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2af-afterdark · 1 year

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If We Cannot Keep

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Non-Con/Rape Category: F/M Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Relationships: MC/Satan+Asmodeus+Beelzebub+Belphegor Characters: Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, Main Character Additional Tags: afab!mc (they/them), noncon/rape, breeding, pregnancy, somnophilia, yandere Summary: The brothers refuse to give up the person they love the most. They will do whatever it takes to keep ahold of them. A/N: The ask leads to this post. Since it was not my original idea, I am also posting 🍋 anon's consent to make this a fic. Sorry, but adding all the brothers is really hard, so only some are getting explicit moments. Word Count: 2161

The sun poured through the slits in their blinds and they woke up to that blinding light feeling like they hadn't gotten a minute of rest. It had been like that the last month or so, but recently they'd also started developing an ache in their hips and a throbbing in their head to go with it.

The mornings were pure torture as they went about the house searching for clothing in their stupor. Perhaps it was due to their still exhausted state or maybe it was the way the light played against the walls as it worked its way into their flat, but they swore they saw something darting back and forth in the corner of their eye. Though, when they turned their head nothing was there.

They were probably just anxious for today.

When was the last time they'd seen their partner in person? At least a few days. Between finals and papers and other miscellaneous bullshit, they hadn't had time for personal matters. Today was different. Today was all about showing their partner a good time.

As they finished putting themselves together and started to head out the door, their phone started to ring. They fished it out, noting that it was an interdimensional call from Beel and chuckling quietly to themselves before picking it up.

"Hello?"

"He-"

"Darling!" Asmo cut in and nearly blew out their eardrum.

"Hey, Asmo. What's up?"

"Well, Beel said he was calling you and I didn't want to be left out, especially because you're feeling so good right now."

"Is it that obvious?" They didn't know their emotions reached that far across dimensions when it came to the demons they shared a pact with.

"Why are you so happy?" Beel asked and they could hear him chewing something on the other end.

"Oh, well…" Their face felt like it was burning up. "I have a date today."

The other end went silent for what seemed like an entire minute before Asmo finally chirped up, "Look at you~ Getting lucky so soon after turning someone else down."

"Asmo…" Beel warned faintly over the receiver.

"Are you still upset about that?" They didn't mean to hurt their precious demons, but they also couldn't lie and say they felt that way about them.

"Of course not~" He whined as if insulted. "I'm just happy that you're happy."

"Thanks. I'm actually heading out now, so I have to go. Talk to you both later?"

"Always, Darling."

"See you later," Beel said just before ending the call.

They walked out of their house, tumbler of coffee in hand to fight off the tiredness that wouldn't leave their bones. By the time they showed up at the meeting spot, the entire container was long gone.

They planned the entire day together: movie, the park, dinner at a nice place. It was going to be wonderful.

Unfortunately, they could barely stay awake through the movie and dozed off against their partner's shoulder at the park. It was hard to stay awake and focused for some reason.

By the end of the day, they sat down with their partner at the restaurant. They reached across the table to hold their hands. They ordered dinner, selecting something they usually wouldn't glance twice at. Their partner made a joke about pickles and ice cream, and they grimaced. It wasn't funny.

Actually, now that they were together… their partner was worried. They'd been different lately. It was probably stress or something, but they were clearly out of it. They loved going on dates, but maybe it was better in the meantime to focus on themselves. They needed to ensure they were taking care of themselves.

As much as they didn't want to do that, they agreed. Maybe a small break was best for them. Although, when they got home home they couldn't help but flop into their bed and cry themselves to sleep.

It was the dead of night. Their eyes fluttered open slowly, groggily blinking as their consciousness drifted just out of reach. Everything felt stiff; their joints, head, arms, legs. It was like their muscles refused to work. Even so, it felt like their body was on fire as heat pooled in their stomach and spread outward.

The more they started to awaken, the more things they slowly started to notice were out of place than just their muscles. There were strange noises in the darkness; growling, muttering, creaking, and wet slapping.

Dancing in the blurry haze of their opening eyes were strange shapes that slowly came more into view as their mind began to wake up. The shapes blended together against the black backdrop of their room, but they could clearly make out that one of them – broader than the others – was moving above them.

"Hungh?" They groaned. "Wha-?"

"Oh no," someone muttered at the edge of their consciousness. "They're waking up. Put them back under."

"I'm trying." Someone else muttered and their head began to pound and ache.

"They got tighter…"

"Are you bragging?"

They knew those voices and the shape of those shadows; Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Belphegor. Their head was lying in Belphegor's lap as he rested his hands on either side of it. Satan and Asmodeus were on either side of them. Beelzebub was more difficult to see but they swore he was in front of them.

"What are… you doing here?" They didn't remember summoning them.

"Shit," Belphegor swore and their head pounded again. "Go back to sleep."

Why couldn't they understand what was happening? Everything took so much effort and felt so difficult. It was like their entire body was made of stone.

All they knew was that something felt off.

They let their eyes wander downward toward where it felt warm. Beelzebub was anchored between their legs, large hands pressing against the back of their knees as he forced them against their chest, lips shimmering in the darkness as they dripped with an unknown liquid, and hips snapping forward with a grunt.

The scene didn't make sense at first, but when it finally clicked all the drowsiness washed away instantly. Their body still felt heavy, but their mind finally understood the horror of what was happening.

"Oh dear, you caught us," Asmodeus sighed. "And it was all going so well, too."

They were struck with terror. Even as a sickening feeling joined that heat building up inside of them, they couldn't look away. "Wh-what are you-?"

"So sorry, Darling. You usually sleep through this."

"Belphie!" Satan snapped.

The youngest of them rolled his eyes. "You try to keep them under when it's Beel's turn. I'm amazed they didn't wake up sooner today.

"Put them back under." Satan accentuated each word like a threat.

"Working on it."

They tried to jerk away from his grip, finding it difficult. "No!"

"Oh don't be like that~" Asmodeus smiled a little too wide. "Since you're awake now, you should enjoy it as much as us."

Asmodeus leaned down over their face, biting their bottom lip between his teeth to draw blood. It was such a sweet taste against his lips that he had to lick it all up to make sure he savored every drop. Their panicked expression was so adorable that he couldn't help but smile down at them as blood rushed to his cheeks, turning his face red with desire.

"Don't look away, Darling," he sang as his hand trailed over their stomach, rubbing small circles in the same spot pooling with heat before he drifted upward to grope at their breasts. "Don't you want to see how well your body's been trained? I doubt that human partner of yours could even satisfy you after the heaven you've experienced."

He said human like it was a dirty word; like they weren't also human. Like he wasn't enjoying every sickening squelch of their very human body being violated by his brother or the bouncing of their tits as he forced his firm cock into them over and over again and their comparably small body was forced to endure the constant slap of his hips against theirs.

A strained croak dryly snaked out of their throat as they tried to speak. Their tongue felt so very heavy as they opened their mouth to speak. "Sto-"

Before the word was fully out, someone clamped a hand over their mouth.

Satan's brilliant green eyes peered down at them with a smirk, lidded and pressed tight. "I wouldn't try that if I were you." He slipped two fingers past their lips to grasp onto their tongue. "After all, we want to hear you scream more for us, so removing this would be unfortunate."

Their teeth scraped against Satan's fingers as the taste of salt and copper flooded their mouth. His fingers reached further back into their throat, curling downward and making them feel like they were going to choke (or maybe puke). All they knew for certain was how all of their muscles tensed up in terror, making the cock inside of them feel so much bigger than it already was.

Between Satan working at their mouth, Asmo's hands squeezing their chest, Belphegor messing with their head, and Beelzebub dragging his cock along their tight walls in his mission to hit every sensitive spot he could, they couldn't hold out any longer. Their legs began to tremble and shake, spasming in Beelzebub's strong grip as their eyes rolled back in their head and they were forced to cum on the cock that wouldn't stop churning up their insides at a brutal pace.

Tears streamed down their face, burning against their cheeks as they silently pleaded for this to be over. Instead, it got worse. Beelzebub's hips bucked against them more quickly, disregarding the clear bruises he was starting to leave in their skin.

"Pu-h." Please. They tried to beg one last time for mercy, for the brothers to stop before they betrayed their precious human's trust and love anymore than they already had, but their words were lost between their grotesque sobbing and around Satan's fingers.

It wasn't until they felt Beelzebub's strokes start to grow fast and shallow before stopping that the horror truly sunk in, though. When the sensation of him filling them up with hot liquid finally hit them, they couldn't help but weep.

A hand gently reached up to brush away their tears. "Shhhh. None of that now," Asmodeus coo'd. "If you exhaust yourself by crying, how do you ever expect to make it through the night?"

Their eyes widened in horror at the implication; a horror that became all too real as Beelzebub withdrew his fat cock from their abused hole and they felt a new one align against their entrance.

"We promise," Belphegor said, "whoever the father of your baby is, we'll all love it as much as we do you. Isn't that better than whatever some random human could give you?"

Baby?

"They won't have a choice," Satan added. "After all, I doubt their partner will tolerate finding out they cheated."

This wasn't cheating.

"What a pathetic waste of existence," Asmodeus spoke as he messaged their chest with a firm grip. "But don't worry, Darling ~ We would never treat you like that. We'll always love you, just the same as your body will always love and need us."

This wasn't love.

Whoever was nestled between their legs now (they dared not look) finally pushed forward, parting their slick, messy folds as the head of his cock sank inside of them and pushed against all the cum already flooding their cunt.

They screamed and cried around Satan's fingers as a new person began to rhythmically buck his hips forward.

Even with all the fear running through them, they couldn't help but notice how heavy their eyelids were starting to feel. Belphegor rubbed his index and middle fingers on either side of their temples in much the way one would soothe a headache and it felt relaxing despite how much adrenaline was pumping through their veins.

"You need to relax or else you'll stress out the baby." His eyes closed and theirs soon followed. "You must be so tired after today, so let us take care of everything while you rest."

Sleep sounded so good right now.

"I promise that nothing but good dreams like this one await."

They couldn't even think a terrible thought about the brothers who had betrayed their trust one final time before sleep overtook them and they passed out. They certainly couldn't even feel how they had cum around the new cock violating them as Belphegor's magical sleep settled into their every nerve.

#2af writes #obey me smut #lucifer smut #mammon smut #leviathan smut #satan smut #asmodeus smut #beelzebub smut #belphegor smut #afab fic #cw noncon #cw breeding #cw pregnancy #cw somnophilia #cw yandere

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mania-sama · 3 months

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rule #33 - pyre

Rule #33 - Pyre - Fish in a Birdcage

Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing - Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi & Fushiguro Tsumiki & Gojo Satoru Tags - veteran! gojo, gojo has ptsd, parental! gojo, no curses au, ptsd, heavy angst, implied/referenced child abuse, russian ballet references, gojo adopted the fushiguros, flashbacks Summary - Gojo Satoru, a young, decorated veteran, is petrified of fireworks. Word Count - 2,721 Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own Whumptober 2023 - Day 31: PTSD See my full Whumptober 2023 Challenge on Tumblr or Ao3

Festivals are, generally speaking, the worst times of the year.

Gojo isn’t a killjoy. He enjoys the colors decorating the streets and adorning the yukatas, kimonos, or whichever traditional clothes are being worn in accordance with the celebration just like everybody else. Venders add extra spices and seasonings to their food, the prices are lowered, and the overall atmosphere buzzes with childish joy.

And, despite his best attempt to keep up his indifferent exterior, young Megumi’s eyes light up when Gojo informs him of the special occasion. Toji’s children love festivals like the rest of civilian Japan. Excitement is rare to see in a child like Megumi, so he always arranges for someone to take him and Tsumiki out to experience the fun in Tokyo.

Instead of spending time with Toji’s little goblins that he’s doing his damn best to raise into decent human beings, he sits in the tiniest closet in his penthouse with thick sound-proof headphones to maximize the noise-canceling effect. He brings a weighted blanket to drape over his body so he won’t have to feel any reverberations, either. It has the added use of making him feel secure and grounded.

It isn’t the principle of missing out on the festival, it’s having to answer Tsumiki’s imploring question, “Why can’t you take us to the festival?” with a flippant laugh and a lie. He wants nothing more than to lie on the grass or stand in the streets and watch the dazzling fireworks with them. But as soon as the first fireworks explode, followed by smaller pops and shattered lights, he thinks that the dirt and grass shards are hiding landmines, or that snipers are blowing off his comrades' heads from the broken-glass buildings. The streets are empty save for the scared civilians holding automatic rifles and enemy soldiers with orders to leave no one alive.

Gojo can’t go to festivals. He can’t listen to the sound of fireworks in his own home without diving under his kitchen table and plugging his nose to hide his panting breaths. Experience has taught him to stay in his closet and keep his headphones and blanket on, no matter how his heart breaks as the children’s faces pull into resignation when he denies them yet another festival.

He is normally a very observant person. He’d been so ever since he was a child, but having been trained to be a soldier since he could walk, it didn’t really mean much regarding innate ability. In any case, he kept good track of the days, months, and years. He prefers to ignore schedules entirely and operate solely on a feel-good basis, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t perfectly aware of the exact time it is at any given moment. It’s a system of behavior he can’t rewrite, unfortunately.

Except in the odd case — when he was without food and water in the Gobi desert, when he mourned the death of his best friend, or when both of his children ran a hundred and three-degree fevers for an illness he doesn’t know the name of. Time stops operating in his mind. He loses where he is, and all he can focus on is nursing Megumi and Tsumiki back to health.

Gojo shouldn’t have run out of the house to buy medicine and stockpile their favorite foods. He knows he shouldn’t have. Logic would reason that he would call or text a friend to bring him what he needs and pay them back later. But Satoru isn’t a Gojo for nothing.

He is the youngest decorated veteran of the last century. He doesn’t rely on other people, because he is the strongest. He only calls for help from his friends for the sake of the children, not for himself. Children should always be put before him.

The best officer of the Japanese military can certainly handle an emergency supply run in a safe environment for two sick children. The store isn’t even that far away. He’s in a rush, yes, but it’s simple work. He’s accomplished much more in half the time.

He notices the people in bright yukatas but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Whatever event is going on, he doesn’t care for. He can view it from the balcony of his penthouse if it's something really important. He runs into the store, nearly breaks his card in his hurry to pay, and walks out with the image of his — Toji’s — children quickening his strides. Pushing past the gathered crowds of dressed-up people, Gojo picks up on a faint whisper of excitement. It causes his step to falter, only for a second. He doesn’t even fully stop.

An even fainter whizzing sound fills the vast space between him and the children. The sky explodes in shattered lights.

It’s a festival. He knows this. But when he looks around, where his feet are carrying him behind the closest building on autopilot, when crouches to the ground and covers his mouth and plugs his nose, he isn’t exactly sure. He’s not sure that the thick concrete support beam is ready to crumble as a part of the dilapidated city from bombs, guns, and missiles. He’s not sure that those gasps out there are from the spray of civilians and soldiers falling to automatic rifles and suicide bombers.

