rising, threatening to overspill. His Annie, his Annie was there dying on that bed, and he couldn’t do anything but watch. And then suddenly, the most sinister sound yet. A flatline. Followed by a voice.

“We’ve lost her. Time of death, eight fifteen AM…”

Then silence.

The sound that tore its way up and out through Henry’s throat was that of a wounded animal. He screamed, the feeling pure agony.

“No! NO! There must be something you can do! My Annie! Annie…”

The doctor looked at him with sadness in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Henry. So sorry. Please, everyone, give him some space.”

The rest of his team followed him out; the nurse that had told Henry to go get some rest was crying silently. 

Henry stood rooted to the spot, in a state of absolute denial. Only a day before they’d been in their kitchen together, making plans to walk their beloved dogs, she was planning their wedding. Their wedding. Agony ripped through his chest, sobs wracked his body, his breathing erratic, his heart shattered, never to be healed again. Broken, like porcelain. 

          Henry didn’t know how he got through the funeral. He’d been to the funeral home, and dressed her in her favourite dress and shoes, and spent a long time brushing out her hair; he’d done that when she was alive, but the familiar act did nothing to ease his pain. When he got to the church, he walked down the aisle with her coffin on his shoulder, his heart heavy because he should have been watching her walk down the aisle in a white flowing dress towards him, he should be becoming her husband, not burying her. When it came to reading her eulogy, he was overcome with emotion, for the first time in his life not able to talk in public. His mother helped him down from the podium; his father continued the speech. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

At the wake, he got blind drunk. No one saw him for a week afterwards.

          The news of Anwen’s death was plastered all over the newspapers and online. Headlines such as “HENRY CAVILL FIANCE KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT” and “CELEBRITY CHEF ANWEN EVANS DEAD AT 27” accompanied photos of the both of them. The hole in Henry’s chest got bigger each time he saw it. He threw himself into his work; being someone else for at least 12 hours a day was easier than dealing with real life. Because the grief was all consuming, terrifying, never-ending. When he got home to his cold and empty penthouse, he couldn’t escape it; Kal and Ciri looked at him sadly every night, the question in their eyes: “where is our mummy?” Henry had no answers for them. He spent each evening sat in the dark, in silence. There was no laughter, no enjoyment in life since she’d gone. 

          A few weeks later, Simon came to visit. He’d been dropping in regularly, terribly worried about his friend. Henry looked, quite frankly, awful. His hair was long and the curls unkempt, he’d let his beard grow out and he had deep purple bags under his eyes. He’d lost a lot of weight too, although he hadn’t stopped working out. Simon sat down next to Henry on his sofa, nervously voicing the question he’d come round to ask.

“Henry, it’s the awards ceremony tonight. Will you be going?”

Henry looked at him like he’d gone mad. 

“Look,” Simon continued. “You’ve been nominated for Best Actor. It’s highly likely you’re going to win. Remember how she… how Anwen was really looking forward to going.” This was true. The red dress she’d been planning to wear was still hung up on the back of the bedroom door. “If you don’t want to go for yourself, why don’t you go for her?”

Henry thought it over. He hadn’t been out, apart from work and the gym, since before the accident. The thought of going to such a high-profile event caused panic. Yet… an image of Anwen, smiling before him in that red dress suddenly entered his mind. She had been so excited; she’d even helped him write his acceptance speech in case he did in fact win Best Actor. Go for her, Simon had said…

          And that’s how, just hours later, Henry found himself back on the red carpet, surrounded by flashing lights and crazed shouting as paparazzi tried to get his attention. He posed for a few photos before hurrying inside and taking his seat. He ate the extravagant three-course meal without really tasting it, drank the wine without really feeling it. Simon sat by his side, a welcome support; a truly great friend. Then, finally, it was time for the awards to be given. 

Henry clapped and cheered as each person won their nominated categories; showing his support for his fellow actors and actresses. Seeing them so happy actually lifted his spirits for the first time since… before. Then it was time for the winner of the Best Actor award.

“And the winner is… HENRY CAVILL!”

Henry sat in shock as the cameras and spotlights panned to him. Simon was on his feet, screaming “I knew he’d do it!” and then he was helping Henry up. “Go on mate, to the stage. You won, you bloody won!” 

In a daze, he walked towards the stage, then across it, accepting his award from the host. The applause was tumultuous; it took a few moments for it to die down, and then everyone in the audience was waiting expectantly for his speech. Henry drew a blank; he had no idea what to say.

“You can do it, handsome!” a heartbreakingly familiar voice whispered in his ear. He looked to the side and his breath hitched in his throat. Anwen was stood there, a wide grin all over her face, looking devastatingly beautiful in the red dress she’d planned to wear tonight. 

“I’m right here with you. I love you.”

Tears welled and spilled from Henry’s eyes as he turned back to face the audience. 

“This award,” he started. “is for my Anwen. My Annie. I couldn’t have been the actor who deserved it without her love and encouragement. She was my everything. She still is. I owe this, my entire career, my entire life to you, my angel. I miss you more than words can describe, and I love you even more.

As he left the stage to even louder applause and cheers and flashing lights, he looked up, seeing the love of his life again, smiling, tears sparkling on her cheeks, blowing him a kiss as she faded away.

“Goodbye my Annie,” he whispered. “Goodbye.”

[boizandgurlzinthehouse]

I would love an imagine with lewis nixon with a little angst that turns into fluff, please!

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞 ; 𝐥𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧

pairing: lewis nixon x fem!reader plot: relationships sometimes get rough, even in the middle of te war –but lewis is here to doubt that. word count: 2,367

(dm or request for me to my taglist if you want to  ʚ♡⃛ɞ(•ᴗ•❁))

dating lewis nixon was not definitely easy. yeah, he was nearly alcoholic, he had a daring persona, and the meaning of the “healthy connection with parents” was unknown for him. although, he was a good guy with a clear brain and the best humour you had ever known, and not to mention, he was protective as hell towards you. lewis’ fear, that you were gonna find a much better guy than him before he got to marry you was really, really strong: you were one of the most honoured women -hell, even between men- at the army. your strategies always worked, and you even had the connection with the secret service, planning and writing the commands, even when nobody was capable of thinking about victory or success in the middle of chaos. you had names like speirs, who was a living legend just like you -you were the “battle widow”, even if you never had a spouse, not even at home, or a lover.

until now.

in the first months of your relationship, each of you were at toccoa, every moment with each other was filled with love and soft smiles, cheeky comments on this and that, warm sheets around you in the morning or after a very lovely night -because by each other's side, you could do anything. but before they went to aldbourne, fort benning or camp mackall, you needed to move to washington, back to the centre of everything -they needed you. meanwhile, lewis got more somber and serious, just the war, he’s just worried a little bit, you thought. you were too nervous as hell, if he gets shot or injured, if something permanent happens… you didn't want to think about it, either. his best friend, winters was a good man too -sometimes even better than lewis-, and the night before you got up to the train, you asked him to look over lewis -of course he don’t gotta be able to carry him or something, just assure that he don’t do something dumb and don’t hurt himself or anybody else. your heart stung when he got out from the view, but grabbing the necklace at your chest -he gave it to you on the date you kissed-, you somehow knew that everything was gonna be alright.

but now, little things scared you -or these were just little things to him, but to you, they were very big. at first, lewis’ letters got shorter and shorter, in turn they were still out of danger, and while you wrote at least one page, his writing was barely a half or one fourth of a paper long. and the second, you got news that he’s drinking more and more. okay, maybe these things were bigger than they would have been, but nah, you were just in love, no? probably, he was just too busy, or something was wrong with the transporting of the letters, or… you tried to collect reasons desperately, legitimating that you and him are alright. you even expected to write to winters, to spy about lewis, but you never wanted to involve him in something he was not supposed to be involved in -your problem was just yours and your boyfriend’s. the moment when you got back to your tiny apartment after two long day -you had to sleep in there because of the nonstop readiness-, you dared to dial the number of the centre of aldbourne’s military station. maybe he’s in the near, or some of his friends and you can talk with him.

-please, just pick up -you muttered, a little blunt sound pricked in the line of the phone. after a few seconds, you heard a little shuffling. -camp aldbourne’s military station centre, what can i help? -you sighed when you heard winters, sitting down on the couch to speak a little bit calmer. -hi, i’m (y/n), and… can you please toss me to lewis? is he near of you? -you asked warily, hoping that the answer was gonna be a “yes, of course”. -sorry, but he’s with lipton and harry welsh. perhaps if i call you back later, can you keep it a little bit? -yeah, of course, but winters -you jabbered, and continued before he could say anything. -is lewis… okay?

you heard winters exhaling, and you felt that he’s thinking. but what about? that lewis’ worse? how worse?

-lew’s fine, he’s just… his things just got together, but he handles it. is everything okay, or… -no, just give him, please. thanks -you shaked off, feeling a little guilty about your tone, but all you wanted to hear was your boyfriend. a couple of moments later you got what you wanted -but not how you wanted.

-hey, (y/n), what’s up? -you squinted on the question. what’s up? he always asked “how are you” or “are you okay, baby”, but not shitty “what’s up”. -hi, lewis. is everything alright, love? i am… a little worried about you -you began, circling your finger on the fabric of the sofa. -you don’t need to, ‘kay? everything's fine, just mind your own business or i don’t know.

you almost gulped at this, hoping he doesn't hear the bitter mumble. but now, you knew that with gentleness, you’re not gonna get to know anything.

-okay, fine. but then why did you not answer my letters? or calls? -i wrote to you, everytime. -but not as much as- -(y/n) don’t do this, okay? i don’t have time, and- -neither i, lew.

all you hoped was that he gets silent on the end of the line, and thinks about you. how you miss him, how you want him to lay beside you in the night, or keeping his hand on your thigh a little bit possessively when he drives -somewhere, to the place that only you and him know about. but the massive, bitter taste on your tongue didn’t want to let go.

-listen, (y/n), i don’t have time for this. i’m busy, i have to administer a lot, practice a lot, and we are on the edge of fighting. i know it’s hard for you, but you have to get used to it. -and this is not hard for you? those letters don’t matter to you? -jesus, why does every woman be like this? you’re like my mother, y/n.

your face frowned, and your brain fumbled -did he say this for real?

-god no, lew. i’m just worried about you, i care about you, you fucker, i go to sleep with the consciousness that you don’t… you’re not gonna survive, or anything! -that’s right, because i don’t know what’s gonna happen, damn it! i’m going to jump out in the middle of the war, and maybe get injured, but you only worry about your dumb fucking letters!

-then fuck you, okay? how am i supposed to write to you in the middle of the night, when i could sleep too, but keep up to show you that i love you! and you just shit down these letters, how am i supposed to keep everything together when you don’t give a fuck about us, or anything? -you nearly shouted, and you knew that some of his colleagues watch him from the corner of his eyes.

-because you’re fucking perfect, miss “widow of war”, miss “everybody loves me”, and you know everything better than anyone! i hate this, that everytime i get compared to you, and get the shit! -i never wanted to be better, how can you say a thing like this? i love the way you are, lew! but you give up, because mom’s little son never was in the target, where everything’s fucked up! -a single tear wetted your shirt, you stopped your shaking breakdown with the batting of your lashes.

then, it became silent. you didn’t know what was gonna happen, but you hoped that he’s gonna respond, even if your face was nearly bright red from the anger.

-yeah, maybe that’s my fault. but your fault is that you don’t fuck someone better.

the words burned into your ears, sliding down to your stomach, pulled out the worst kind of failure from you.

-fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! -crying out, not knowing that he’s hearing you or not -not caring either-, you flunked the phone with all of your force to the table, trying to get away from it as far as you could.

you didn’t remember much that night, only the sadness blew up in your soul stronger and stronger. you felt so strange in your house, feeling the emptiness like never before -falling on knees, letting the darkness inside.

✧༺♡༻∞　

stepping on the muddy dutch ground, your stomach grumbled at the thought of the things that wait here for you. colonel sink sent a message that the american army in europe needs reinforcement -that’s why you were here, making plenty of good decisions, keeping the battalion, the companies together, and… maybe meeting with your lover. or ex-lover? you didn’t know, you only knew that you’re not gonna let the burning hole inside your soul take the lead ahead.

