#north london nails

[coco-loco-nut]

die first

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max’s wife is an international superstar, who’s anxieties tend to show up in her songs

Inspired by: die first by Nessa Barret

requests open! masterlist prequel

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“What are you writing, Schatje?” Max asks, sliding onto the piano bench beside you.

“I wrote a song based on my vows,” you tell him, writing down the last couple chords, humming a rhythm to yourself.

Max, ever since I met you, I knew you were special. You’re my fire and my safety, you never try to break me, and you promise to always stay. I promise those same things to you. I don’t want to live without you, I never want to learn how to fall asleep without you, I want to be in love with you forever. You are my forever.

“Play it for me?” he asks when you finish, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You nod, gently pressing the keys, mentally noting the kinks to fix before recording tomorrow. “It’s beautiful, the fans are going to love it, I love it,” Max compliments and you grin at him.

“I’m excited to announce the album and tour, and I’m glad we follow F1 around Europe. I get to spend more of summer with you that way,” you lean on his shoulder. You dedicated the album to him, and your third record is set to be the best selling one yet.

You took the unconventional route and took his last name after marrying him this year, despite having two hit albums and international fame. You still publish under your maiden name, but the name change caused a lot of shock.

You became an international superstar with your first release and it’s only grown since. Despite your relationship with Max spanning most of your music career, the both of you are able to spend a relatively low profile life in Monaco. Everything you record in the studio down the street is sent to your Hollywood label and released from there.

The next few months see you doing press for the surprise drop that was your bestselling third album and hyping the tour. Tour rehearsals fell during training time for Max and the both of you were going nonstop.

“I have to go to bed, Schatje, love you,” Max yawns over Facetime, you wish him goodnight as you stretch for your last show in North America. Tomorrow you jet to Europe to pick up that leg of the tour.

By the time you reach London, your tour has officially lined up with F1, which means your personal box near the stage is full of drivers, who likely are being bombarded with autograph requests. You slip into your black, sparkly bodysuit and matching hells; hair, makeup, and nails perfectly done; and grab your matching microphone before heading to your mark under the stage. The roar of the crowd energized you as the intro video plays.

“Come on London, let’s have some fun,” you say into the mic before smoke fills the stage above you and the trap door opens, the platform beneath you rising you up. You launch into your opening act. Half an hour later, after prancing and dancing and singing around the stage you take a pause to introduce the next act. The crowd cheers loudly before you have a chance to speak. You look around, smiling at everyone even if you can’t see them.

“London, thank you, my name is Y/n Verstappen, that’s my show for tonight,” you tease, the crowd silences. “Nah, I’m kidding. I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that, not when you are one of the best crowds I’ve had on tour,” you tell them, giving them a second to cheer.

“Since you have been such a great host, I wanted to share something special about this next song, something not many people know, but not quite yet. Quick shoutout to the F1 drivers here tonight, including my handsome husband, y’all are cool. But not as cool as everyone else here,” you purposely leave them hanging a little, blowing a kiss in the direction of Max.

“Alright, so, this next song is not only the title of my new album, but I also took parts of my vows and wrote them into the song. I hope you like it,” you say and the crowd cheers as the first chords play behind you.

“Thank you, London! Goodnight!” After the concert, you rush backstage and into Max’s open arms.

“You were incredible, Liefje” Max kisses you. Charles jokingly gags behind you.

“Thank you, Maxie,” you whisper, hugging him tight. Your assistant hands you a towel to put around your neck and a bottle of water which you happily take.

“You had a great show,” the other drivers tell you, all complimenting the show and thanking you for the tickets. You thank them for attending and excuse yourself so you could change. Max reminds them of the post-show dinner and club plans and carries you to your dressing room. You collapse on the couch, as Max chuckles at your dramatics.

“I swear the best part of a show is laying down after,” you groan and Max gently takes off your heels causing you to moan in relief.

“Y/n! People are going to think we are doing things in here,” Max laughs, you wave him off, changing into comfy but club appropriate clothes. Max helps you take off your stage makeup, and redoes your hair as you put a little bit of normal makeup on.

“Ready, Maxie?” you ask, grabbing your purse. It is nice knowing that assistants will take everything back to the hotel for you.

“I promise I will always come back home to you, I know my driving style is agressive, but I won’t make you learn how to fall asleep without me,” Max says, his hands holding your face gently.

“I know, but I will always be scared when you are on the track. You can’t promise nothing will happen, but I know you will always try,” you tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. You stay in his embrace for a minute until rejoining half of the paddock. I can be in love forever, if I die first…

#f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 imagines #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen imagines #Spotify

[madeintheniamh]

you don't have to be sorry

waiting at the school gates, a dad you've never seen picking up his daughter appears at the time in your life that you might just need him most....

a/n: this one's quite sweet ngl. i fucking love dadrry with my whole heart.

“There you are, my gorgeous girl!” you watched him smile, as he held his arms wide open before a tiny figure ran towards him, who practically jumped on top of him. He lifted her up, holding her on the side of his hip, whilst tucking a strand of long brunette hair behind her ear. “Did you have fun at nursery?”

A little voice began to chatter on about all the activities she could possibly remember that had occurred doing the day.

“Sounds like you had a lot more fun than Daddy,” he sighed. “Can I see your drawings when we get home?”

She nodded, burrowing her head into his chest. “Oh, I missed you, Tilly Gem,” he smiled whilst trying to balance everything he was now holding between his hands. “Where’s your book bag gone?”

You were mesmerised. Even the back of him looked good, as he walked back towards the building, now in search of his daughter’s lost possessions. Shiny, flowing strands of brown hair which framed his chiselled face. He turned back to look in your direction, green eyes glistening in the autumn sun. You nearly gasped as his eyes met yours for a second, and his lips raised slightly at the edges.

You looked in front of you and quickly remembered your daughter, who was now rocking back and forwards in her buggy in front of you. Things hadn’t been quite the same after the break up with your husband a few months back. Despite the concern that you were now going to be raising her as a single mother, living in a flat you could barely afford in North London, you couldn’t help but also worry about the impact on her emotionally, no longer having a father figure. Although it had been a toxic relationship, she had always been a Daddy’s girl, but didn’t yet have the vocabulary to describe what it felt like for her father to suddenly walk out one day, with no intention of coming back. He was a businessman who worked in Canary Wharf, who was barely around during the week, but had always made time for her on his days off- at least before he decided to have an affair with the young receptionist who worked in his building and leave one night for Australia with her. Promising to pay her tuition fees at a posh private preparatory school was simply not enough. He had left his three-year old daughter fatherless, and you helpless and alone.

You exhaled slowly, before realising that the same tall figure you had seen a few minutes ago was now leaving the blue double doors, and walking straight in your direction. You knew you only had one chance, and made a split-second decision to wave in his direction. He smiled back at you, revealing bright white teeth, creases forming around his bright green eyes.

“Hi, you must be Matilda’s dad!” you explained, heart beating rapidly trying to keep your gaze focused on him. “I think my daughter is in the same class as her,”

He extended his hand towards you, revealing nails painted a glossy shade of white.

“Lovely to meet you, yes this is my Tilly,” he smiled, looking down at her in adoration, his hand now clasped around hers. “I’m Harry, by the way,”

Harry. He could have either been eighteen or thirty, it was difficult to tell. You noticed how a layer of stubble sat around his lips, and how the light reflected off the front of his perfect smile. His daughter had the exact same eyes as him, a beautiful olive colour with hazel rings around her pupils. In-fact, she was the complete spitting image of him, only much smaller with longer hair.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” you noted.

“Ah well, I’m on daddy duties today,” he smirked. “I’m a musician, so I’m away quite a lot. Feels good to be able to spend some time with my little, though,”

The little girl stood next to him nodded whilst shuffling around on the spot, clearly bored by your conversation. Your own daughter was also becoming restless in her buggy, kicking her legs around aimlessly as though all she could think about was an escape plan. You lifted her up and out of the padded seat, placing her gently on the concrete playground next to her.

“Girls, why don’t you go and play for a bit?” Harry smiled at both of them before turning back towards you.  

You soon found yourself sitting on a bench next to him, explaining your entire life story to a man you had never met.

“That sounds absolutely awful, I’m so sorry,” he sympathised. “No man deserves a woman like you. I can tell you are an amazing mum,”

“You too. I wish my daughter looked at me the way that Matilda looks at you,” you explained.

“Oh, don’t say that. I feel so guilty,” he sighed. “I have to leave her constantly, and it breaks me. I feel like such a shit dad every-time. I have to pry her off of me every-time I go out through the front door, and I fucking hate it,”

You were surprised at his honesty, and even he sounded shocked at his own words, as if this was the first time he had ever said them out loud.

“Well, at least you’ll be there when she grows up,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes. “Not like my little,”

“Hey, don’t say that,” he says whilst placing his hand on top of yours, his gentle touch making you jump slightly. “I only had my mum for a couple of years growing up, and I did okay,” he smiled. “Plus, you’re gorgeous. You can find someone better than him, for sure,”

Your eyes lit up in response. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, of course I do, and I wouldn’t lie to you, I promise,” he confirmed. “Look, maybe we could organise something sometime? Considering that our daughters will probably end up being close, being in the same class and all,”

You looked up at him, his green pools of light staring you dead in the face, nothing but kindness in his expression.

“That would be amazing, I’ll give you my number,” you chimed.

You spent a few more minutes chatting, before he passed his phone over to you. You put your number into his contacts list before he rested his hand on his shoulder.

“Tilly, it’s time to go home now,” he bellowed sweetly in her direction. “It was so lovely meeting you, hopefully we will see you both soon,” he chuckled, once again trying to balance all of his daughter’s possessions in one hand, whilst holding her hand in the other. You grinned at him in an attempt to prevent yourself from letting the tears that had formed behind your eyes from beginning to flow.

He came up beside you and whispered in your ear.

“And remember, if you ever want to go for a coffee or anything, my number is always there,” he said slowly, and you could feel his warm, sweet breath on the side of your neck. “I’d really love that,”

As he walked away, you looked down at your daughter, who was now fast asleep in her buggy.

“Lovey, I think mummy may have just found you a new step-daddy,” you giggled at her, whilst walking out of the school gates. 

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #stmf

[usedtobecooler]

long hot summer | Ralph Penbury x fem!reader

Pairing | Ralph Penbury x fem!reader

Warnings | sexual content (18+ minors dni), stripping, boob fondling, coming in pants (times two cause i'm a heathen), cunnilingus, eager ralph, rude reader, train sex

Word Count | 1.9k

A/N | listen i really should be working on prompts i know, but i needed to try out writing for our little ralphie and my heart wouldn't rest until i did it ))):

The steam train was stuffy, a warm July day making the heat onboard unbearable. You'd never witnessed muggy heat like this, so used to the cool sea breeze in Spain that the air in central London was disgustingly dense in comparison.

You're only in a chemise, cooling yourself with your fan but inevitably still warm enough that drops of sweat slide down the dip of your breast, pooling into your corset. Damn this weather, damn the Brits, damn Victoria for subjecting you to this horrid trip. You made a mental note in your head to never return after this trip.

Things weren't being made any better by the fact that Victoria's ridiculous twin brother, Ralph, had been expected to chaperone you during this entire journey north. He was always so loud, unable to shut off at any given moment, he always had something to talk about. You swear this was the quietest he'd been the entire train ride, as if the cat had gotten his tongue.

He's disheveled looking, cream suit jacket thrown on the empty seat next to him and shirt rolled up to his elbows, top button popped to reveal a glimpse of chest hair. You stare too long, he's going to catch on soon, and your peaceful silence will be over.

He's disheveled looking, cream suit jacket thrown on the empty seat next to him and shirt rolled up to his elbows, top button popped to reveal a glimpse of chest hair. You stare too long, he's going to catch on soon, and your peaceful silence will be over.

"How long is left of this journey?" You snap, fanning yourself a bit harder, but all it does is wave the warm air back to you, prickly heat attacking your skin and making you feel disgusting, in need of a bathe.

Ralph shrugs, doesn't even lighten up any as you talk, smile faltering and failing to appear, "I'm not sure, an hour, maybe."

The heat truly is getting to him, you can tell. He isn't his usual bubbly, ridiculously puppy-like self, he sounds worn out. Tired. The blistering heat becoming too much.

You sigh, "This is ridiculous," you fuss, slapping down your fan on the table to make haste of unfastening the top clasps on your corset, grateful that today your chemise adorned buttons along the chest also.

"What - what are you doing, madam. You can't undress yourself here." Ralph strains, unable to take his wide eyes off of you as he watches your breasts spill from their confines, slick with sweat and flushed pink in the heat.

"We are in a private carriage, Ralph. The blind is down, nobody will come in. Do you have a problem?" You quirk an eyebrow at him, continuing to undo buttons with your eyes on his, unable to decipher how he feels right in that very moment.

He looks distressed. Hand tightening on the rim of his hat on the table, his cheeks flushing darker than before, and you don't think it's from the heat this time. You smirk a little, removing your hands from the boned material of your corset and setting them prettily on the table, fingertips dancing along the solid mahogany.

"Ralph, have you ever seen a woman's breasts outside of their undergarments before?" You're teasing him, a glint in your eye. You hit the nail on the head, clearly, because Ralph can't meet your gaze anymore and he's turning away, suddenly the ceiling becoming ever so interesting to him.

"I, um, well I - you see," Ralph stumbles over his words, cheeks burning hot, the flush beginning to spread down his neck, "not - not really, no."

"Not really?" You ask, faking wonderment so he'll keep going. You toe your heels off under the table, your stocking clad foot connecting with Ralph's calf and eliciting a gasp from his bitten lips as you run it up and down, "A pretty boy like you, never been with a woman?"

Ralph stutters, sucking in a sharp breath as he lets your foot glide over his leg through his pants, the feeling making his cock spring to attention fully, as if he hadn't been at half-mast the entire journey just by watching you fan your bosom, "They say I'm too eager, madam. They'd be right, but I don't think that's a bad thing."

Your tummy tightens at his admission - eager. How could a woman deny an eager man willing to please them? It's a crying shame, that Ralph had never laid his hands on a woman and pleasured her - even if he lacked experience, eagerness would always make up for that.