He holds the paper bags in his hands, shaking, feeling a medicine bottle between his fingers. It’s for Megumi and Tsumiki. This he knows. He should know. Yet the guns keep firing, and he is the commander of his unit. He needs to be out there, guiding his men through the kill zone of a Middle Eastern conflict Japan isn’t officially a part of. But then, where is his gun? Where are any of his weapons?

He focuses on the ground and the paper bags holding chips and medicine. Chips and medicine. His hands are trembling. A Gojo’s hands don’t shake. He’s been trained to hold a gun since he could grab objects, and he learned how to perfectly weave in and out of a sniper’s scope by the time he was ten years old. This is no different. It shouldn’t be any different.

He closes his eyes as the guns tear into his men. Why can’t he get back out there? The palm of his hand presses against his teeth, and his back hunches in on itself. He’s crumbling to the ground, even though he is Gojo Satoru, the strongest of Japan, the best of his MOS. The chips in the bag crumble in his hands, and people are dying . His rifle has been lost, somewhere in the river he crossed to get into the kill zone, probably. His knives were sticking out of the poor children he had to kill, for there were bombs strapped to their chests and weapons too big for their hands. His other handguns were given to his unit as they had lost theirs to the river as well.

He is Gojo Satoru. He doesn’t need a weapon to survive.

Yet. His knees are on the ground and the medicine for his sick and injured soldiers isn’t getting to their proper place in time. He clutches a hand to his hair and wills himself to move, but the pops have him put in place. Panting breaths escape out of his shaking hands, and his heart pounds so hard he fears it’ll break his chest. Fear. He’ll admit it. He’s afraid. But he can’t be afraid. He hasn’t been afraid since his mother and father beat all of the fear out of him and introduced him to the kill zone at the ripe age of twelve. He knows conflict. He knows guns. He doesn’t know fear.

But fear knows him.

Closer, much closer than his dying unit, he hears the soft pull of a stringed instrument. It's an odd mixture of a guitar and violin, and its sound is stunted in fragmented half-seconds. He’s never heard this in the military before. His unit has had talent with instruments, but this is something else entirely.

Another instrument is introduced, a piano, he thinks. It’s high-pitched, laying oddly yet beautifully over the original instrument. The song is unmistakable now. Tchaikovsky’s The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker. He doesn’t know the play intimately, but he has seen one or two ballets in local performances.

He settles against the concrete beam and listens to the music. It plays over the crowd, though he can’t afford to stop listening for them at all. If they grow quiet, then they’re all dead, or they’ve moved out of the area without him. Either way, Gojo’s escape is going to be messy and long. But he’s Gojo Satoru. If he can get off the ground and stop weeping and running and shaking like—

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy fades out, and Coda plays next. It’s a little more intense, but it runs in and through his ears. It’s so unfamiliar with the kill zone. He’s never heard ballet music in desolated cities. If he hears music, it’s usually the local music in whichever country he’s in or when he’s at base with a mixture of United States military, allied infantry, and Japanese Special Force soldiers, playing music with those languages in it. In general, they usually have words, whether he can understand them or not notwithstanding.

But this, this is new.

He doesn’t know how or why someone would be playing Tchiakolvsky at this time. It doesn’t make sense, and he dares to pry open his eyes. His paper bags are clenched in his hands, but the contents have spilled out onto the ground. Medicine for his soldiers, chips for food. Not practical, but they make do with what they have. He’s eaten bugs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner before.

Not on the battlefield, but as training when he was a child. If he had to survive off of nothing but the land, he could do it.

The Gobi desert doesn’t have anything but sand and poisonous animals. So much for that invaluable lesson.

The ground beneath him is concrete, and he dares to look up. Outside gathered is a mass of people in bright yukatas . The Russian ballet has come to an end, and Gojo hears the beginnings of Swan Lake . It’s a comfortable tune, but it will turn intense inevitably. Oddly, he doesn’t find it as disconcerting as it’s supposed to make the listener feel. Satoru imagines the black swan, but the dancer turns away from him, hiding her dark makeup.

He stares at the crowd for a long time. It’s unfamiliar to the kill zone. None of them are little children with bombs on their chests or adults shooting at him with weapons they don’t know how to handle. Somewhere in the distance, in the buildings, someone must be aiming for the crowd, to ruin the festival. He’s seen it happen before.

Swan Lake continues, coming close to an end, and a voice accompanies the next song. “You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX. You’re safe.”

Gojo doesn’t startle at the voice, but he does turn towards it, and he can’t quite comprehend what he’s looking at.

At one moment, he’s looking at one of his men, and he needs to grab him and bring him down behind the concrete pillar to protect him until they can make a move to safety. At the next, he’s looking at a tall man with Tchaikovsky playing from his phone. He’s looking at Nanami. Nanami in uniform, with a gun instead of a phone. Nanami in a pale blue yukata .

“My name is Nanami Kento. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX,” he says, his voice relaxed. “You’re safe.”

Satoru stares at his friend numbly.

“The fireworks will make another round soon. Let’s go back to your penthouse,” Nanami continues. He doesn’t make any moves, though, and a new song from a ballet he doesn’t know filters through the speakers of Nanami’s phone. He thinks. Gojo isn’t sure.

Nanami repeats his early statement. My name is Nanami Kento. Not an enemy soldier, though they did fight together at one time. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. That explains the yukatas and flashing billboards. It’s 20XX. When was Toji killed in battle? When was Geto? You’re safe.

My name is Nanami Kento. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX. You’re safe.

Russian ballets don’t play in the kill zone.

Satoru turns away from Nanami and shakily collects the medicine and chips that had slipped out of his paper bags, along with the sunglasses that had slipped off his face. He struggles to remember why he has them in the first place. It most certainly has something to do with Toji and children, but he isn’t quite sure how those two add together. Toji is most certainly dead. He knows this with certainty. Children die around him left and right.

Unless it’s about Toji’s children. Gojo looks at Nanami, and as one of his only surviving friends from the battlefield, he says shakily, “I promised to take care of Toji’s kids.”

Nanami doesn’t reply to him directly, yet Satoru takes it as an affirmative. “We need to go back to your penthouse before the fireworks start again.”

The Russian ballets don’t stop playing even as they push through the crowd with Gojo’s hands covering his ears. He can barely hear it over the sounds of the crowd and his blocked eardrums, but it’s there nonetheless. He focuses on what he can sense close to him — the paper bags, Nanami’s back, the safe ground beneath his feet, and the violins and pianos.

They make it to the apartment, and Nanami stops in front of the gated back entry. “I don’t live here,” he states simply. That means Gojo lives here. If Satoru has the key, then he lives here.

It’s in his pocket, and he unlocks the gate. They walk in and go in the elevator, not the stairs. Stairs. Too many houses, too many stairs and floors to clear.

“My name is…” Nanami drones on to completion. “You’re safe.”

You’re safe.

The elevator dings, and he doesn’t flinch. The ballet filters through the cracks of his fingers, and the paper bags feel heavy in his hands. He’s carried deadweight bodies a hundred times heavier than the feather-light weight of the paper bags, yet he struggles anyway.

They stand in front of the door to his penthouse. Gojo unlocks it, but Nanami waves a hand for him to stop. “Wait here,” he says, and Satoru complies. He’s Gojo Satoru. He doesn’t comply with anyone but himself. He’s the strongest, the best officer of his MOS.

He does anyway, because inside this penthouse —

“We’re going to play the quiet game. Whoever wins gets to go on a spa day with Satoru.”

— are his children, and they are the most important children in the whole world. His children. His children.

Megumi and Tsumiki.

They’re lying on the couches in the living room. Nanami guides Gojo past them, but he manages to spare them a glance, and he sees Tsumiki’s red-colored face peering worriedly at him. He wants to say something to them, but now they’re being fired at and there’s no more time for any words other than directions to take cover.

His hands are still covering his ears when the pop is followed by so many more. But Nanami has him in the closet, and his sound-proof headphones are on, and the weighted blanket is covering him head-to-toe.

He doesn’t technically hear any more of the gunshot-fireworks. He sits in his closet like he’s hiding from an Iraqi unit outnumbering him fifteen to one and figuring out the best way to take them down and make it back to his unit alive. The medicine and chips have been taken from him, and he squeezes his weighted blanket between his palms.

The light bulb burns overhead. His jackets and small winter coats hang beside him like bodies.

He’s the best officer the Japanese military had ever seen, who retired after his third four-year contract ended.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest of his MOS, who trained for combat since he could walk and enlisted illegally at sixteen, can’t take his kids out to a goddamn fireworks festival by himself.

Gojo Satoru hunches and sobs into his blanket.

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consanguinitatum · 8 months

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David Tennant audios: Tuesdays & Sundays is an audio gem

As you all know by now, surely, I'm a David Tennant theatre buff, but right now I want to explore my other major passion with regards to his work: his audios. He's done a bewildering amount of audio work and a lot of it is really, really good. With that in mind, I'm going to concentrate on one of my absolute favorite David Tennant audio works: a 2003 audio entitled Tuesdays & Sundays.

Based on a true story of an 1887 series of events between a young woman named Mary Tuplin and her lover William Millman in Margate on Canada’s Prince Edward Island, Tuesdays & Sundays begins with the young couple's spirits as they "awaken into a void. As they question where they are, they recall and begin to relive the story which got them there: their giddy courtship and the overwhelming passions of first love, the pangs of a six-month absence, an unplanned pregnancy, and a guilty and shameful young man amidst a community in which respectability is of utmost importance. As they try to cope, to keep love amongst the fear and confusions of youth, these two spirits ultimately stumble upon their own tragic ending."

Sounds intriguing, yes?

Tuesdays & Sundays was originally a 45-minute play written by Canadians Daniel Arnold and Medina Hahn. It was first performed in June 2000 in Edmonton, Canada, with the authors as the two principal characters William and Mary. Arnold and Hahn took the play on tours throughout Canada, Europe and the US and won many awards, including the Sterling Haynes Award for Outstanding Fringe Performance.

In 2003, Arnold and Hahn were asked to adapt the play for radio; one for Canada's CBC Radio (which starred themselves) and once for the BBC. I spoke to Arnold about how the play got adapted, and he told me, “CBC Radio was the first to approach us about a radio version, and we performed it on CBC Radio with minimal adaptation. The Edinburgh Festival is where Sara Benaim of the BBC saw it, and asked about a radio adaptation for BBC Radio 4. We adapted the play accordingly, and…re-set it to [Tusket in] Nova Scotia, where there was much more Scottish settlement. Margate on Prince Edward Island was much more English. We made…the characters both immigrants from Scotland, which actually worked quite well.”

The BBC adaptation was broadcast on 16 June 2003 as the BBC Radio 4 Afternoon play and starred David as William and Claire Yuille (who later appeared in the first episode of 2010’s Single Father, credited only as a “Doting Mum") as Mary. And on top of all that, David and Claire also voiced all of the play's other minor characters!

Of David’s turn as the young William Millman, Arnold told me, “We were quite taken with his performance in it.” He added, “We were thrilled when we learned David Tennant would play (my role) William…and when we heard the recording on the BBC, it sounded fantastic.”

And it DOES! In my opinion, there are so many reasons why this play is stupendous. David and Claire are top-drawer. The dialogue is back and forth, breathless and imbued with teenaged giddiness, bullet-paced and conversational - both with each other and in asides to themselves - and it must've taken some doing for the two actors to get this pace down just right without running over the top of each other and blurring it into chaos. But instead, it creates a perfect tension-filled atmosphere that draws an audience in and makes this play a must-hear.

By this time I imagine you're wondering where you can hear or read this play. Well, here's a partial script. Here's the original Canadian radio broadcast at the Internet Archive (which is a great listen in and of itself) but, sadly, hearing David's version had become a bit more difficult. The Internet Archive had a copy once but it's been removed, and Arnold and Hahn's DualMinds website has almost 5 minutes of the play, but as it's based in Flash Player good luck getting it to work. But I won't tell if you won't tell - so go get it here while it's still available. ;)

Here's a cute little David in advertising for the play - and below, some other historical information about the events the play is based on. If you don't want to know anything about the play before listening to it (spoilers!) then don't look beyond this photo!

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The real Mary Pickering Tuplin was 17 years old when she was murdered, and her lover William Millman was convicted of the crime. Tuplin’s body was pulled from the Southwest River on July 4, 1887, just a short distance from where she lived with her parents in Margate. She had been shot twice in the head. Her body was weighed down with a heavy stone, and it was discovered she had been six months pregnant. Authorities separated her head from her body for forensic examination, and - bizarrely - it was never reunited with her body. It remained in the coroner's office, which eventually became a pharmacy. And there it remained until 2016, when it was finally reburied with the rest of her remains.

If true crime is your thing, you can access the entire report of the Tuplin-Millman murder trial, right here!

William Millman was convicted of Mary Tuplin's murder and was sentenced to hang. Despite the jury’s recommendation for mercy, he was hanged on 10 April 1888.

Many believe him innocent of the crime. Was he? It's highly unlikely we will never know.

#DavidTennant #DavidTennantAudios #Tuesdays&Sundays #ObscureDavidTennantPerformances

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weepingfromacedartree · 5 months

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Ten Milestones (Interlude): The Usual Spot

Hi friends!

The last interlude is live 🥳

May 9th, 2022

Monday

This morning, like most Monday mornings over the last twelve or so months, Colin is standing outside a coffee shop in Central London. He’s waiting for Penelope to arrive, which only happens about 33.33% of the time on mornings like this; usually, she beats him here.

She mouths “Sorry” from across the street at 8:34 AM — approximately seven minutes later than she usually arrives. Colin gives her a thumbs down and a sarcastic scowl in response. For about 30 seconds, he watches as she stands there, an unwitting smile rising then fading on her face; the passing traffic between them cuts up her movements like frames of an old movie.

Inside, she orders a croissant and a coffee with cream and sugar. He orders a sandwich and a drink with a silly name and a composition of at least 50% sugar. They leave the shop at 8:44 with their breakfasts in hand. As they start on a familiar route, they pick up a familiar conversation.

“So… What’s your pitch for today?”

“Ithaboutuh,” Penelope mumbles, still chewing on her pastry. She swallows, then clarifies, “About the Premier League.”

“Really?” Colin chuckles. “That doesn’t sound like a typical topic for a Penelope Featherington column.”

“Well, it’s less about the club itself and more about the effects it has on local tourism. You know — fans flying in from around the world, hotel rates skyrocketing, local businesses bringing in more cash, drunk Americans getting mugged at increasing rates, et cetera.”

Colin snorts.

“Sounds like something Danbury would like.”

“That wasn’t my reason for choosing the pitch — but Danbury’s approval always helps Monday mornings go smoother.”