-it’s such a pleasure to see you, colonel (y/l/n). our state was getting a little bit lower this time, but all of the people fight with all of their force. want some coffee, colonel? -captain heyliger asked you, while you took your coat off, the beige-brown, oversized shirt tucked into your pants covered the white t-shirt you wore, the necklace brushed at your skin. the movement flew with bringing back some bad memories.

-no, thank you. all i want is to jump in the middle of the work, that’s why i’m here -you smiled, hoping that you don’t meet with anyone you don’t want to. but now, lewis and you were exactly neutral to each other, you had nothing to be ashamed of. sitting down in the big office, you began to write, didn’t see who came in -seeing his silhouettes in the glass of the cabinet, for lewis’ fortune, this was the cause of your inner peace. the man behind you didn’t say anything -standing there, you can’t stand a question.

-are you gonna stay there forever, or do you want something? -your voice was never colder towards him. and this wasn’t your fault.

-i just heard that you arrived here. -i did.

silence again. fucking empty, fucking helpless silence.

-and i wanted to talk with you, too. -and what held you back until this time? -’just thought you’re busy -yeah, i was busy searching for another man, you could say, but didn't have the courage to say it. after the loss, with broken skin and soul, you never wanted to give him a broken heart too. -yeah, i was. -but i’m here now. and i’m talking with you. or at least i want to. -and what if i don’t want to, huh? perhaps nothing, because you don’t care about my feelings -echoing this sentence in your mind, you didn’t let out. let him talk. maybe he can be better this time, no?

lewis stepped closer, his frame in the sharp gaze got heavier and taller.

-and… i wanted to say sorry. for everything i said before. and those unsent letters, those unspoken words that show how much i love you. and that how much i missed you, for real. not just your silly but meaningful worries, or the moments we made together… i want you back. i want you back with all of this stuff, and i know that i barely can make up for this, i should have written those letters, but… turns out that really, i am the asshole.

you stayed quiet, all the time he spoke, he had a little bit thinner voice -another sign that he rarely did this in his life. and yeah, maybe lewis was sometimes an asshole, your asshole, the biggest asshole you could imagine… but in the end, lewis was just himself. lewis was lewis, the little bit alcoholic, loudmouthed as hell, yet mostly dependable, protective friend. and boyfriend, how good boyfriend.

-i understand, if you don’t want to stay with me, or… anythin- you didn’t let him to end the sentence, standing up, turning to him, giving him hope like you always had. standing before lewis, you saw the rough circles under his eyes, the little, hairline-thin, maroon tears on his cheeks or his lips, you realized you can’t be mad at him.

-i want to stay with you, forever. i just thought that… you think the things serious, what you told me. i don’t want another, i want you, too. i want your love, so just please… show me, okay?

his eyes melted at your silent words, almost whispers in his ears, fading beside the beating of his blood. sliding one of his arms around your waist, just how you like, bringing you closer to him -just like on one of the nights in each other’s presence-, his other arms’s fingers sliding through yours, just like your favourite book what he bought for you months ago; you don’t wanted to end it without him.

-i’ll always show you, miss perfection -his voice is totally harmless, a silk that brushes against your ear, you smile a little bit, finding the pieces from the two of you that belong together -because that’s how it works. grabbing a little bit on his lusty hands, almost brushing your cheeks against his; -thank you. i almost wanted to search for someone better -you began, enjoying teasing him-, but guess i’m too tired for it. i found the best, it’s so hard to look for another.

his smirk woke the most powerful love in the pit of your heart, leaning closer to him, giving a kiss to your temple, your brain almost got too dizzy already. -too tired, hm?

all you were able to do is a weak-at-the-knees nod, smiling like never in the former months. lewis chuckled a little bit, bringing your lips to his, letting all the air and soreness running out from you, his hands and lips burning on your body like the good old times back in the time;

-what a shame.

[princessanneftw]

How Princess Anne became the shining light of the beleaguered monarchy

Once seen as haughty and aloof, today her old-school approach has never been more in demand

By Camilla Tominey, Associate Editor of the Telegraph.

Visitors to the Princess Royal’s house, Gatcombe Park, are often surprised to be greeted with antique-display cases groaning with ornaments, bookshelves overflowing with hardbacks and piles of magazines dating back to the 1970s. According to one friend, the 18th-century Grade II-listed Gloucestershire stately has a ‘homely’ feel, thanks to the frugal Princess’s reluctance to throw anything out.

‘It’s quite a nice thing really,’ they said. ‘There’s barely a place you can sit down in her house. Every time the staff go in there they try to take something away.’ A surprising revelation, perhaps, about the Royal family’s resident stickler, whose decadesold ‘updo’ and penchant for wearing white gloves on royal engagements suggest a somewhat starchier outlook. But as the Queen’s only daughter prepares to celebrate her 70th birthday this month, it seems that appearances can be rather deceiving.

Now more valuable than ever to an institution not only trying to reposition itself in the wake of a global pandemic, but still smarting from the fallout of Megxit and the Duke of York’s association with Jeffrey Epstein, Anne’s old-school approach has never been more in demand. Despite describing herself as ‘the boring old fuddy-duddy at the back’, who keeps reminding the younger royals not to forgo ‘the basics’, the Princess Royal, who has always put duty first, is finally getting the recognition she deserves.

Her appearance in June alongside the 94-year-old monarch for Her Majesty’s first ever video call shows how much the Queen is coming to rely on the Princess. And the public response to her appearing to snub Donald Trump during a Nato leaders’ reception at Buckingham Palace last December suggests the nation is finally warming to her modus operandi.

Where once Anne was regarded as haughty and standoffish, she is now hailed as one of the great English eccentrics whose unparalleled royal work ethic, carrying out more than 500 engagements a year, has rightly earned her national treasure status.

And having allowed a film crew to shadow her for the past year, the Princess, who is usually reluctant to blow her own trumpet, has never appeared more at ease with herself. She was persuaded to take part in last week’s ITV documentary Princess Royal: Anne at 70 because its makers, Oxford Films, had successfully produced Our Queen and Our Queen at 90 about her mother. Shadowing Anne on her dusk-to-dawn engagements – and featuring interviews with her children Peter, 42, and Zara, 39 – the documentary revealed just how much the Princess is cut from the Queen’s ‘keep calm and carry on’ cloth.

Having been regarded as a bit of a royal renegade as a teenager – and chosen to forgo titles for her own children, despite her own HRH pedigree as a ‘spare to the heir’ – Anne’s life story is a contradiction of both protocol taskmaster and occasional rule-breaker. As one insider who knows the Princess well put it: ‘She can turn from laughing and joking one minute to being an absolute stickler for the rules the next. She’s extremely dutiful and would hate to be regarded as being on the wrong side of protocol. You’d never dream of asking her a political question and she’s not at all gossipy.’

Erin Doherty’s portrayal of Anne in The Crown, as the deadpan princess with the permanently raised eyebrow, certainly sums up her teenage years when the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were apparently so concerned about their daughter’s lack of direction, they asked the late Dame Vera Lynn for advice. Prince Philip, who famously joked of his daughter, ‘If it doesn’t fart or eat hay then she isn’t interested,’ allegedly confided in the Forces’ sweetheart: ‘We are concerned about Anne at the moment, trying to get her to make up her mind about what she wants to do.’

According to her school friend, Sandra de Laszlo, who boarded with Anne at Benenden: ‘She was a very normal teenager – sensible and fun.’ Leaving school with six O levels and two A levels in 1968, Anne had already resolved to follow in her parents’ duteous footsteps. Less than a year later, she made her official debut on 1 March – St David’s Day – when she handed out leeks to the Welsh Guards at Pirbright Camp in Surrey. It was to be the start of one of the most industrious royal careers in modern memory – with more than 20,000 engagements clocked up since.

Soon after she started work, she began dating – and in 1970, Anne’s first boyfriend was Andrew Parker Bowles, the dashing young adjutant of the Blues and Royals, who went on to marry Camilla Shand – later to become her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Cornwall. The Princess and the brigadier – described as her ‘horsey husband’ – remain close and accompany each other to Royal Ascot and other race meetings every year.

Anne is also on good terms with her first husband, Captain Mark Phillips. A Sandhurst graduate with an equestrian streak, like Parker Bowles, Phillips met the Princess at a party for horse lovers in 1968 and reconnected at the Munich Olympics four years later, when he won team Olympic gold in the three-day eventing. They married in 1973. He was at the then 23-year-old Anne’s side a year later when she was threatened at gunpoint in an attempted kidnapping. The couple were returning to Buckingham Palace following a charity event when their limousine was forced to stop on the Mall by another car. When the driver, Ian Ball, jumped out and began shooting, Anne’s bodyguard, Inspector James Beaton, was injured, along with her chauffeur Alex Callender, and journalist Brian McConnell and Michael Hills, a police constable, who happened upon the scene.

But the attempt to hold Anne to ransom for at least £2 million is even more memorable thanks to the impervious Princess’s refusal to obey Ball’s order to get out of the car, replying with a trademark: ‘Not bloody likely!’ Eventually, she exited the other side of the limousine, as had her lady-in-waiting, Rowena Brassey (who is still with her to this day). A passing pedestrian, a former boxer named Ron Russell, punched Ball in the back of the head and led Anne away from the scene. Anne later told officers: ‘It was all so infuriating; I kept saying I didn’t want to get out of the car, and I was not going to get out of the car,’ according to files later released by the National Archives. ‘I nearly lost my temper with him, but I knew that if I did, I should hit him and he would shoot me.’

She was similarly sanguine about becoming the first member of the Royal family to have a criminal conviction after one of her dogs, a three-year-old English bull terrier called Dotty, attacked two children in Windsor Great Park in 2002. Pleading guilty to being in charge of a dog that was out of control in a public area, she insisted on no special treatment and took the £500 fine and £500 compensation on the chin.

The incident followed a number of brushes with the law for motoring offences, with Anne having twice been caught speeding on the M1 in the 1970s. She was also fined £100 and banned for one month in 1990 for two speeding offences and fined another £400 in 2000. On both occasions she pleaded guilty immediately, insisting she was late for an engagement.

As she said in the documentary, mistakes do happen when there is no ‘training’ for the job of being royal. ‘It’s just learning by experience. But hardly ever does anything go quite according to plan. You have to learn that.’ It wasn’t as if she didn’t feel the pressure of being the sovereign’s second-born, either – once describing the fly-on-the-wall Royal Family film, which followed the Windsors for a year in the late 1960s, as ‘a rotten idea’.

‘The attention that had been brought on one ever since one was a child, you just didn’t want any more. The last thing you needed was greater access.’

Famed for telling reporters to ‘naff orf ’, much of Anne’s mistrust of the media appears to stem from its rather uncomfortable coverage of Phillips fathering a love child, Felicity, with New Zealand art teacher Heather Tonkin in 1985. The Princess didn’t emerge unblemished either, having been revealed by The Sun to have received love letters from Tim Laurence, then the Queen’s equerry, in 1989, when she was separated – although still married to Phillips.

Anne and Mark finally divorced in 1992 and the Princess remarried eight months later, choosing Crathie Kirk in Scotland, as the Church of England did not at that time allow divorced persons whose former spouses were still living to remarry in its churches. The Prince of Wales had nicknamed Phillips ‘Fog’ on the grounds that he was ‘thick and wet’; but with his Royal Navy pedigree and impeccable manners, ‘quiet man’ Laurence fitted into the Royal family perfectly. One friend described the vice admiral as ‘a thoroughly decent man who never forgets a face’, before adding that ‘some may regard him as a little bit boring, but he’s a much safer bet than Mark ever was.’

Ever the pragmatist, Anne allowed Phillips to remain living on the Gatcombe estate, even after he married Sandy Pflueger, an American Olympic dressage rider, with whom he has a daughter, Stephanie, 22. As one equestrian insider put it: ‘The horsey set has always been very incestuous. Yes, Mark was serially unfaithful but there’s a lot of that going on – Anne just turned a blind eye.’

Now divorced from Pflueger, Phillips, 71, has vacated Aston Farm on the 730-acre estate, to make way for Zara, her rugbyplayer husband Mike Tindall, 41, and their daughters Mia, six, and Lena, two.

