#then why does the word British exist

[britishaccentcharacterpoll]

Ok imma be real it's getting to the point where I hope Demoman goes out (I love him) just so I never have to read another tag comment about how he's not British ever again

#mod posts #guys #if scotland and wales (i've had one or two comments about this wrt Nia as well) aren't Britain #if Ireland isn't Britain #then why does the word British exist #it would just be English #I'm starting to wish I just called this englishaccentcharacterpoll and excluded Demo and Shrek and Nia #which would be a huge shame bc they're among the characters that have generated the most fun engagement #plus I fucking love Nia and Demo (neutral on Shrek lol) #but it's so tiring #the main reason it's so tiring is that I specifically encouraged non-English British accents to be included #specifically BECAUSE i fucking hate people thinking British=English #I wanted as much diversity of accents from all across the british isles as possible #To show that not all British accents are posh south england accents #And I wanted to remind everyone that British does not mean English #But I've gotten nothing but grief for it constantly #And people assume I don't know what I'm talking about I think #When I am English with a branch of my family in Scotland #I support Scottish Irish and Welsh independence 1000% #I understand some of the nuance and I can understand why people (especially Irish) wouldnt want to be called British #but these are the British Isles and the British Broadcasting Corporation covers all of us #(which is relevant bc several of these characters are from BBC shows including the Scottish accented Capaldi Dr Who) #anyway I'll probably delete this in a couple hours when I feel stupid about posting it

[gingerbreadmonsters]

if i get one (1) comment, ONE SINGLE COMMENT about making a listener character say 'biscuits' instead of 'cookies' in this next one, i swear to GOD you will never have seen anyone delete their blog as fast as i will

#i will not - will NOT - have anyone else coming into my godforsaken askbox and bitching about this sort of thing every fucking again #SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP #in the grand scheme of things is this an incredibly minor thing? yes and i understand that #but surprise! my writing does not exist to cater to your delicate american-english-speaking sensibilities #i am already having to word things differently and cut out things i want to say because i KNOW that british english does things differently #and who am i doing that for? well it's not me and its not the imaginary people in the story #so take a great big guess as to WHOSE benefit thats for #do i go around kicking and screaming when other people say things that don't make sense with the version of english i speak #but that i can very easily understand through context or at the very least the INFINITE RESOURCES OF THE INTERNET? #surprisingly enough i do not!! #im never turning on anon ever again in my entire life #why is THIS the hill ur dying on anyway bestie #like is this genuinely the best thing you could think of doing with ur time #'ah yeah i really need to spend my friday night complaining about britishisms to some bitch on the internet' #well cheers to that mate. now fuck off x

[elodieunderglass]

Honestly thought I'd never hear the word "usborne" again. My mom used to live and breathe that company, and while I certainly don't regret a fair chunk, I do find it amusing as I look back now. I legitimately thought it had fallen off faster than Juice+.

In reference to a post where i mention my kid has the usborne “see inside germs” book.

So if people don’t know, usborne is a weird publishing company that has done indispensable books for British children for generations; they’re in every library, school and nursery, and have shelves devoted to them in every bookstore. They are how many people learned to read, and are the originators of many hyper focuses. They’re famed for doing educational lift the flap books for all ages, like “see inside your body”, as well as as the ubiquitous touch-and-feel series, “that’s not my….” In which a mouse comments improbably on various creatures not being their creature. “That’s not my dragon,” the mouse says, inviting you to stroke a dragon with a patch of fur on it, “its tummy is too soft. That’s not my dragon,” on the next page, where the dragon’s ears are lined with textured paper, “its ears are too bumpy.” This seems like such an inefficient way to find one’s missing dragon, a fact that simmers underneath you through endless repetition. Why does the mouse own so many things (pirates, ducks, polar bears) and why is it interrogating other people’s pirates etc by feeling their legs.

At any rate, turn a parents’ house upside down and these books fall out.

Which is why it’s completely hilarious that they are also an MLM.

Well. Kind of. In the old school sense. It’s less about signing up a pyramid scheme and more about getting a random citizen to buy a crate of perfectly popular books and try to sell them on from their home. It’s very traditional for Mums On Maternity Leave to do this. Pre-social media and online ordering, they’d hook up other mums at toddler group. Today, they post awkwardly on social media. The idea is that buying from another parent is cheaper than the bookstore, and they get to keep the markup. They get intense about things, and I believe they attend conferences. Nobody makes a huge amount of money and it’s unclear how undercutting local bookstores is helpful; it’s also basically the same RRP as Amazon I think.

And the books are perfectly respectable and sell perfectly well in bookstores.

So. Like. This marketing scheme is completely weird. Why?? Why does it still exist? People buy the books normally! You don’t need to promote them aggressively! You don’t need elaborate independent local middlemen schemes! You can just buy them! I have never understood this. I just file it under one of those weird mat leave hustles.

But don’t worry OP. They’re still going. They’ll never stop. The thing is that your mom got bored and online sales probably ate whatever residual profit margins were left and it’s probably very liberating for everyone to grow out of the “that’s not my cow” stage, but Usborne books are going strong.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Cheat

Marc Spector x GN!Reader • Rating: T Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist •

Summary: Marc cheats at games constantly.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: this is just self indulgent. I'm sorry.

Warnings: reader is from the UK (get ready for some friendly USA vs UK), typos, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 828

“But that’s cheating!” 