When they halt at a crosswalk, Penelope sips her coffee while Colin thinks over her pitch. Just as the little green man lights up and signals for them to continue forward, he clears his throat.

“If you want to do some on the ground research on crazed football fans, I bet Michael could get us two tickets to the Arsenal game on Friday.”

“Friday?” she echoes, her brows stitching together. She sounds confused, like the two syllables don’t fit together correctly in her mouth.

“Um. Yes?”

“Friday night?”

“Yes,” he confirms, slightly more assured this time.

She takes another sip of her drink before saying anything else. From the way she tilts her head back, it appears to be the last sip.

“That’s a great idea, but I —” She takes a breath. “I’m busy on Friday night. Unfortunately.”

“Oh, that’s —”

Fine, is what he was about to say. Objectively, it is fine. Penelope is a busy person with a full life. She doesn’t have to come running whenever Colin wants to hang out with her. (Which is just about always, these days.)

It is fine. But Penelope’s sudden change in demeanour…

“Is something wrong, Pen?”

“No!” she answers quickly. “I just — I have plans.”

Colin takes a sip of his own drink. He uses those few seconds to mull over her words. He doesn’t want to pry, but he also knows there is something under the surface that Penelope isn’t saying.

“Do you already have tickets for the Arsenal game? If so, I promise I won’t be offended. Well, not too off—”

“No, I just have a date.”

She says those words casually, as if they would have no impact on him, past clarifying the nature of her plans on Friday night. Objectively, this makes sense, seeing as Colin has never said anything that would make her believe otherwise.

They do have an added impact, though. Even if Colin knows that’s ridiculous. Even if he knows that Penelope can and does date people who are not him. Even if they’ve discussed this subject in the past. Even if he knows they could put it to rest once and for all, if only he weren’t too scared to —

“A non-football related date,” Penelope clarifies with a soft chuckle, only after Colin doesn’t respond for several seconds.

“Oh! That’s —”

He searches his brain for something logical to say. He has trouble doing so, though; his brain is too busy focusing on one particular image, instead.

A pale blue envelope. One that arrived at his own flat yesterday and is currently sitting unopened on the counter in his kitchen.

“Does this have to do with Ben’s Save The Date going out? That’s over five months away. You have plenty of time to secure a da—”

“No, Colin,” Penelope interrupts, her tone suddenly defensive. She throws her empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can; he can practically hear it rattle against the metal basin as it drops to the bottom. Then, beneath her breath, she delivers him the most devastating insult he’s ever heard.

“You sound like my mum.”

“Woah! I —”

“I do date, you know. And not just to ‘secure’ a date for a wedding several months from now.”

“I know,” Colin claims, sounding just as defensive as her. He tries to tone it down as he continues, “I know that, Pen. The timing just made me think the two could be related.”

“Well, they’re not.”

When she offers no further details — when she doesn’t say anything at all — Colin can’t help but ask the question currently weighing heavily on his mind.

“So, uh… Who with? I didn’t know you were — uh — seeing anyone at the moment.”

Penelope swallows, then looks up. They’re a few steps away from her office.

“A coworker. We aren’t ‘seeing’ each other, he just asked if I wanted to get dinner with him after work on Friday.”

Stupid fucking wanker.

“That’s great, Pen,” Colin says through a smile and gritted teeth. Then, despite his better judgement…

“What’s his name?”

“Sam Debling,” Penelope says, still looking straight ahead. “You don’t know him. He’s, um, new to the city.”

She’s right. The name doesn’t sound the least bit familiar to Colin. He sounds like a right prick, though.

“That’s —”

“Oh!” Her voice goes up nearly an entire octave. She’s looking down to her phone. “I have to run — I can’t be late for this meeting. I’ll talk to you later!”

Before he can return the goodbye, Penelope turns on her heel and disappears into the lobby of Queenmaker Magazine.

Once alone, Colin raises his drink to his lips and whispers one word into its half-empty interior.

“Fuck.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

On Monday mornings, after dropping Penelope off at her office, Colin usually goes to the gym. Sometimes he visits Anthony at the firm. Sometimes he heads to Mayfair. Sometimes he gets work done at a park or a library or anywhere that isn’t his usual office. (His bed.)

On this Monday morning, Colin goes straight home to his flat.

The walk from Central London to Bloomsbury is long and bothersome. He spends most of that time swatting away the first flies of summer and unwittingly recalling Penelope’s words from earlier. Each step only sharpens the sting of annoyance in his gut.

A coworker. Sam Debling.

As he cuts through Russell Square (annoyingly over-populated with happy couples this morning), the irony of the situation does not escape Colin’s notice. For the first 25 years of his life, at least he was ignorant to his ever-growing feelings for Penelope. But what’s his excuse now? Timing? Fear? A lack of a sign?

I do date.

As he rounds the final corner to his flat, Colin thinks over those excuses. The ones he has gripped onto and subsequently lost sight of over the last four years. In truth, he doesn’t fully know why he remains quiet. It’s difficult for him to put into words. But still, there’s a block.

You sound like my mum.

A shiver runs down his spine as he steps into the air conditioning. He wonders how today got off to such a tremendously terrible start. Monday mornings are usually his favourite —

“Morning, Bridgerton.”

His footsteps stop short. It takes him a second to realise where they had led him to.

He’s in the middle of his lobby, about four paces away from the lift ahead. His name had been called out from the left. From the mailroom.

It takes him another second to realise who had called it.

“Morning, Cordelia.”

Cordelia Patridge lives in the flat directly below his. She moved in about a year ago, but due to London’s perplexingly tight social circles, he’s known her from afar for most of his life.

Over the past twelve months or so, the two of them have formed a routine of sorts. When passing each other in the stairwell, lift, mailroom, etc., the two greet, engage in about 30 seconds of playful banter, then go their separate ways.

That last part is crucial. Hypothetically, a stranger could walk into this lobby and perceive their “banter” as “flirting,” but Colin doesn’t see it that way. It’s not flirting if you have no intention to turn those words into action.

Today, Colin doesn’t have the energy for the words alone. After throwing her a polite nod, he turns back to the lift ahead.

“Running off anywhere special?” Cordelia asks, quickly falling in step with him. Her mail items remain tucked away beneath her armpit.

Colin hits the button with the upwards facing arrow.

“Not especially.”

“Just a boring day at the office, then?”

“Well, my office is typically just my bed, so —”

“Ooh.” She snickers. “Naughty.”

Colin clears his throat. Before saying another word, he listens to the creaking of the old metallic lift as it descends the floors. It sounds close.

“‘Lazy’ would be a more accurate term for it, I think.”

With that, the lift doors creak open. Inside, Colin pushes the “2” for Cordelia and the “3” for himself.

“Is that it for today, then? Wasting your hours writing in bed?”

Colin considers the question.

“Account for several trips to and from the fridge and… Yes, that sounds about right.” As Cordelia giggles, he asks, “And you? What of your day?”

“Working. But not from my bed. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

Perhaps on a different morning, Colin could muster up a halfway decent retort to that. Today, he thanks god that the lift doors open when they do.

“Toodles, Bridgerton.”

When those metallic doors screech shut again, an odd feeling washes over Colin. The stinging annoyance from before is still there, but it’s now mixed up with confusion after that interaction with Cordelia.

Objectively, it was not all that different from their usual random bouts of banter in the halls. It just felt… more than it usually does. Like, for the first time in twelve months, he doesn’t feel so confident in his distinction between “banter” and “flirting. (Even though his intentions were no different than they ever were.)

He doesn’t spend too much time thinking over the interaction, though. Once the lift opens to the third floor, the matter leaves his mind entirely. Annoyance takes over once more. It sticks with him as he walks down the hall to 303. It grows stickier when he enters his kitchen and sees the unopened blue envelope on the counter. It only lets up once he returns to his bedroom and opens the dresser, searching for something more comfortable to don before climbing back into his office for the day.

On top of the pile of clothes lies a burgundy jumper. The one Penelope wore on her last morning living in his flat. The one she wore most mornings during that awful, blessed month. When he lifts it to his nose, the fabric still smells of honey.

Objectively, Colin knows this is impossible. He knows that, two years later, even the faintest hints of honey are nothing more than phantom smells from a time he wishes to return to.

Pulling the fabric over his head, he doesn’t give a shit if the honey smell is real or fake. The jumper feels good around his body, regardless.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tuesday

It’s not fair to say that Penelope’s date with Sam Fucking Debling was the only matter on Colin’s mind for the past 24 hours. It would be fair to say it was the most recurring, though.

On his way home from the gym Tuesday morning, remnants of their conversation are still coming back to him — as much as he wished they wouldn’t.

You sound like my mum.

You sound like my —

With a long-suffering sigh, Colin forces his gaze to lift from the pavement below him. When it does, he sees a familiar face.

Cordelia isn’t looking at him. She’s leaning on the wall outside their building, a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She’s smiling down at whatever it is that’s on her screen.

Desperate for any sort of distraction from the date he won’t be attending later this week, Colin chooses to see this as a sign.

“Morning, Cordelia,” he calls out, slinging his gym bag further over his shoulder.

“Good morning, Bridgerton!” She smiles brightly as she looks up to meet his eye. “What can I do you for?”

After one millisecond of hesitation…

“Are you busy Friday night?”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Friday

Colin Bridgerton has not been on a date in London in over seven years. When he first began travelling, his time at home became too limited and otherwise-occupied to allow for non-essential activities like dating. And though he’s been grounded (mostly) in London for the past two years, this trend has not changed. Still, he only goes on dates when he’s far away from home.

Until tonight, that is.

He and Cordelia are standing outside of a Chinese restaurant in Central London. They’re waiting to be seated. She’s smoking a cigarette. He’s chewing on a mint and watching traffic pass by.

“Beautiful night,” he comments, unsure of what else to say.

“Every night looks beautiful through a puff of smoke, I think.” She laughs lightly as she offers Colin her cigarette. After thinking better of it, he pinches the little white paper and takes two drags before passing it back.

He’s about to ask Cordelia about her plans for the weekend, but then the hostess pops her head into the night air and informs them that their table is ready. Once inside, they order their drinks, then look down to their menus.

Colin doesn’t really like first dates. (A fact that’s coming back to him with startling clarity tonight.) He’s always found them to be too unfamiliar at best and dreadfully awkward at worst. His travels only exacerbated this issue; when you spend so much of your professional life making small talk with strangers, the prospect of dedicating an entire night to doing much of the same becomes rather unappealing.

Since his realisation in Catalonia four years ago, the prospect of a first date has only become less appealing. (The prospect of a second date has ceased to exist.) Now, he only goes on them when he finds himself so lonely or bored or desperate for connection that a night of endless small talk doesn’t seem so bad, in comparison.

That’s another reason why Colin never dates in London. If he’s bored here, he’ll just hang out with Penelope. Excluding nights when she’s on a date with stupid fucking wankers like Sam Fucking Debling, of —

“Are you two ready to order?”

Colin says yes to the sudden apparition of their waiter, despite having spent not a single second reading the menu in front of him. He blindly orders Kung Pao Chicken and a side of fried rice. Cordelia gets the Sesame Jellyfish.

“Any plans for the weekend?” he finally asks.

Cordelia shakes her head lightly.

“Just travelling north on Sunday. I have a conference in Manchester next week.”

“Oh. Right, you’re uh —”

Colin’s mind briefly short circuits. He thinks over the countless 30-second interactions they’ve had over the last year. He desperately attempts to recall any concrete details Cordelia has shared about her personal life through all that talking. When he comes up with minimal factual information, he realises just how much of a stranger Cordelia Patridge is to him.

“You’re in finance, right?”

“Sort of. I’m in marketing, but I work with a lot of pricks who work in finance.”

“Right.” Colin chuckles. After a beat of silence, he asks, “And you enjoy doing that?”

Cordelia shrugs.

“It’s a job,” she remarks unenthusiastically. As she picks up her drink, she laughs lightly. “I suppose when you’re a travel writer, your job isn’t ‘just’ a job.”

He considers her question.

“I suppose so. But if you do anything long enough, there will come times when it feels like a chore more than anything else.”

As he delivers those last few words, he feels a buzzing in his back pocket. When he pulls his phone out discreetly and checks who’s calling, his heart nearly skips a beat.

pen 💛

A millisecond before picking up, Colin remembers that he’s currently sitting across from a woman who is not Penelope, who he did ask out on a date tonight.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Cordelia just as her mouth opens to say something new. He’s careful to keep his phone screen pointed away from her as he continues, “It’s my mum. She’s, uh — It’s sort of an emergen—”

Before he can get through the lie, Cordelia smiles and gestures for him to take it.

Outside the men’s restroom, Colin picks up just in time to save Penelope from being transferred to voicemail.

“Hey, Pen.”

“Hi! By any chance, do you —” Her sweet voice stops short. “Sorry. Are you busy? It sounds a bit loud on your end.”

“No.” Colin is almost shocked by how quickly the bullshit falls from his lips. “I’m just, uh — I’m picking up some takeaway. Chinese. Why? What’s up?”

“Oh!” She chuckles nervously. “Nothing. I was just bored. Thought I’d see if you’re free and want to hang out.”

Colin’s grin grows even wider. He can’t help it.

“Well, we’ve already established that I’m free. And you know I always want to hang out, so…”

As Penelope laughs softly on the other end of the phone, Colin is suddenly hit by a fact that’s been haunting him for the past four days.

“So I take it your date didn’t go well?”

Moments after, Colin can’t believe those words left his own lips. Penelope sounds disbelieving too, her laughter cutting off just as quickly as it came.

“Oh. It was, um —”

She clears her throat. She laughs again — just a little.

“I’m surprised you remember that.”

Desperate to find his footing in this conversation again, Colin audibly gasps and says, “Pen, I’ve known you nearly three decades. By now, I would hope that you are aware of what an exceptional memory I possess. You should be careful what you say around me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says — mostly beneath her breath. Colin can practically hear her eyeroll through the phone. “Regardless… You want to meet at the usual spot?”

“Yes.”

And he does. He really, really does. But he also happens to be on a date right now.

“Okay, gr—”

“But is it okay if we meet in like —” He checks his watch. “An hour? Sorry. But I’m downtown and this place is an absolute madhouse. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” She laughs softly. “Is there any way you could pick me up an order of dumplings while you’re there?”

“Of course. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Perfect. See you soon, Colin.”

With that, Penelope hangs up. It isn’t until the line goes silent that the concept of guilt reintroduces itself to Colin’s brain.

“Fuck,” he mutters beneath his breath, turning on his heel to return to the date he left behind. The food is waiting for him when he gets back.

“This looks delicious,” Colin remarks, taking his seat again.

“Quite.”

After chewing a single bite of her jellyfish, Cordelia asks if everything is okay with his mum. Colin briefly considers saying “No” and that he has to rush to the hospital asap, but ultimately thinks better of it. Instead, he nods and returns to their previously scheduled awkward small talk.