Peter also lives on the estate with his estranged wife Autumn, 42, and their daughters Savannah, nine, and Isla, eight. The couple are still living together despite announcing their divorce in January – an unexpected development that has left the Princess ‘sad and disappointed’, according to insiders.

One source said: ‘One thing about the Royal family is they are incredibly close. They are the most dysfunctional family there is, but the Princess and her children and grandchildren are as tight as anything.’

As ever, horse riding remains the tie that binds, with Anne – a former European eventing champion, BBC Sports Personality of the Year and competitor at the 1976 Montreal Olympics – passing on her enthusiasm for the sport to Zara. In recent years, Peter has taken over the running of the Festival of British Eventing at Gatcombe.

By her own admission, breaking with royal tradition by insisting that her children were called Mr and Miss ‘probably’ made life ‘easier for them’. ‘I think most people would argue that there are downsides to having titles,’ Anne said recently. Having initially been brought up, Downton Abbey-style, on the ‘nursery floor’, with her parents often away for months on end on royal tours, it was Anne who insisted she go to a ‘proper’ school – the first daughter of a monarch to do so – rather than be home-taught.

Both Peter and Zara were sent to Port Regis, a co-educational prep school in Dorset, before following in their uncle Charles’s footsteps to board at Gordonstoun in Scotland. Unlike the heir to the throne, who described it as ‘Colditz in kilts’, they thrived in the outdoorsiness of it all, excelled at sport and both ended up at Exeter University – Peter to study sports science and Zara, physiotherapy – despite university having eluded both their parents.

Zara also surpassed her mother’s equestrian achievements by winning the Eventing World Championships in 2006 and a silver medal at the 2012 Olympics – all while Anne was watching proudly from the sidelines.

One friend recalls how the Princess would think nothing of queuing up for the Portaloos at competitions like any other parent, much to the horror of Zara, who would tell her: ‘Mum, you can’t do that!’

Inconspicuous in her trademark Barbour jacket, tweed hat and sunglasses, Anne would regularly be stopped at events on her own estate by police not realising who she was. ‘I remember it happening a couple of times,’ said one source. ‘She was very good about it – she said: “Don’t worry, you weren’t to know.”’

After Zara collected individual and team gold medals at the 2005 European Eventing Championship in Blenheim, Anne invited the entire team, grooms and all, back to Gatcombe to celebrate, serving up ‘sandwiches and scampi in a basket’, in the courtyard. Very much a hands-on mother and grandmother, the Princess has a number of long-serving aides – but no large entourage. Along with Rowena Brassey (now Feilden), Lady Carew Pole has also been the Princess’s lady-in-waiting since 1970.

Unfussy Anne still insists on doing her own make-up and hair – which hasn’t been let down publicly in decades. Although according to one source who once witnessed the rare sight of her unclipping her bun and redoing it during an equestrian event: ‘It really is quite something. It’s still as long as it was when she was in her 20s.’

Part of Anne’s agelessness is down to genes. ‘She always says she doesn’t have very good role models for slowing down,’ Peter told the documentary. As Countryfile presenter John Craven found out when he dared to ask if Anne still rode, only to be rebuked: ‘Her Majesty is still riding, so come on!’ But as well as inheriting her mother’s DNA she shares HM’s strict adherence to style codes – and her aversion to profligacy.

Guests at the 2008 wedding of Lady Rose Windsor, the daughter of the Duke of Gloucester, were astonished when Anne arrived in the outfit she had worn to her brother’s wedding to Lady Diana Spencer, 27 years earlier. The size-10 Maureen Baker floral-print frock still fitted perfectly.

Quite what Anne must have made of Diana and Fergie’s wardrobe expenditure in the 1980s has never been disclosed – although it has long been reported that the Princess never thought too highly of either sister-in-law, regarding Diana particularly as ‘hogging the limelight’.

There were even reports that she viewed the pair as ‘lessening the stature’ of the Royal family, describing them behind the scenes as ‘those girls’. As royal biographer Penny Junor put it: ‘There was Diana on the one hand, who was incredibly touchy-feely, who hugged children, who put children on her lap, who even kissed people in public. And there was Anne, not touching anyone, not playing up to the cameras at all.’

As far removed from the suburban housewife as you can get, when Anne was once spotted mending fences at Gatcombe, she apparently retorted: ‘Somebody’s got to do it!’ ‘She’s never shirked anything in her life,’ said a friend. ‘She’s a real grafter.’

Weekends will invariably be spent with her four grandchildren. Revealing a surprising knowledge of popular culture – despite her dislike of indoor pursuits – the Princess revealed her familiarity with Catherine Tate’s stroppy schoolgirl character Lauren when she commented that Mia’s attitude to equestrianism was, ‘Am I bovvered?’

‘She’s superb with the kids,’ said a friend. ‘She’ll often be in the stables with the grandchildren. She’s got a tremendous sense of humour and is very likeable and kind. She loves Mike [Tindall, Zara’s husband]. He makes them all laugh.

The friend also pointed to Anne’s ‘surprisingly fruity’ sense of humour, adding: ‘And the Princess can swear all right. I’ve heard her use some quite colourful language.’

If the Queen instilled in Anne a love of horses then it was her father who encouraged her other great passion in life: sailing. Anne would regularly accompany the former Royal Navy commander to Cowes Week, and it is a testament to Philip’s infectious love of seafaring that Anne and Tim have kept their yacht Ballochbuie on Loch Craignish in Argyll, since 2012. The couple enjoy nothing more than cruising around the Inner Hebrides, where Anne indulges her passion of visiting lighthouses. She is patron of the Northern Lighthouse Board and is understood to have ‘bagged’ more than half of the UK’s 206.

But it hasn’t always been so easy combining work and pleasure. Anne was put to the diplomatic test when she became the first member of the Royal family to visit the USSR, at the invitation of the then-leader Gorbachev in 1990. In typical style, the Princess didn’t shirk the responsibility – and stayed for two whole weeks. Visits to war zones including Sierra Leone, Mozambique and Bosnia have been similarly taxing – with Anne once insisting after a particularly gruelling tour of Africa: ‘I don’t come here looking for trouble. I come to see if I can help.’

Her association with Save the Children, which dates back to 1970, has seen her slum it on camp beds and visit disease-ravaged Mozambique refugee camps. Once urged by photographers to hug an emaciated child, she refused, saying, ‘I don’t do stunts.’ And in response to a comment on her supposed lack of the maternal instinct, she said: ‘You don’t have to like children particularly to want to give them a decent chance in life.’

Yet her reputation as one of the most diligent royals ever has also been honed by her dedication to little-known domestic causes, like the Wetwheels Foundation, which provides ‘barrier-free boating’ for the disabled. One of more than 300 charities the Princess is involved with, its founder Geoff Holt, a paraplegic who was the first disabled person to sail solo around Britain in 2007, and then across the Atlantic in 2010, has known Anne for over 30 years. ‘I’ve got photos of us going back decades. I’ve got older and older and she’s stayed the same,’ he joked.

‘She’s got to be one of the most hard-working people I know. I’ve never known anything like it – the amount of engagements she packs in. She doesn’t do sycophancy, though.

Michele Jennings, chief executive of Hearing Dogs for the Deaf, of which the Princess has been patron since 1992, also tells staff ‘not to fawn’ when the Princess visits. ‘She hates that,’ she said. ‘We’re a pretty down-to-earth charity and when she comes she’ll have dogs jumping at her shins and crawling all over her, but she doesn’t mind one bit. There’s no awkwardness.’

Another source revealed how during one royal visit, Anne had joked about missing out on all the posh canapés – royals are discouraged from eating in public. ‘I’ll just have to put up with Great Western’s finest,’ she quipped, referring to her train journey home.

Although a ‘daddy’s girl’ growing up, since the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret died in 2002, Anne has become ever more devoted to her mother. Having helped to counsel the Queen through many royal crises over the years, the Princess has been HM’s first port of call when discussing recent tumultuous royal events. Although one can only guess what stalwart Anne makes of Harry and Meghan’s behaviour, she has made no secret of her opposition to royals trying to modernise the institution, seemingly referring to the Sussexes when she remarked recently: ‘I don’t think this younger generation probably understands what I was doing in the past and it’s often true, isn’t it? You don’t necessarily look at the previous generation and say, “Oh, you did that?” Or, “You went there?” Nowadays, they’re much more looking for, “Oh, let’s do it a new way.” I’m already at the stage [of ], please do not reinvent that particular wheel. We’ve been there, done that. Some of these things don’t work. You may need to go back to basics.’

When she turned 60, the Queen elevated Anne to the Order of the Thistle and there was a joint birthday party with Andrew, who was 50 that year. But Covid-19 – not to mention Andrew’s fall from grace – mean this year’s celebrations will be more muted. Indeed, she is not thought to have had much contact with her brother, with whom she shares a love of country pursuits, but little else.

With the Queen having been self-isolating at Windsor Castle since March, it is thought Anne will be reunited with her parents at Balmoral this summer, where she and Tim will once again take in Scotland’s sights by sea.

At a time when the monarchy finds itself somewhat cast adrift, it is the indefatigable Princess Royal who is proving to be its trustiest anchor. As she prepares to turn 70, showing no sign of slowing down after half a century of engagements, lighthouse-lover Anne has become the Royal family’s beacon of good, old-fashioned public service.

[imaginesbymk]

PINK + WHITE.

luca changretta fanfiction.

— [ *DELETED* on wattpad ] : the photo above is the book cover, youokmk is my wattpad account.

summary: teresa’s permanent resignation from the peaky blinders leads her to a whole new chapter of working in an art museum. but little did she know her best life would be butchered some time later when her former lover tommy shelby gives her no choice but to return to the peaky blinders after they make new enemies, with the leader, of all people, being the man teresa fell in love with one night after a wedding reception back in post world war; luca changretta.

oc

—erin richards as teresa griffith.

chapters

prologue.

chapter one ; bullet for shelby.

chapter two ; the greatest city in the world.

chapter three ; that welsh grace shelby.

chapter four ; cosa nostra.

chapter five ; two awkward reunions.

chapter six ; just another woman.

chapter seven ; finn, all grown up.

chapter eight ; the flapper girl.

chapter nine ; with heat & wet skin.

chapter ten ; stained glass window.

DISCONTINUED.

THIS STORY HAS NOW BEEN DISCONTINUED!

This book will remain open for new readers/current readers to go back and reread, but I have pulled a long hiatus to the story for a year to the point where it bothers me knowing it hasn't been updated.

Am I sad? Yeah, I've abandoned countless stories. I was very passionate with this story but not a lot of views were gained on either platform it was posted on (this and Wattpad). I don't blame anyone, though, because to be very honest, I grew out of my crush for this fictional character up until this point and I blame quarantine, though I am still a fan of the show.

I never planned on having any closure for this story because I originally planned on writing this story following the season four plot with just Teresa included, which isn't even exciting. I never even planned any closure on their relationship. It'll take more than five chapters to finish it, which I no longer have the interest/motivation.

I did however come up with a better idea. Instead of abandoning my stories with Luca for good, I plan on writing whatever was originally planned for this story as separate imagines/one shots, as Luca Changretta x Y/N.

Until then,

in the bleak midwinter.

- MK.

[suis0u]

Currently spending the last nights with sketching and drawing pictures of him before I go to bed.

[blahblahblippyblah]

Chapter 2 of The Magic of Dust

Read on AO3 as well.

Peter

Peter felt a little intimidated going to Hogwarts. Not because he was worried about being bad at school, but more because he was worried about fitting in. Growing up the was often teased by local kids for being, weird, or fat, or both. His mother always told him that other kids were just jealous because they were silly muggles who didn’t understand how special he was. Peter didn’t believe this though, he knew he was teased because he was different. When he got his letter he was excited because he thought he would now get to be around other kids just like himself, and he could finally make some friends, but fear crept back in slowly when he got onto the platform and saw that muggle children and wizard children seemed to be exactly the same. His mother however told him that he would soon be sorted and then he would make friends in his house and not to worry. She said any other boy would be lucky to have him as a friend. She reminded him to stay polite and kind, and to share the sweets on the train, before kissing him farewell with tears in her eyes.