"Would you like to see mine?" You say eventually, foot rising higher and higher until you're rubbing the inside of his thigh and he's positively whimpering, hazarding a glance back at you.

You make a show of it for him, unbuttoning and unclasping your layers until your plush tits fall loose form their confinements, nipples hardening in slight temperature change in the air. You never take your eyes off of him, keep your foot running up and down his inner thigh, "What do you think, Ralphie? Is it everything you dreamed it'd be?"

"Can I -" Ralph starts, fingers gripping onto the edge of the table as if he's stopping himself from lunging over, "Can I touch them, madam?"

You suck in a sharp breath, a tiny little moan escaping you, "Of course you can, Ralph. Anything you want."

He barely allows you to finish the sentence before he's reaching a hand out to cup your left breast, thumb running over the hardened nub of your nipple curiously, eliciting a breathy whine from you, "Wow, this is brilliant!"

You roll your eyes, as usual his silly mouth ruining the illusion, so you shut him up by running your foot up higher, ghosting over the hard outline of his cock in his pants. And something unexpected happens;

"Gosh, madam, I'm going to -" Ralph cuts himself off with a groan, hunching in on himself, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard as he comes in his pants. You blink at him, almost stupidly, as you watch him moaning, feeling his cock pulsing under the sole of your foot as he unloads in his confines.

"Oh, Ralphie, I didn't realise you'd release so quickly," You pout, because what a crying shame that is, over before it had even began, "I was only just starting to have fun having my way with you."

Ralph blushes, looking up at you with watery eyes as his fingers fall deftly from the curve of your breast, "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I don't know what quite came over me."

You have to stifle back a giggle at Ralph's choice of words, inappropriate considering what just happened, "Maybe I have a way you could make it up to me?" You hazard, core still aching and cunt desperate to be touched, you just hoped Ralph truly was as eager as he said he was.

"Anything, madam. Anything you want." Ralph's pleading with you - begging, even. It's adorable, has you clenching your thighs as a blooming begins in the pit of your stomach.

"Why don't you slide under this table and take a glance up my skirts. You'd like that, right, Ralphie?" You coo, a dirty smirk spreading over your features and darkening them. You spread your legs as an invitation, getting yourself comfortable.

He doesn't have to be asked twice, sliding under the table and pushing his head under the skirt of your dress, the curls in his hair tickling at your thighs, "Gosh, madam. No panties?" He gasps, and you giggle as you lift your skirts up to watch him wide eyed, face to face with your glistening wet pussy.

"I always wondered if the day would come where my lack of underwear would come in handy," You quip, feeling proud of yourself, unable to tear your eyes away from Ralph's fascinated stare at your anatomy, "Come on then, Ralphie. Don't you want to work that mouth of yours?"

Ralph nods eagerly, gripping at your thighs and nuzzling into your cunt, flat of his tongue coming out to tentatively slide between your folds, catching your clit on the upstroke. You gasp, hand coming out to grasp at his curls, winding them between your fingers.

"Oh, Ralph," You moan, his inexperience telling in the way that he's trying to find his footing and there's no real rhythm to his movements, but his tongue feels delicious on your pussy, the occasional slip over your clit driving you mad, "Such a good boy, Ralphie."

Ralph moans into your cunt at your praise, and your eyes glisten, delighted that you'd hit a nerve with him. Of course he had a praise kink, he was as puppy like as a man came, you're almost positive if you threw a bone at him he'd chase it. Adorable, almost pitiful to some, but maybe not to you.

You find the knot in your tummy winding up unexpectedly, his large tongue deftly licking over you just enough to have you teetering on the edge all too quickly, and you're almost saddened by how fast this will all be over.

You glance down at Ralph, and he must feel his eyes on you because he looks up, a pleading look on his chocolate brown, wet loser boy eyes, almost like he's asking if he's doing a good job. His nose perches prettily on your mound, nestled in amongst your trimmed hair, and well, if it isn't the prettiest sight you've ever seen.

You open your mouth in a quiet moan when Ralph licks over your clit and stays there this time, "That's it, Ralphie. Right there, what a good little pup. So good for me," You praise, and Ralph whimpers into your skin, you feel him rutting against the air, "Oh, oh!"

You come with a sharp cry, tipping your head back until the vast expanse of your sweat slick neck is bared, thighs squeezing at Ralph's head as fireworks explode behind your eyes. You shake and shudder through your orgasm, body feeling impossibly hotter as the coil unravels in the pit of your gut.

Ralph's hands grasp onto your thighs pathetically tight, a broken, choked, wet moan escaping his mouth as he shakes against your leg, a tell-tale sign that he's coming again. Your pussy clenches as he whines into the meat of your thigh, eyes squeezing shut whilst he ruts against you.

You pet his head to help him through the last of it, and he keens into the touch. Ralph truly was like a puppy, it was so endearing.

You glance out of the window, eyes widening as you see the train station in your near sights, "Ralph, Ralph!" You hiss, shaking at him, "Get up and compose yourself, we're almost here."

Ralph waves you off like an idiot, your fingers fumbling with your clasps to tuck your bosom away before somebody saw you, a wreck over a virgin boy who touched you. Mortifying, truly.

When you both eventually step off of the train, Victoria is there to greet you, and her smile falters, a grimace taking over her features, "Good grief, you two. You look disgusting, like you've been working like dogs in the prison. Up to, you need to bathe before tonight's party."

She claps her hands, turning around without a second glance and you roll your eyes once you're sure she's not looking.

She really was not your favourite Penbury.

#ralph penbury fic #ralph timewasters #ralph timewasters smut #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn fic #my fanfic #mine #x reader #smut

[yellowkitkieran]

To Have and to Heal (Part 15)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

Could we talk? 

When your message appears on his phone, Martin doesn't believe his eyes. At first he assumes he is dreaming; a quick pinch to his forearm and the subsequent brief burst of pain confirms he is, indeed, awake. He laughs to himself then, a giddy, overjoyed sound as he reads the message from you again and again, enough times that the words are burned into his eyelids when he closes them. 

Rearranging his schedule to pick up Atla today had been worth it. Incurring Arteta's wrath for sneaking out early? Also very, very worth the reward. Even if nothing comes of it, even if you don't have the courage or wherewithal to send him a follow up response, Martin can live with that, as long as he has some closure. 

His fingers shake as he types out a casual, cool, collected response. Of course! Now? Tomorrow? When are you thinking? 

Nailed it, honestly. Not overly eager. Simple and to the point. Leaves nothing up to interpretation. Martin is still sweating bullets regardless. 

For a few minutes, Martin simply stares at his phone until his eyes water and he is forced to blink some moisture into them. He tries not to fret when you don't immediately reply. It's late; there is a good chance you're either sleeping or prepping for your classes tomorrow. Despite his racing heart, sweating palms and pacing feet, Martin somehow convinces himself that he is perfectly calm. He's definitely not freaking out. Nope. He's fine. Toooootally fine. 

Though that fragile construct comes crashing down when Martin's phone vibrates. Whenever you have an hour or so free? After school of course. I can come to you?

Absolutely. Friday? I'll be done at six. But I'll come to you though. 

Martin immediately arranges for Kieran to take Atla overnight as a precaution. Who knows what might happen? Martin doesn't want to get his hopes up, but regardless of how things go, he knows he will be a volatile bucket of emotions and he'll need some time to process. He would rather do that on his own than have his daughter around to witness it. Good or bad, Friday will be… interesting, to say the least. 

Friday at six thirty then. That works. I'll see you then 

The expectation of hearing from you again is dashed when twenty four hours pass with nothing new. Martin's phone is far from quiet thanks to the Arsenal group chat, which thankfully keeps him busy and occupied on his day off whilst Atla is at school. Martin even arranges to pick Atla up himself, though he's disappointed to find another teacher in charge of after school care instead of you. 

Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow is my second chance. 

And Martin is completely, utterly, wholly determined to grab the opportunity with both hands and run with it. He refuses to squander his relationship with you a second time. He will say all the right things, fall over himself to make all the right promises, and follow through with each one of them. Because if Martin is being honest with himself, the last time he felt about someone like this… He married them. 

On his way into Colney the next morning, Martin passes by Atla’s favorite bookshop. It is a quaint, family owned place located on a busy corner in north London. He glances at their window displays when he is stopped at the light, as he often does. 

And Martin does a double take- the sign in the window promotes a new romance book, titled ‘Second Chances Only Come Once’, written by the author of the hit book ‘She’s the One’. 

The grin plastered on Martin’s face is indicative enough. If he had been waiting for a sign, that would be it. The sky over London is a bright, vibrant orange, streaked through with rich reds and subtle yellows. The sunrise is the exact shade of Maria’s favorite paint- Windsor Orange, a color she claimed felt like home. Each Christmas Martin would buy her a year’s supply to ensure she didn’t run out. 

“Thank you,” Martin murmurs to the sky. A light breeze ruffles his hair through the open car window, and the smile does not leave Martin’s face for the entire drive.

Kieran doesn't ask questions at training that morning- he's simply excited to spend some quality time with his goddaughter. Kieran does not question Martin’s good mood, not even when Martin convinces Arteta to go easy on the team and skip the half dozen extra drills he had scheduled and opt for an extra gym session instead. 

Martin pays very little attention whilst Kieran rattles off a long list of things he's planned to entertain Atla, including a trip to Harrods to spoil her rotten. Normally that sort of thing would irk Martin, but today the thought barely registers. 

“Uh huh, sounds great,” Martin murmurs noncommittally, “Perfect. Atla will love it.” 

“Mate, you've not heard a word I've said. You're fine with me taking her on a shopping spree? You normally yell at me for that! What happened to ‘she's got enough toys,’ eh?” Kieran makes air quotes there, referring to the dozens of times Martin has argued that point. That, at least, causes Martin to pause. 

“What? Oh- I mean sure if that's what you want to do with her I won't stop you, she'll enjoy it. Really she will-”

Kieran sets his weight down and rests his elbows on his knees. Everyone always says that blue eyes are unnerving, but Martin knows the truth- it's the unflinching, hard brown eyes that really do you in. Martin clears his throat, squirming under the pressure of Kieran's stare. “Tell me.” 

“Tell you what? There's nothing to tell.” Martin scarcely believes himself as unconvincing as his words are. Kieran simply blinks, which somehow is even more unnerving than the original stare. Martin sighs, knowing his friend will not let up until he uncovers the truth. “Alright fine- I'm talking to solskin tonight. It's not a big deal!” 

Kieran, knowing better than to pry, simply nods firmly. “Good. Maybe you'll quit moping around the grounds then. Honestly it's getting tiring, carrying this entire team on my shoulders. I cannae do it all on my own, you know.”

Martin cracks a grin, “I know mate. Hopefully after tomorrow I can take some of that pressure off you.” 

*********

Martin, Martin, Martin. For nearly forty eight full hours, the Norwegian midfielder fills every corner of your brain. You're barely able to make it through your lessons, as distracted as you are by the thought of seeing him again. In a private setting. Alone. At your house. 

Why did you agree to this again?

Friday evening, you frantically clean your already clean flat. You agonize over whether or not to leave the blanket slung over the sofa- is it too suggestive? Or is it just cosy? You wind up leaving it. You are fully aware that you are overthinking. That doesn’t stop you from rearranging the shoes in the entry three times until you’re positive they are just the right amount of messy. 

Deciding on an outfit is nearly as chaotic- with Jen's help you settle on comfort over chic, opting for your favorite pair of jeans and a loose, warm sweater. Your hair you leave in your usual style, not putting too much effort in. This is not a date, as you have to continually remind yourself. It is simply a chat, nothing more. 

Waiting is the hardest part. You sit on your sofa with a random show on for background noise, something about the history of the crown jewels. Should you have cooked? Six thirty is dinner time, ish- maybe he's expecting a meal? Oh god-

The doorbell interrupts your thoughts and you spring into action. You wipe your palms on your jeans before opening the front door, pasting a smile on your face that you pray appears genuine. Your eyes start at his feet- black and white Nike dunks, light wash jeans, and a black bomber style jacket- and end on his soft, angelic face. You quickly meet his eyes, lasting all of one second under the gentle scrutiny of his baby blues before heat floods your cheeks and you are forced to look away.

“Hey- hi Mr. Ødegaard, please come in.” 

Martin's hands slide into his pockets, thumbs hooked into his belt loops. “I'm not coming in until you drop the formality, solskin.” 

You swear your very soul responds to the nickname. It glides so easily off his tongue, as though no time has passed despite the cold shoulder you have given him. With one sentence, Martin crosses the chasm between the pair of you without a second thought, throwing you a lifeline to cling to whilst you try to wade through the sea of emotions that threatens to overwhelm your good sense. 

“Okay,” you murmur, “Okay. Please come in, Martin.” 

“Mar,” he corrects softly, tipping his head to meet your downcast eyes. “Please call me Mar.”

Only when you nod in agreement does he finally relent and enter. He bends to untie his shoes and hangs his jacket on the hook behind the door. There is a familiarity in his actions, like he has done this a hundred times instead of being able to count the number of occurrences on one hand. 

“Um, please have a seat,” you say around the bile creeping up your throat. You haven't been this nervous since your first day teaching. It feels as if one wrong move will leech away the confidence you've spent ages rebuilding; brick by brick you've had to remind yourself that you deserve this. One step at a time. 

“Thank you.” Martin makes himself comfortable on the sofa, one arm slung over the back. It strikes you then how well he fits in. Despite his undoubtedly expensive clothes, he does not seem out of place in a room filled with mostly second hand things. The cream of his shirt perfectly matches the blanket you worried over earlier. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume they were cut from the same cloth. 

You clear your throat and carefully perch on the opposite side. You smooth the wrinkles from your sweater, suddenly self conscious of your appearance. Shit, you forgot to offer him a drink! 

“Would you uh- would you like a drink? There's water, soda, uh… milk I think?” 

Martin's smile is like a physical caress, calming your nerves. Whether he realizes it or not is uncertain, “I'm alright for now, thank you solskin. You wanted to talk?”

How is he so calm right now? How are you not calm? You're the one that asked for this. You prepared, didn't you? Spent hours on the phone with Jess last night, coming up with bullet points of what needed to be said. How have you suddenly forgotten it all?