Approximately seventeen minutes later, they both finish their meals and Colin signals for the waiter to bring the check. After such an awkward night, he assumes they’re under the shared assumption that they will go their separate ways as soon as the check is paid, but…

“So…” Cordelia smiles and brushes a piece of hair off her shoulder. “Our living situations certainly make it simple to share a cab home. And eliminate the need to ask questions like ‘Your place or mine?’ Although,” she laughs, “if we’re choosing, I would say mine. Save you a flight of stairs until the morning.”

Colin doesn’t know what to say. In the end, he goes with…

“Could I take a raincheck? I, um —”

His voice momentarily falters. He searches his brain for the lie that will cause the least amount of damage.

“I actually wasn’t planning on taking a cab back. I think I’m going to walk home, actually. My lungs could use the fresh air.”

Cordelia’s face tells him that may not have been the best lie for the current circumstances.

“You want to walk four kilometres in the middle of the night to get some ‘fresh air?’”

Colin nods — a poor attempt to appear convinced by his own statement.

“And does this ‘fresh air’ have anything to do with what your ‘mum’ said before?”

Fuck.

“I —”

“Save it.”

With that, she stands from her chair and starts pulling out cash to cover her half of the meal.

“Oh, you don’t have to —” Colin starts, determined not to be a complete arsehole tonight, but…

“You’re an arsehole,” Cordelia informs him. She throws the money on the table and swiftly takes her leave. It isn’t until she disappears outside that he realises their waiter has returned.

“Your check, sir,” he says, thankfully pretending he had not just witnessed Colin being so brutally, deservedly put in his place. Colin nods in thanks, pulling out his wallet. But just before he can hand the man his credit card, he remembers Penelope’s request from earlier.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Can I add another item to go?”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

The “usual spot” is Mondrich’s, a bookshop by day and pub by night. It’s located on the north end of Mayfair and just so happens to fall on the exact midpoint between Colin’s flat in Bloomsbury and Penelope’s in Hyde Park; it’s an approximate 19-minute walk from either end. The establishment also happens to be owned by Will Mondrich, an old friend of Colin’s; though the bookshop portion isn’t open at night, when accompanied by his “responsible friend Penelope,” Will lets them hang out upstairs after hours.

The two of them are sitting on a couch between the romance and true crime sections. There’s a little plastic container of dumplings precariously placed on the cushion between them.

“Why did you go all the way downtown for takeaway?” Penelope asks. Thankfully, she sounds more curious than she does accusatory. “They have Chinese in Bloomsbury, don’t they?” She giggles. “Or delivery, at least?”

Colin shrugs, plopping another dumpling in his mouth.

“Needed the fresh air.”

Thankfully, the lie works better on Penelope than it had on Cordelia. She doesn’t press the issue any further. Instead, she leans over, takes a sip of her cocktail from downstairs, and allows for a comfortable silence to sit between them for a moment. Unfortunately, Colin uses that time to fester on a subject that has been eating away at him for most of the week.

As soon as Penelope puts down her drink, Colin pushes away the voices in his head screaming “This is dangerous territory!” and asks her about it.

“So, how was your date with —” He facetiously stops short. “What was his name? Dan?”

“Sam,” she corrects, initially throwing him a suspicious look. “It was fine, just…”

Her eyes flick towards the true crime shelf, seemingly racking her brain for the right word.

“Awkward.”

“Awkward?” Colin echoes. Despite his consternation over the subject this week, he’s suddenly eager to hear more.

“Yup. I get along with him fine in the office, but I don’t think we’re meant to hang out outside of it.”

“Why’s that?” Colin asks casually, his gaze settling lazily on the romance shelf behind her head.

“I don’t know. I suppose it felt like we were both putting far too much effort into making the conversations flow naturally.” She wrinkles her nose before saying, “Like, he kept calling me ‘Penny.’ He never calls me that in the office.”

Colin snorts. Penelope hates when people call her “Penny.”

“And I don’t think we had much common ground to discuss, outside of office conversations. Like —” She laughs suddenly, bracing a hand across the back of the couch. “I asked him what his favourite type of food is. He said ‘crunchy.’”

Colin laughs, too.

“Sounds like a sociopath.”

“I don’t know about that,” Penelope says, laughter slowly leaving her system. “It just wasn’t a good match.”

Colin could have told her that on Monday, but he doesn’t say that now. He decides they’ve wasted enough time discussing Sam Fucking Debling as it is. Besides, his mind has moved on to another topic that has been plaguing him all week.

“So,” he murmurs, quickly taking a sip of his beer. “Does this mean you have yet to secure a date for Benedict’s wedding in the fall?”

“Jesus Christ,” Penelope murmurs into her own drink. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem quite as annoyed as she did when he first brought up the subject on Monday. She does appear a little annoyed, though. “I told you that’s not why I went out with Sam tonight.”

“I know. I just wanted to —”

“I’ve had one ‘secured’ for several weeks now.”

“What?” Colin says, unable to hold the syllable in. If Penelope notices just how quickly he lost his cool, she doesn’t let on. She shrugs, then takes another sip of her vodka cranberry.

“El asked me to be her date within five minutes of your brother becoming engaged.”

Silently, Colin wills his cool to return. “Oh,” he says, smiling in a way that hurts his cheeks as much as it grates on his nerves. “How proactive of her.”

Without much effort, their conversation returns to a natural, un-awkward flow after that. Colin retrieves them another round from Will downstairs. Penelope tells him about the progress she’s made on the Premier League piece. Colin spends the rest of the night listening and laughing and loving each moment he gets to share with her.

What Colin does not do tonight is consider if now is the right time to tell Penelope the truth. To tell her what he’s been holding inside himself for the last four years. Six months from now, though, he’ll look back on this Friday night at the usual spot and wonder, “What if?”

#im posting this early enough in the night that im not actively fighting off the delirium of insomnia #that's growth baby #polin #fanfiction #bridgerton #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton

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usafphantom2 · 4 months

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Special Edition Magazine Commemorates 80th Anniversary of The Black Sheep Squadron

January 4, 2024 Vintage Aviation News Articles, Press Releases 0

United Fuel Cells

Gregory ‘Pappy’ Boyington was a Marine Corps fighter pilot and the commanding officer of the VMF-214 Black Sheep Squadron in the Pacific during World War II. Boyington was a leading flying ace, Prisoner of War, and a recipient of both the Navy Cross and Medal of Honor.

Probably one of the most famous photos Col Greg ‘Pappy’ Boyington (Photo by Mike Schneider Collection)

Boyington’s Black Sheep VMF-214 began in 1943, so this is the reason for the 80th Anniversary. VMF-214 Swashbucklers was in existence before Boyington took over the squadron number with a new group of pilots. The Swashbucklers had been in combat operations and just lost their commanding officer, and while they were out on R&R, higher command decided they needed more squadrons in the fight, right about the time that Boyington was lobbying to get a squadron. So, on paper the command of VMF-214 was given to Boyington, he collected from the the replacement pool a nucleus of pilots and also added new pilots to start their “VMF-214, and they came up with a new moniker, the Black Sheep.

The U.S. Marine Corps’ Black Sheep squadron has served the nation continuously for 80 years. A new special edition magazine commemorates the milestone and their legacy.

“The WWII Black Sheep were among the most effective combat units and their achievements made them legendary,” said Kevin Gonzalez, the magazine’s creator. “An ace is a military aviator credited with downing five or more enemy aircraft during aerial combat, and there were nine Black Sheep pilots who became aces.”

Boyington – Black Sheep Leader is a special edition magazine that features historical articles, archival photographs, and original graphic novel art. A special art section includes a depiction of Pappy’s last dogfight, when he and his wingman Captain George Ashmun, were both shot down during a strike mission over Rabaul. Boyington survived the dogfight and was captured at sea by the crew of a Japanese submarine. He was never officially reported as a prisoner by the Japanese and was secretly held prisoner for 30 months. Eventually, he found his path to military aviation through an aviation cadet program, which then led to the Marine Corps Reserve in 1937 and flight training at Naval Air Station Pensacola.

Boyington was allowed to leave the Marines to join the American Volunteer Group, also known as the Flying Tigers, where he gained combat experience flying against the Japanese. After the U.S. entered WWII, he returned rejoin to the USMC. He wrote about his experiences in his best-selling book BAA BAA BLACK SHEEP, published in 1958, which later became the basis for a popular NBC television series for two seasons in the 1970s.

Ezoic

Colonel Gregory Pappy Boyington died on Jan. 11, 1988, in Fresno, Calif., and was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. In 2007, the local airport added the commemorative name Coeur d’Alene Airport/Pappy Boyington Field. In 2019, Boyington was inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame.

The modern-day Black Sheep continues the squadron’s legacy. Marine Fighter Attack Squadron 214 (VMFA-214) is stationed at Marine Corps Air Station Yuma and flies the F-35 B Lightning II, the Marine Corps variant of the Joint Strike Fighter, manufactured by Lockheed Martin.

On March 25, 2022, the squadron was redesignated as Marine Fighter Attack Squadron 214 (VMFA-214) as it began accepting new F-35B Lightning II aircraft from the Lockheed Martin factory in Fort Worth, Texas

“Many of the graphic artists who contributed to this project are military veterans,” said Gonzalez. “It’s exciting to see their artwork on the pages of this magazine.”

Boyington – Black Sheep Leader is a special edition magazine from the creator of the Pappy Boyington Field documentary film. More information about Boyington at the website: PappyBoyingtonField.com

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gutsybitsies · 1 year

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It started with a Christmas card.

Well, it started with Hazel and Nico's Christmas Card.

It went like this: The first year after Hazel retired as praetor and enrolled in a university, she was in a photography club and created Christmas cards of her and Nico. They sent it out to the rest of their friends, captioning it "From the family of Di Angelo Levesques to yours, Merry Christmas!"

That went on for three years until someone proposed (they proposed simultaneously), and Nico's tears ran down his cheeks with no abandon as he walked Hazel down the aisle and off into the arms of Frank. As Frank's best man, Jason had to fight the urge to gather him up in a hug and hold him until Nico stopped crying.

He did just that later in their hotel room (someone had booked a single room for the both of them, how strange).

Now, two months until Christmas, Hazel was planning a bigger Christmas card. Her, Nico, and Frank.

But maybe. Also Jason?

"So." Frank pulled up a book on how to talk smoothly. "I think you casually go up to Nico."

"Yes?"

"And say. Hey, since we're adding Frank to the Christmas card this year, should we do a thing where Frank and Jason wear matching outfits?" Frank suggested. "Just slide it in, assume that Jason's going to be in the card."

"Would that work?" Hazel asked. "What if he asks me why Jason would be in the card? Frank, they gave us separate wedding presents! Not a joint present!"

"But I don't want to hurt Jason's feelings by having a card with just us and Nico!"

"But they gave us separate presents!"

"Jason's feeling!"

"It's not like I haven't talked to him about this," Hazel said. "He tells me he's not ready for it."

"Which is unfair to Jason," said Frank. He doesn't understand why Nico was dragging his feet. "This is why Jason's being obtuse about it as well."

"Well hold on. Maybe Nico says he's not ready because Jason is oblivious. He wasn't exactly Mr. Romantic with Piper."

The two of them agreed to disagree on their first major argument since the honeymoon, and tabled the discussion for later.

Frank found himself the victor though, as three days later he saw a text (from your Hephaphone to theirs! Ready for the internet? Want to send silly images? The latest Hephaphone is monster proof!) from Hazel to Nico that read <So when are you and Jason going to come over for the Christmas card shoot?>

Nico hasn't sent a response yet.

Unbeknownst to Frank, Nico is off having his third existential crisis in a year.

A few years ago, exactly a year after he and Jason decided to move in together to save on rent, Jason invented the idea of a friend cuddle.

The reason? Heating is expensive, and so why not share a blanket on the couch, and also share body heat in the meantime.

Nico, as the son of the literal god of wealth, said yes of course that makes perfect sense, we can't afford to spend that much on heating! We can friend cuddle while we play wii sports together in the winter. Sometimes Jason would wrap him up in his arms and cuddle against the warm, designer sofa while they watch Milf Manor. Sometimes they switch and Jason is the little spoon and they take a nap listening to the D.C. traffic.

Most of the time, Jason travelled across the country, and Nico travelled across the world. Half the time they're not even in their "bachelor pad", its residents flitting across the world performing feats of heroism (or other more mundane tasks nowadays, thankfully). It functioned as a safehouse for other demigods, the guest bedroom permanently in a state of welcoming for wandering teenagers in need of a break.

That was the only reason why, when the two of them were in D.C together, they share a room. Because of course they can't afford a three bedroom apartment in D.C.! And of course, they have separate beds, because bros room together all the time.

Okay, fuck that. Yes, they were more than bros and maybe Nico and Jason both enjoyed cuddling each other in a more than platonic but less than Romantic way and if Nico could spend the rest of eternity not having to Deal with trying to come to grips with trying to define this relationship and possibly breaking the great balance they have. That would be great, thank you.

His father in the Underworld seemed to want to do just that, like every other time he changed Nico's world.

"So. My dad just bought me a house," There it was, the dream. Nico di Angelo was a homeowner now. "It's near the weed dispensary, the neighborhood that always smell like Amsterdam, we looked at it once, remember?" Back when they had first decided to rent a place together, because adulthood meant stepping out and getting a place on your own, meant stepping outside the box where you never felt like you belonged and finding someplace you did.

It was a choice between a large place in a tough neighborhood (with lots of room, a lot of space!), or a small place in a nice neighborhood (tight quarters, not much space to move around). And well. Of course a nice neighborhood is better, right? Because of....safety issues.

"Oh," Jason absorbed the knowledge, he looked at Nico and could almost see the frenzy of thoughts that were chasing around in his head. He could almost see the sentence You can have your own room again, before he wrapped his arms around Nico from behind. "That would be a good place to bring demigods on the run, or on quests. Teenagers need a lot of space, and it's in a neighborhood with a lot of mortal smell. Much better than this place, we should thank your dad."

"....Right." Nico calmed down. "I mean, we can't deprive the teens of a really great safehouse."

"No, of course not," Jason rested his chin on Nico's shoulders and blew a puff of air into his ears. "Can't do that at all, that would be too selfish."

"I love-" Nico stopped, "how great, this situation turned out to be. For the kids."

It was the third time this year Nico almost said I love you, and Jason counted that as a win.

"I love that, too."

Nico looked at Jason, so comfortable in the moment. So soft, sometimes he was so sure that Jason would kiss back. Most of the time he was scared of what would happen if Jason didn't. Either way, there was no way the two of them are moving into a new, more spacious place.

No changes needed.

His Hephaphone beeped again, with Hazel's message.

.....Some changes were apparently can't be stopped.