The first two first years he ran into didn’t seem interested in making friends. Well the boy named Severus didn’t seem interested, his friend Lily was kind and even talked to him about how excited she was, but her Severus quickly distracted her and left Peter out of the conversation.

Then the boy in the car had only said hello before going back to his book, and Peter was starting to fell put out. Maybe making friends wasn’t something he was going to be able to do. He was about to get up and go look for somewhere else to sit when Sirius and James came in. Peter knew immediately they were purebloods, there robes and accents said it all. Plus, one was a Black. Everyone in the wizarding world knew the Blacks, his mother often told him that the Blacks came into the antic shop she worked in looking for rare books, and magical objects. Well, technically they sent others to find these objects for them, but none the less the Blacks were wealthy and powerful. Peter was super nervous, but the one named James had actually struck up conversation with him and Sirius joined in too. They were much nicer than Peter thought they would be. His mother once told him purebloods only consorted with other purebloods, and to try and not get on their bad sides. He also vaguely recalled him mom’s boss once saying the Blacks were crazy, completely mad in the head, probably because of the inbreeding. However, Talking to Sirius and James Peter didn’t get this impression. Maybe his mom had been mistaken.

After the altercation he was starting to feel awkward again. But if anyone was good at breaking tension it was him. Aspecta nudged him with her elbow to encourage him. Peter knew what she was thinking. ‘Go on. Make friends’. So Peter did exactly that.

“So we know what house James want to get into. What about you Sirius?”

Sirius looked at him and blinked. He looked upset and Pete was worried maybe he shouldn’t have asked. But then Sirius broke into a smile that reminded him a little of the look the crazy old man who lived above his mom’s flat. Maybe that was the madness his mom was talking about.

“I’m not sure. My whole family have been in Slytherin for decades. But I don’t think I want to go into Slytherin. I think I’m going to try for Gryffindor. Man, that’s going to give my mother a heart attack.” Sirius said with an excited voice.

James smiled at him approvingly.

“What about you Pete?” James asked.

“Ohhh I don’t know” Peter looked over at Aspecta who was now munching away on a licorice strand she pulled out of his pocket. She shrugged, showing she had no idea what house they would be put in.

“My mom was a Hufflepuff, no idea what my dad was, but I would be happy in anything but Slytherin.”

“Nothing wrong with Hufflepuff” James said. “Not as great as Gryffindor, but Hufflepuffs are cool. Plus, your dorm would be right beside the kitchens so that’s a bonus”

“How do you know where the kitchens are already?” Sirius questioned.

“My dad told me. He wouldn’t tell me how to find it or get in, but he said to start looking by the Hufflepuff common room.”

“Wow your dad sounds cool.” Sirius said. “My dad just told me to stay out of trouble and listen to my cousins”

“How many cousins do you have?” Peter asked genuinely interested. Maybe Sirius would have insight into how the sorting happened, or how Hogwarts was.

“Umm well from the first cousins I have 3. Andromeda, Narcissa, and Bellatrix. Andy’s in her 6th year, Sissy is in her 4th year and Bella is in her second. There all Slytherins’, but Andy’s the only one I like. Sissy is a bore, and Bella is a phycho. She once pushed me out a window into the garden because I called her ugly. Worth it though”

Both Peter and James laughed.

“Hey do you guys like Bertie Bots Every flavour beans?” Peter asked pulling out the giant box his mom gave him out of his bag.

“YES!” James said.

“Never had them” Sirius confessed but scooted closer to look at the box.

They shared the beans and the conversation continued along the lines about houses and sorting. James kept speculating how they sorted them. He seemed to think they were probably going to have to fight each other even though none of them knew and magic yet. Sirius put his bet on some sort of blood test potion. Peter thought both these were probably not likely, but his mother didn’t tell him how the sorting happened so for all he knew maybe they were right.

The boy named Remus who sat across from them by the window snorted in laughter right after James suggested some sort of obstacle course. They all looked over at him but he kept his eyes on his book.

His daemon a small rabbit peaked out at them from under Remus’s arm but didn’t say anything. She seemed more curious than mocking.

James and Sirius looked at the boy curiously probably trying to figure out if he was laughing at something he read, or he was laughing at them. Then Sirius’s daemon Fid quietly jumped down off the train seat and slowly walked over to the reading boy and his daemon.

Ileuda stayed still but sniffed a little as Fid got close. Fid’s tail was wagging and he sniffed aggressively at the rabbit then he launched forward and ran his slobbery wet tongue across the rabbit’s face. The rabbit jumped up and let out a disgusted “Eck” before jumping up on the boys shoulders and started rubbing her face into his faded patched robes. Remus dropped his book and scrunched his face in displeasure. He rubbed his face to probably out of sympathy.

“Haliwr!” The boy swore in Welsh. “What in Merlin’s name was that for?”

“Ahhh so he does talk” Sirius said with a laugh.

Fid was now on the seat beside Remus trying to get to Ileuda again tail wagging. Ileaud was having none of it and crawled down into Remus’s jumper. Remus went to pick up his book but James got to it first.

“Hogwarts: A History.” James read. “Cool, does it say how the sorting happens?” He asked handing Remus back the book.

Remus took the book back carefully and scanned James with bright amber eyes. This was the first time Peter got a good look at them and they made him nervous for some reason. He suddenly felt as if Remus was the most dangerous person in the room, even with a cute little bunny for a daemon. They seemed to glow, like a candle placed very far at the end of a hall. It was made worse by the scars that ran across his face one new and other indifferent stages of healing.

Remus hesitated but then answered with a short quiet “Yes”

“So? Care to share in your knowledge stranger?” James coaxed.

Remus just frowned his lips thin and tightly shut and looked at James. He didn’t look upset, but sadder. Or maybe that’s just how he looked normally. Remus didn’t answer but his daemon stuck her head out of the neck of the jumper and spoke.

“We’ll tell you for one of those chocolate frogs” She said looking over at Peter’s bags bag which was open a little showing the top of a chocolate frog box.

James smiled and reached above to his own trunk and pulled out 4 jumbo sized chocolate frogs. “Deal”

James passed everyone a box, including Remus. Remus took it carefully. He broke off a piece and gave it to Ileauda. Then Ileauda nudged his chin with her nose encouraging him to talk.

“I’ll tell you but you gotta keep your dog on a leash” Remus said to James with a more light hearted voice, gesturing to Sirius.

“Deal. Down boy” James joked lightly smacking Sirius on the nose with an empty chocolate frog bog. Sirius pouted but smiled and feigned being sad. Fid came back over and began wrestling with Bahaadur on the floor.

The three boys turned towards Remus eagerly.

“Ummm apparently Godric Gryffindor enchanted his hat to sort people into the houses.”

“Cool so like how does a hat do that?”

“Ummm I’m not sure. Maybe it reads your mind?”

“It’s a hat, it can’t read minds.”

“Maybe it transforms depending on the house?”

“Well I guess we’ll find out tonight”

Sirius

Sirius was nervous. They had spent the train ride eating an ungodly amount of candy and joking the whole way. Sirius really liked the new friends he had made. Even Remus once they got him to actually talk with them. He had enough creative swear words to put a dragon tamer to shame. James was a riot. He was the funniest guy Sirius had ever met. He wasn’t like the other pure blood guys his age he often had to hang out with at social events. James didn’t care what others thought of him and instead of trying to always out do everyone he instead just enjoyed himself and tried to make everyone laugh. Peter too was awesome. He looked quiet and awkward, but his funny comebacks were always perfectly timed.

By the time they had changed into their school robes and the train was pulling into the station Sirius was getting nervous. Even though he didn’t want to end up in Slytherin he was starting to worry about not having a choice. His whole family had always been placed in Slytherin.

If this mythical hat knew that then he might not have a choice.

This stayed in the back of his mind the whole time they debarked. He forgot for a little bit when they met the old hunched game keeper whose name was Ogg and his dirty matted chipmunk daemon. Beside him was his assistan,t a giant size man with big bushy hair and beard with a terrifyingly large boarhound daemon. They led all the first years down to the lake and they boarded boats to cross the water to get to school, which was apparently a tradition for first years. Being on the water was freezing cold, and beside him Remus shivered and hugged his daemon closer.

Fid was so excited his whole butt swung as he wagged his tail as he sat between his legs and stared up at the castle. Fid hadn’t shown any desire to change back into a King Snake since they arrived and both he and Sirius were super happy with the new name Sirius picked out for him. It was sort of freeing naming his own daemon, he truly didn’t understand why he and other Blacks weren’t allowed to do it. It helped him relate more to Fid.

Getting out of the lake James was so excited him and Bahaadur jumped out of the boat so quick and aggressive poor Peter who was standing up at the same time fell out of the boat into the cold water when it violently shook side to side. Luckily Hagrid came over and helped him back up with one large hand. James spent the walk up to the castle apologizing profusely. Peter said it was alright but shivered until the entered the warm entrance hall of the school.

The castle was jaw dropping. It was nothing like the castle he had been in growing up. His grandfather’s castle in France had been dark and claustrophobic. Filled with thick tapestries and, rugs, and art pieces that Sirius and Regulus had to tiptoe around for fear of breaking any and encoring the wrath of his parents. Other manors and castles were the same. But Hogwarts was open and warm. The walls seemed to only echo laughter. And the air tingled with magic.

They were led to a set of huge ornate oak doors and told to wait. After some time the door opened a little and an witch came out. She was dressed in a large set of black robes with a pointed witches hat over her greying hair which was pulled back into a tight bun. She wore a tartan scarf around her neck and her Tabby cat daemon sat beside her regarded all of them with lamp like eyes.

“Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Professor McGonagall. I am the assistant Headmistress of this school.” She said with a slight Scottish brough. “In a moment you will be led through these doors and sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. While you are here your house will be your home. Your triumphs will earn you point, and any rile breaking will lose point. At the end of the year the house with the most points will win the house cup. Any questions?”

The crowd of nervous students stayed quiet. Professor McGonagall survey them all with a thin smile. Then she caught sight of Peter.

“Pettigrew why are you soaking wet?” she asked sounding stern. Sirius had no idea how she knew his name, but she did.

Peter’s mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

James instead answered for him.

“He fell in the lake Professor”

McGonagall turned to him. “Well we can’t eat dinner soaking wet, now can we” She waved her wand and instantly Peters clothes dried and radiated heat. Peter sighed happily. Beside him Aspecta tuned into a large brown rat and ran up his leg to get inside his now warm robes.

“Next time Mr. Potter you will allow Mr. Pettigrew to answer for himself. Now straighten up all of you. And come along.”

James

The hall was awe inspiring , candles floated all over the hall above 4 long wooden table filled almost entirely with students all in seas of black robes with pops of colour from their house ties. The ceiling was shining with twinkly stars and a swirling galaxy which seemed to mirror the sky outside but brighter. At the front of the room a long table sat on a raised dais where all the professors sat surveying the hall.

After the initial shock of the seeing the hall for the first time James was solely focused on the old dusty wizard’s hat sitting on a simple wooden stool ahead of them.

It didn’t seem magical. It was just and old dusty hat. McGonagall went up to it and was talking but James wasn’t listening, he was staring at the hat both confused and afraid. Then McGonagall pulled out a parchment and read out the first name.

“Avery, Nathan”

Nathan, a tall stocky boy with short cropped brown hair went forward and sat on the chair. McGonagall picked up the hat and placed it on top of his head. The thing was so big it fell down over his ear and eyes. He sat there for a while in silence. The whole school had eyes on him.

“SLYTHERIN!”

The voice boomed across the hall as a slit opened in the hat like a mouth. The table on the far left broke into cheers and applause.

Avery took the hat off, handed it to professor McGonagall and ran to the cheering table.

“Black, Sirius” McGonagall called.

Beside him James saw Sirius freeze. Fid had shrunk into a small banded snake and was crawling up Sirius’s leg to his robes sleeve. Sirius stayed put and James pat him on the back.

“It’ll be fine mate. No matter where you go.” James said happening to help Sirius in his fear. Sirius then stepped forward slowly. The hall was silent again but it seemed as if more people had bothered to turn and pay attention to Sirius’ sorting. James understood this. He also grew up hearing about the Blacks, one of the most powerful pure blood families of the sacred 28.