“Solskin,” Martin prompts softly. “Hey? I'm perfectly okay sitting in silence but if you have something to say, I want to make sure you're heard.”

“Stop- just stop being so charming for two minutes,” you mumble. You press two fingers to your temples and try to get your ducks in a row. You requested to speak with Martin, yes. You wanted to discuss the potential of moving forward. You wanted to tell him you still care about him. Okay. Okay. Basics first. 

You take a deep breath and straighten your spine. Cheating your body towards Martin's you begin, “I still care about you a lot. More than I should considering you're the parent of one of my students- don't do that,” you scold when Martin tips his head side to side. Martin grins, forcing you to fight to keep your mental train on the right track. “As I was saying, you're the parent to one of my students and I shouldn't even have asked to speak with you. I should've taken what happened as a sign from the universe, an easy way out but I just…”

“Can't let it end, yeah.” Martin finishes the thought on your behalf. You nod, grateful that he was able to voice it when you couldn't. 

“Right. But I also know that your daughter has to come first, and I don't want to suggest otherwise. Atla loves you and you're all she has, I know she looks up to her papa. I know she doesn't want to see you with anyone other than her mum, and maybe she's just too young to understand, which means this was all just a waste of time and ishouldn'thaveinvitedyouanyway-”

Your words rush out in one long heap, piling over each other and overlapping at the ends. Tears prick your eyes and suddenly you feel so incredibly stupid for thinking this could work in any capacity. Martin reaches for your hand but you pull it away, unable to bear the thought of him touching you, knowing you'll only crumble. 

“I want this to work Mar, I really do. But I can't ask you to choose between me and your family, it's not right. I don't want to sneak around either,” you add in haste when Martin opens his mouth. “I won't be the reason your daughter hates you. I won't tear apart your home. I just won't. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.”

Once he's positive you're finished, Martin cautiously scoots closer to you. He watches for any sign that you'll flee, and when you don't move a muscle he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you to his chest. This time you allow it, because you know you'll never have this luxury again. 

Martin's hand runs over your arm whilst he silently soothes you. Your nose is buried in his shoulder, his cologne imprinting itself in your memory. It baffles you how such a simple thing can bring you so much comfort. But slowly, like molasses dripping from a spile, you feel the coils of tension stored in your muscles unknot themselves. Slowly, you feel yourself winding down, your breath coming in even intervals instead of panicked gasps. Your hands, which had fisted themselves tight in the cotton of his shirt, unfurl to rest flat on his chest. 

“That speech was quite noble solskin, but I think you've forgotten something.”

You sniffle, determined not to cry despite the battle raging within yourself. “What did I forget Mar?” 

“That you're part of my home now,” Martin says into your hair. “If you're determined not to let anything ruin my home, you need to include yourself in that.” 

Martin is terrible at articulating how he feels. You've grown used to it; you may not have dated for long but it only took a handful of dates to realize that his trauma ran deep, and that he played his cards close to his chest. So that display of warmth, of what he truly feels inside, is rarer than a diamond. You want to nestle it against your heart and keep it protected behind your ribcage. It is worth more than any precious gem. 

Without thinking, you reach up and cradle Martin's jaw. You smile sadly when he presses his cheek into your hand, your thumb soothing a line under his eye. He's so beautiful- tender and raw and open. Vulnerable. A side you never expected him to share with you. 

“I don't want you to put me before Atla,” you say softly, mindful of how fragile he is beneath your fingertips. You have to be gentle; if you're not he may never trust anyone again. 

Martin covers your hand, fingers tight around yours. “And I don't want that either. I want you both on the same level. I-” Martin stops himself, his throat bobbing under the weight of words left unsaid. “I care about you so, so much. I just want you in my life. That’s all I want.”

“Then Alta needs to understand that I'm not replacing her mum. She needs to understand that before we even think about doing anything, Mar. You can't risk hurting the relationship you have with your daughter.”

“I know. I will. I'll get it all sorted and then it'll be fine- we can try again. Right?”

You nod then, your smile brighter this time. “Once she knows all that, we can try again.”

Martin's eyes flick to your mouth and you know you've both had the same thought. You want to kiss him, to climb into his lap and melt like chocolate on his tongue. You want to pull at his stupid chicken hair until he moans into your mouth, his sounds of delight so sickeningly sweet that your stomach will ache for days afterwards. 

But you can't kiss him. So you don't. At least you have that much control. Instead you let Martin trace your parted lips with a reverence that makes your skin tingle. He moves on to your jaw, your cheeks, your nose, your brow- as if he were a blind man putting a face to a woman who until now has been no more than a voice to him. 

“I have so much to say,” Martin says finally, “and there's not enough time to say any of it.” 

“One day soon, you'll have plenty of time to tell me anything you want.” You allow yourself the luxury of his embrace, your arms winding around his solid middle whilst his fit firmly around your shoulders. 

If you're lucky, this could be your reality. You could come home to Martin, or rather he could come home to you, and have his busy days be endcapped by love and devotion. You've always said you would never consider being a housewife, that you respect yourself far too much to allow yourself to be reduced to a servant to your significant other. But for Martin? You want him to eat a home cooked meal every night. You want to massage his shoulders when he makes an off-hand comment about being sore from training too hard. You want to put Atla to bed and then draw a warm bath for you and Martin to share. 

You want to give Martin the world because he deserves it. You would wait on him hand and foot because you know with absolute certainty that he would do the exact same thing whenever he was afforded the chance. And that sort of fairytale is exactly what you've always wanted in life. You aren't about to let it slip through your fingers. 

#martin ødegaard #martin odegaard #martin odegaard fanfiction #martin odegaard imagine #martin odegaard fanfic #martin odegaard fantasy #martin odegaard fic #arsenal fc #jac writes #alt timeline lover

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with Jonathan Bailey and Matt Bomer from GQ Hype

Filled with cozy, Hemingwayesque signifiers of midcentury masculinity (think: taxidermy and artfully-tattered boxing gloves), the restaurant seemed perfect for a breezy, late-autumn hang in the West Village.

But there’s one problem: Matt Bomer and Jonathan Bailey have burgers on their minds. And while this place boasts a surplus of dead animals nailed to the wall, it somehow only serves snacks and salads in the afternoon. And as Bomer points out, Corner Bistro—a pub that, in his opinion, serves some of the best burgers in town—is just a six-minute walk away.

The British-born Bailey—who, in his black sweater, floppy beanie and overstuffed backpack, looks more like a backpacker who just rolled out of his hostel rather than one of the streaming era’s top heartthrobs—waxes rhapsodic about In-N-Out, the California burger institution, which he recently tried for the first time.

He asks the suave, Old Hollywood-handsome Bomer, who spends most of his time in L.A. with his husband and three teenage sons, where In-N-Out falls on his personal burger index. “Our boys are really good judges of burgers,” Bomer says, and for them, In-N-Out is up there—but so is the burger at Corner Bistro. And how can we send Bailey—the Viscount of Bridgerton himself—back to London without tasting New York’s best?

Our location, midway between Stonewall Inn and Julius, two of New York’s most historic gay bars, is apt. The project we’re here to talk about—the epic new Showtime series Fellow Travelers, in which the pair star—tips its hat to the legendary 1969 riots that happened in Stonewall, but goes even further, telling the story of gay liberation in the second half of the twentieth century.

Part epic love story, part political thriller, Fellow Travelers begins in 1950s Washington, D.C., with an illicit affair between the strapping Hawkins “Hawk” Fuller (Bomer), a State Department official savvy to the ways of power, and the earnest, energetic Timothy “Tim” Laughlin (Bailey), the kind of wide-eyed idealist who goes to D.C. wanting to change the world. When they first meet, Tim is a conservative Catholic boy; his passionate, intensely erotic affair with Hawk both liberates him and throws him off his path.

Through the decades-spanning run of their relationship, the series takes us from the Lavender Scare of the 1950s—when a McCarthy-era policy that institutionalized homophobia expelled many “sexual deviants” from government, resulting at one point in a suicide a day—to the AIDS crisis of the 1980s.

The series is based on the Thomas Mallon novel of the same name. But where Mallon’s book generally focuses on the 1950s and the explosive romance between Hawk and Tim, the series expands the Fellow Travelers universe to reach through the decades and cover the Vietnam War protests of the '60s and the White Night riots of 1979.

“It's been taught that LGBTQIA+ history begins at Stonewall,” says Jelani Alladin, the actor who plays queer Black journalist Marcus Hooks in the series. “It’s a kind of false narrative. Queer people have been around taking a stand for themselves since the beginning of time.”

It feels like a disservice to call a series so sexy and so compelling as educational. But Fellow Travelers does serve as an important history lesson for younger generations who may not fully understand the battles fought before their time. “It was a really dark period in American history that obviously we're not taught in school,” says executive producer Robbie Rogers, who prior to his work in film and TV was the soccer player who became the first openly gay man to compete in a North American professional sports league. “We're not taught LGBT history.”

When the first episode of the series came out in late October, a viral clip showcasing Bailey and Bomer in a particularly kinky sex scene had Gay Twitter shuddering with excitement. In the scene, Bailey’s Tim uses his power as a sub to persuade Bomer’s Hawk to take him to an important D.C. party. “I’m your boy, right?” he tells Hawk. “Your boy wants to go to the party.” In surely one of this year’s hottest scenes on film or TV, we see Bailey hungrily suck on Bomer’s toes and gamely attempt to put his foot in his mouth. Earlier in the series, Hawk gives Tim the name “Skippy” after thoroughly dominating him in bed, a gesture of affection as much as of ownership.

Sex is a powerful, world-shifting force in Fellow Travelers, but it’s also a Trojan horse. While the early episodes bristle with erotic energy, every exchange between Bomer and Bailey is about power as much as it is about sex. And the further you go into Travelers, the more you realize what’s really at stake when these two hit the sack.

“Even in the ‘50s, they had joy,” Travelers creator and writer Ron Nyswaner, the Oscar-nominated screenwriter of Philadelphia, says. “You might be struggling, but that doesn't mean every moment of your life you're a victim of oppression. Behind closed doors they had a life—it's just that at any moment, the police could come through those doors and ruin that life.”

That unapologetic approach to queer desire is still pretty revolutionary in a big-budget prestige series on a major network. Gone are the days when gay characters were allowed to exist onscreen as long as they adhered to respectability politics. In Fellow Travelers, the queer characters are allowed passionate, unapologetically freaky pleasures.

“There's no shame attached to that,” Bailey says. “And I do think Matt's character detonates something in Tim. It's a gift to meet someone [who does the] radical act of helping you feel less shame and understand that intimacy that can be explored in so many different ways.”

Religion is a big theme in Fellow Travelers. Hawk is bound by covenant to his wife; Tim struggles with Catholic guilt. And like many queer people, Bomer and Bailey themselves have both had to negotiate religion within their queer identities.

“It took me a long time to dismantle it and to question what I was being told,” Bailey says. “Religion is interesting because it’s the voice of the shame but also [a source of] relief. There was this person that I could speak to—and I definitely did have that full conversation with a higher power. But the contradiction is brutal. To really lean into that as a gay kid who's not born into a gay family, you see both sides of what religion can provide, which is scathing judgment—as I felt it looking back—but also a real space for catharsis and nourishment.”

Bomer says he has an individualized approach to religion: “It's something that I've found for myself over years and years of exploration. It's just highly personal that way.” Bomer is proud to have raised his kids in a truly intersectional environment. “They go to an Episcopal school, but they're in school with Muslim kids, with Jewish kids,” he says. “We gave them that experience and then let them find their own way from there.”

On the way to Corner Bistro, Bomer gives Bailey a capsule tour of gay West Village. “That’s an iconic lesbian bar,” he says, pointing out Cubbyhole on West 12th street. Later, he asks if we’ve ever been to Fire Island. “You can have any experience you want there,” Bomer tells me, when I confess my anxiety around Speedos. “It's not just one thing.”

These streets bring up certain memories for Bomer. He tells us about coming up as an actor in New York in the early 2000s, at one point living in “a renovated crackhouse in Brooklyn.” Later, he worked two jobs to afford a one-bedroom apartment he split with a fellow aspiring actor—none other than Lee Pace, the famous, and famously tall (6′ 5″, if you don’t know), actor and Internet Boyfriend who Bomer has known since high school. “I’ll tell you how long I've known Lee Pace,” he says. “I’ve known him since he was shorter than me, when he was 14 and I was 15.”

As gay men are wont to do, trust that the group veered off-topic to talk about vocally-prodigious divas. Bomer has just seen the Broadway production of David Byrne’s Here Lies Love, which tells the story of the rise and fall of Imelda Marcos, the wife of the Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos. And when he finds out that I grew up in the Philippines, he tells me how much he loves Lea Salonga, the Tony-winning Filipino Broadway star who appears in the production.

We ask Bailey if he’s familiar with her. “Do I know Lea Salonga?” he asks. “She was Fantine!” he retorts, referring to her role in Les Misérables in Concert: The 25th Anniversary.

From there, we fall into a Filipino diva rabbit hole, talking about former Pussycat Doll Nicole Scherzinger (currently appearing in a well-received West End production of Sunset Boulevard that Bomer tells Bailey they must catch together), Mutya Buena of the Sugababes (an iconic U.K. girl group that Bailey and I separately saw live recently), and Darren Criss (who Bomer directed on The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story—technically a straight male, but one who earns diva status for his formidable vocals and the dance he did in a red speedo on Versace).

As we near the pub, a thirty-something woman walking hand in hand with her man does a hilariously convincing impression of the Distracted Boyfriend meme at the sight of Neal Caffrey and Anthony Bridgerton casually strolling through West 4th Street.

“Her neck!” Bailey says, audibly concerned.

In Corner Bistro, with sandwiches and coffees in hand (Bailey decides on a classic burger and a grilled chicken sandwich), we settle down in a cozy booth and talk about the points in their careers where Fellow Travelers found the actors, the hard-won representation Hollywood’s queer community has been fighting for for decades, and the LGBTQ+ talents of color they’d like to support on their own projects.