Nico and Hazel were family, and they appear on Christmas cards together. Well, now Frank was family, with Hazel. And by all rules of convention he and Hazel should send their own Christmas card. Except Hazel wants Nico in there.

Which would leave Jason out of the picture, officially. That didn't sit right with Nico.

Frank, Hazel's husband, matching together on a Christmas card with his brother in law's......best friend. Roommate.

nico.di.angelo.exe stopped working for the fourth time that year, then started working up again. It's a very normal thing. Jason is just like family, so of course he'd fit in the Christmas card. In fact, he should've been in Nico and Hazel's Christmas card from the beginning. Technically they were cousins! Immediately Nico recoiled from the cousin thought and gagged inside. No, not cousins. Just found family, best friends, something more something less. And that works perfectly fine.

That was how Jason and Frank found themselves cosplaying as Santa's reindeer with a grumpy Nico and ecstatic Hazel dressed up as two different Santas.

First, a photo of Frank of Jason sitting in front of a sleigh, with Hazel and Nico holding the reins of the sleigh. Then, the photographer wanted "the two couples" to have one person piggyback the other. The last time Jason carried Nico on his back was a couple of months ago that year, when Nico twisted his ankle and just had to be carried everywhere for an entire week. Jason couldn't let his best friend just limp around like a sad sack!

Nico nestled against Jason's neck and ghastly smiled at the camera, just like all of his cute ghoulish smiles in the other pictures. Jason couldn't wait to see the pictures. Is it normal to be dazzled by the cuteness of something that looked creepy? Because he felt that everyday. His roommate looks creepy and it is incredibly cute.

After the photoshoot, as Hazel and Jason poured over the photographs, Jason picked out his personal favorites as Hazel picked hers.

"I'd like that one printed and framed," He said, pointing to one where he and Frank were holding Hazel and Nico in their arms in princess carries. "This one is nice, too." It was a piggyback carry, and he'd adjusted Nico without warning, surprising him into grabbing onto the antlers he was wearing on his head. "Actually, how much would cost for you to send me the rest of the photos digitally?"

"Nico!" Jason called out, "We should hang this next to the T.V."

Nico came by to look at the photos that Jason picked out. He looked really happy, he was used to looking and being happy recently, for the past few years. There he was, and there Jason was, next to his sister and her husband. A family.

"Yeah," he said softly. "It'd look great."

"We should pick some out for the new house, too," Jason said. "I'd ask Leo and the other Hephaestus kids for some defense mechanisms to put there. We can finally call in our favors, have a housewarming registry."

Frank not so subtly pulled Hazel away from the warm and bubbling atmosphere forming around Jason and Nico.

He mouthed to her Just like our wedding gift registry!!!!!!

Hazel screamed silently and mouthed back It's finally happening!!!!!!!

"It'd be a great thing," Jason said, "For them kids and teens, of course."

Nico jolted. "Yeah, for the kids, and the teens."

But even more than usual, he felt the urge to lean up against Jason, so he did.

#jasico #jason grace #nico di angelo #hazel levesque #frank zhang #pjo #omg they were roommates #slowest of burns #my fic

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skylarstark4826 · 3 months

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Seventh-year Potions was proceeding as normal, meaning that Professor Snape was walking amongst the students with a disapproving scowl on his face while said students did their best not to screw up. It was working quite well. Even Neville was relatively calm, feeling that the many tutoring sessions with Hermione were finally paying off and that his Sticking Solution would at last allow him to escape Snape’s classroom without extra homework. He checked the board again, then his book, making sure he put everything into the cauldron in the right order. His potion was bubbling happily, spurting pink sparks. Just like it was supposed to. He sighed a little in relief.

Severus Snape was walking through his classroom, feeling rather frustrated. The potion he’d assigned for today was relatively simple to make, but extremely easy to screw up all the same. As he’d told the class, the Sticking Solution was very potent, and once two things had come into contact with it, they were inseparable for a week, after which some of the stronger magical solvents could be attempted. As little as a single drop was enough to cause this effect, and since the potion was practically colourless, this usually allowed for some unusual accidents. For which he could give detentions. A lot of detentions. His supply cabinet needed organisation and filing, and he really did not want to perform such a dreary task himself. So far though, only Gregory Goyle had come through for him, and there was no chance in hell that he’d let that imbecile anywhere near his storeroom. The only reason the boy had even managed to get into NEWT Potions was a very substantial gift sent over by his father. It seemed the poor man was harbouring illusions that his son would be the next Nicholas Flamel, and as long as the “encouragement” kept coming, he wasn’t one to rob an old man of his dreams… In short, he’d sent the stupid boy back to his common room. It wasn’t like he’d be able to achieve much with the index finger of his wand arm lodged solidly in his right nostril, after all.

He walked over to peer into Longbottom’s cauldron, giving the boy his best glare and making his hand tremble as he added the last ingredient. He was very sad to admit (only to himself, of course) that the potion looked flawless. The irksome Miss Granger had undoubtedly been whispering advice in his ear again. Turning, he planned to stalk over to Harry Potter’s desk and bully him until he did something rash that would warrant detention. It wouldn’t be that hard, seeing as the boy had a temper like a minor volcano. Smirking, he took his first step when chaos broke out.

Neville’s cauldron gave a loud lurching sound and tipped forwards. Neville screamed and tried to catch it. Hermione Granger, sitting next to him, launched forwards to stop him from touching it. At that moment, however, Neville’s sense of self-preservation kicked in, and he jerked backwards, away from the rebelling cauldron. Hermione, who was throwing herself at the spot where he would have been, had he kept moving forwards, lost her balance completely and practically somersaulted over the desk with a panicked cry. Meanwhile, Snape had started to throw himself to the side, reflexes toned through his secret hobby (Pixie wrestling), when he saw Hermione fly through the air towards the floor out of the corner of his eye. And ignored it completely, rolling away from the potion.

A split moment later, he was back on his feet, looking around his classroom angrily. The offending cauldron was standing on Longbottom’s desk, someone having had the presence of mind to cast a Levitation Charm on it before it hit the floor or spilled its contents. Shooting a furious and yet disturbingly satisfied look at Neville, he announced in his silkiest voice, “Detention. Every day for a month.” He would have added a nasty comment about the boy’s utter incompetence had he not been interrupted by a wailing sound at his feet. Looking down, he saw Miss Granger lying there in a crumpled heap. He rolled his eyes.

“I trust you’ve learnt now why you shouldn’t act on your Gryffindor impulses at every turn, Miss Granger,” he said harshly, extending a hand to her. Wincing, she took it, and he pulled her to her feet. She kept the hold on his hand, and he shot her a questioning look, trying to pull away. He couldn’t. Meeting her eyes, he saw first bewilderment and then alarm. Both pulled. Nothing happened. They looked at each other again, and Snape was the first to articulate their mutual thought.

“Bloody hell!”

The classroom became even more disrupted as all the students came running from their desks to get a better look at what’d happened. A majority was hard-pressed to keep the laughter down as the scene played out before them.

“This can’t be happening!” Hermione begged frantically, tugging at her hand with all her might.

“Oh, but I think it is,” came Draco Malfoy’s gleeful voice from behind Neville’s desk. “I’m so sorry, Professor. I can’t imagine the horror of being stuck to that for a week.”

“A week!” Neville shrieked, looking like he was about to faint.

SHMOCK! Harry’s fist replied, connecting with Malfoy’s immaculate face.

Draco screamed, trying to block Harry’s furious punches.

“Mr Potter, detention!” Snape spat. “And you,” he rounded on Neville, tugging hard and making Hermione lose her balance. They both crashed to the floor where she landed on top of him and blushed bright red before rolling off his body. He glared at her. Then he got to his feet and looked around at the shocked students surrounding them. Someone had managed to break up Potter and Malfoy, who were now in the midst of issuing silent death threats to each other. He put on his severest scowl and faced the class.

“Twenty foot of parchment on every substance in this particular potion,” he growled. “Mr Longbottom, an additional 4 months worth of detentions, and I will make sure Filch is very creative.” He turned on Harry. “Mr Potter, one month of detentions for every punch you landed on Mr Malfoy. To be served with Professor Trelawney.” He smiled evilly at the shocked look on the boy’s face. “Oh, and Potter, do try to be nice to her.” The Slytherins sniggered as Harry visibly blanched. It was no secret that Professor Trelawney had a bit of a crush on the Boy Who Lived. There seemed to be a lot of ‘romantic adventures with a mysterious and spiritual woman’ in his future lately. Usually teamed with warnings of gruesome death were he to turn this ‘gift from the higher spheres’ away.

“Class dismissed,” Snape declared, making the spectators quickly vanish their potions and store away their cauldrons. Within a few minutes, the Potions professor and his best student were all alone in the classroom.

For quite some time, they just looked at each other, tugging weakly in deluded attempts to free themselves. Then practicality took over.

“There must be some way to solve this,” she said, pulling their hands towards her to study them. He stumbled with the tug.

“Unless you’re planning to invent a revolutionary solvent, the answer is ‘no’,” he answered, quite irritated.

“Then let’s.” She was looking up at him as though she’d just come up with a cure for Fire-breathing Chicken Pox.

“Let’s what?” he sneered.

“Let’s invent a new solvent, of course.”

“And how, pray tell, are we supposed to manage that, given that we are bloody glued together?” He could feel anger bubbling inside of him. She just scoffed.

“We still have two capable hands, don’t we? We’ll find a way.” He wanted to say something really nasty to that, but was interrupted by the door to his classroom swinging open and Dumbledore marching inside, a worried frown on his face.

“Ah, Severus, Miss Granger. I was told that we had a problem here.”

“Oh, no, everything’s just dandy,” Snape said in his most sarcastic voice, alternating his glares between Hermione and Dumbledore.

“Hrm, yes, well, I’m very sorry for both of you.”

“Really? And here I thought you’d be jumping with joy at me finally having found a girl who’ll stick with me,” Snape drawled. Dumbledore was starting to look annoyed.

“Really, Severus, that attitude will not help solve this problem. Now, how serious is it?”

“You want that on a scale from one to ten?” Dumbledore just looked at him, the blue eyes turning icy. “Well, unless Miss Know-it-all here comes through in her ambitions to find a new and revolutionary solvent, we’ll be stuck like this for a week.”

“A week?” Dumbledore looked slightly aghast, which pleased Snape, but then a different spark crossed his eyes, almost as though he was trying to suppress a laugh. “You know, that might not be a bad idea. Trying to invent a new potion, I mean. You’ll need to find something to do to occupy your time, after all, as you can hardly attend or teach classes in your present condition.” At this, both Hermione and Snape erupted like minor volcanoes.

“I’m not spending an entire week in seclusion with this… this student!”

“Professor, I have to go to class! I’m at the most important point of my academic career! The NEWTs will begin in a little less than two months! I can’t be absent for an entire week!”

“Oh, shut it, Miss Granger! It’s widely known at Hogwarts that you could have taken your NEWTs as early as your fifth year. I figure that the only reason you even bother coming to Potions is to show off your abilities,” Snape spat, turning on her.

“I’m not…!” she started hotly, but he cut her off.

“Oh, really? Then what could your reason possibly be? To ogle your professor perhaps?” He’d meant is as a sarcastic joke and a jibe at the way she’d so tellingly fawned over the nitwit Lockhart in her second year. He was therefore highly taken aback when she first just gaped at him and then blushed furiously, looking away. He just stared at her for what felt like a very long time, utterly incapable of processing what had just happened. He was jerked back to reality when Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“Hrm.” He eyed his Potions master with a serious look on his face. “Severus, despite these… ah… complications,” he smiled gently at Hermione, who didn’t meet his eye, “I hope I can trust you to handle this situation in a professional manner.” Snape just glared at him.

“I can assure you, Headmaster, that I have no desire whatsoever to do otherwise,” he said in a cold voice. “Now, if you’d excuse me, I have papers that need to be marked. Miss Granger, if you please…”

Dumbledore followed the pair with his eyes as they disappeared through the door to Snape’s private quarters. Oh, dear, he thought to himself before turning and walking back up to his office.

The day passed in mostly hostile silence. After having marched away from Dumbledore, Snape dragged Hermione into his work room, where he settled at his desk and started spitting instructions to his auto-quill in a truly vicious manner. Finding herself both embarrassed and completely ignored, Hermione had settled herself on a chair next to him and started reading her Transfiguration book. Five hours later, she finally looked up, registering how hungry she was. Snape had just finished trashing the last essay, and the auto-quill collapsed on the desk, sending out a small howl of exhaustion.

“Excuse me, sir.” He turned around and looked at her with an irritated frown.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“It’s just… I’m hungry, sir. I believe we’ve missed dinner.”

“Yes, and that was completely intentional. I’m not sitting in the Great Hall, in front of the entire school, with my hand embarrassingly glued to one of my students.”

“Then how—”

“I’ll have the house-elves send something from the kitchens,” he said simply. With that, he rose, pulling her with him, and walked through a corridor and into another room. Stopping in front of a big fireplace, he turned to face her again. “Any thoughts of what you might like for dinner?”

“I – um…” She suddenly couldn’t think about food anymore. She looked around the room in total shock. She’d expected something similar to the slightly depressing dungeon classroom, or even to his dark and slightly scary office. Just the thought that she was standing in Professor Snape’s bedroom had her shaking slightly in the knees. The fact that the bedroom was little more than a huge bed didn’t exactly help matters. She couldn’t help staring at the deep green, velvet hangings, the black coverlet and the silver cushions adorning the bed’s surface. Typically Slytherin, yet oddly attractive. She could feel herself being pulled towards it…

“Miss Granger!” Snape’s voice jerked her out of her trance, and she blushed profusely, realising that he’d just caught her staring at his bed in a very inappropriate way. She looked down at her feet, but suddenly felt a strong hand cupping her chin and lifting it to face him. She felt an odd shiver go down her spine at the contact.

“Let me make one thing absolutely clear,” Snape said in a dangerously soft voice. “I don’t know what sort of fantasies you’ve been having about me, and I don’t wish to be enlightened. Just because I’m stuck with you doesn’t mean that I’ll start treating you differently than I have for the past seven years, and I’m quite sure that by the end of this week, you will have forgotten whatever stupid weakness you harbour at the moment and gone back to hating me like a normal Gryffindor student. Now, what would you like for dinner?”

“J-Just soup and bread, please,” she answered, trying to pull herself together. Her skin still tingled from where his hand had touched her face, and she tried to repress it. She’d humiliated herself enough for one day.

The first major problem occurred three hours or so later.

“Erm, Professor, where am I going to sleep?” Hermione asked timidly, trying not to stare at the bed.

“One would have thought your allegedly formidable brain would have worked that out by now,” he drawled. When she didn’t answer, he rolled his eyes. “Naturally, since I have no wish to sleep standing, you’ll sleep in my bed. Now get ready.”