Fid was now tightly wound around Sirius’s hand as if he was holding his hand. Sirius sat down with perfect posture befitting of his upbringing. McGonagall placed the hat on his head and as soon as it touched his head it didn’t need a moment to ponder.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

When the hat came off Sirius’ face turned from blank to pure happiness. However, the clapping from the Gryffindor table was delay, and once it began it was muddles with whispers coming from the Slytherin table. Sirius didn’t seem to care though. He jumped up and punch the air triumphantly. Fid instantly feel out of his hand and landed and a big black shaggy dog who barked so loud and jumped so high some 1st years jumped back. The hall erupted in laughter at this display. Sirius ran over to the Gryffindor table and sat down beside some confused looking but smiling prefects.

James wolf whistled from his spot in celebration. It took fair longer for the crowd to calm down this time since most people where now whispering loudly with each other about what happened. Eventually when it quieted McGonagall began again. A lot few more students went up and got sorted. After a few “Evans, Lily” was called up and the red headed girl from the train went. The dove daemon was now a Butterfly sitting in her hair like a giant beret. She was eventually sorted to Gryffindor much to James’ dismay. She didn’t sit down next to Sirius though, and instead chose the further seat she could get to him.

After almost half the students had gone, they called “Lupin, Remus”

Remus went up a looking pale and sick, He sat down and the hat went completely over his eyes and nose.

The hat paused for a long time. James was worried since this was the longest pause yet, but it was eventually broken with a

“GRYFFINDOR”

When they hat came off Remus didn’t look scared anymore, but he didn’t look happy. His eyes were open wide like the hat had told him something terrifying. He got off the stool and headed to the Gryffindor table. Sirius had stood up on his chair to watch the sorting without an obstructed view and was now clapping furiously. The prefect beside him had to pull on his to make him sit.

Soon after it was Peter’s turn. Peter was shaking and he tripped walking up which some people snickered at. James stared daggers at them till they stopped. Peter got a long pause too, but not as long as Remus’.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Peter looked shocked but was smiling ear to ear and went to sot across from Remus and Sirius.

One more student went before James, and he fidgeted the whole time knowing he was next. Bahaadur seemed unsure what to do as well. He had gone into his stag form and tapping his hoof steadily. James patted him to both comfort him and ground himself.

“Potter, James.”

“YOU GOT THIS JAMES!”

James heard Sirius shout out as he walked up. The hall started snickering.

James sat on the stool just in time to see Sirius get pulled down again but this time by Remus.

James at down and put the hat on. It went over his eyes making everything go dark and quiet, then a voice spoke in his head.

“Ah Potter.” A booming bright voce spoke to him, but not out loud in his head, bounding around in his skull.

“Yes, well no need to think about where you belong”

“Wait!” James thought and surprising he heard his own voice bounce around in his head.

“Yes?” The voice asked sounding interested.

“Ummm, If you were made by Gryffindor then is this his voice?” James asked. It had just got to him that this hat was made by his hero, and this was probably the only chance he would have to ask it anything.

The hat laughed out loud in his head. “Oh you are a true fan Mr. Potter. It is indeed… GRYFFFINDOR!”

The last word was shouted out to the hall and followed by applause, and loud wolf whistles and barks James assumed where Sirius and Fid. James took of the hat bright eyed. There was no doubt his hero was Godric Gryffindor.

Peter

Peter was flabbergasted he got into Gryffindor. The hat had first thought to put him in Hufflepuff, and although Peter loved the idea of being in Hufflepuff he couldn’t help but think of the fact all 3 of the friends he had made, his first friends ever, were in Gryffindor. This made the hat pause enough for Peter to promise to be braver if he could be in Gryffindor. The hat had laughed but didn’t sound mean more amused. “You have already started” the hat had said before shouting “GRYFFINDOR!”

Now he got to sit beside 3 friends who looked so happy to be together.

“This is the best thing ever! All of us together! We’re going to be the best Gryffindors to ever walk through this school.”

And in this moment Peter felt that James was probably on to something.

When the feast appeared Aspecta clambered out of his pocket and began reaching for a buttered bun. Peter loaded his plate with a little of everything. The food was the best thing he had ever eaten and that was saying something since he was already full on candy from earlier. He still managed 2 plates and 2 desserts before giving up.

When the plates cleared Dumbledore stood up and addressed everyone. He introduced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor. Nettles. Then some notices. Stay out of the forest, no banned items, and a apparently new rule to avoid a newly planted Whomping Willow “unless one wants to meet a painful end.” A student beside him whispered to her friend.

“Why would they want a Whomping Willow. Are they mad?”

Peter once heard about Whomping Willows in a stories he read, and if what he knew was true he agreed.

Finally, they were told to head off to bed and the whole hall started to get up slowly heading for the giant oak doors. Two prefects called them over and told them to wait with them so they could head back together. James and Sirius had started poking each other in their full stomachs when a shadow fell over the four of them.

“Mr. Lupin can you please come with me?” Professor McGonagall asked and started towards to doors.

Peter went to ask Remus what was happening, but Remus was already following her.

“Why do they need to see him. We haven’t been here 3 hours” James said sounding outraged that Remus had been taken.

“I’m sure it’s fine, it’s Remus there’s no way he did anything bad”

James nodded but didn’t look convinced. But that had now gotten them on the subject of pranks and they began quietly planning all the things they could do now they were in the same house.

Remus

Professor McGonagall led him down some halls and a staircase until they reached a large set of doors in the middle of a hallway. She opened the doors and he followed her in. They were in the hospital wing. The wing was pretty large at least 2 sets of hospital beds where set up in two rows each flagged by tall frosted windows. The placed smelled of clean sheets, and the strong thick sent of brewing potions. Remus scrunched his nose. His sense of smell was stronger than the average human and the potion currently bubbling in the cauldron at the far end on a desk smelled strongly of wolfsbane. It made his nose and eyes burn and his breathing to become fiery so that he coughed a few times.

The matron came out of her office to their right and quickly came over. She was older with a stern face that had warm kind eyes that gazed at him up and down as if assessing his vitals by just looking. Her daemon was a small Orangutan that had the same warm caring eyes. He immediately went over and asses Ilueda with concern.

“Oh dear you have a cold” She said running over and pulling out her want and tapping it to his head. Nothing happened and she looked confused.

“It’s not a cold ma’am just the potion” Remus coughed out trying not to sound disrespectful of the matron’s potion brewing.

“Oh the wolfsbane in it put in this morning. I am a fool.” She said walking over and turning off the burner underneath.

“Let’s talk down there then Poppy” McGonagall suggested.

“Good idea” The matron replied and the 3 of them headed out. This time they walked out onto the grounds. But not through the entrance hall, through the back of the castle. They came out into a courtyard that led down the steep hill that was a little overrun with weeds and long grasses.

Far down the hill they passed a small hut with a giant pumpkin patch. They kept going till they got close to the lake, there Remus saw it. A giant Whomping Willow close to the edge of the Dark Forest. Near it the large game keeper Hagrid was waiting his big boarhound dog holding a lamp in its mouth for light now that the sun was set.

“Remus this is Madam Pomfrey. She is our matron and will be taking care of you before and after the full moon. This is Rubeus Hagrid our assistant Game keeper, who will be watching over the Willow during the full moon from his hut.”

Remus nodded. He knew the plan but was still worried it might be too dangerous. Hagrid was big and probably could stop a wolf from killing him, but Remus would feel so bad if that ever happened. Not to mention even if Hagrid survived how far would he still get before he ran into someone else.

“I can assure you Mr. Lupin your safety will be 100% safe in this place. Under the willow there is a tunnel. It leads directly into Hogsmeade. To an old abandoned house far from the village. Dumbledore himself as well as a few professors have put every ward imaginable on the building. Not to mention the boards that were installed on the windows and doors. There is no possibility of you getting out or anyone getting in.”

Remus nodded again. She sounded genuine in their efforts to keep people safe from him, he could only hope it worked. At home his father locked him in the cellar. It was stone and concrete all the way around with no windows and door, just a silver trap door that was covered by a large crate on the other side.

“On the day of the full moon you will arrive at the Hospital Wing immediately after classes. You will report to Madam Pomfrey and will eat in the hospital wing. 2 hours before sundown you will walk down to the willow with Madam Pomfrey who will let you into the willow. Once inside you will walk until you reach a trap door. Once up through it and inside the house you will be free to transform safely. Madam Pomfrey will arrive back to help you to the castle after sunrise. Do you understand?”

Remus nodded again.

“Very well I will now take you up to Gryffindor tower.”

[the-silentium]

Wait for me to come home Pt.3

Summary: Eddie surprises you by showing up at your home. Unfortunately, it’s not the only surprise you will have.

Masterlist   Part 2.

Pairing: Eddie Brock x Reader, Venom x Reader

Warning: Angst, fluff, swearing

Words: 3320 words

A/N: Wow, I haven’t published in a while! I’m so sorry guys! 

You wake up the next morning with a grin plastered on your face. The memories of last night are fresh and you can’t stop yourself; you roll to the edge of the bed and grab your camera from your nightstand. You go to the gallery and select the photo of your kiss. Your heartbeat accelerates and you start to laugh at yourself. I feel like a teenage girl again.

You get up from your bed and go to the kitchen with joy in your steps. You let your camera near your laptop and make yourself some breakfast. You ask yourself if you should call him, or if doing it would make you look desperate. You weren’t involved in a relationship since… well, never, so the perspective of screwing this one up was very likely and scary.

Damn. One date and I’m already enamored. You finish your toasts and get to work. You connect your camera to your laptop and open your photos in Photoshop. First, you decided to work on the firefly kiss photo and then, you would finish the last details on the shots for Sam.

Finding your first project, you started to analyze it. You don't want to modify it much. Just correct some things here and there. You changed some parameters and you found a little string getting out from Eddie's neck. Frowning, you zoom on it. Is my lens defect? Damn, I'll have to buy another one.

An hour and a half later, you finished your photo and Sam's order and send him an email thanking him for the opportunity and asking if he has some new subject. You almost forget to attach the different pictures to your email, but you add them to the attached files at the last second. You get a reply 6 minutes later.

Perfect as always Y/N! I would ask you to catch some shots of the misery of the slums, but it’s raining like there is no tomorrow and I would never ask that to anyone. It’s not safe. Take a day off and I’ll contact you tomorrow. Take care.      

     -Sam

Frowning, you get up and pull the curtains. Sam was right, there was a downpour outside and you are surprised that you didn’t hear it before. The sky was a dark grey despite the fact that it was 10 am. You grabbed your candles in the bathroom, just in case the electricity goes out and decided to try and paint a bit. After gathering all of your painting essentials, you changed clothes, putting on an old t-shirt and short full of paint stains. You already knew what you wanted to paint.

You remembered when you were a child, you were often scared of storms and one of the only things that could reassure you were your dog Maverick. He was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi and at that time, your best friend. Sadly, he passed away a couple of years back, but you still missed his energetic presence.

So you begin to paint, replaying happy memories of your childhood in your head. You get lost in your thoughts and in the painting, so when the house falls in the dark, you jump and spill paint all over yourself. Groaning, you try to make your way to the kitchen counter without putting stain everywhere. When you manage to find the counter in the dark, you are proud that you didn’t hit your toes on anything. Putting down your painting stuff, you search for your matches and the candles. You light some and dispose of them through your apartment. When you put the last one on your work desk, a loud knock startles you and you almost drop the candle on the floor. Your heart races and you finally put the object down to go answer the door.

You are surprised to see Eddie standing at your door, soaking wet. When he sees you, a blush creeps on his face and he smiles shyly at you. “Hi Y/N.”

“Hi, Eddie.” You smile at him and do a step on the side to let him in. You go to the bathroom to get him a towel. When you get back, there is a little puddle at his feet and you chuckle. “What brings you here?” you ask while giving him the towel.

He takes it and starts to dry his clothes. “Well, I was in the area and I decided to stop a minute to say hi.” He had stepped out of his shoes and removed his leather jacket. His t-shirt was clutching to his body and you couldn’t stop yourself, you stare at his chest. When he finished drying what he could and caught your gaze, he grins and hands you back the towel. You feel the heat coming to your cheeks.