Bomer, of course, has been famous since the early 2010s, when he became a star on the series White Collar, and along with Neil Patrick Harris, proved that openly gay actors could become leading men. Since then, he’s conquered Broadway (The Boys in the Band), won a slew of awards (Golden Globe and Critic's Choice trophies for The Normal Heart) and become a producer and director.

In the past, Bomer has discussed the way doors closed on him even as he was being celebrated for being an out gay actor. When asked about that now, he says, “I choose just to never look back in anger about anything. Ultimately, my career is a lot richer because I decided to be open with who I am.”

“It’s a wave of progress that Matt's been surfing and is at the front of,” says Bailey. “And it's been a real honor to be able to get on my boogie board next to him.”

Before he became a global star mid-pandemic playing the grumpy, furry-chested Anthony Bridgerton on the Netflix juggernaut Bridgerton, Bailey was an award-winning actor in both the West End and British television. Huge fame didn’t find Bailey until his early 30s, so when it did, he had a clear idea of what he wanted to accomplish with his platform.

“I feel the responsibility immeasurably,” Bailey says. “I get it when people are saying you create a chair and bring people [to the table].” He talks about the connection between the civil rights movement and the queer liberation. “The Black queens are the ones who really started to fight,” he says. “It's amazing to feel politically activated. And if there's any project to do that, it's going to be Fellow Travelers. It will change the way I see myself in and the world I live in.”

The intersectionality makes the story Travelers is trying to tell even richer—most of all in Alladin’s scene-stealing portrayal of the conflicted Marcus Hooks, a pioneering Black journalist who pushes against segregation as he grapples with his own sexuality. “When I look at older men today, I'm like, You guys have endured so much,” Aladdin says. “From the Second World War all the way through to the AIDS crisis, it was nonstop life crisis after life crisis. To have been able to survive through all that, there needs to be a real, solid weight on the feet of [these characters].”

Part of the pleasure of watching Fellow Travelers is picking up on the cinematic references hidden in each scene. Hawk and Tim’s first interactions evoke the forbidden affair in David Lean’s 1945 classic Brief Encounter. When Hawk’s family settles in suburbia, the show evokes the Technicolor repression of the great Douglas Sirk melodramas. When Hawk and Tim run through the beaches of Fire Island in the ‘70s, that iconic image of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr kissing on the beach in From Here to Eternity may flicker in your mind. And in some ways, the series plays like a gayer, hornier The Way We Were—an epic love story tossed on the tides of political change. (In this version, of course, the Barbra Streisand character is an eager foot-licking sub and Redford’s Hubbell Gardiner is a daddy with a pit fetish.) Fellow Travelers allows us to imagine an alternate timeline where queer love has always gotten as much screen time as cinema’s great heterosexual romances, giving other kinds of stories the chance at celluloid immortality too.

In the book, Hawk is described as being more handsome than Gregory Peck. But seeing Bomer in period-appropriate clothing, the Old Hollywood leading man I thought of was Montgomery Clift, the talented and ultimately tragic gay actor who starred in classics like Red River and A Place in the Sun. For a time in the mid 2010s, Bomer was attached to star in a Montgomery Clift biopic for HBO, to be directed by the great gay director Ira Sachs. “Ira is a genius,” Bomer says. “[But] I think that ship may have sailed.”

Still, when I press him about doing it in the future, he lights up. “You know, I’m [now] the same age Monty was when he passed away,” Bomer says. “I always thought it'd be really interesting to do a play about the last night of his life, when he's watching one of his old movies on TV. And he had this man who lived with him and took care of him for the last chapter of his life.There's an interesting play in there somewhere…. Maybe Liz Taylor swings by.”

What’s changed since the mid 2010s is that a lot of Hollywood’s current gatekeepers are queer people who were fighting from the bottom a decade ago. “It's the people, the gatekeepers who are now going, ‘We are going to make this [queer] story,’” Bailey says. “This narrative that gay people have to be closeted in order [for a project] to be commercial and in order for things to be interesting to people—it's been dismantled. But it's slow because it's not just straight people who think that—I think everyone believed that in the system of Hollywood.”

Nyswaner, who has been working in Hollywood since the early ‘80s, has seen that shift up close. “When I grew up in the ‘60s and early ‘70s, I never heard the word ‘homosexual’ spoken aloud,” he says. “There was no conversation that I ever had with anybody about homosexuality. It was not just bad, it was the unspeakable thing—that's how terrified people were of us.”

And while he agrees that, in some ways, it feels like the LGBTQ+ community is once again losing ground on some rights, Nyswaner refuses to accept that there hasn’t been change. “Sometimes I hear people say, ‘Well, we haven't gotten anywhere.’ And I'm here to say, ‘Oh, yes, we have.’ Because actually you can turn on the television and find gay characters.”

Fellow Travelers is the culmination of a dream for a number of the men involved in the series.

“When I met Ron, he was talking about how he thinks about this as his lifelong legacy project,” Bailey says. “And I just said to him, ‘Whoever ends up going on this journey with you, I think it'll be the same [for them] probably.’”

“In some ways, Fellow Travelers is a span of my life,” Ron Nyswaner says. “I was an infant in the McCarthy era. And then I came out of the closet in 1978 and just danced and did cocaine and had multiple sexual partners—we didn't know what was coming, which was the AIDS crisis.” Nyswaner was nominated for a Best Original Screenplay Oscar in 1993 for Philadelphia, the landmark drama about an AIDS patient who sues his employers for AIDS discrimination. In a way, the historical span of Fellow Travelers gives the battles fought in Philadelphia their context.

Rogers remembers being a closeted soccer player in the late 2000s, watching Tom Ford’s A Single Man and hoping one day to be able to find love and take control of his own narrative. And Bailey recalls, post-Bridgerton, realizing that he could suddenly write his own destiny and vowing to seek out “a sweeping gay love story.”

Bomer, meanwhile, says—laughing, but seemingly dead serious—that it’s his goal to play a queer character from every decade of the 20th century. “A queer Decalogue,” he says, referencing the Krzysztof Kieślowski classic.

Bomer’s next project might just help him do that. He’s currently producing a Steven Soderbergh film on Lawrence v. Texas, the case that overturned the sodomy laws in Texas in 2003 but started in the 90s.

There are many more stories to tell. And as our interview winds down, Bomer and Bailey start spitballing dream projects.

We talk about All of Us Strangers director Andrew Haigh, who’s revered for his portraits of gay intimacy. “Andrew Haigh has been a special filmmaker for years,” Bailey says. “I think [his film] Weekend informed actually how I approached the sex scenes in [Fellow Travelers].”

“I’d love to play Jessica Fletcher's queer grandson who moves back to Cabot Cove,” Bomer says, referencing Angela Lansbury’s iconic role in Murder, She Wrote. “He's inherited her house and he finds an old journal in her library, and it's a case she never saw and he takes up her mantle.”

And moments before the restaurant speakers suddenly start blaring George Michael’s “Freedom ’90,” Bailey comes in with a killer pitch: “I’m obsessed with the Sacred Band of Thebes, an army of 300 gay lovers in [ancient] Greece. They partnered in pairs, this gay army, and they overthrew a Spartan army… I want to do that as a comedy.”

“Oh hell yes!” Bomer says.

“Just get all the queer actors together,” Bailey says, laughing.

“Lee Pace, everyone,” Bomer says.

“Where would we film it?” Bailey asks.

“Mykonos?” Bomer suggests.

“Flaming Saddles, down the road,” Bailey counters with a chuckle, referring to a gay bar in midtown.

“Oil us up and let’s go!” Bomer says.

Source

#fellow travelers #jonathan bailey #matt bomer #jelani alladin #ron nyswaner #interviews #interviews:2023 #GQ hype interview 2023 #NEW!

[lunarriviera]

on the importance of beta screaming

i would like to say a little bit here in this chili’s tonight about the vital, indispensible role of beta enthusiasm.

because yeah we all know we get tied in knots in our prose, write sex scenes with impossible numbers of hands, dangle modifiers, repeat words, commit horrifying typos like “he licks with his tounge.” i have several useless graduate degrees so yes i can fix all those things for you or offer revision suggestions. as well, i am a north american who lived in the uk and divorced a londoner, so i can also britpick or yankpick your fic. then, it’s important to have at least one beta who can check you if you’re writing about a culture other than your own. finally, i usually will only beta for fic with whose canon i am intimately familiar.

those things are helpful, even essential. but there is something else a beta reader not only can do, but has to do, and that is scream.

look it’s hard out here for a pimp okay. we are in our little offices or bedrooms or hunched on the bathroom floor with the phone just trying to write our little stories. we made a tiny gay man and we gave him problems, and now we are going to make it YOUR problem. and then we will all thrash around and yell happily together, for we love this tiny gay man.

but until someone picks that fic out of the tag and clicks on it and reads it and starts keysmashing in the comment box, you’re all alone. just you, in your head, in your room, while you’re walking around the park, while you’re shampooing your hair, while you’re cleaning the cat’s litter pan—it’s just you. (and, sure, also the imaginary friends who spout riveting or hilarious dialogue in your head. them too.)

and when you’re all alone with just your words and your little people, a terrible and completely unique kind of loneliness can sink in. were they the right words? were they funny, pretty, tragic, joyful, smart? do they truly convey the depth of your feeling? and above all else: can they compel someone else to feel what you felt? because you’ve read that fic that made you scream into a pillow at 2 am. and you wonder: can i do that for someone else? can i feel my feelings so strongly and so well that they reach out of the screen and haul someone else in along with them?

and in the hours, days, weeks of waiting for someone to reach back through the pixels for you, a beta steps in to fill that space. this, she will let you know, is good. this is REALLY good. this is so good she’s gonna dword. she has no chill. she is about to mclose it. how dare you. she thought you were friends. now you’re in a fight. elmo in flames dot gif., screaming girl dot png., spongebob burying himself dot webp.

this is not an OPTIONAL feature of a beta reader. this is not just a nice thing that it’s nice to have. this might be the ESSENTIAL function of a beta. her hand is over your head and it’s briefly sheltering you from the pouring rain. hey listen! she says, and she cups your face in her hands: SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP. and you, wherever you are in the world, even if you’re 24 hours away from her on the globe, you put your palms to your cheeks to feel the warm blush of happiness and relief. someone else is out there, picking up what you’re throwing down. and you did not fuck it up. it’s actually entirely possible that you nailed it.

without her, you wouldn’t know. and in fact in a small fandom, without her, there wouldn’t BE that much of a fandom. so you and your beta get to be a part of that little group of people who keep a set of stories, a family of characters, alive. that’s fun too. (plus you get to backchannel about all the horribly Wrong Opinions everyone else has. this both saves you from making an ass of yourself on social media, and will make you guffaw during a zoom meeting if you’re not careful.)

so get you a beta reader who’s a screamer. i said what i said. don’t settle for someone who can be nitpicky about the past perfect but who never says anything positive; people will remember and come to read the fic that’s stunning and strange and new even if you forget to use “had.”

i aim for about 50/50 between praise and suggestions (the same proportions i use as a professor), but if i’m honest it winds up being more like 80/20 for fanfic. that’s okay. if i’m gonna err, i’d rather err on the side of encouragement.

we get so little of that, either as writers or just in the world. we get so little hand-holding and shoulder rubs and affectionate hollering. so when you beta, think about letting loose a little. think about, sure, exaggerating for effect. you know how sweet it feels when someone gets all exuberant all over your drafts—so maybe allcaps a little bit, as a treat. it feels pretty great. you’ll see.

(oh and ps: save a life. leave an ao3 comment.)

#y'all beta readers are out here every day doing the lord's work #show them some love #buy them some dark chocolate #beta readers #beta reading #fic betas #fanfiction betas #writeblr #fic writing

[kings-highway]

haikyuu esl accent headcanons ig miyagi prefectural edition

Karasuno

- Kageyama and Hinata are both idiots and barely pass english to begin with but I like to imagine Karasuno has an english teacher that studied/came from somewhere in Canada, so they (and all of Karasuno) end up with a classic mix of American/British vocabulary

- Daichi s u c k s at english and can barely pass the class but his accent is PERFECT and when he manages to put together an actual sentence you wouldnt believe he was esl

- by contrast Suga BREEZED through english classes, absolutely nailing the written, aural and reading portions but got <10% on his spoken exam because he's absolutely incomprehensible and cannot get his accent down

- Tsukishima and Yamaguchi get the highest grades in english out of all of Karasuno, but both of them inexplicably picked up a british accent (southern more, london area) and they refuse to admit that it's because of the sheer volume of Great British Bake-Off they've watched/had on in the background while doing homework.

- Noya and Tanaka both failed english their first year but realized if they convinced Suga and Daichi, separately, to tutor them, they could get a passing grade

- somehow Suga and Daichi have never considered helping each other

- Asahi is not the best at english but he is their english teacher's favourite

Shiratorizawa

- Ushijima obviously speaks with an american accent when speaking english bc he practices most often with his father (west coast american accent, then)

-as a result the whole of Shiratorizawa kinda does the same because of subconsciously trying to mimic Ushiwaka

- with the exception of Tendou (who ends up bastardizing his english with a french accent??? he ends up damn near a polyglot but is incomprehensible in every language)

- and semi, who ends up with a more british accent (from the north, though) due to the british guitar teacher he takes lessons from. the rest of shiratorizawa absolutely tear him apart for this but he doesnt even realize he's doing it and has picked up british slang (trolley, jumper, lift) when speaking english

- Stz's english program is Very Good but their professors are all very old and mean and as a result most of the team developes a deep hatred of studying english/going to language classes in general

Aoba Johsai

- I like to imagine Aoba Johsai has a really fantasic english teacher/program, but they partnered with an abroad exchange to do so and have a disproportionate about of New Zealanders and Aussies teaching

- So the third years are all pretty fantastic with their english but the other schools hear them speak and are like "that CANNOT be right" because they all have heavy kiwi accents that the others have never heard

- inexplicably Kyotani has a much more distinct North American accent (probably somewhere eastern, great lakes area) and he Will Not explain himself until he begrudingly admits that he's actually started learning english when he was really young from an American teacher and is VERY GOOD but has been intentionally throwing tests so that nobody would ask him to tutor them

- first/second years ask him to tutor them immediately upon learning this and he refuses

- Oikawa is irritatingly good at languages, and has to force Iwaizumi to study. Iwa is usually pretty good with keeping on top of school work but he just HATES conjugations and tenses and has no memory for it.