“But, sir, my things—”

“Are in the bathroom. Oh, do shut your mouth, girl. You act like you’ve never heard of magical transportation before,” he said exasperatedly and made way for the bathroom.

A few minutes later, they came out, and Snape started to undo the buttons at the front of his robes. Hermione’s eyes grew wide.

“Um, P-Professor, w-what are you doing?” she stammered, trying not to look at the skin that came into view as the robes fell apart.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he said, his voice even.

“Um, undressing, but—”

“Which is what people usually do before going to sleep.” He turned to face her. “Do you have a problem with that, Miss Granger?”

“Um, n-no, sir. I just thought, I mean, that we might sleep like this, that’s all,” she half whispered, indicating her robes with her free hand.

“Seriously, Miss Granger, do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to sleep in full robes? I’ve already told you that you have nothing to fear from me, and I’m certainly not going to let your sense of propriety deprive me of a good night’s sleep.” He eyed her intently, his eyes narrowing as he took in her slightly flushed cheeks and lowered eyes. “Unless,” he said silkily, “it’s yourself that you worry about. Afraid you’ll accost me in your sleep?” He was mocking her, and she felt like sinking through the ground. Mumbling something unintelligible, she crawled into bed and drew up the covers to her chin, trying hard not to notice the ripping sound that told her he’d found a way to remove his robes from the blocked arm, or the warm body that settled itself next to her a few seconds later.

Several hours later, she was still awake. He’d been right, it really was impossible to sleep in full robes. The material tangled itself around her every time she moved until she felt like she was being suffocated. Groaning, she moved her free hand to her throat, undoing the first couple of buttons. She immediately felt a hundred times better and quickly worked her way down, freeing her body. It was a bit awkward, seeing as she had to use her left hand rather than her right, but sheer determination kept her going. Finally, the last button popped free, and she shrugged the fabric off her shoulders. Not wanting to rip the robe like her professor had, she rolled it up as best she could and settled down to get some rest.

She was dreaming again, one of those highly inappropriate dreams she’d promised herself to stop having. She was in bed with Snape, curled up in his arms, one leg thrown casually over his hip. Her head was resting against his chest, and she was breathing in the scent of him, moving her cheek against the warm skin. His breathing was deep and regular, and one of his hands was massaging her lower back. She sighed. She knew it was a dream, and yet it felt so real… Moving closer against him, she pressed her lips to his chest.

He groaned.

The sound only urged her on, and her lips moved over his skin with more confidence. A voice at the back of her head told her to stop, to wake up and shake the dream, but somehow, she couldn’t quite make herself do it. The hand on her lower back slid upwards, tangling itself in her hair and pulling her up for a kiss. His lips moved over hers, slowly at first, then with more intensity as she put her arm around his neck and rubbed against him, vaguely registering the hardness now pressing against her thigh. His tongue came out to taste her, and she moaned into his mouth, encouraging him to deepen the kiss further…

Then everything came to a screeching halt.

The hand in her hair suddenly yanked her head backwards, and she jerked out of the dream. Opening her eyes, she met the black ones of her professor, glittering in a very unsettling way as he tugged harder at her hair, making her cry out in pain.

“Miss Granger, let go of my body, and I’ll let go of your hair.” Mortified, she realised that her left arm was curled intimately around his neck and that one of her thighs was keeping his hips captive. She immediately rolled away, as far as she could while still attached to his hand, that was.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was doing,” she said, bowing her head.

“Really, now? Why is it that I don’t believe you?”

“I – I was asleep."

“How convenient. Next, you’ll be telling me that you were having some sort of erotic dream and that you simply did not realise that you were, in fact, groping one of your professors.”

“No.” Her voice was very quiet, and she didn’t turn to face him. “I just didn’t realise that it wasn’t a dream.”

Before he could say anything else, she tugged hard at his arm, desperately trying to escape from the bed. She nearly succeeded, managing to fall off the side and hitting the floor with a pained cry. Swearing loudly, he massaged his abused tendons before getting to his feet, extending his other hand to pull Hermione off the floor. Instead of reaching out, she just lay there, face against the bed curtains, trying, not too successfully, to hide the fact that tears were creeping down her face. He waited patiently for twenty seconds before tugging at the arm where they were joined together.

“Miss Granger, compose yourself,” he chided, actually trying not to sound overly intimidating for once (which was very difficult considering his current mood). “Get off the floor, and I am willing to forget that this embarrassing fiasco ever happened.”

She shook where she lay, pulling her legs tighter towards her, forming an anguished ball (he rolled his eyes) before finally, finally taking one deep breath after the other, calming down. After what seemed like an eternity, she stood on trembling legs and dried her eyes with a swift movement of her hand. She still wouldn’t face him.

“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” Without another word, he strode towards the bathroom, clenching his teeth as the pain shot through his arm when she stumbled to follow him.

“What about daisy extract?” Slow puffs of purple smoke were rising from a cauldron in the middle of the room as Hermione Granger went through yet another book on magical plants.

“A splendid idea,” came the answer from a few feet away, where Severus Snape was grinding saffron with only one hand, “if you want to develop incurable boils on the back of your hands.”

“Orange blossom?”

“Non-stop vomiting for days on end.”

“Liquorice roots and vanilla?”

“Extra ears sprouting from under your chin. Very flattering.”

“The tail of a newt then, ground with peppermint?”

“You do realise that your grade is slipping with each inane suggestion, do you not?”

He could hardly contain his smirk as the silence stretched out between them. Moving to the side to stir the bubbling cauldron, he briefly inhaled some of the purple smoke. It seemed promising.

“Bring me the ground saffron and a gold ladle, please, Miss Granger,” he said, concentration written on his face as he added one counter-clockwise turn. He could almost feel her anticipation as she placed the fine powder in front of him on the working table. He stopped stirring the potion and added two pinches of the red powder to the cauldron, watching the potion turn a shade of ruby.

“There…”

With an ease that came of much practice, he dipped the gold ladle into the potion and withdrew a small amount, holding up their combined hands and letting a single drop fall where their palms joined together. Tugging gently, he slowly moved his hand away from hers, triumph gleaming in his eyes.

Until his hand stopped, irrevocably, two inches from Hermione’s slender fingers and then shot back as though attached to a rubber band. A not-so-silent oath escaped his lips.

“Ah, Severus, Miss Granger!” Dumbledore swiftly strode through the dungeon, coming towards them. “Tell me, is there any progress?”

A thousand witty and not-so-witty retorts crossed Severus’ mind before settling on a half-strangled, “I’m afraid not”.

“That’s a terrible shame, my friend,” Dumbledore responded, not sounding overly sorry. “Luckily, I’ve managed to find someone to take your classes on such short notice, so not to worry, not to worry.”

“Who?” It was a miracle, really, how it was actually possible to speak when grinding your teeth so ferociously.

“Horace Slughorn! Your old Head of House. I believe that he will do splendidly. Had to bribe him quite exuberantly to come of course, but once he learned that Harry was still in attendance and taking Potions, he agreed quite readily. Of course, he always did have a soft spot for his mother. Lily Evans was quite remarkable at Potions, as I remember.”

“Yes,” Snape managed to spit out through his rigid jaw. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Headmaster, I have a problem to quite literally solve. Miss Granger, if you could be so kind as to hand me the scorpion’s tail?”

Turning his back to Albus Dumbledore, he vanished the ruby potion and started afresh.

“I - I’m sorry!”

Hermione’s words were muffled by the pillow she’d thrown herself into after realising that the warm, smooth skin of her professor’s neck against her lips was not a figment of her imagination.

A muttered oath came from the man next to her as he clenched his hands until the knuckles turned white and the nails bit into the skin of his palms. His mind was fighting for control, his anger boiling for having lost it at the pull of arousing dreams and soft skin against his. Thoroughly disgusted with himself and his current situation, he closed his eyes and turned inward, methodically turning his breathing back to normal and clearing his mind of inappropriate, tempting thoughts.

He didn’t speak to her as they awoke later in the morning, simply dragging her about his chambers, pretending she didn’t exist. Despite the warmth in the room, she felt chilled inside and tried to make herself as small as possible in the large chair where she was sitting. Trying to distract herself from her thoughts, she reached for the Daily Prophet on the side table, just to stare in shock at the headline covering most of the bottom of the front page.

Hogwarts Heartbreaker Strikes Again

Miss Hermione Granger (18), who three years ago caused quite a stir at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by toying with the feelings of two young men (sensitive and fragile Harry Potter – The Boy Who Lived – and internationally renowned Quidditch star Viktor Krum) is again giving evidence of questionable moral behaviour, writes Rita Skeeter, special correspondent. Having apparently grown bored with the boys her age, the devious Miss Granger is now setting her sights on the Hogwarts faculty. Sources claim that she’s been seen often in the company of a certain Severus Snape, Hogwarts Potions master (aged 38), and some say that she even shares his quarters. “She never leaves him alone,” seventh-year prefect Miss Pansy Parkinson tells the Daily Prophet. “On Monday, during class, she just threw herself at him. It’s pathetic really, how she clings to him.” Other students add that, since the affair came to light earlier this week, the suspected couple has been conspicuously absent, and the theory is that Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has sent them both away to keep the truth from coming out. Though not strictly illegal, a relationship of this kind is, of course, highly unethical, and one would hope that the Headmaster of one of Europe’s finest Wizarding schools would put Miss Granger’s insatiable lust for seduction under check, in order to protect the students and staff from her assaults, as well as to protect the school’s reputation…

“Bloody bitch! I knew I should never have let her out of that jar!” Hermione screamed, throwing the paper at the fireplace before abruptly getting to her feet. “Well, this time I won’t. Unless it’s to crush her under my shoe,” she half-snarled, marching towards her wand on the desk, only to be stopped by the immobile weight of her Potions professor.

“Accio newspaper.”

She watched as he retrieved the newspaper from the edge of the flames and quickly scanned the article, eyes hardening with every word.

“Are you quite content?” His voice was very quiet, but every syllable so crisp they stung her skin.

“Wh-what?”

He didn’t face her, staring hard into the fire, the newspaper crushed in one of his hands.

“You have made a spectacle out of me and forever destroyed my reputation in this world.” His expression was stony, closed off and forbidding. “I would order you out of my sight, except for the fact that you’re bloody stuck to me!”

“Sir, I –”

“Not a word, Miss Granger.”

Tears of frustration pooling in her eyes, she fell down into her chair again, her shoulders slumped in resignation.

“Miss Granger, please get up and follow me.”

The crisp tones jerked her awake from the exhausted rest she’d accidentally found over her desk, her cheek smudged with ink from the parchment before her. She staggered to her feet and obeyed the pull on her right arm. He moved them swiftly across the floor into his private quarters, leading the way towards the bathroom.

Sighing, she prepared herself for the awkward situation of standing glued to the outside wall, her arm stretched painfully through a small hole that had been charmed on the door to keep the privacy when “attending to one’s affairs” (as her professor called it). Even with a handy Muffliato from the person inside to take away all sound, there was just no getting away from the acute sense of wrongness that she felt at sharing this very personal matter with Severus Snape. She therefore was very much surprised when he didn’t guide their hands through the hole in the door and slam it closed, but pulled her into the bathroom with him.

“Um – Professor, what are we doing in here?” she asked, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

“It’s quite simple, Miss Granger,” he answered in even tones. “I have been working tirelessly in the lab for four days on end and feel positively grisly. I intend to take a shower. And I think you should take one too.”

She couldn’t stop the small yelp from escaping as her mind started to spin. She too felt like a shower was terribly overdue, but still… Pictures of the two of them writhing naked against each other under the spray of hot water immediately surfaced in her mind and flushed her face. Surely, he couldn’t mean…?

“No, Miss Granger,” he answered smoothly, as though he’d been able to read her thoughts with perfect clarity, “I do not intend to turn the task of taking care of my sanitary needs into a rose-coloured encounter inspired by the latest romance novel! I know that rumour has it that I never set foot in a shower, never mind even own a bottle of shampoo, but since you have at least somewhat higher brain capacity than the people you socialise with, I trust that you already knew that this rumour was just that. Now get in the shower.”

“But, sir, how…?”

“Miss Granger, my patience is waning. I have had a very long day – a very long week actually – and I want to take a long, hot shower and clear my mind of this insane situation we are in. I do not want to stand here and argue with you.”

“I just –"

“For heavens sake!” He turned abruptly and dragged her over to the alcove occupied by a dimly lit shower, easily large enough for two people. “Get in.” Hesitantly, she opened the glass door and stepped inside, looking up at her professor with eyes that spoke of apprehension as he followed her.

“Thank you.” With a wave of his wand, a second glass was erected between them, leaving the same kind of hole for their hands that had previously been charmed onto the bathroom door. “Now, perform a Muffliatoaround yourself.” She obeyed once again, and he nodded in approval.

“Vaporio!”

Steam exited from the tip of his wand and attached itself to the shower walls. After a few seconds, she found herself in a steam-filled cocoon, unable to see either her professor or the rest of the bathroom. Looking around, she saw a small shelf with various shower gels and shampoo bottles and started to relax. Noting that she no longer heard any movement or sound from the other side of the wall, she realised that Snape must have also performed some sort of Silencing Charm. Though still acutely aware of his presence and the fact that he was, most likely, removing all his clothes just a few feet away from her, she managed to get her fingers to stop trembling for long enough to remove her robes and undergarments and hang them on a hook on the alcove wall. A second later, warm water was falling from the double showerhead above, soaking her. Closing her eyes, she turned her face to the spray, pure enjoyment filling her body as the water washed over her.

She remained immobile for quite some time, just letting the water fall, clearing her mind of all thoughts and washing dirt and sweat off her body. She felt stronger, cleansed and able to get through the next few days before she could go back to her own room and attempt to heal the bruises on her ego. She needed her peace of mind back if she were to get through the NEWTs, and wounded pride because the man she fancied did not want to get involved with her wouldn’t help. Sighing, she reached for the shampoo and began cleaning her hair as best she could with only her left hand to help her.

She was just at the end of rinsing the last of the conditioner from her long curls as she felt herself being pulled gently towards the glass barrier which separated her from her professor, and forced her to hunch down as her arm was turned in an unnatural angle. Moving closer, she sensed movement on the other side, and a bottle of some sort being put awkwardly between her fingers and the ones attached to them. A small shock went through her as she felt the hands turn, squeezing the bottle and letting it drop to the floor after fumbling with the cap. The next moment, her hand was touching wet hair, following the one attached to it mindlessly as it worked the shampoo into the dark strands and scalp of the man behind the glass. Closing her eyes, she tried her best to remain focused, to think about something else than the silky feeling of his hair tangled around her fingers, or the feeling of his skin as she brushed across his cheek or neck. She tried not to think about how he must look, on his knees (most likely, considering the position of her arm) and only inches away from her where she pressed against the glass. A shiver went through her, and she leaned her forehead against the barrier, biting her lip in agony as her mind spiralled into overdrive, every fantasy she’d had in the past few months coming into sharper focus with help of the sensory memories of the past few days. The position of her arm relaxed, and she realised that he must have finished with his hair and got to his feet without her noticing.