“And why would you be outside in this weather? Not really enjoyable for a walk.” you try to turn his attention.

Just before you turn around to dispose of the towel, you see Eddie scratching the back of his head. “Okay, maybe I got out just to come here,” he admits. A smile forms on your lips and you feel like floating.

“I’m flattered.” you shoot him over your shoulder. Reaching the bathroom, you realize that your clothes are still a little sticky from the paint and you change clothes quickly. When you come back to Eddie with fresh and comfortable clothes, you found him watching your painting. “That’s Maverick,” I tell him. He turns to me with a smile. “He used to help me fight my fear of storms when I was a kid.” Eddie saw some sadness into your eyes and his smile becomes compassionate. He approaches your form to engulf you in his arms.

“It’s a good thing I’m here then. If you are frightened, you won’t be alone,” he says before kissing your forehead. You wrap your arms around his wet torso and tilt your head to see him. His eyes sparkle with the reflection of the candles and the dim light creates a romantic atmosphere. Kissing him would be perfect at the moment, but Mother Nature has other plans for you. A great thunderclap makes you jump and your embrace on Eddie tighten. He chuckles, stroking your back to calm you down.

After a moment you release him, embarrassed. “Would you like to watch a movie?” you ask chewing the inside of your cheek.

"Yeah. But I think I might wet your couch. My clothes are still wet." he said lifting the corner of his t-shirt.

"Choose a movie from my collection," you point your bookcase filled with books and movies. "and I will grab you some spare clothes my brother left here."

Eddie nods and you go searching for the clothes. Hopefully, it wouldn't take you long and you will be able to snuggle in a blanket beside the handsome man in your living room.

While rummaging through your brother spare clothes, you try to bring some sense into yourself. Come on Y/N, stop reacting to the stupid thunder! You're 26, not 5! Now, bring yourself together and act like a grown woman.

You found a t-shirt and sweatpants and return to your living room. Voices make you stop in the doorway and you try to hear the conversation. To your surprise, you only hear Eddie's voice but it's too muffled for you to understand what he says. Maybe he is talking to himself to improve his confidence like you just did. Who knows, maybe he is as nervous as you.

So you step forward and do the only thing that crosses your mind; you throw the clothes at him, hitting him square on the back. Aaand here goes the grown woman thing.

He stops abruptly to talk to himself and turn around to see you, a hand on your mouth, trying to stop your laughter. A smile makes its way on his face and a mischievous glint appears in his eyes. He then starts chasing you around the couch and tickles your sides when he finally catches you. You're laughing so hard that tears fall from your eyes and it's becoming hard to breathe.

"Stop! Stop! I surrender!" you laugh.

Eddie releases you, the grin still on his face. He catches you off guard with a quick kiss that leaves you wanting more. "Don't start a war you can't win."

"Oh you really think you stand a chance against me?" you chuckle.

"Believe me, you really don't know what I can do," he says while getting the dry clothes and heading to the bathroom.

His words make you blush. You know he probably talked about his ability to get you back at your childish demeanor, but you couldn't stop yourself, you imagined another meaning to his words that put your whole body in fire.

Shaking your head, you put the DVD Eddie chose in your laptop and connected it to the TV. A horror movie. You generally didn't like to watch this kind of movie, so why do you have one at your home? Simple. Your nagging brother forgot it here the last time he came to visit you. And now, you'll have to play tough.

Preparing yourself mentally, you place some snacks and drinks on the table near the couch and snuggle into a fluffy blanket.

"The sweatpants are fine, but the t-shirt is too small." you hear Eddie say from behind you. When you turn around to face him, you are greeted by a perfectly chiseled chest and your face start to heat up again. Please darkness, hide my face! Fortunately for you, Eddie doesn't notice your embarrassment.

"Sorry, that's all I got." you stare too long at his torso and need to force yourself to look in his eyes. "But I have a huge blanket that can fit us both."

Nodding, Eddie sits right next to you and you share your precious protector with him. Pressing play on the remote, you think that you might be able to survive the movie after all. Your mind seems too concentrated on the fact that the men next to you was half naked.

Unfortunately, the firsts scream seem to catch your attention and immediately, your body move closer to Eddie while your fists clench a little tighter on the blanket. Being the gentleman he is, Eddie put a hand on your thigh and, thank god, doesn't laugh at you.

You try your hardest during the whole movie to not freak out, to keep your breathing steady and so far, it worked. You managed to watch the most gruesome scene without hiding yourself in the blanket, but when you feel something wet touch your hand, you freeze. You stopped breathing, trying to determine what touches you. You know one of Eddie's hand is on your thigh and the other is lazily picking some snacks. Never before did you hear some noises signaling the presence of rodent. So…

What. Is. Touching. You?

Slowly, you try to touch it with your other hand. You jump when it seems to grip to your fingers and move away from Eddie, causing the blanket to fall on the floor. Your eyes become wide and your breathing accelerates.

Despite the darkness of your apartment, you can see a black goo all over Eddie's chest. You can see it moving slowly, the reflection of the candles making it easier to discern the edges of the mass.

When Eddie's face mirrors your own, the black thing quickly fade inside of his skin and that is what you needed to regain control of your body. Jumping from the couch, you run as fast as you could to your bedroom. On the way, you didn't hear the pleads coming from who you believed was a perfectly honest man, because your heart was pounding into your head.

Closing and locking your bedroom door hastily, you did the first thing that crossed your mind; hiding in the closet. You remember that the girl who did that in the movie died horribly because the killer found her quite easily. You closed your eyes tightly, trying to think about something else than your imminent death.

Because yeah, you are definitely going to die. You are not dump. You know what is this black goo. You've heard about the Demon of San Francisco. A black monster that liked to eat people alive. A monster with sharp teeth, claws and that is way bigger than you.

All those thoughts made your breathing accelerates and the knocks on your bedroom door didn't help. You can hear Eddie asking you yo let him in, that he would explain and promising to never hurt you, but your brain doesn't understand. All you could do was breathing louder and if possible, faster.

Hearing your erratic breathing through the door increased Eddie's panic. You were having a panic attack and he needed to calm you down quickly.

"We can help."

"No, you are just going to make her panic more!"

"She needs help, Eddie. We can help."

"You can't explode the door, take it easy." With a sigh, Eddie let Venom destroy your door handle.

You can't see in the dark, but you hear the claws breaking the wood of your door and the handle been torn apart. Did he just remove the entire handle? Sounds like it, because now you hear your door open and steps approaching your shaking form.

"Y/N please, believe me, I'm not gonna hurt you. Please, you need to calm down." You can hear the worry in his voice and for the first time, you register what he says. Still, you keep yourself in your protective ball and pay attention to his movements.

Eddie gets on his knees and tries to reach you slowly. When his fingertips touch you, you flinch and slap his hand away. Not the best move you've got, but now, it's fight or flight and flight is not possible.

"Y/N we will not hurt you. I promise." Now, you hear fear and it doesn't make sense to you. Why would he fear you? "Slow your breathing, you are hyperventilating."

But you can't do it yourself. So you panic more and Eddie's arms get you out from the closet, right in front of him and he places your hand on his chest.

"Like this. Follow my breathing. In for 4 seconds, keep for 4 seconds and out for 4 seconds."

You do as you are told, following the up and down of his chest. After 4 times, your breathing is back to normal, but tears run down your cheeks. Strong arms pull you to a hard chest and you can't help but grasp on his back. You stay there, not having the force to move. The stroking on your back finally appease you and you are lifted to be set down on your bed. At this moment, the electricity returns and your bedroom fills with light.

You feel an extra weight next on the bed and a hand washing the tears stains from your face.

"You don't have to be afraid of us."

"Us?"

"Venom and me."

You knew it. A thin string got out of Eddie's neck and then, it clicked. The string in the photo, it wasn't a defect of your lens. It was him.

You lock eyes with him and you see the reluctance in his eyes. It makes you more comfortable that he doesn't push you and there is that part of your brain that tells you that if he wanted you dead, he would have done it by now.

Eddie retracts his hand and stands up. "I know you probably fear me right now, but please, let me explain." The thin tendril becomes thick and creates a t-shirt like form on the brown-haired man. "Venom, stop it, you're not helping!" His tone was harsh and you couldn't help but flinch. Seeing it, Eddie passes a hand in his hair with a sigh. "Sorry."

The black mass resorbs in his skin again and you sit, putting your legs over the edge. Slowly, you get up, your legs still weak.

"Does he always listen to you?" You needed reassurance. It didn't work.

"Most of the time, but he can do as he wishes too…" You hesitate to come closer. After all, Venom seemed to take good care of Eddie and you just hit him in the arm. You didn't want to end up hurt. "He would never harm you, you know? We… erm… We like you too much for that."

You frown, not processing what he said. We? As in him and the monster? They both like you? A head coming out from Eddie's shoulder blade gets you back to reality.

"We only wanted to reassure the little one. I am sorry for scaring you."

You didn't expect that. He cared for you and wanted to help you? Disbelief must have been all over your face because Eddie backs him up.

"Y/N, he is not as bad as you think."

"Then why does he eats people?"

You have heard a lot of stories. You needed to know what was true.

Eddie scratches his head, uncomfortable. "He only eats bad people. People who steal, who kill, who rape… not good people."

You nod slowly and take a step forward. You can see hope in his eyes, but you need to do something before taking a decision.

"Can I talk to him?" You see him frown, unsure of what you have in mind. "I need it if you want something to happens between us." He looks like he is fighting with himself so you add, "Please."

Sighing, you see Eddie nods and the moment after, black goo take control of his body and cover every inch of his skin. Before you is a very much taller being than you, with enormous teeth and white eyes. To your surprise, he seems to wait for you to talk and watch you with what you think is curiosity.

With another step forward, you ask, "Why did you want to reassure me?"

"Because the little one was not well. You were in distress and the last time you were in distress, Eddie hugged you and you felt better."

A laugh escaped your lips. "You were trying to hug me?" A smile crept on your lips when you realized that what you thought was a monster, was in fact a… sweet big terrifying creature.

Venom nods once and you make the two last steps separating the two of you and takes him in your arms. Slowly as to not scare you again, Venom hugs you back. The feeling of his skin under your touch is weird at first, but you soon find comfort in it. Then, there is something wet on your cheek and you gasp. You pull away a little and see Venom's tongue darting out of between his teeth. It unease you a little, and he seems to feel it.

"We like our little one."

A weight lifted from your shoulder and you decided to give them their chance. You smiled at him and rested your head on his chest. Moments later, Eddie was back, his arms around your waist and his head on yours.

"Thank you." He whispered it, but you heard it nonetheless.

Lifting your head up, your gaze found two beautiful blue eyes full of love.

"There's nothing to thank me for." You pull away from him and goes to the door. There is a big hole where your door handle should be and wood pieces mixed with your compacted door handle on the floor. You will clean that later.

You glance at Eddie over your shoulder and smile. "It's almost 12. Do you want to call some pizza and watch another movie?"

"That's a good plan." He followed you back in the living room, where you ordered the pizza and cuddled together on the couch.

Tag list: @slither-in-a-half​ @a-frozen-bag-of-corn​ 

[im-fairly-whitty]

Free Wing: An Illustrated Dragon Western — Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Decision

Louis had thought he would cry at his father’s funeral.

“Stand up straight.” his mother whispered, jabbing a finger against his lower back, making him jolt upright again, “And take off that hat, the priest is speaking.”

Louis dutifully swept off his top hat, glancing at the sea of sniffling black crepe gathered closely around the entry of his family’s crypt. His father’s coffin rested outside the doorway, waiting to be laid to rest beside other fathers, and father’s fathers, and all kinds of other rich family members Louis had never met.

The fact that Dad was lying there in that wooden box, that he would never again make tired smalltalk about budgets and subsidiaries and holidays that would never come felt like some kind of massive abstract joke.

The priest was saying something about dust, something about heaven, but there was no dust or heaven in this cramped cemetery. Louis chanced a glance up at the grey clouded sky, the London drizzle wetting down his blonde hair and black mourning suit, turning any dust that might have been poetically underfoot back to mud.