- once Oikawa realizes the other schools are making fun of their english accents/professors, he works out the dialects of thr other english countries and just switches between then depending on who he's speaking to. the rest of seijoh hates this because when he's not using the kiwi accent they cannot understand him.

#haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu fanfic author #haikyuu fanfiction #shiratorizawa #karasuno #aoba johsai #seijoh #haikyuu english headcanons

[astronicht]

whumptober day 7: radio silence

look does this count. i don’t know! i was not prepared to write these guys they just showed up and characterization??? is??

F1 rpf | george/alex | 1k, rated M | art theft AU with no actual art theft just the greater horrors of the industry

“Hiya, erm,” says a guy in English. Nowhere accent, something papered over with RP.

“Hiya,” Alex says, because all the docents speak English; there’s little point faking that he doesn’t. “The toilets are actually—“

“I’ve got a question about a painting, actually—“

“Out the way you came in and—“

“It’s just on my phone here.”

The guy is pulling up a Gmail app, so Alex gives up on the toilets.

The guy is pretty, his hair parted in the center to flop, boy-band-ish, nearly into his eyes. That’s not even what’s getting to Alex; it’s the way his nails are bitten down and there is a pack of tissues in the chest pocket of his coat.

“Right, just a mo,” the guy says. He’s not posh, Alex decides, it’s just that he shops at Waitrose. Easy mistake. As for his natural habitat, well, under the coat the baby blue button-down, belt, jeans, unscuffed loafers could come right off any man eating a sushi lunch in central London.

The guy is searching something in what looks like a personal email, a line of calendar notifications read and undeleted, marching down the page. Flight, Saragh’s bday, Gym (day pass). Alex looks politely away.

“Ah, here we go. Small screen I’m afraid.”

Alex uses an ancient iPhone 7 he got used from the SEX years ago.

“Right, so,” the man’s voice goes from apologetic to confident in a sudden shift. Alex blinks. “Does this resemble a Breughel? Someone from his studio, or a follower maybe? Or is it like, from 1964.”

The painting is odd: round, on beveled wood. The photographs have been taken professionally, maybe off a website. But they’ve been emailed to the man, forwarded from a [email protected], original message from [email protected]. The man’s gmail doesn’t show his personal address or his name.

Alex bets it is something like George.

The painting itself is not a mystery at all, and Alex thinks this guy knows it.

“There aren’t really any Breughels recorded missing,” Alex says, lightly. The guy’s jaw tenses, not with surprise or anxiety, Alex doesn’t think. Like if he was less in control of himself he would have nodded sharply, his suspicions confirmed, thankyouverymuch, you have been so helpful.

This conversation looks like it might be ending, so Alex considers a few things. For example, that both Alex’s Leverhulme’s postdoc funding and his Visa are about to run out, and he isn’t getting the job opening at Utrecht, either, he already knows. Brexit means he’s no longer just fighting the other EU kids for the good jobs, he’s up against everyone for the scant scraps on non-EU funding if he wants to stick around.

Money is tight, and he’s staring the end of academia in the face, when they all thought he was going to be one of the ones who makes it.

“Can I buy you lunch?” Alex says.

“Aren’t you, erm, working?”

Alex’s docent job ends next Wednesday, his research work not for a month.

“C’mon,” he says. “The cafe has stroopwafels if you’re into that.”

George’s wrinkled nose says he’s not, but he tucks the phone with the Breughel in his pocket and trails Alex to the museum cafe.

***

“I didn’t steal it or anything, you know,” George says two hours later, in a half-joking tone, tangled in the sheets in Alex’s flatshare. Rain is pouring down outside, the North Sea weather familiar on either side of the channel.

Alex shrugs. He’s in his en-suite looking for chapstick. His mouth aches. His ribs ache. He’s never made a man come undone like this in his bed midday on a Tuesday. Apparently there is a first time for everything.

“I didn’t assume,” he says lightly.

George frowns, Alex’s duvet wrapped in his lap. “You assumed something,” he says. Alex feels a thrill of worry that this guy can read him as well. That this feeling could be two-way glass.

“You’re feeling guilty about something,” Alex says. He left work in the middle of his shift; he’s feeling guilty, but mostly furious. He was supposed to be one of the ones that makes it.

George’s mouth pinches. His lips are rubbed red.

“I’m admin at an auction house,” he says. Alex wonders if he’s one of the army of interns at Harrington’s, but dismisses it. He’s not fresh out of uni. “It’s actually all above-board.”

Alex laughs and George cracks a smile. “I know, I know,” George says. “It is, though.”

“That’s such a low bar, mate,” Alex laughs. “Did you hear about the place in Berlin last month—“

“Yeah, I think eight different coworkers emailed me.”

“To point and laugh, yeah, same,” says Alex. “But the Berlin guys, they took a painting and accidentally helped a thief build a false provenance for it. That paper trail stuff is worse than theft, every time.”

Alex laughs to cover the jab, but George just looks at Alex very steadily from Alex’s bed. “That’s not it either. We didn’t even sell it. The consigner brought it by, then decided not to sell and pulled it.”

“Hm,” Alex says.

George shrugs. “I asked to check it out and it was just on my desk, next to my tea. And then it disappeared again, and no one else gets to see it. Nothing illegal, just, you know, the market. You don’t work in institutional acquisitions, do you?” George asks, a swift subject change. Alex pours a glass of water from the tap and brings it to him. George takes it with long careful fingers.

“Oh no, I’m a post-doc.”

“Weird that you know so much about the trade side of things,” George says.

They keep in touch for a week, mostly not about the painting, mostly in Alex’s flatshare bed. George catches a cold and tissues are strewn like mourning doves around Alex’s bin. His duvet starts to hold the imprint of a man’s clutching hands.

And then, one week after a man showed up in a museum with a photograph of a lost painting, it is not George who disappears. It’s Alex.

#whumptober ‘23 #galex #my fic

[givemea-dam-break]

you and me, in every story - chapter one

a/n: a lockwood and co au in which lockwood and lucy's roles are swapped! the idea was cooked up by the wonderful @portlandrowismyhome and @wellgoslowly (i contributed too i promise), and this will be a multipart series! i hope you enjoy :)

warnings: none words: 2.3K taglist: @irisesforyoureyes @neewtmas @aayeroace @locklylemybeloved @mirrorballdickinson @ettadear @gotlostinfiction @mischiefmanaged71 @oblivious-idiot (let me know if you want added to my taglist <3)

full series collection

Lockwood had lived his whole life in London, so it was safe to say that he was peeved when he couldn’t find his way to Portland Row.

Seriously? How hard could it be to find a little street north-west London? Very hard, evidently, because he’d been circling the same area for the past half hour like an idiot. Now, not only was he frustrated at getting lost – it was embarrassing for a native Londoner to get lost, in his humble opinion – but he was also tired, hungry, and his shoulders hurt from this stupid bag he had decided to carry around. Well, the bag wasn’t stupid. Just some of the contents.

Really, all he wanted was to get out of this sweaty suit, have a shower, and then have the best sleep of his life while having the security of a job. Was that so hard to ask?

Apparently so, but, even still, he persevered, map in hand as he trudged the streets of Marylebone. Curfew tiptoed closer and closer, but he was adamant. He would not finish the day without getting himself this job. He’d fight tooth-and-nail for it if he had to.

Not that this job was exactly a fantastic one. It was just something he’d plucked out of the newspaper, but he’d heard of the company a few times and figured that this would be his best shot after things went awry last time.

And, ah, there! Finally! Thirty-five Portland Row, standing tall and… well, not proud, not with its peeling paint and slightly overgrown flowers in the window boxes. But it was certainly something!

On the fence read a sign: Carlyle and Co. After dark, ring the bell and wait beyond the iron line. How inviting. If Lockwood was hired – of course he would be! – he’d petition to change the wording of that. It sounded awfully uninviting, and that just wouldn’t do. No wonder the company wasn’t popular!

Well, these opinions of his would have to wait. Heaving a deep breath, he climbed up the steps to the front door and rang the bell, waiting patiently.

Footsteps sounded on the other side, followed by the rattling of the doorhandle, and then the door swung open, revealing a boy no older than he. His dark hair fell in a mop over his forehead, resting just above a pair of black-rimmed glasses over dark eyes. Eyes that showed nothing but confusion.

“Are you Arif’s new delivery boy?” the boy asked, frowning down at Lockwood.

Lockwood dared not show his confusion. “No. I’m here about the job. Are you –“

“Mr Carlyle?” he guessed. He rolled his eyes, and Lockwood held back a frown. “No. If anyone did their research, they’d know that Lucy Carlyle is the owner. And she’s a girl.”

“Oh. Sorry... So, the interview?”

The boy shrugged, stepping aside. “I suppose. Come on in.”

There was a little flicker of unease in Lockwood’s chest, but he couldn’t afford to let it show. Instead, he glanced around the hallway, taking in every detail about it: the slightly outdated wallpaper; the square marks that indicated photo frames that used to hang there for a while; the umbrella rack holding rapiers much fancier than the one he currently carried in a case. Everything about the hall was elaborate yet, somehow, entirely out of place, like different decades trying to fit together. Who was he to judge, though? He didn’t even have a house.

“Okey-doke,” the boy said, gesturing to a door on the right. “Here we are. Luce, you were right. We’ve got another interview.”

A voice came from inside the room, distinctively not a London accent, but pleasing to the ear all the same. “No, George, I just checked. That was our last one five minutes ago.”

The boy – George – frowned, glancing at Lockwood as he came to stand in the doorway. “Then who’s this?”

Lockwood had little to no time to take in the cluttered living room before his eyes caught the girl in the centre, clearing up some paper from the coffee table.

It was like all the air had been sucked from his lungs when he looked at her. Lucy Carlyle. That’s what George said her name was. And, God, did it fit. She turned to look at him with warm brown eyes, her bobbed hair swishing around her face before settling. She was no older than him, if not a little younger, and he couldn’t help but notice the unprofessional outfit she wore – a blue jumper and trousers, along with some ectoplasm-stained boots – and all of a sudden felt a little out of place in his suit, especially next to George in his orange plaid shirt and graphic tee, but the feelings melted away when Lucy Carlyle smiled at him. Not one of those Oh, I’m so happy to see you smiles, but more of a reassuring one.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have an interview, but I saw the job listing and I was in the area.”

Complete lie. He’d been halfway across London, desperate to find anywhere that would hire him. This was his last hope.

“I’m Anthony Lockwood,” he continued. “But I just go by Lockwood.”

Lucy Carlyle nodded. “Lucy. Well, I’m sure we can fit in one more interview. George, brew some tea, would you?”

George glanced back at Lockwood with a hint of distaste. “Thought I’d wait to see how well he got on before making any.”

“George.” Lucy shot him a look before returning to that reassuring smile. “Please go make some. Lockwood, why don’t you come sit? Don’t mind George. He’s sick of people, now, and he’s not had his biscuits. He gets tetchy when he’s hungry.”

Lockwood could only nod as he sat on the sofa across from Lucy, trying not to think too much about how unprofessional all of this was. If DEPRAC were to see how this company operated in front of applicants, well, they wouldn’t be happy. What with the lack of a uniform, the arguing… He loved it. And, by the looks of it, not a supervisor in sight. Even better.

“Here’s my CV,” he said, pulling the folded paper from his pocket.

Lucy reached out for it, taking it gently and opening it. Her dark eyes scanned over it for a minute, reading each meticulously chosen word, before letting it fall on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at Lockwood, sending a shiver down his spine. Something in her gaze had the ability to freeze him in place.

“So, you’ve got Sight?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s my strongest Talent,” he said. “Deathglows are what I see the best, and I need sunglasses for them sometimes. But ghost-fog, apparitions, all that stuff, I pick out quickly. My Touch and Listening are mild at best.”

Way to talk himself up.

“I’m a Listener,” Lucy said. “Strong, if other people are to be believed. George is an all-rounder, but he’s mostly our researcher. Where was your last job? I’m assuming this isn’t your first.”

“No. I worked at Fittes for a while.”

Lucy turned as George stepped through the door, carrying a tray with mugs of steaming tea and biscuits. “Thanks, George. Well, you two will get on grand. George used to work at Fittes.”

“Mmhm,” George said, sitting in one of the armchairs. Completely uninterested, he plucked a biscuit off the plate and sat back, opting to read a comic.

“Biscuit?” Lucy held out the plate to him. “George’ll only eat them all.”

Gratefully, Lockwood took one. He hadn’t eaten for hours, and he was starving. A biscuit wouldn’t do much, but it was a Digestive, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t just pass that up!

“So, Lockwood,” Lucy said, “I did have tests in place, but George pointed out earlier that they aren’t really inclusive of people with Sight, so I’m going to have to take you on your word with all of this. Do you have a reference from your previous supervisor?”

It was an effort to not choke on his biscuit. “No, I don’t. Everything happened sort of suddenly, so I’ve not had a chance.”

George sniffed. “You could take him to a haunted house, see how he does. Maybe he’ll run off.”

Lockwood teeth ground together, but he plastered on an easy smile. Whenever things were going wrong, that trusty smile of his could get him out of trouble. Surely it could help him deal with a self-righteous teen boy who couldn’t even eat a biscuit without covering his T-shirt in half of it.

But Lucy didn’t even spare him a glance. She was looking straight at Lockwood again, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she considered him.

Then the slight curve of her lips melted into a frown. “Did you say something?”

Lockwood blanched. “What? No?”

Lucy sat back; her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, you did. You just called me – I’m not even going to repeat that! And, to think, I was considering hiring you with no knowledge of your skill.”

“I didn’t –“ He looked at George desperately. “I said nothing.”

And, for a moment, he worried that he had said something and not even realised. But what would he have said? He’d been far too busy being slightly disgusted with George’s method of eating biscuits to have even said anything to her.

To his surprise, George saved the day. “Luce, he didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, he did!”

“No, I swear I didn’t. I –“

Lucy stood and stormed around the coffee table until she was right in front of Lockwood. He worried what she was going to do, but she leaned over his shoulder and yanked open the zipper of his bag. She tore out the big silverglass jar he had stashed in there, holding it in both hands.