Suddenly, she felt his fingers touch her arm, and instinctively jerked, wincing slightly as she hit the upper part of the hole in the glass. With a firm grip of her hand, he started to lather her arm with soap, his fingers trailing across her sensitive skin. Feeling her body tighten in response, she let out a small moan of frustration, damning, for the thousandth time, the stupid crush that made her so weak where this particular man was concerned. As abruptly as it had begun, the washing was over, and she straightened up and took a trembling step back from the glass, trying to get her breathing to return to normal.

It hitched in her throat when she realised that the area where she’d rested her forehead was now clear of steam and showed a very clear view of the lower part of her professor’s stomach.

She watched, mesmerised, as water trailed down the taut skin, following the thin line of dark hair which continued out of view. Without realising it, her shaking hand touched the glass, wiping at the steam. Nothing happened, and she wondered if she had somehow, unconsciously, performed magic when trying to abate the rushing arousal that came from touching him before. Then, a hand came into view, stroking the skin of the flat abdomen firmly before slipping downward, exiting her range of vision. She watched the muscles in his stomach clench and unclench as the part of the arm she could still see moved rhythmically along his body. She bit back down on her lip as her mind constructed vivid images of the missing parts of the scene, showing his hand wrapped around his hard length, stroking it back and forth as his breathing grew more shallow and his face relaxed and opened with pleasure. Without thinking, her free hand found one of her breasts, and she moaned in relief as pleasure surged through her and her nipples tightened almost painfully at the touch. Not being able to keep her eyes away from the erotic scene on the other side of the glass - her mind doing an incredibly fine job of showing her what the steamy barrier couldn’t – she lost herself in the combined pleasure of the warm water and her left hand moving over her aching body.

Severus Snape stepped out of the shower, feeling thoroughly invigorated and pleasantly relaxed. Pulling Hermione with him, he moved to sit in front of the fireplace, placing an order for the evening meal to be served. Leaning back comfortably in his chair, he picked up his research notes and started to tackle the problem of finding a new solvent for the Sticking Solution with a fresh mind. His eye wandered briefly to his student where she sat in the next chair, staring into space. The fire was reflected in the damp curls around her face, and he felt a surprising pang of sympathy for her part in their situation. The anger that he’d felt towards her over the week – anger that she should so invade his privacy and make him lose control (albeit subconsciously) of his reactions when he was asleep and vulnerable to the inclinations of his body – lessened now that his body was relaxed and his mind free of its urges. Reaching out, he caught the tray of food that had just appeared out of the fire and set it on the small table between them. A good meal and a night of uninterrupted sleep, and he’d be ready to get back to work in the morning. A small smile formed at the corner of his mouth as he moved in on the food.

“Miss Granger, if you continue to exercise so little control over your teenage hormones, I shall be forced to tie your wrists to my bedposts – except I keep getting the revolting suspicion that you might enjoy that too much. Remove. Your. Hand.”

Wide-eyed and half in shock, Hermione pulled her hand away, mortified by the exploration it had undertaken in the semi-unconscious state between sleep and wakefulness. She could still feel the impossibly smooth skin under her fingers, the contradictory hardness beneath and the twisting, jerking movements against her palm. Flashes from the scene in the shower from the day before penetrated her mind, and she quickly turned, hiding her burning face in her pillow, trying to block out his scathing comments as well as the fuming voice, which she found didn’t help matters at all.

“Do you want some of the potion?”

They had worked the day away in silence, each boiling with anger and frustration. Two cauldrons simmered serenely on the working table.

“How come you are convinced that this one will work when the others haven’t?”

“It’s not an attempt at a solvent, Professor,” she said softly. “It’s a Sleeping Potion.” She looked up at him for the first time since they had locked eyes this morning. “I’m afraid I can’t turn the clock back, but I can try to make things a little easier by giving you a night of peaceful sleep.” Her voice faltered for a second before she continued, “I’m afraid that as far as the solvent is concerned, I’m quite out of ideas, sir.”

Looking around the room, about thirty cauldrons filled the working space. Each and every attempt so far had been a failure. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and tried to bridle his frustration.

“Take your potion. We’re going to bed. Since this day seems to bring me nothing but torment, I might as well end it.” She held up a small flask to him, into which she’d decanted her potion, but he shook his head. “I have no problem sleeping as long as you let me be, I assure you. Now come to bed.”

Funny how those four words had been such a strong part of her most secret fantasies, she mused, following him, still hand in hand. The reality of him, and his words, had managed to rip away any rosy filters she might have had and replaced them with harshness. He was too prickly, too blunt, too brutal to hold the allure of romantic hope. Still, her fingers burned where he touched them.

Walking into the bedroom, she grasped the flask resolutely and downed the Sleeping Potion.

He awoke from a jumble of erotic dreams to find himself impossibly hard and her on top of him, kissing and licking his stomach, moving downwards. With a flash of panic, he realised that somehow, they were both completely naked. Twisting desperately, he managed to roll her on her back and pin her treacherous hands down above her head, trying to keep out of physical contact. Shaking her hard, he prepared to fix her with a stare and coldly tell her that her luck was out and that she would be spending the rest of the week on the floor. She didn’t wake up, however, but twisted in his arms, arching against him, moaning softly in her sleep as she struggled to get closer.

He pinched her, shook her and slapped her lightly on the cheek, said her name over and over, in a voice that lost more and more of its icy control. She still didn’t wake, but fought against him, kissing whatever skin she managed to reach and mumbling incoherent words of desire and wanting while moving with him on the large bed. In sleep, she lost the insecurity and self-doubt that he had glimpsed over the past few days. She fought against him, not to get away, but to get closer. He felt his control slipping dangerously with every touch and cursed his current situation.

The potion – it had to be the potion – was keeping her from waking up and was allowing her dreams full reign of her body. He went through all known Sleeping Potions in his mind as he tried to peel her hands and mouth off him without causing any physical harm. There was the Dreamless Sleep of course, which was out of the question since the chit was clearly dreaming; the Deep Sleep, which would have rendered her comatose and unable to move, no matter her dreams; the Enchanted Sleep, which… He suddenly jerked away, panting hard. Her hand had managed to snake its way down his body and closed around his pulsing flesh, stroking him. A groan escaped him as he managed to tear the hand away, only to be faced with the reality of her soft, wet lips as her mouth managed to close in on what her hand has just evacuated. His head swam as he tried to make sense of what was happening to him, breathing harshly as he struggled against the impulses of his body to lose his free hand in her curls and just enjoy her ministrations. His body ached and pulsated and her lips seemed to both torment and relieve him, rendering him totally incapable of coherent thought. With a last explosion of willpower, he managed to pull out of her wet mouth and roll them over, effectively pinning her down with his body.

Only to realise that he was now flush against her smooth skin, rubbing against wet heat and being effectively trapped as she wrapped her legs around him and attacked his neck with urgent kisses, begging him to come closer still.

She was walking down the path to the greenhouses with Harry and Ron, only to find a door there which normally belonged to the Charms classroom. She turned to Harry to ask if he didn’t think that this was peculiar, when Harry suddenly turned away and ran off to greet Hagrid, who came towards them, riding baby dragon Norbert (which seemed normal, in spite of the book suddenly in her hand, which said that it was absolutely impossible for a wizard or witch ever to ride a dragon). While staring at the dragon, Ron morphed into Luna on the other side of her, asking if she wanted to pet her thestral.

The dream changed…

She was in Snape’s office, working on a potion, her back aching from having been hunched over her cauldron for too long. Suddenly, he was against her back, his breath hot in her ear as he pressed himself against her, hands coming around to caress her belly. She turned in his arms, and he kissed her hungrily, lifting her up on a nearby desk and attacking her neck with his lips and tongue. Without even being aware of her own actions, she raised her wand (which was suddenly, and with no logical explanation, in her hand) and vanished both their clothes. The sensations intensified, and the kisses grew hungrier as they moved against each other, changing places and positions like clouds of smoke on a windy day. She was on her knees kissing her way down his stomach; he was pushing her roughly against the wall of the greenhouse, where she felt the stinging slap of a nearby Devil’s Snare; the two of them were rolling around on the Quidditch field, caressing, teasing, panting from excitement and effort; she was lying down, her back against the soft sheets of his bed, her legs tightly wrapped around his back as she felt him enter her, filling her body and making her moan loudly with pleasure before covering her mouth with nearly desperate kisses…

He was lost. Lost in her soft, pliant body which rocked and arched against him, lost in her wet kisses and the way her breasts pressed into his chest. He was lost in the way she moaned his name, lost in the way she moaned her desire for him, begging him to take her harder – lost in the way she whispered his name like a thing of satin and gold in his ear.

His mind had left him when his hardness came into direct contact with her wet opening, which seemed to draw him in. Plunging into her, there was no mind, only instinct and age-old pleasure surging through his body. A red haze seemed to cover everything that was thought other than registering the growing sensations in his body and the girl’s wild responses to his touch.

Surging forward again and again, he heard the breath catch in her throat and captured her moan with his mouth as he felt her come around him. He felt the sensation multiply, as it seemed to turn into a cycle of fire, fanning itself to new eruptions with each rise of flames. Shuddering, he jerked his head back, closing his eyes in rapture as he came deep within her.

Feeling his arms shake, his body near collapse, he fell down next to her, pulling her with him to keep the physical connexion. With uneven breaths, he filled his lungs with air and opened his eyes.

Hermione’s face was only inches away, her eyes open and filled with fear and confusion.

The full weight of the implications of what had just happened hit him, and he felt pure, undiluted fear for the first time since the days of the Dark Lord. Would she accuse him of sexual misconduct? Gossip to Potter and Weasley about him? Force him to marry her and have a hundred billion children with his nose and her hair? A thousand scenarios arose before his mind’s eye, growing steadily more gruesome…

And then, she kissed him. Softly, shyly almost, as though touching him for the first time. Sheer surprise stopped him from responding at first, and when the shock left him, he joined her in the careful exploration, very aware of how thin and brittle the ice was where they trod.

He felt a small smile on her lips as they left his, and without a single word she simply laid her head down close to his chest and grew still. Feeling slightly awkward, he draped his free arm around her waist and held her to him. Sooner or later, there would be music to face, but thankfully, it didn’t seem as though this was the moment.

Relaxing his muscles, he allowed his sated body to lull his mind back to sleep.

#Severus Snape #Hermione Granger #Severus and Hermione #Sevmione #severus x hermione #hermione x severus #snamione #hermione x snape

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avatar-saiki · 2 years

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Scratch and Strip

Category: Mammon/Reader

Rating: NSFW, E

Additional Tags: Mammon POV, Smut, Reader Insert, AFAB reader

Characters: Mammon, reader

Summary:

You approach Mammon with a fun little idea. He's owed you money for a while, but he's managed to avoid paying up for too long. Why not make a game out of it and wager the debt's payment on the outcome?

And why stop there?

Adding a few rules from strip poker to a game of 8 ball might be just the kind of fun you need.

Chapter 1 under cut

With a quick change of clothes, a spritz of cologne, and a light tousle of his hair, Mammon was ready to paint the town red. The Grimm he’d saved from picking up shifts at Hell’s Kitchen was burning a hole in his pocket, just begging for him to make it rain. He gave himself one last look over and smiled, lookin’ good as always.

He walked to his bedroom door and swung it open, striding out and nearly crashing into you.

“Hey!”

“Ack—“ Startled, he backtracked and caught himself on the balls of his feet, “Where’d you come from? You surprised me!”

You smirked up at him, “Well, I was about to knock. I didn’t think you’d just come busting through the door.”

“I come and go as I please,” he said, matching your tone with a smirk of his own, “you should know that by now.”

“Mhm,” You hummed, inviting yourself in by walking around him into his room and looking around with your hands behind your back. “Where were you headed? A job?”

“Uh…” He shut the door, “No I was uh… gonna go have some fun.”

“Fun? I like fun. Were you going to go out and party?”

You were definitely trying to keep your voice casual and light, but why? Surely you didn’t have any hidden motive. Humans weren’t as clever as they thought they were, and you hardly ever tried to be sneaky.

Though… there were a few times you’d caught him by surprise.

Eh, whatever.

“Yeah! Did you wanna come with me?”

The invitation slipped out before he realized, and he nearly chased it with an excuse but…

But he wanted you to come with him. You’d figured out how to hide your soul from him, but there had been a few times before that he sensed you wanted something from him too. Especially whenever Diavolo held a dance at his castle, it always seemed as if you accepted his embrace just a little bit more than others.

Not to mention the two of you had shared a few kisses now and then too. Nothing too serious, and maybe you’d forgotten, but to him they felt like they’d been special.

If he hadn’t been too afraid of losing what he had with you now, he might’ve made a move to take it further.

Let himself be greedy.

“Mm… I dunno…” you said, walking over to his billiard table and running your fingers along the edge, “Partying costs money…”

“I’ll pay for you!”

Again, too eager. It was so hard not to be with you. Even just the hint of a chance at having time alone with you made him forget all reason.

He bit his tongue.

You laughed.

Should’ve added on that you could pay him back later. That would’ve been smarter. Easier to play things off as nothing more than friends too.

“Do you have enough?”

“S-Sure I do! I’m the Great Mammon! Or did ya forget?”

You hummed again, turning to lean back against the table’s edge and glancing at him through the corner of your eye.

“Enough to pay me back what I lent you three months ago?”

“Ah—“

Fuck.

He owed you money?

“Forgot about that, didn’t you?”

“No!”

Yes.

Completely.

You smirked at him, “How much do you have?”

Nice try, human. You wouldn’t get him to admit that so easily.

“How much did I owe?”

You rolled your eyes and sighed, shaking your head. “Oh come on, I’m not going to hound you like Levi. I wouldn’t even be asking if I didn’t need at least some of it back.”

He tensed, familiar with that feeling all too well. Debt was as scary as any witch. “Are you… in trouble?”

“Huh? Oh, no. No,” you laughed and waved it off, “it’s mostly just Beel. I can’t say no to him when he asks me to go out with him to eat treats at Madame Scream’s and I always feel bad whenever he pays for me.”

Since when were you and Beel going on dates?!

He grit his teeth, fighting to keep his voice level and smooth.

“W-Well I can give you some, but I don’t got a lot.”

You sighed and turned your back to him, walking along the table and reaching down below to pick up the triangle. “You always have to play hard ball, don’t you, Mammon?”

“Whaddya mean?”

You glanced over your shoulder with a coy smile, then set the triangle down and began racking the balls.

“Nothing’s free from you, is it?”

Dammit, why couldn’t he just take a peek at your soul? It was like you enjoyed being hard to read!

“I’ve given you lots of things, what kinda question is that?”