“Amen.” said the priest.

“Amen.” said the crowd.

“A-amen.” said Louis, quickly looking back down to earth and putting his top hat back on, sliding the riding strap under his chin.

“What was that?” Mother asked, looking at him sharply.

“Nothing, Mother.” Louis said quietly.

He ducked his head and stepping forward with the seven other pallbearers, some uncles, most colleagues from the bank, and helped heft the coffin up the steps, into the family crypt, and up onto its waiting shelf.

He hesitated as the others filed back out into the rain, leaving him nearly alone for a moment. The coffin wood gleamed as black as the hides of the drakes that had pulled its hearse, and it silently stared back at him from the white marble shelf. The crypt would be sealed again once he left. He might not be able to be this close to his father again until he or mother or Beth died.

But what did you say to someone you hadn’t really spoken to in years? To someone who was heaving a burden of a life onto your shoulders just by dropping dead of tuberculosis?

Maybe if Dad had died ten years earlier Louis would be able to weep, to throw himself on the coffin and cry about the adventures they hadn’t had yet, to mourn the loss of his greatest friend and inspiration and the chance they’d lost to live out their dream together.

But that had been before Father had become bank president, before the life and spark had been sucked out of him, leaving a tired worried shadow behind.

Louis glanced up again, seeing the dusty cobwebbed carvings of ivy and angels and wyverns in the heavy marble ceiling above him instead of the sky, feeling the weight of the earth under his feet holding him down.

It felt like he was the one about to be sealed up in marble.

He swallowed, ducking back out into the open air. He needed air, he needed sky, he needed to get to Arthur and-

“Mr. Ainsley?”

Louis grimaced as someone plucked at his elbow before he could disappear into the dispersing crowd. He turned, forcing a sober smile as he looked down at the small man who had a polite vise grip on his sleeve.

“Mr. Honeycutt,” Louis said, “w-what is it?”

“I’m terribly sorry to bring this up again, and at your poor father’s funeral, may he rest in peace, but my letters don’t seem to have been getting through?” Honeycutt said, balancing that careful expression that only occurs when two people know perfectly well that letters have been getting through, but being ignored, “But with you being instated as president of the bank next week we really must-”

“I, I, I, t-thought that wasn’t f-for another m-month?” Louis said, his mouth getting slow and dry as he tried to twist his sleeve away in the most polite manner possible, his ears getting hot over how much trouble he was having getting words out, “F-f-f-father said I didn’t h-h-”

“Well, that’s what most of my notes have been about, if you had been able to read them.” Honeycutt said, not putting emphasis on certain words, but Louis could tell he wanted to and could guess which ones, “Without a president the bank will be unable to move forward with certain important financial transactions that will need your signature. As your late father’s secretary and your new one I’ve already prepared the next month’s worth of work, picking up projects your father wasn’t able to finish, meetings that need to be had. Life goes on Mr. Ainsley, money never sleeps, and you’re needed to continue on your family’s work.”

NO.

“I’m a-a-afraid that I n-n-n-n-”

Louis clenched his fist in his pocket as he struggled maddeningly to get to the next syllable. He hadn’t been this slow in years, but he hadn’t had to talk to so many people about so many awful subjects in years either.

He could see Honeycutt’s patience visibly wearing thin as he continued to struggle through his sentence, making his stuttering even worse as embarrassment flushed through him.

“I m-m-m-mean-” Louis said, trying to start again.

“What he means is that he’ll be in contact with you soon,” Mother said, sweeping into the conversation and taking Louis’ arm with a sad smile at Mr. Honeycutt, “He’ll be sure to send you a message about meeting tomorrow, will that suffice?”

“Of course madam,” Mr. Honeycutt said, looking relieved as he bowed to them both, “and my deepest condolences about your husband, he was an excellent man and an excellent banker. Here, I’ve prepared a file of some of his most urgent papers for Mr. Ainsley to look over.”

“Thank you.” Mother said, taking the file and handing it to Louis before nodding soberly with a sweet sad smile and pulling Louis away into the crowd.

“Mother, t-that’s not what I w-was going to say.” Louis said quietly, his stutter starting to calm down now that it was just her, “I don’t want to-”

“Louis, your father has just died, how can you disrespect him and our family like this?” Mother said, looking up at him with sharp tired eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-” Louis started, bowing his head.

“If you can’t manage to speak properly then keep quiet until you can.” she said, looking forward.

Louis said nothing, feeling his blush deepen. If he could have flown away at that moment he would have, but Arthur was off waiting back with the carriages and other dragons, leaving him trapped.

“I know your father’s death has been hard for you,” Mother said quietly as they walked, “but it’s been hard for all of us. You’ve always been so responsible, you can’t afford to let all your hard work slip away now, you’re twenty-two for heaven’s sake. First thing tomorrow you’re going to the bank and assume your role as president, is that clear?”

NO.

“Y-. Yes, Mother.” Louis said quietly, managing to get the words out despite the claustrophobic feeling descending on him. It felt like the ground was starting to pull at his feet, as if the earth wanted to root him to the spot and swallow him whole.

“Good.” Mother said, her voice softening a little as she looked at him, “If you need to spend the evening alone I understand, but I want you to be ready to start again first thing tomorrow morning, alright?”

That would mean going back to the house that was still dripping in death. All the clocks stopped, all the picture frames turned over, all the mirrors wrapped in black crepe. Just like Louis himself, covered in black mourning cloth that would be his only wardrobe for a year. At least he was more fortunate than Mother, who would be trapped in black crepe for two years instead of one.

Unable to escape, unable to think of anything else for over a year. And trapped in the bank besides, the exact opposite of the open skies and sweeping plains he’d been dreaming of ever since he was old enough for Father to read him books of the American West. Back when Arthur was only a fledgling, small enough to come inside and curl up on the bed beside them both.

I think Arthur wants to be a cowboy as much as you do Louis, look, he’s reading along too!

Louis could already feel the black cloth seeping into his skin, eating down into him where it could wrap up his heart and mind in tight, stifling cloth.

He couldn’t trust himself to get the words out so he only nodded, letting go of Mother’s arm and striding off on his own.

He nearly bit through his lip in relief when he finally spotted the dragon paddock. Enough wealthy members of the bank at the funeral that there was a small flock of English and Welsh Fieldrunners tethered down, all lazily curled up or stretching on the gravel. Louis easily spotted Arthur’s pearly white head among the soft purples and blues and browns and his pace increased to downright undignified as he sprinted across the wet grass.

Arthur spotted him, getting up and half raising his wings in anticipation as Louis jumped the low paddock fence and hugging his neck, barely able to get his arms around it anymore now that they were both full grown.

“Let’s leave, I can't stand another moment here.” Louis said, pulling himself up onto the damp saddle, a dangerously wobbly feeling rising up his chest as he pulled the saddle straps tight over his legs. He tucked the file Honeycutt had given him into one of the leather saddlebags, strapping it shut, “I need to fly.”

Arthur looked back at him, clearly able to tell something was wrong, but obliged, hopping lithely over the paddock fence to an open patch of soggy grass. He snapped his leathery wings open to full span and slammed them toward the ground as he leapt into the air, launching them up into the sky with another powerful stroke of his wings.

Louis leaned against Arthur’s neck as they climbed up and away from the cemetery, keeping them streamlined as they ascended, circling and hopping into updrafts as the people below them got smaller and smaller.

Louis took a long breath as they leveled out and he sat up, the tightness in his chest finally easing as the silence of the sky wrapped around them. Arthur looked back at him in concern as they started gliding back toward the city.

“I’m fine,” Louis said, wiping his eyes on his black sleeve, and patting Arthur’s shoulder, “I just...I don’t really want to go anywhere right now, I just want to fly if that’s alright.”

Arthur tossed his head in acknowledgement, tipping his wings ever so slightly to glide them down nearer the city, a concerned moaning rumble sounding in his chest.

“I just...I just can’t lock myself up in the bank,” Louis said, gripping the reigns against the saddle bar, “You saw what it did to Dad, it ate him alive, and now everyone wants me to do the same thing over again. I’ve been doing what everyone else wanted since University and I really think I’ll go mad if I have to a moment longer, I really do.”

He felt Arthur start to dive and pulled the reins to the right, ducking low. Arthur felt the tug and pulled his wings in for a moment as Louis leaned into their turn, swooping them down into a brief spin of a free fall that tucked them down around the side of a building before their wings opened again, catching the air current and sending them climbing up and above the rooftops of London again. A nearby flock of wyverns startled up into the air from a rooftop.

Louis smiled as he felt the easy rush of adrenaline and let the reigns go slack again. Some dragons had to be jerked and wrangled an entire flight, but Arthur was different. They’d flown together so much over their lives that the reigns were really just a legal formality at this point. They both knew what they liked, and they both liked to feel the air beneath them, to feel alive.

Or rather, as alive as they could feel without drawing unwanted attention from the bobbies.

Louis caught Arthur glancing over at the Clock Tower, the gigantic spire with Big Ben sitting at its top. The biggest, most tempting, and most thoroughly off limits no-fly zone in all of London.

“Not today, boy.” Louis said sympathetically, glancing over at it too.

Why they would build the perfect roost and then expect no one to land on it was beyond him, but the yellow stripes around the edges at the top were a clear warning to any riders that might think otherwise.

But then what was a city really but a collection of yellow stripes? Don’t land here. Don’t leave here. Don’t do this or that. Fly in a straight line and don’t make a fuss and whatever you do don’t do anything that makes you feel free.

“Let’s go to the docks.” Louis called, looking away.

Arthur swept his wings in acknowledgement, sending them cutting through the air above the noisey cluttered ground traffic below.

It had begun drizzling again as they reached the docks, making everything slick and Louis grateful for the roughened roof tiles on the perch overlooking the warf. Two Irish fieldrunners were tethered on the far side of the perch roof, eyeing them suspiciously, and a sailor sat on the edge between them, making his way through a meat pie.

The docks were a frenzy of activity below, dock workers and sailors rushing to and fro with drakes pulling wagons of cargo to be loaded onto the waiting ships floating in the Thames, ready to sail downriver to the ocean once they were loaded. Across the Thames Louis could see the massive scaffoldings where gigantic milewing dragons roosted between their transoceanic flights.

Louis unstrapped himself from the saddle and carefully slid down to sit on the roof, leaning against Arthur’s warm side as the dragon settled down beside him.

Louis’s father had used to bring him down here when they’d still had time.

That’s how we’ll get to America. We’ll take a boat and be out in the Wild West before you know it.

Why can’t we just fly there? Arthur’s getting super fast!

Well you can’t expect him to fly across a whole ocean can you? And he’ll be too big to ride on a milewing with us soon. Besides, you’ll love the ocean.

Louis realized he was crushing the cuff of his jacket in one hand and stopped, rubbing his eyes against the memories. He glanced over at the sailor across the roof.

“My good man, can you tell me why the docks are so busy today?” he called over.

The sailor wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve with a grin, “Leviathan season, sir!” he called back, “Migration starts any minute now, we’ve been gettin the girls hitched up and loaded all week.”

Louis sat up straight, looking down at the docks again with some of his old excitement coming back despite himself. He’d completely forgotten it was that season already.

Normally sea passage to America took months on a regular ship, putting it in danger of sea dragons and storms, and riding a Milewing across the ocean took a week for those willing to pay a heavy price and travel light.

But hitching a ride with a leviathan, great gentle sea serpents who migrated across the ocean twice a year, that was a trip that only took a blinding speed of three or four days. Harness gentling one was a dangerous and slow undertaking, but a crew that could boast a twice annual leviathan voyage across the Atlantic could command whatever price they liked for wealthy buyers looking to transport time sensitive cargo to the other side of the world.

“Aren’t you attached to one of the ships then?” Louis asked, looking over at the leisurely lunching man.

“Sure am. My girl’s Lil’ Mary, it’s her first season pulling a ship, helped harness her myself last night.” He said proudly, taking a swig from a flask, “but she’s a young’un, won’t set out till nightfall. ‘Sides, me poor bleedin back’s ready to split after loading all that cargo, needed to nip off for a minute.”