He hadn’t really thought anything of it when he stole it. It was just a jar with a source inside – a boring old skull that sometimes came to life when it could be bothered – but he had been so mad with how things had ended that he felt the need to take something from Fittes, just like they’d taken something from him. It had seemed a worthwhile steal, seeing as ghost-jars weren’t overly common.

Currently, the ghost inside was awake, swirling in bright green ectoplasm and pulling the crude faces Lockwood had grown used to these last few days. The past few mornings in his hotel room, he had woken up to see it leering at him and making horrible gestures with made-up hands, and though it had mouthed some obscenely horrible things that Lockwood couldn’t understand, he had kept it for some odd reason.

It was more active than other ghosts, and part of Lockwood hoped that somehow he had bagged a Type Three, as controversial as their existence was. He had started to fall out of that belief. Well, until now.

Lucy glared at the ghost inside, free of that easy smile she’d had mere minutes ago. “Excuse you? You’re a ghost in a jar. You’ve no right to speak to me like that! I’ll throw you into the furnaces myself, see how you like that!”

Lockwood and George shared a look, and the latter dropped his comic book on a side table, leaning forward.

“Uh, Luce?”

“What, George?”

“You’re talking to a ghost.”

“Damn right I am! Didn’t you hear what he called me? Prick.”

“Luce?”

“What?”

“We can’t hear anything he’s saying. That’s – that’s all you.”

Lucy’s scowl softened for a moment, and she glanced between the jar, Lockwood, and George, her cheeks growing red. Angrily, she slammed the jar down on the mantle top, shaking the little pieces of clutter that were scattered across it.

“You’re serious you couldn’t hear it?” she asked.

“No,” George insisted. His gaze turned on Lockwood. “Were you aware you were carrying a Type Three on your back?”

Lockwood hesitated. “Well, I thought, maybe, um…”

George huffed a laugh. “How did you get your hands on that? Fittes keeps them locked up securely. Like, really securely. Believe me, I tried to nick a one before I left.”

A strange thing to bond over, but Lockwood would take whatever he could get. He looked back over at Lucy, who was practically steaming from the ears as she stared at the skull. The horrible thing formed a hand out of the ectoplasm and made a particularly inappropriate gesture that had Lucy beyond seething.

“Well, we can’t just let you go back out on the street with a Type Three,” she said, and though he knew the anger in her tone wasn’t directed at him anymore, he still felt his face grow warm. “And I’m guessing it won’t be as easy as buying it off you.”

She wasn’t wrong. If that really was a Type Three, he sure as hell was keeping it on hand. But… Nobody could talk to Type Threes, nobody besides Marissa Fittes and she was long since dead. And here was Lucy, arguing with one right in front of his eyes as if it were a daily occurrence for her. Only George seemed shocked by it all, staring at both wide-eyed. He needed a job, and they wanted his ghost. It seemed as though there was a deal afoot.

“No. I want a job here. Then you’re free to do what you want with it.”

He spotted the mad flare in George’s eyes and shifted uncomfortably. The kid might not be able to eat a biscuit neatly, but Lockwood had every reason to believe he was somewhat a mad scientist.

“Well, anything within reason.”

Lucy glared at the ghost for a second longer before turning back to Lockwood. “Fine. We’ve a room free upstairs if you want to take it, unless you’ve got separate accommodations? Rent would be taken from your wage.”

He couldn’t seem too excited, so he simply pasted that smile of his on again and said, “That would be great.”

“George, shift whatever crap you’ve got stored in there. Lockwood, welcome to Carlyle and Co.”

#lockwood and co fanfiction #anthony lockwood fanfiction #lucy carlyle fanfiction #george karim fanfiction #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #fanfiction #givemea-dam-break

[so-idialed-9]

7 Masterpost

Uses of 7 (and 7 in groups of 4, 7x4 = 28) by Harry and Louis. I will continue updating this post with new 7s. Updated Nov 11 2023.

Harry wore the peace ring to perform at HSLOT on September 7, 2021. The ring is seen as a commitment ring or symbol of Louis' and Harry's relationship. Some theorize they trade it back and forth when they meet up. He doesn't wear it again until exactly a year later, September 7, 2022

Louis covered 7 by Catfish and the Bottlemen, which starts out with the word Larry, in every show on LTWT22, for the first time again on the final show of the North American FITF Tour 7/29/23 in Forest Hills NY and calls extra attention to it, at AFHF 2023, and at FITFWT Barcelona 10/6/23 the day photos were published of H in London wearing the shared Umbro jumper

I Will Survive at Coachella 2 (4.23.22) was 7 years after 1D performed it in Manila - as a celebration of the Elounor stunt BUA

Harry uses his hands to display the number 7 for Pleasing and bonus! The nails are in 4 colors, 6.30.22

Late Night Talking mv has the private, real relationship as a man in a blue shirt with 4 7s on his sleeves, premiered 7.14.22

7 in the back of Louis' blue sun/sol azul tour shirt for Brisbane 1, 7.19.22

Harry scored the crowd a 7 at singing Kiwi at HSLOT Krakow, 7.19.22

7 years in the Aussie The Project interview for Louis, 7.20.22

7 in Louis' Australian Today interview - the interviewer mentions its been 10 years since he's been on the show and he responds it's been 7 years since the band toured there, 7.21.22

Harry posted 7 on IG of this bts photo for HSLOT Krakow, posted 7.20.22

John Delf’s Louis Tomlinson Changeover playlist on Spotify was updated to remove 28 songs and add 7 songs.  7.30.22

7 of the John Delf LT Changeover playlist songs are also on HSLOT’s pre/post-show playlist. 7.30.22

LT2 vinyl has 7 tracks on each side from the Amazon 'leak' 8.11.22

LT2 Amazon vinyl release scheduled for 11.11.22, 28 months after Louis announces Syco contract end

L and H saw Ed Sheeran in Manchester where Lego House was the 7th song on the setlist. All Along lyrics are "we saw Ed in Manchester, I held you while he played."

Bonus! Lego House is an exit song twice for LTWT22, and one of those times is the day HS3 is released.

Louis' Bigger Than Me promo reel features this image of 7 Louis photos and 7 28's, and Louis with a green eye. 8.31.22

Louis' friends and family referencing the number 7 on social media

September 7, 2022, Harry wears the peace ring to perform at MSG

Louis' F1 playlist released Sept 7, 2022 has 7 by Catfish and the Bottlemen and the Arctic Monkeys' 505, which had a chorus referencing 7 9.7.22

Helene Horlyck posted an IG photo with Louis and Lottie at Taylor Swift's party. It was taken post-Haylor stunt on May 19, 2015. Helene captioned it 7 year hop with orange hearts. 9.9.22

Harry's diamond ring has 7 stones

"All Of Those Voices" premieres at 7 pm local time everywhere, 3.22.23

Louis gets 4 finger tattoos, making the number of tattoos on his hands 7. 4.5.23 His two ring fingers are the 8/♾️ and pyramid/🔺️

Louis covers Arctic Monkeys' 505 on FITF tour, about wanting to get back to your lover waiting in a hotel room, even if it takes a 7 hour flight, starting 5.2023

Louis sings and dances to 7 Nation Army to celebrate his team's birthday, FITFWT Woodlands TX, 7.8.23

Z8/28 on the saddle of Harry's horse in the Daylight mv, released 7.19.23

77 days between the mv release of Late Night Talking and Sept 28, and 77 days between Sept 28 and Daylight mv release.

Louis switches up his setlist for the final show of the North American FITF tour leg in Forest Hills NY by singing 7 again with the intro "I don't want to introduce the next tune, but I don't really know how to close this without her. Enjoy the next tune!" 7/29/23

Louis sings 7 again at Barcelona for the UK FITF tour leg, the same day photos appear of Harry (from 10/5/23) wearing the infamous boyfriend Umbro shirt, 10/6/23

Louis' website is updated to celebrate Faith In the Future One Year On; the source code includes a massive 369 (made out of 3s, 6s, 9, and colons) that begins on line 7, 11/11/23 thank you to @wendersfive for the addition!

Plus let's not forget all the twisted DNA strand sunburst/kiwi clothing/checkered flag shit

But don't stop now! Bring on the cryptic numerology, drive us insane please - we love it.

At this point, with the 28 and 4 7s and 369, the only numbers they haven't claimed are 1, 5, and 0.

#masterpost #7 #28 #rbb 2022 #louis tomlinson #harry styles #cryptic mofos #pleasing #ltwt22 #hslot krakow #harrychella #coachella #late night talking mv #coded clothing #elounor stunt #louis tomlinson interviews #2022 #larry stylinson #larry af #369 #jdelf #exit song #hslot playlist #lt2 leak #lego house #peace ring #playlist #louis' friends outing #tattoos #daylight mv

[madeintheniamh]

Heyyyyy! Can you do one where Tilly gets her first boyfriend, and Harry really wants to meet him so she brings him home for dinner? And after words Harry is all sentimental that she’s going up and stuff :))))) Love your stories btw

it's here! i put a bit of a spin on it but hope you still like it anyway xx

posh boys with rich girls

stmf one shot #15

when harry dropped tilly off at the prep school gates for the first time nearly fifteen years ago, he didn't realise that he had signed his future self up for having to deal with the notoriously stuck up private school boys.

a/n: this is exactly what i think a casual saturday in the styles house would be like. pizza and wine always. absolutely no 'posh people' food as harry would probably call it.

warnings: fluff, dadrry, teenagers, rich stuck up boys lol

Tilly had convinced herself that she could keep a secret from her Dad for once in her life, because she knew how protective he could be over her. He got scared when she fell from extension as a flyer in cheer- so imagining how dramatic he’d be when he found out about her new boyfriend made her stomach churn a bit. In his eyes, no one would ever be good enough for his girls- apart from him. This was quite a narcissistic way of putting it, he knew that, but he couldn’t help his standards being so high.

“You’re going out with Este again?” He joked. “I didn’t know she got a new car,”

“Yes, haha,” Tilly tried to chuckle, her face going red. “It’s really nice,”

“Can I come outside and see it?”

She shuffled around on the spot, trying to hide the fact that she was lying through her teeth.

“We’re busy, Daddy,” She bit her lip slightly, as he surveyed her guilty face. “We’re already late, I-”

Her face was now a shade of crimson as he pressed the button on the control to zoom in on the image on the security cameras that were on the driveway.

“Wow, didn’t know Este had her haircut, either,”

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and began to bite one of her nails. “Yeah, looks nice,”

“Matilda Gemma,” He tutted, a line forming in-between his eyebrows. “Are you lying to your Daddy?”

She scorned slightly. “No, I would never lie to you,”

He took her chin in his palm and forced her to look into his eyes. “You know I don’t like it when you lie to me, Tilly Gem,”

She shivered, feeling his cold breath on the side of her neck. “M’not lying, I swear,”

“Why don’t you want me to come out there then, hmm?”

“Okay! I’m lying! Stop looking at me like that, it’s scaring me!” She threw her hands up in defeat.

“Well, is he from school? What’s his name? How long have you been seeing him?” Harry panted, his voice beginning to become shaky. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I knew you’d be funny about it!” Tilly shouted as she began to turn back towards the front porch.

“What do you mean?” Harry protested. “I’m never funny about anything!”

“Right now, look, you’re being weird, stop!” Tilly scolded, one hand on the door handle, the other on her purse.

“You tell him he’s coming round for dinner this weekend, no excuses!” Harry shouted back at her, as she was now halfway down the drive. “I need to meet him!”

---

Henry had gotten with a few rich girls in his time, and had met many of their rich Dads as a result. But none like Tilly Styles. Most girls who went to private school in North London had Dads who worked as plastic surgeons on Harley Street, or were big bosses in corporate in those tall towers in Canary Wharf. She had promised him that her dad was perfectly normal, even if he was one of the most famous men in the music industry. But of-course he was normal to her, he thought, because he was her dad.

“I’m not scared of a man who sings about fruit, I’m not scared of a man who sings about fruit,” He muttered to himself repeatedly as he sat nervously behind the wheel of his BMW. He looked up at the house in front of him, and shuddered slightly. He was rich himself- his father was a CEO at one of the big law firms in Westminster. But he hadn’t realised just how rich Harry Styles really was. He couldn’t understand how Tilly was so humble, having grown up in a house like this. He was probably half a mile away from the front door- fountains at the centre of the drive which a lush collection of cars hid behind, including Tilly’s little Audi TT, which was pretty scratched up as a result of her questionable parking every morning at Sixth Form. He jumped slightly as the hands-free system on his car began to speak.

1 new message from Tils

“we can see you hiding in the car… just come out already he’s really not that bad”

Swearing to himself, he opened the car door and made the long trek down the drive, before finally reaching the sheltered porch and ringing the button on the door. He thought that Tilly almost looked out of place as she opened it. She was wearing a white button up dress, her hair curled into tiny blonde ringlets that rested just below her collarbone.

“Hi,” He smiled awkwardly, struggling to put his hands around her back with a bottle of red wine in one hand, and a bunch of flowers in the other.

“These are so pretty, thank you,” She smiled, as he handed her the bouquet. “I love daisies, they’re my favourite,”

He caressed her back slightly, as he heard a deep laugh come from down the hallway. She took the bottle of wine from his other hand and began to laugh.

“Think Daddy’s already had too much of this,” She chuckled, as she turned and began to walk towards the kitchen. She turned around and noticed he was still stood by the front door.

“Come on, don’t be scared,” She giggled again, dimples beginning to show on her cheeks, gesturing for him to follow her. “He’s just a tall, soppy man,”

Harry still had a glass in his hand as he watched Tilly walk into the kitchen, and stood up from where he was sitting at one of the bar stools. He was wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a loose band t-shirt. It was hard to tell that he was a 42-year-old multi-millionaire just by looking at him.