“True… but…” You pushed the triangle out, lining it up and lifting it to set up the game. “When I want something, it’s always a game.”

Those words sent a shiver down his spine.

“What do you want?”

“To play,” you said, returning the triangle to its rack and walking over to inspect his pool cues. “Unless you really wanted to go out tonight?”

That wasn’t fair. You knew how much he liked being around you.

“I… maybe got time for a game.”

“Great!” Your smile made his heart skip, but he had to resist.

Focus on the weight of his feet on the floor.

Straighten his back and stretch his neck.

Don’t get greedy.

“Since you like gambling, why don’t we make it a little interesting?”

Sonofa-

Now you had to go and start speaking his language.

Damn human, you gotta play so dirty?

“You mean like a bet?” He asked, watching you select a cue and weigh it in your hands. You’d played with him a few times now, and at first it would’ve been an easy win, but you were getting better. Sorta.

So he had a pretty good chance.

“We could do three to one odds of—“

“I was thinking…” you interrupted, turning on your heel with a small smile, “What if the winner gets to make one request of the loser?”

That kind of wager was risky.

Very risky.

“Now yer just askin’ for trouble,” he said, covering his nerves by walking over to pick up a cue stick of his own. “Haven’t you figured out by now you gotta be clear when dealing with demons? Leavin’ an offer on the table like that could be trouble for ya.”

“Eh, I guess, but I trust you.”

He gripped the pool cue tight, his back to you and heart feeling light.

“And I have a pact with you anyway so it’s not like you can do much against me.”

And there goes the good feelings…

He scowled at you over his shoulder, making you laugh.

Well.

At least some of them came back easy.

“But really, think about it.” You leaned against the table, chalking up the cue tip, “If I win, I could say something like you have to pay me back, right? But if you win…” you shrugged and set the chalk down, “you could ask me to forgive the debt.”

He sucked in a breath.

Now that sounded good.

“An’ why would you agree to that?”

“Why not?” You picked up the cue ball and held it out, wordlessly offering him to make the first move. “It makes it more fun, doesn’t it?”

Seemed like a lot of effort to get him to pay his debt back, but the thought of having it wiped clean was tempting…

You pushed off the table and walked over to the end to set up your shot. “What? Not enough risk for ya?”

His face heated, but he managed to hold his tongue this time.

Even if he did have to bite it.

“What if we add a little more to it then? Sweeten the pot.”

“Like double or nothing?”

If he could somehow swing this so that you pay him… or even…

Three months was a long time.

Maybe he could add interest or-

You laughed and shook your head, “No, but…” You looked down your cue stick and sidestepped to adjust the angle before you settled and took aim. “How about we play it like strip poker? Whenever one of us scratches, we take something off.”

He nearly snapped his cue stick in two.

“You like that, huh? Good.”

You took your shot, the sudden clack and clatter nothing but a distant fog through which the melody of your voice shined, capturing every last bit of his attention as if it were a dazzling jewel.

Your lips parted and he waited with bated breath, “Seems I caught your interest.”

“So, just one game, just the two of us.” That sly little smile made his heart squeeze as you stepped aside and motioned for him to take his turn. “Winner makes one request of the loser. How’s that sound, Mammon?”

He swallowed thickly, finding it hard to breathe.

“S-Sure… Sounds like fun.”

#obey me mammon #obeymensfw #obeymemammon #fanfic #reader insert #smut

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ginoeh · 3 months

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Shipper Tag Game

I was tagged by the lovely @tj-dragonblade , thank you!

What ship were you completely obsessed with as a teenager, but now you don’t care about anymore?

As a teenager... well, that was quite a while ago lol. I suppose that would have been Harry/Draco. First fandom, first queer pairing, first smut stories. I was such a sweet sweet summer child XD The early 00s were wild

Which ship would you consider your first one?

Soooo. Funny story. Way back when, I got into fanfiction via fanfiction.net. You know how their filter system is bad/non-existent? Yeah. Little me, on her first outing to ffnet, didn’t know how to operate the character settings. I clicked on the first story on the top of the first page of the HP section. It was a Snape/Hermione star-crossed lover deal. It flash-fried my brain, taught me content curation in a crash course and incidentially made me partial to the ship for quite a few years...

Your first fanfic was about which couple?

See above lol. I will never ever forget the experience. I tried to find that story later for downloading (like an ugly beloved keepsake ig lol) but never managed.

If you mean fanfic I've written: it was gen.

Do you remember the first couple you saw fan art of?

Kakashi/Obito

Have you ever gotten into ship discourse?

Nope. Scraped by a few times since I entered the tumblr bubble but managed to stay out of it. I don’t get the point. It's freaking fictional characters in fictional worlds. Go touch grass or something instead... (but you will make me fucking mad if you try to drag me into these things with wild ad hom accusations based on what i ship or dont ship)

Did you used to have a NOTP or have one currently?

No, not really. It's only ever preferences. There are some I dislike due to my own hc/inability to suspend my disbelief but I wouldn’t call them NOTPs. I just don’t read them.

Who were the last couple in the last fanfic you read?

Dreamling

Currently, do you have any OTPs?

I actually dislike the term OTP. It's a scale of preferences for me. There are few (read: none) fav characters that I can only see with one love interest (and anyway, sometimes i do prefer plot over love story. wild take i know) and the more time I spend in a fandom the more I diversify.

Is there any couple that, to this day, you are extremely mad about not getting into?

I don’t get this question, sorry. If I'm interested, I'll search it out. Even if the fandom is old. AO3 is an archive for exactly that reason.

Is there any ship you used to dislike but now you think they’re kind of interesting?

Not that I can think of, at the moment!

Do you have any ship that, in the past, would have been considered normal but now you would be cancelled over?

Probably? I'm not clear on what all one is getting cancelled over this week/month/year by which group of 'concerend bystanders'. I suppose I might get cancelled for the mentioned Hermione/Snape?

What is your favourite crack ship?

I'm so glad you asked. It's clearly Dream/Helm (thank you for that @writing-for-life ) Or Gollum/The One Ring (thanks go to Neil himself here). Or - actually, never mind lol.

What is the couple you read the most fanfics about?

At the moment it's Dreamling. But I cycle through fandoms/pairings periodically...(btw im looking for more Johanna/Death? If anyone could point me in the right direction?)

What do most of your ships have in common?

At least one character has a dark/unknown/violent/tragic past (they can be victim or perpetrator!!! I'm all for character development babey)

What do you absolutely hate in a ship?

I don’t hate ships? As I said above. Possibly the reduction on 'I can fix him/her' or 'my love will save him/her from depression/"the darkness"/etc.' but that is mostly a matter of the author's style of crafting characterization and plot and has nothing to do with the ship itself.

I'm tagging @bazzybelle , @seiya-starsniper , @writing-for-life if you want to or maybe just point me towards your post if you've done it already?

#ginoeh talks #tag games

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pronoun-fucker · 1 year

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Johnny Depp and ex-wife Amber Heard have finally settled their defamation claims against each other — putting an end to the most bitter Hollywood divorce in modern times.

The pair’s lawyers have thrashed out a deal which will see Heard’s insurance company pay Depp $1million.

But, in an important victory for the actress, there are no restrictions about what she can talk about in regard to the case and she has accepted no guilt, MailOnline can reveal.

The pair have been locked in a bitter legal battle on both sides of the Atlantic over the last six years after Heard alleged she was a victim of domestic violence during their 15-month marriage.

A courtroom in London found in her favour, but a second case in Fairfax, Virginia, this year came out on Depp’s side.

The actress, 36, was ordered to pay $10million in compensatory damages and $5million (later reduced to $365,000) in punitive damages following the six-week case, while Depp, 59, was told to give her $2million by the same courtroom after Heard countersued for defamation.

The pair’s legal teams have been locked in discussions to avoid the pain of a bruising third trial after Heard filed an appeal. A deal was finally made over the weekend with both sides agreeing to put out a statement today at 2pm GMT (9am ET).

‘Amber is now looking forward to moving on with her life as she planned to do six years ago,’ a source close to the actress told MailOnline.

‘She wants to put this unfortunate episode behind her and turn to what she loves in life: her career, her family and her causes.’

In the bombshell statement posted on Instagram by Heard, she said ‘my life as I knew it was destroyed’ by the court cases.

She added she had lost all faith of getting justice in the American legal system, comparing it to her treatment in the UK courts, and claimed that her former husband had won in the Virginia courtroom because of a vote ‘for popularity and power over reason and due process’.

Having already sold her LA home to help fund the legal action, she didn’t want to risk losing even more. This settlement means her home insurance company will take on the payment to Depp.

‘I make this decision having lost faith in the American legal system, where my unprotected testimony served as entertainment and social media fodder.’

The full statement reads: ‘After a great deal of deliberation I have made a very difficult decision to settle the defamation case brought against me by my ex-husband in Virginia.

'It’s important for me to say that I never chose this. I defended my truth and in doing so my life as I knew it was destroyed. The vilification I have faced on social media is an amplified version of the ways in which women are re-victimised when they come forward. Now I finally have an opportunity to emancipate myself from something I attempted to leave over six years ago and on terms I can agree to. I have made no admission. This is not an act of concession. There are no restrictions or gags with respect to my voice moving forward.

'I make this decision having lost faith in the American legal system, where my unprotected testimony served as entertainment and social media fodder.

'When I stood before a judge in the UK, I was vindicated by a robust, impartial and fair system, where I was protected from having to give the worst moments of my testimony in front of the world’s media, and where the court found that I was subjected to domestic and sexual violence. In the US, however, I exhausted almost all my resources in advance of and during a trial in which I was subjected to a courtroom that in which abundant, direct evidence that corroborated my testimony was excluded and in which popularity and power mattered more than reason and due process. In the interim I was exposed to a type of humiliation that I simply cannot re-live. Even if my US appeal is successful, the best outcome would be a re-trial where a new jury would have to consider the evidence again. I simply cannot go through that for a third time.

'Time is precious and I want to spend my time productively and purposefully. For too many years I have been caged in an arduous and expensive legal process, which has shown itself unable to protect me and my right to free speech. I cannot afford to risk an impossible bill – one that is not just financial, but also psychological, physical and emotional. Women shouldn’t have to face abuse or bankruptcy for speaking her truth, but unfortunately it not uncommon.

'In settling this case I am also choosing the freedom to dedicate my time to the work that helped me heal after my divorce; work that exists in realms in which I feel seen, heard and believed, and in which I know I can effect change.

'I will not be threatened, disheartened or dissuaded by what happened from speaking the truth. No one can and no one will take that from me. My voice forever remains the most valuable asset I have.

'I’d like to thank my outstanding appellate and original trial teams for their relentless hard work. I want to thank everyone who has supported me and turn my attention to the growing support that I’ve felt and seen publicly in the months since trial, and the efforts that have been made to show solidarity with my story. Any survivor knows that the ability to tell their story often feels like the only relief, and I cannot find enough words to tell you the hope your belief in me inspires, not just for me, but for all of you.

'Thank you. See you soon.’

Depp is expected to put out his own statement imminently.

While former Pirates of the Caribbean star Depp has attempted to restart his career, it is clear that the ongoing litigation has had a huge effect on it, including the actor being fired from the Fantastic Beasts franchise after the London court case.

Earlier this month, when his name was on a longlist of music which could be Brit Awards winners, there were reports that female musicians would boycott the event if he was on the shortlist.

Heard, meanwhile, has become so worried about her safety that she felt forced to leave America with her daughter Oonagh and is now living in an unknown country.

Her career has also taken a huge knock thanks in part to a vicious social media assault on her, although earlier this year she filmed independent movie The Fire and remains a part of the Aquaman 2 film which is out next year.

Last month an influential Open Letter campaign involving more than 200 domestic abuse campaigners and organisations hit out at the ongoing attacks on Heard saying: ‘Much of this harassment was fueled by disinformation, misogyny, biphobia and a monetized social media environment where a woman’s allegations of domestic violence and sexual assault were mocked for entertainment.’

The actress has pledged to continue to be a voice speaking up for women’s rights.

The vicious court battle between Heard and Depp stunned the world, drawing back the curtains on the shocking drug taking, alcoholism and violence in one of the most famous and seemingly glamorous Hollywood unions.

Depp, once one of the world’s highest paid actors, admitted to problems with both drugs and alcohol during the proceedings while Heard revealed how their love story had turned so sour.

In one of the most talked about allegations of the court case, she was accused of defecating on his side of the bed which led to her being nicknamed ‘Amber Turd’.

The pair met in 2009 when Heard auditioned for a role in Depp’s film The Rum Diary but they only got together in 2012, when they were promoting the film.

By then, Depp’s 14-year-relationship with Vanessa Paradis, the mother of his two children Lily-Rose and John Christopher was over while Heard had also split with partner Tasya van Ree.

They married on February 1 2015 but the actress filed for divorce on May 23 2016, obtaining a temporary restraining order after claiming that Depp had physically abused her during their relationship.

In August 2016 the pair reached a $7million financial settlement and Heard withdrew her request for a domestic violence restraining order.

Their joint statement said: ‘Our relationship was intensely passionate and at times volatile but always bound by love. Neither party has made false accusations for financial gain. There was never any intent of physical or emotional harm.’

In April 2018 MailOnline columnist Dan Wootton, writing then for The Sun, asked, ‘How can JK Rowling be ‘genuinely happy’ casting wife-beater Johnny Depp in the new Fantastic Beasts film?’

Later that year Heard wrote an opinion piece for The Washington Post saying she had been abused, but never naming Depp as her abuser.

The actor decided to sue in both cases. The London libel action was against The Sun’s publisher News Group Newspapers and Wootton but Heard joined the team when the case was heard over three weeks in July 2020 at the High Court.

The judge, who sat without a jury, ruled that Heard’s evidence was ‘substantially true’, that the actor had assaulted his wife in 12 of the 14 alleged incidents and had put her in fear of her life.

Depp’s attempt to appeal the case was turned down and so all was riding on the American case.

Filmed and watched by a huge global audience who commented on every sigh and every facial expression. The case was viciously debated on social media for six weeks and, by the end, both of their reputations had been shattered among the counter allegations of lies, abhorrent behaviour and violence.

Top media lawyer Mark Lewis said: ‘While the two main actors paid amounts that would make an English lawyer blush, a golden ticket was given to billions of people to watch dirty sheets being washed in public.

‘The case ground on to the point where both parties must have realised that the only winners were the lawyers, the entertainment was for the onlookers and the losers were Ms Heard and Mr Depp, both of whom leave the case financially much worse off.

'Now they have the support of those who have always supported them, the hatred of those who already hated them while the baffled are scratching their heads at a legal settlement that can mean anything you want it to.’

#radical feminism #radfem #feminism #misogyny #amber heard #justice for amber heard #i stand with amber heard #johnny depp #domestic abuse #domestic violence #male violence

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