The man scratched at his beard, gazing over the bustle of the docks, then glanced over at them again, pausing as he took in Louis’s mourning clothes and Arthur. “You ever been to the continent sir? By the looks of those wings you seem the type that could’afford it, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“N-not yet.” Louis said, rubbing his ear as he looked out West, out past the distant horizon, “We’ve always wanted to though.”

The sailor shoved the last bite of pie into his mouth and wiped his hands on his coat, giving Louis another more appraising look.

“You know sir, Mary’s still got a bit o’ room on board if you’re looking to cross the pond tonight.” The sailor said, a gleam in his eye, “First time voyages are always the hardest to book so we still got a ticket or two left. You can see all the America you want by Tuesday, plus I get a nice bonus if I manage to sell the last tickets, could do us both a lot of good.”

“I...me?” Louis said, nearly falling off the roof at the sudden thought.

“Well sure, I weren’t talking to the Irish racers over there.” The sailor chuckled, “It’ll cost you a pretty penny, but I can promise you a leviathan voyage is something you’ve got to see at least once. And you’ll have to wait another year before the next season.”

Louis didn’t care about the cost, money was the one problem he didn’t have, his ancestors had seen to that. But the thought of boarding that ship...right now, going to America on a whim, escaping west...

Seeing the open country skies, getting some adventure, living the dream he’d always wanted.

The thought made him a little dizzy.

He jumped as Arthur nudged his arm, looking at him curiously, his wings shuffling slightly in excitement.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Louis whispered harshly to the dragon, “We have responsibilities, we can’t just run off into the sunset.”

Responsibilities like writing Honeycutt in the morning. Like going back to a house in mourning. Like locking himself into an office at the bank everyday, of surrounding himself with walls and ceilings, of handling money all day until it sapped his soul.

Of never doing what he really wanted.

Arthur shoved his nose under Louis’s arm, clicking his jaw in an unspoken remark that Louis understood perfectly.

You idiot, this is our chance.

“Who do I talk to about buying passage?” Louis asked the sailor, the words spilling out of him seemingly of their own accord.

“I can take you two right to the Captain,” the sailor said with a grin, “he’ll get you both sorted. We’re sailing out to open water to meet Mary in an hour though so we’ll have to be quick about it. We don’t think Mary’ll leave till after sundown but you can never be quite sure with leviathans, they come and go as they jolly well please.”

This was a terrible idea, certifiably mad, there was no way he could go through with something like this.

“Do we need to purchase provisions beforehand or can we come as we are?” Louis asked, already climbing into the saddle, Arthur was practically trembling in excitement under him.

“Leviathan passengers are all first class tickets, voyage of a lifetime and all that, though I expect you’ll want a change of clothes, what with you being the fancy type and all.” The sailor looked up at Louis, scratching his head, “Say, excuse me if I’m out of place, but could I trouble you for a lift? It’ll get us to the Captain double quick, and I’ve always wanted to try riding an English racer.”

Three days with one set of clothing would have to do, there wasn’t time to buy more and he might get caught if he tried to stop home. Besides, as a cowboy he’d be wearing the same clothes for weeks at a time, he might as well get used to it now.

“Of course, no trouble at all.” Louis said, smiling with growing excitement as he reached down to help the sailor (who smelled very strongly of lemons and cheese) up to sit behind him, “Where are we headed?”

“Warehouse down on the far end of the dock right oveeEEERRWHOAH!”

Louis grinned as Arthur leaped off the roof perch, eagerly slicing through the air toward the warehouse before the sailor had even finished his sentence.

“He’s bloody fast!” The sailor shouted in Louis’ ear with a cackle as the wind whipped past them.

“The fastest in England!” Louis shouted back, “And he’s going to be the fastest in America too!”

He could practically already taste the Wyoming air, the Utah dust, and feel the New Mexico heat on his skin.

It was all too easy to block out everything else as Arthur swept his wings back, landing primly in front of the warehouse. Louis leapt off as the sailor shakily slid off behind him.

“Now where’s this Captain of yours?” Louis said eagerly, “We need to buy two tickets immediately.”

----

Welcome to the first chapter of the Free Wing project!

I’m using this as a chance to sharpen my art skills and push my abilities, so be sure to check the [#free wing] tag on my blog to see what other art and worldbuilding like breed and species profiles that I’ve already made for this story and world.

Asks about the world and other details as always are accepted, I love hearing your thoughts and questions, especially since they have a way of helping the story grow! :)

- Wit

[croatian-magician]

Come join me

Pairing : Baleric

Summary: We’re in 2013, Gareth is moving to Spain and Luka is waiting for him at the airport

Wordcount: 1645

Notes: I know I have so many other things I need to write, but this idea just wouldn’t leave my mind this morning (Gabi you know whose fault it is)

Luka was biting his nails, his heart racing in his chest. The young midfielder was trapped in his own bubble, barely hearing the noise of the airport around him. His eyes were glued on the screen announcing the arrivals and departures. The small, white letters written over a blue background looked like salvation to him, and every second he had to wait was pure torture.

Then, finally, the numbers on his watch matched the ones on the board. He forced himself to stay still though, knowing that his wait wasn’t over just yet. The passengers still needed to get off the plane and take their luggage. It wasn’t much, just a few more minutes, but Luka couldn’t take it, couldn’t tolerate the longing gripping at his heart.

He had been strong, though. During a whole year, he had managed to survive despite the distance. But now… Now he didn’t know how he would make it through those last minutes of yearning. He couldn’t stay in place and the travelers around him gave him weird looks for that, but he didn’t care, all that mattered was…

And then, finally, Luka saw him, walking towards him, looking even more perfect than in the midfielders memories. Luka didn’t hesitate. He ran, then jumped into his arms, and is lover acted just the same, his luggage forbidden behind him. They hugged each other, so tightly that Luka almost lost his breath but he didn’t care because he was here, he was here…

“Gareth…”

Luka murmured his name in a content sigh as he buried his face into his neck, inhaling the unique scent of his boyfriend. As always, Gareth smelled of hope, of home, of their future together. A future that looked so promising, now that they were reunited again.

“You’re here. You’re finally here.” Luka almost sobbed as Gareth slightly loosened his arms around him so he wouldn’t strangle him. The Welsh player rubbed his back in a gentle, comforting gesture to help him calm down. When Luka looked up, he noticed that his eyes were shining with tears and happiness too.

“Yes, I’m here, Luka. And I’ll stay with you.”

This time, the smaller man couldn’t help himself. His stood on tiptoes so he could leave a quick, passionate kiss on Gareth’s lips. He knew it was dangerous, knew that people could see them but in this moment it wasn’t enough to refrain him. He had spent so many nights alone, longing for Gareth’s arms around him, for his lips on his neck, for his hand in his, and now he was here, he was real, and Luka could touch him, taste his lips, hear his joyful laugh…

“You really were that impatient to see me, uh?” Gareth chuckled, ruffling his boyfriend’s hair, his hand lingering a little too long on the soft golden locks. Luka already knew Gareth would be kissing it all over the moment they would be alone.

“Of course I was. I needed you.”

“Oh, I know, Luka, I know. I thought this trip would never end. But now we’re together again, and that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, it is.” Luka agreed, resting his head on Gareth’s strong chest.

Despite everything, it was hard to believe that this was his life now, that he would be able to see Gareth everyday. The pain of being apart, of living in Madrid while Gareth stayed in London was still vivid in his mind. He would wait eagerly for each game where Croatia faced Wales, no matter how scarce they were. On the pitch, the tension between them would already be palpable, and then it would turn into frantic hands, desperate kisses and muffled moans the very minute they were away from the cameras.

They would always have the six same words on their lips. I miss you. I love you. Nothing but words, and yet it meant the world to them. They would kiss each other’s tears away, convincing themselves that they had to be strong, that they would make it.

After his transfer, Luka feared Gareth would blame him for it, that it would destroy them. But it never happened, not once. His boyfriend would only talk about how proud he was of Luka, how happy he was to see him fit well into Madrid’s team, how he wished they were still together, sure, but knew this was better for Luka’s future and career. Every time the subject came back, Gareth praised him for making the right choice.

Taking the decision to go to Real had been hard on Luka. He had been so afraid that the distance would kill their relationship. Nothing scared him more than the idea of seeing Gareth again only for his lover to tell him that this was over, that his feelings faded away, that they couldn’t keep this thing they had.

It never happened, though. On the contrary, no matter how painful it was at times, their love only grew stronger, to the point where this burning fire threatened to devour Luka whole. And so, on the day they saw each other again during international break, it became all too much for him. That day, he begged Gareth to join him, to come live here with him in Madrid. A part of him knew that it was a folly, that he was being delusional, that despite all the love they shared, Gareth wouldn’t just drop everything to go live with him. But he had to try.

Luka could still picture himself, his hands clenched tight on a Real’s jersey he was offering to Gareth as he implored his lover to come play with him, his cheeks wet with tears. Just like he remembered how the taller man had pulled him close to kiss his sadness away, right before whispering a few words in his ear.

“Shh, it’s okay, Luka. I feel the same, I can’t stand being apart from you anymore. I’ll join you in Real. Now give me that shirt, will you?”

Gareth’s big hand closed on his and Luka let go of the jersey, new tears in his eyes, but those ones were of joy. Back then, he didn’t know if Gareth would follow through with his promise or if he would change his mind, but it was enough to lighten a small spark of hope in his heart. And it never stopped growing, and now he was at Madrid’s airport and Gareth was here too and his heart felt like exploding.

“You can’t imagine how happy I am to be with you.” Luka let out, his fingers clenching on Gareth’s shirt.

“Oh, I think I have an idea, because I could spend hours just holding you like that without getting tired of it. We should get moving though, I wouldn’t want to be late for signing my contract.”

Gareth tried winking at him, but he didn’t manage to do it quite right and ended up being a bit awkward. Luka couldn’t help but giggle fondly at his effort, getting out of Gareth’s embrace only to take his hand in his to guide him. His lover grabbed his luggage back then followed him.

Luka knew the mention of that contract wasn’t all innocent. It was Gareth’s way of telling him that this was real, that he was here to stay, that he wouldn’t take the next plane for London.

Tonight, he would sleep in Luka’s bed, with their legs entangled and his lover enjoying being the small spoon. Gareth would cross his arms around his stomach to keep him close and Luka would hum happily before falling asleep against him. They would fall back into their lovely routine, as though they never lived apart.

“Oh yes, you’re right about that! Don’t worry, I’ll show you the way. Oh, I can’t wait to show you Madrid! We’ll visit together, I’ll take you to all the nice places! It will be great, I promise. I’ll teach you some Spanish too! I mean, I guess I won’t be the best teacher since it’s not my native language and I’m still struggling a bit myself, but at least it’ll be a beginning. What do you think?”

He walked towards the exit of the airport, but Gareth made him stop the moment they were out in the open. It was warm outside, a bit too much for Gareth since he was still dressed for London’s weather. However, he didn’t complain nor mention it, all his attention focused on Luka.

“For now, the only thing I need to know is how to say I love you.”

Luka cheeks turned red and to Gareth, that blush looked like the most endearing thing on earth. The smaller man got closer to him and lowered his voice so that other people around them couldn’t hear what he was about to say.

“Te quiero, Gareth.”

“Y te quiero también, Luka.”

Gareth’s accent was all wrong, and Luka could tell he had learned that by heart rather than getting the meaning of each word, but it didn’t keep his heart from jumping in his chest.

“You prepared for that, you bastard! Just so you could get me all flustered!”

“Maybe I did.” Gareth shrugged, his eyes shining with smugness.

“I’ll get back at you later for that, just you know it! But for now, let’s hurry so we won’t be late!”

“Oh, I just can’t wait to see what you have in store for me.” Gareth smiled, and the intonation of his voice was all it took for goosebumps to appear on Luka’s skin.

Deep down, Luka couldn’t wait for that either, just like he couldn’t wait to share the same team with Gareth again. Just to know that they would soon step on a field together, he felt like the luckiest man on earth.

Now that they were together again, the future looked brighter than ever.

Taglist:  @esparafuso @smolmandzo @puolendollarinonni @arduango @sejan-is-love @ante-ray-bitch @winters-chiid @pachua @crazy-for-lovren @ppumpkines