“Daddy, this is Henry,”

“Hi, Mr Styles,” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Harry is fine,” Harry laughed, holding his hand out. “Although, our names are similar, so that could get confusing. You’re the posh version of me,”

Henry tried to laugh as he shook his hand, but it sounded more like a cough. He looked over at Tilly, who was clearly amused by the awkward situation. He noticed all the tattoos littering his left arm. His father had always told him that rich people never got tattoos, because it wasn’t classy. But he had to admit- it looked good on Harry, even if some of them were starting to fade.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tilly asked, trying to break the silence. “The pizza’s going to be here in a minute,”

You had been in the utility room, silently listening in on the conversation whilst waiting putting the finishing touches on the crème brulee which you planned to serve for dessert. It was almost perfect timing, as the timer went off and you strolled into the kitchen, chuckling slightly at the wide-eyed look on Tilly’s new boyfriend’s face.

“Hi, Henry,” You smiled. “I hope he hasn’t scared you,”

“Oh, no, Mrs Styles, it’s just, you have such a nice house and everything,”

Tilly jutted in. “Daddy works hard, too hard,” She giggled, as Harry passed her a handful of 20 pound notes to give to the delivery driver. Henry looked at her wide eyed. His father would never give tips to people in those sort of jobs.

“I hope pizza is okay for you, it’s what we always have on a Saturday night… a Styles family tradition, I guess,”

“No, that sounds lovely,” He smiled. “But we usually have filet mignon on Saturdays,”

You swore you heard Harry scoff, as Henry’s eyes grew even wider when he saw the three of you begin to open the boxes, not even bothering to plate up the food properly.

“So, Henry,” Harry drawled slightly, the wine beginning to go to his head, as he shovelled a slice of pizza into his mouth. “What do your parents do?”

“Well, my Father works in the legal sector, and my Mother well, she spends most of her time at the country club,”

Harry tried not to choke on his food as he held back a laugh. “Wow, clever people jobs,” He snorted slightly. “What are you going to do when you finish your A-Levels?”

“My father says he is going to get me a job, in the legal industry,” Henry replied, you cringing slightly at the received pronunciation with which he pronounced his words.

“Sounds… interesting,” Harry replied, turning at you and rolling his eyes slightly.

---

After a couple of hours of awkward conversation, he had gone home and Tilly had gone back upstairs. You and Harry were still sat at the kitchen counter, as Harry filled up his glass of wine for the 5th time that night. His voice had gotten slow- painfully slower than it usually was, as he told you literally everything he had been thinking for the past few hours.

“I knew Mum was right when she said we should have sent them both to schools up North,” he sighed, fiddling with one of the rips in his jeans.

“What do you mean, lovey?” You asked, not quite understanding what he meant. “They’ve both been fine, here,”

“Ohhhh, my Father works in the legal sector,” Harry mocked, too drunk to notice the room’s newest occupant, who had come downstairs to get herself a glass of water, and was now staring wide eyed at Harry. “Their accents are already too posh for me, I just want them to be normal, and be around normal people, not with a load of rich twats,”

“Harry,” you gestured to your daughter who was now stood still at the opposite side of the room.

“Oh hey, Tils, you okay?”

“-You don’t like him.” She scorned, her brows becoming furrowed in the way that his did whenever he was annoyed.

“Tilly, I- that’s not true-”

“I knew I shouldn’t have brought him round.” She sulked, beginning to walk away, before Harry got up from the counter and blocked her from leaving.

“Hey, look, baby-girl, it’s not that I don’t like him,”

“Then why did you just say that? I heard everything,”

“Look, come and sit down with your Daddy,” he sighed, gesturing for her to follow him to the sofa next to the patio doors. He stroked a hand through a ringlet of her hair as she lent into him.

“I don’t not like him. He seems like a nice guy, he really does. It’s just hard for me to see you growing up, sometimes, because you and your sister are my babies, and it’s really hard for me to let go of you both,” He explained, as she placed her arm around his shoulder. “I can’t really explain it, but that’s just how it is, and I just don’t want you to get hurt, because it would hurt me, too,”

She laughed slightly, almost not believing what he had said. “But Daddy, I’m nearly eighteen,” She laughed. “You’ll have to let me go when I go to uni in September,”

“I know, I know,” he exhaled slowly. “Doesn’t make it easier, though, because you’re still my little girl. I still remember when you were little and I used to take you to ballet lessons,”

Tilly giggled a bit. “I made you wear the tutu, didn’t I,”

“You did,” He laughed, peppering a kiss to her forehead. “And I loved every second of it,”

She fully relaxed into his tall frame, feeling his slow heartbeat underneath her.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all,” He sighed. “Boys can be arses, I know that. And you’re the most important thing in the world to me, and it would break me,”

She took a deep breath, nuzzling her chin into his warm chest. “Okay, Daddy,”

“You promise me that no matter what, you know you can tell me anything, and I’ll be there, always. Promise.”

He looked down at her, green eyes identical to his staring back at him. “And fuck filet mignon on Saturdays- what even is that? Pizza is way better.”

---

i had to google what filet mignon actually was lol. looking at the photos it looks absolutely grim. how do people eat that. harry is right. pizza is always better.

if you enjoyed this one shot, i have linked the masterlist to my slipping through my fingers series here!

also thank you to the anon who requested this- please request more i beg you <3

#dadrry #harry styles imagine #harry styles dad #harry styles fluff #stmf #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles

[grandmaster-anne]

PRINCESS ANNE’S LOVE FOR SCOTLAND

Great Scots News article by Bernard Bale

Just like her late mother, HM Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Anne has always had a strong affection for Scotland…

“I didn’t ask to be born a princess!” she once replied to an interviewer’s leading questions. It was partly a rebuke, but it was also a telling statement from Princess Anne. 

Even though she did not ask to be born a princess, nobody could ever accuse Princess Anne of shirking her responsibilities. She has been tagged ‘the working princess’ and even anti-royalists have to admit that Princess Anne lives up to that label.

She has proved herself time and again to be capable of bringing a ray of sunshine to many of the world’s less fortunate people, yet on the day she was born – 15 August 1950 – it was a rainy morning in London. Almost prophetically, the skies cleared and the sun appeared just as Big Ben struck noon. Only 10 minutes before, Anne had been born.

The birth was announced in a Court Circular issued immediately. It simply stated: “At 11.50 o’clock this morning, Her Royal Highness The Princess Elizabeth, Duchess of Edinburgh, was safely delivered of a Princess at Clarence House.”

Duchess of Edinburgh? Yes, prior to her ascension to the throne, HM Queen Elizabeth II was the third royal to hold this title – George III’s mother was the first – but has any royal nailed their tartan colours to the mast more evidently than the Princess Royal, Princess Anne?

“Scotland is such a beautiful country with such passionate people, who could fail to want to be a part of it?” she once said. Those were not idle words either. 

Throughout the years her affinity with Scotland has grown and grown. It may have all started when she was five years old and started to really take notice of her surroundings.

Anne had been to Scotland before, but this was a different trip in that she journeyed with her mother and Prince Charles to the village of Portvoller on the Isle of Lewis, further north than she had ever been before. The holiday not only cemented her love of Scotland, but during the trip the Royal Family visited Tiumpan Head Lighthouse on the Eye Peninsula and thus also began Anne’s love of lighthouses. 

Like her older brother, Anne was close to her grandmother, Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, who also had such a love of Scotland that she considered herself to be a Scot even though she was born in England. 

Much of her maternal grandmother’s childhood was spent at Glamis Castle and the whole family have always loved Balmoral, so it is not surprising that Anne has such an affinity with Scotland. “My grandmother was a great influence on all of us, but I don’t think any of us needed convincing to have a love of Scotland,” she said on one of her many tours.

The Princess Royal’s busy schedule is legendary, with more than 500 official engagements every year and sometimes nearer 700. Many of those engagements are in connection with charities and organisations of Scottish origin or with branches dotted around the country. 

Then, of course, there is rugby. Anne hardly ever misses a home match and has travelled abroad to support the Scottish national team. Her son, Peter, won Scotland Schoolboy international caps and there was never a prouder mum looking on whenever he played.

The princess has always had a love of sport, of course, having represented Great Britain in equestrian events at the Olympics, and she has made no secret of her love of rugby and being Patron of the Scottish Rugby Union, but she is also an avid sailor and looks forward to her holidays in Scotland where she and her husband, Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, regularly sail – and, of course, visit lighthouses. That first experience at Tiumpan Head would eventually lead to her becoming a keen pharologist.

Talking of married life, Princess Anne and Sir Tim tied the knot at Crathie Kirk, near Balmoral, and spent their honeymoon in the Highlands rather than on an exotic island somewhere in the Caribbean. 

As she approaches 70, the Princess Royal shows no signs of slowing down, and why would she? We are talking of a princess who survived a kidnap attempt, has competed in the tough world of horse racing and is generally regarded as a no-nonsense lady who likes nothing better than to wrap a tartan scarf around her neck and go for a walk with the dogs in the Highlands. “I am a member of the Royal Family,” she said. “Certain things are expected of me, but I am also a human being.”

Away from the media spotlight and the public perception, what is she really like? She has the reputation of being grumpy, but nothing could be further from the truth. Her son-in-law, ex-England rugby star Mike Tindall revealed, “She has a great sense of humour and she is very knowledgeable about many things, especially rugby.”

Her son, Peter, also spoke glowingly of his mother, “If ever we showed signs of getting above our station, she is the first one to bring us back to earth and she has always been there to give advice on life in general, invaluable advice.” Her daughter, Zara, echoed the same view adding, “She is great fun, has a wicked sense of humour and she is a good dancer too.”

Now we are really getting behind the scenes. We know that she likes a drink but is moderate, a whisky now and then, but probably more often a Martini at the end of a busy day.

She also genuinely appreciates the many gifts she receives during official engagements, especially chocolates. Many times, her smile has widened when she’s received chocolates and she will say, “These will not get home.” That is not a scripted response, she means it and they don’t.

Princess Anne, the Princess Royal holds many titles and quite a few of them are related to Scotland, but what will surely delight her more than anything is that she has often been referred to as ‘the unofficial Queen of Scots’ – a sobriquet of which she is undoubtedly proud.

#enjoyed reading this one #i really loved her comment on the chocolate bit #hehehe #sweet tooth #princess anne #princess royal #scotlanned #article

[justforbooks]

In the closing minutes of Wales’s Five Nations meeting with France at Cardiff Arms Park in March 1976, the home side were resisting an onslaught by the visitors when the French wing Jean-François Gourdon found some space on the touchline by the north stand. Gourdon was then hit by a shuddering shoulder charge from Wales’s full-back, JPR Williams, that all but sent him spinning into the crowd. Williams raised his fist in triumph and Wales held on to win 19-13 and complete a seventh grand slam.

In truth, Williams’s tackle was far from legal, but the incident remains an indelible image in the minds of Welsh rugby supporters – that and a photograph of the Bridgend No 15 with blood pouring from his face after being trampled by a visiting All Blacks boot. International rugby in the 1970s was not for the squeamish, and JPR survived by being not just supremely skilful, but as hard as nails.

Williams, who has died aged 74 from bacterial meningitis, would forever be known as JPR, the three most evocative initials in the sport. Only France’s Serge Blanco could rival him as the greatest full-back in history. When the law-makers of the international board prevented the ball from being kicked directly into touch in 1968 it gave the opportunity for Williams and others such as Scotland’s Andy Irvine to forge a template for how a modern attacking full-back should play.

The source of Williams’s famous hardness is surprising. Unusually for top-class players in Wales, he came from a comfortable middle-class home. Williams once told of how he turned up at a Wales Schoolboys’ trial in a Rolls Royce. His upbringing, he said served as an incentive “to prove to my mates that I was tough and one of them”.

John Peter Rhys was born in Bridgend to Peter and Margaret, both doctors. Margaret had been born in Rochdale, so young John could have played for England, but that was not a subject much discussed in the Williams household.

It was on the lawns of Wimbledon rather than the muddy fields of Cardiff Arms Park or Bridgend that Williams first made his mark as a sportsman of renown. As a 17-year-old, he won the 1966 British junior tennis title at Wimbledon, beating David Lloyd in the final.

He was gaining a reputation at rugby in Bridgend, where his father was the club president and doctor. By this time Williams had left Bridgend grammar school for Millfield school in Somerset, where future Wales scrum-half Gareth Edwards was a pupil.

From Millfield, Williams went to St Mary’s hospital in London and had a spell at the London Welsh club. He chose to continue playing the amateur sport rather than tennis and concentrate on his medical studies, his father having told him that he would not make a living as a professional sportsman.

He was still a teenager when he was called into a Wales squad to tour Argentina in the summer of 1968. There were great expectations of the new boy John Williams, as he was then known, when he made his full Wales debut against Scotland at Murray Field the following February.

Wales had a new coach, their former captain Clive Rowlands. Barry John at fly-half scored the final try in Wales’s 17-3 win. Something was brewing in Wales and the 70s were a golden age. Once Phil Bennett, alongside Edwards, established himself as Barry John’s natural heir and once JPR was joined by the wings JJ Williams and Gerald Davies, Wales became an unstoppable force in northern hemisphere rugby. At the heart of their team was JPR, instantly recognisable with his Elvis-Presley style sideburns, flowing hair and socks often pulled down to his ankles.

What set him apart was his success as an attacking player which, allied to that rock-solid defensive play, made him a permanent fixture in the Wales side between his 1969 debut and 1981, when he retired from international rugby. He burnished his reputation on the successful British Lions tours to New Zealand in 1971 and South Africa in 1974, playing in all four Tests on each. Williams had been on a Wales tour to New Zealand in 1969 when they were humbled by the All Blacks in two Tests so the 2-1 series win by the Lions two years later came as a big relief.

In Auckland he settled the series with a long-range drop-goal in the final Test. It came as a surprise to his team-mates, but England’s Bob Hiller, his full-back understudy on that tour, had apparently joked to him that he could not consider himself a proper international until he had dropped a goal.

In South Africa three years later, Williams was heroic again as Willie John McBride’s team prevailed in an often brutal series win over the Springboks. The Lions’ call of “99” often signalled all-out punch-ups, and the sight of Williams racing upfield to thump the much larger South African lock Moaner van Heerden was a memorable one, though, as Williams confessed later it was not something of which he was particularly proud.

Williams won 55 caps for Wales, five of them as captain in 1978-79; in 1977 he was appointed MBE. In between those Lions victories he scored the final try in the Barbarians’ famous victory over the All Blacks at the Arms Park in 1973, and after retiring from the international stage played club rugby for Tondu as a back-rower until 2003, when he was 54.

He met Scilla (Priscilla) Parkin at medical school, and they married in 1973. His principal post as a trauma and orthopaedic surgeon was at the Princess of Wales hospital, Bridgend (1986–2004). Williams rarely joined the ranks of retired players who became pundits, but he was always happy to talk about a stellar career, particularly the 11 games against England, in which he always ended on the winning side.

He is survived by Scilla and their children, Lauren, Annie, Fran and Peter.

🔔 John Peter Rhys Williams, rugby player and orthopaedic surgeon, born 2 March 1949; died 8 January 2024

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

#just for books #JPR Williams #in memoriam

[ojcobsessed]

Helming Jamie Childs' new crime-thriller, the actor talks tuning into a character, writing out their history and embracing the spontaneity of his own.

BY SOPHIE WANG

In early January 2022, as the rest of us added layer upon layer, watching the temperatures drop to zero, Oliver Jackson-Cohen travelled north of his London home and jumped bravely into the North Sea. “I’m really proud of the whole movie, but I’m quite proud that we all made it out alive, really,” he tells me nine months later, home safe with rays of morning sun separating us from the realities of his time filming, Jackdaw.

The debut feature from TV writer and director Jamie Childs (The Sandman, His Dark Materials), Jackdaw tells the story of Jackson-Cohen’s Jack Dawson, a former motocross champion and army veteran who, in an effort to support his younger brother, agrees to pick up a mysterious package in the North Sea, only to find himself tricked and his brother kidnapped. Subsequently, Jackdaw — as he’s better known — embarks on a one-night, breakneck journey through Northern England’s rust belt on his bike, reconnecting with his past as the subtleties in his complex backstory and familial history slowly unravel against a backdrop of nail-biting action.

The nuanced portrayal of such a character could possibly only be achieved by Jackson-Cohen, who seamlessly masters the art of tuning into his character’s psyche. Since a childhood trip to see Home Alone in the cinema, the 36-year-old has been fascinated by the possibility of disappearing into someone else’s world and delving into their stories. Subsequently booking his first job at 15 years old, the London native has spent the past decade and a half immersed in alternate worlds, from the horrors of 2018’s The Haunting of Hill House and 2020’s The Invisible Man to the post-WWII reality of Man in an Orange Shirt and the 19th-century Yorkshire of last year’s Emma Mackie-led, Emily. He mentions twice in our chat that at this point in his journey, he feels “like 150 years old”, and it’s hard to be surprised. Between time-travelling, fronting countless stories and embodying dozens of different people, he’s lived many lives.   “I always think it's quite funny that this passion was born as a kid and here I am as an adult doing it,” he laughs. “I do sometimes think: ‘Is that the smartest fucking thing?’ Because when you're a kid, you have all of these ideas and they're not the smartest ones.”

Though some of his childhood plays (written and directed by him and his friends) may have had “zero plot”, as Jackson-Cohen tells me, and it took him a bit of time in his early twenties to figure out the projects that would resonate with him, it is safe to say that his childhood dream was definitely not a bad idea. “I think with any passion that stems from childhood, the drive is so insane. I think with anything creative, you have to have this insane determination, regardless of where it stems from. It's just this weird drive forward that you kind of can't stop.” He pauses. “I feel like I've had many iterations of a career. I look back at the stuff I was doing in my early twenties and it was very much what I was told to be doing. I think it takes time to make mistakes and learn from those to actually find out what it is that resonates with you. Ultimately, I think it probably has something to do with exploring something that I'm not looking at in myself and being able to unlock that, to explore that with a character.”

Hearing this, it is easy to see why the Jackdaw lead would be a perfect fit for the role. However, he didn’t originally believe the part should be his. “I'd met Jamie Childs on a job I was on before and we got to know each other genuinely,” he explains. “He started to talk to me about this idea, this script that he was writing and when he was finished, he called me up and asked if I’d read it. Then he went, ‘Will you play Jackdaw?’ And I immediately said, ‘Jamie, I don't think I'm the right person for that. Do you know who you should hire? You should hire this person.’ And he was like, ‘No.’ And I was like, ‘No, do you know what? You should hire this person...’ And I kept throwing ideas at him.” Eventually, perhaps after exhausting every other option for Childs, the actor agreed and dove headfirst into the lead, making it implausible that his alternative suggestion could have embodied it so definitively.

“I feel like all of us jumped in because of our belief in Jamie,” he says. “And I think to have your protagonist be someone that is flawed and vulnerable and not your [stereotypical] sort of action hero was such a clever move on his end. It just felt like nothing I'd ever been a part of before. And there was something in that script about someone feeling like there isn't a place where they belong and being thrown into a position of having to care for someone and the tragedy that's gone on with their mum… all of that became a really interesting thing to play around with.”

Building out a character’s story is one of the most exciting parts of the job for Jackson-Cohen. With Jackdaw, this meant lots of meetings and discussions with Childs and co-star Jenna Coleman, who plays his love interest, Bo. “We sat down and hashed out when they were together and how long they were together and what happened and when the last time they saw each other was,” he says. “I think what’s so clever with Jamie is that he doesn't really over-explain, but he drops these pebbles as you go. And I think they're quite effective. It’s like, you know Jack's been away in the army. You don't really know why, but whatever it was, it wasn't good. So it was trying to figure out, 'okay, what was it?' And I don't think you necessarily see it on screen, but for me, my favourite part of it is trying to write out a life for them.”

For Jackson-Cohen, with any story he portrays, getting into character isn’t necessarily about becoming someone else. Rather, it’s about tapping into what’s already within him. “It’s like when you're in a music studio,” he says. “You've got all those dials and it's about turning something up that exists within you that you don't necessarily tap into and turning certain other things down. It's all coming from you.”

“In real life, I rarely get emotional, and I think it's because I have this outlet,” he continues. “There's this space where you can go and it's safe to experience and feel all of this stuff. It’s this weird, playful safety bubble that you get to go off to and play around where, ultimately, it’s real in the moment, but it's not real in your life.”

However, sometimes his body doesn’t register the difference between his own experiences and those of his character. “I played a character in the past who was a heroin addict and that was really hard [to get out of] because you are left with this inherent heaviness of all the stuff that you've created and felt in your head,” he explains. “Or earlier this year, I did a film set around the beginning of the Holocaust. And so you’d come home at the end of the day and you’d know it's not real, but your body can't really tell the difference. So you get these weird sort of hangovers if it's incredibly heavy and emotional. You know it's not real, but your body's playing catch up.”

“The older I get, the more embarrassed I get to say that this is my job because it's such a fucking stupid job. But also, I absolutely love it.” He laughs. “I feel so unbelievably grateful that I get to do this as a job. I always eye-roll when actors say things like, ‘Oh, it's such a privilege,’ but I do feel incredibly grateful because I get to go off and explore these parts of humanity that I would never otherwise.”

While he might endeavour to plot out the history of his characters, Jackson-Cohen’s very much letting his own future write itself. “Part of the exciting thing about being an actor is that you don't really know what's going to come in or what you're going to read that's going to excite you. I want to be surprised. I'd love to work here, in small filmmaking, with first-time directors, telling stories that people may love or hate, anything that's trying to say something a little different.” He pauses. “But until I read it, I won't know.”

Jackdaw is out in UK cinemas now and Wilderness is available to watch on Prime Video!

#oliver jackson-cohen #oliver jackson cohen #jackdaw film #wilderness tv #the world will tremble #interviews #2024 #jackdaw

[scotianostra]

On July 16th 1882 thirty-one Shetland "sixerns", with a total of 105 crewmen were lost in a storm. The event is still remembered as "The Bad Day".

This post covers three Shetland fishing tragedies over a 68 year period, it ended the centuries old tradition of Haff fishing in small six manned bots in the open waters of the North Atlantic around Shetland. Two of these tragedies happened in July, the third in December, however I have decided to post about the three in the one post.

There were between 300 and 500 sixareens or sixerns in Shetland. The Haaf fishing proved to be a hard life for these boats and they only tended to last 5 or 6 years. When they finished their lives as a fishing vessel some ended up being used as a flit boat for moving livestock, peats and other goods between islands or from ship to shore. The sixareens may eventually have ended up as the roof of shed or outbuilding. Nothing was ever wasted in Shetland, especially if it was wooden!

The men would travel up between 20 and 40 miles offshore. As the men were dealing with a prevailing wind, they could usually only sail in one direction. They were always happier if they could row out with a relatively light boat and sail back with a heavy load of fish!

When they reached the fishing grounds, the fishermen would barely be in sight of the highest hills in Shetland. They would have sea all around them.

Haaf fishing was very dangerous due to the unpredictable nature of the weather far out at sea. However, when you look at the numbers of men that fished and the length of time that they fished for, the actual disasters are relatively few.

On 16th July 1832 31 Shetland “sixareens” and a total of 105 crewmen were lost in a storm. The event is still remembered as “The Bad Day”. A London Distress Fund was set up and raised the sum of £3000. The money was raised for the dependants of the crofter-fishermen lost. The crew of one boat in 1832, did manage a lucky escape from the storm as they were picked up by a passing American sloop. However, the Captain of the American vessel refused to alter his course to Philadelphia and so, despite passing close to Orkney, the survivors had to cross the Atlantic and endure a further six months away from home before returning.

During another storm on 20th July 1881, hurricane force winds caught the fishermen by surprise. The boats that tried to come home were mostly capsized or swamped, but those that stayed at their lines for the most part survived. In all ten boats foundered and 58 Haaf fishermen lost their lives. They left behind 34 widows and 85 orphans. Six of these boats and 36 of the men were from the fishing station at Gloup in North Yell. It was a tragic loss for a small community.

On the morning of 21st December 1900, boats from Firth, Mossbank and Toft set off for the winter haddock fishing. They were some 32 kilometres (20 miles) away, between the Horse of Burravpoe and  Snap, when they were caught in a sudden and severe gale from the north-west. Many were lost during the storm which came on in the space of five minutes. The fleet were scattered. One made it to Whalsay, Skerries and Lunning but the rest were lost.

22 men were drowned, leaving 15 widows (5 of whom were pregnant), and 51 children. Firth was hit the hardest. Many of the men were great fishermen and the disaster devastated the Delting fishing industry, which never recovered. The women continued to work the crofts. Children grew up and moved away, leading to a rapid decline in population.

The plight of the families left destitute led to a lot of publicity in local and national press. The Delting Disaster Fund was set up to help those affected and it was one of Queen Victoria’s last public acts to appeal for support.

These major fishing disasters signalled the beginning of the end for Haaf fishing. The herring fishery in the 1880s and the Crofter’s Act of 1886, which put an end to the truck system, were two more nails in its coffin.

Larger safer boats were introduced and undecked sixareens were replaced by fully decked smacks. Fishermen could finally install a few home comforts. However, when the steam trawler was introduced, longlining in large sailing boats couldn’t compete economically. Haaf fishing stopped quite quickly at this point.

There are few sixareens left in Shetland. There are a couple of replicas and bits and pieces lying around here and there. At the Shetland Museum and Archives there’s a replica sixareen called the Vaila Mae. She sails regularly in Lerwick Harbour and you can even get a trip on her during Shetland Boat Week!

One of the only surviving sixareens from the past can be seen in the Shetland Museum, see pic teo, . She was built as the Foula mail boat, which fished for a little while and then ended up as a flit boat for shifting peats. She didn’t spend much of her life as a fishing sixareen.

You can find memorials all over Shetland to those lost at sea.

#Scotland #scottish #northern isles #shetland #fishing tragedy #history

[crimson-phantom-designs]

So in my under the weather mind, I had an idea of a few variations where once being discovered for who he really was, Francis dissappears to life at sea as a privateer what eventually turns into a notorious captain of The Barbary pirates coining himself the name Black King of the Ottoman corsairs striking terror in the coasts of Europe, North Africa all the way to Tripoli. (Somehow my characters always turn to piracy at some point in any fandom, I swear 🤣 Francis just would look nice as a pirate lord OKAY)

Years later, one of his fleet strikes raids through London's Thames again, yet this time worse in retaliation to EITC taking down some of their ships. They're busting down business, taking whatever isn't nailed down and setting the rest to burn whilst battling the royal forces. Eb makes sure he's out in the midst of it this time to try and find Francis and asks if they know Osman, he knows him and he wants to convene with him. Securing his idea of meeting with what he thinks is a guarantee by quoting parlay(Eb you poor idiot, stop mixing your adventure novels with real life).

Which they would delightfully sneer in entertainment. "Oh he doesn't go by that name anymore but we know who you are, he bloody hates you- but we'll gladly take you to him." He gets taken prisoner but they do leave after that and will take him to Francis main vessel in eager hopes of a bounty of their lord's worst kept secret fixation of spiteful vindication.

Francis at this point is madly hostile and ever bit his reputation over Eb not leaving with him years ago so this could go one of two ways. What Eb knows but doesn't care for Eb himself has repined in regret for not leaving from having been afraid to. He feels responsible for turning Francis into the terror he's become and just wants to stop the violence he caused, to apologize and confess then let whatever be may. At least he got it off his chest and said his peace.

Friend after telling them this: Hey have you watched Our Flag Means Death?

Me: No... It's that pirate series right? I haven't heard much about it but I do love pirates. Is it a new show?

Friend: Yeah... you should... You basically described it. It's two middle aged men down bad for each other and goes horribly because one wouldn't accept his feelings leaving the other to brood in a emo, angsty mess of violent rage. They act like a rogue version of your Francis and Scrooge. They're about to come out with a second season.

Me: O^O ...Why am I always the outler to hear about good shows, what the hell? I didn't know it was about two men that need to just smash each other! That's made for me!

@rom-e-o thought you might find this amusing. My mind is a circus sometimes. I don't see myself writing this but definitely would enjoy some pirate style artwork for it.

#I could see Eb sitting there blindfolded #fully prepared to be blown to smithereens. #He's kept in that suspense as he says his peace then just snatched at the waist and taken to his quarters. #fun fact alot of lgbt folks became pirates back then to live freely outside of religious tyranny. #I don't see myself writing this but its a fun concept 😅 #scroogeposting #oc francis osman #pirate francis