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is!” You try to keep the smile out of your voice, and put on an air of shocked indignation. Marc was notorious for cheating at board games, and card games, and any games where he thought he could get away with it. 

“How?” He asked calmly, crossing his arms over his chest. But there was a hint of glee in his eyes.

“You,” you gesture at him with your hand, nearly breaking into a laugh, “you can’t move like that.”

Marc doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, you can.”

“You can’t!”

“Who says?” He cocks his head to the side as he asks, his eyebrows pinched together in mock confusion. Though the little twitch of his lip gives him away. If there was one thing he loved more than cheating at games was pretending he actually wasn’t.

“I don’t know Marc, the rules?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

You pull your phone out of your pocket. “I’m looking them up, right now.”

“You’re just going to go and look at ‘pretend rules to suit my argument .com.” He shakes his head, a fake look of disgust plastered all over his features, as if you’re the one that’s going to try to deceive him.

“Firstly,” you try not to laugh, so as not to weaken your position. “That’s amazing, I am looking that up afterwards to see if it exists, and secondary-”

“I mean, it does exist, otherwise how else are you gonna go on it to look up the rules and pretend I can’t move like that?” 

You gawp at him for a second, grinning like crazy at his audacity. “Marc-”

“Hey,” he holds up his hands, “I’m just trying to play fair here, play by the rules-”

“When have you ever played by the rules?” 

“And you’re here, questioning my very legitimate move.” 

“Marc,” you giggle, “draught pieces cannot jump over empty spaces in a straight line.” 

“See, firstly,” he pulls a face, mocking your expression from before, “we’re playing checkers, that might be where you’re confused, because, in checkers-”

“Marc we are playing draughts,” you giggle and hold up the battered cardboard box, which clearly says ‘draughts’.

He shakes his head. “That’s a typo.”

“That’s a typo?” 

He nods, “of course, and-”

“Pretty big typo.” 

“British craftsmanship was never up to standard.”

“I’m gonna-”

“Now, now,” he grins, wagging his finger at you. “Violence never solved anything.”

“Says the American.” 

Marc gasps in fake hurt and puts his hand on his chest, “I’m so shocked that you would lower yourself to insulting my nationality.”

You laugh, “you just-”

“I would have thought such petty insults were beneath you,” he shakes his head in mock outrage. “I mean, I am so insulted right now.”

“You did it first!” You grin.

Marc just shakes his head and stares to the side. “I can’t even look at you right now. 

“Also draughts and checkers are the same game.”

“Now, you're insulting my American heritage, our cultural game of checkers, how could you?” His tone of voice is making it impossible not to laugh. 

“Marc-”

“I just can’t,” he stands, “If you’re not going to respect the game then,” he shrugs, “I don’t think we should play, let’s just end it here and say I won.” 

“No,” you get up, “I’m winning!” 

“Were you? Morally?” He teases.

“Yes!”

He takes a step closer to you. “And in the actual game?”

“Yes! That’s why you started cheating!” 

He leans closer, “I never cheat.” 

You place your hands on his cheeks and pull a face. “Liar.”

“How could you-”

“Don’t make me ask Steven to be the umpire.” You say playfully. 

“Oh yes,” he narrows his eyes at you. “The other Brit, I’m sure he’ll be completely unbiased.”

You laugh, “Fine, how about Jake?” 

Marc shakes his head, an over-the-top motion just for your amusement. “Can’t trust him.”

You gasp, “You can’t trust him?”

“Not in matters like this.”

“But he’s American.”

Marc shakes his head again, “he’s too blinded by your beauty to be impartial.” 

You smile, the sneaky compliment catching you off guard for a moment. “Blinded by my beauty?” 

“Hmm,” he nods, all fake seriousness. “It’s a real problem, luckily, I have developed a resilience to your charms.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Yes,” he nods again, but takes hold of your left hand and places a kiss to your inner wrist. “I am completely immune.” He punctuates the sentence by placing more kisses along your arm and sliding his other hand onto your hip, pulling you closer towards him until your chest is flush with his. 

“Completely immune.” You echo and nod sarcastically.

“Completely.” He nods back and places a soft kiss on your lips that quickly has you melting into him. He stays just as close when you break apart, keeping barely a centimetre of space between you. 

“You’re a terrible cheat, Spector.” 

He grinned. “You love it when I don’t play by the rules.” 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @whatthefishh @mbakubabe @romanarose @pimosworld @jake-g-lockley @saturn-rings-writes @boredzillenial @lonelyisamyw-0love @melodygatesauthor @steven-grants-world  @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @queerponcho

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#moon knight events #moon knight bingo 2024 #marc spector #moon knight #moon knight mcu #marc spector x reader #x reader #marc spector x you #x you #marc spector x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #marc spector x gn!reader #x gn!reader #my writing #fanfic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

[luckykiwiii101]

✰ STOP IDENTIFYING WITH “FAILURE”!!! ✰

————————————————————————————————————————

🧡💜🧡💜🧡💜🧡💜🧡💜🧡💜🧡💜🧡💜🧡💜

——————————————————————————

❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎

Stop accepting that you “failed” to enter the void state. Would a void master fail to enter/wake up in the void state?! Uhm…i think NOT!!

Every time you decide that you are going to enter the void state, and you don’t end up entering or waking up in it, you acknowledge that and you accept it?! BUT WHY!!! All of your persistence that you did to enter the void state, and when it comes to it and you end up “failing”, you start to reset your whole mind into a state of failure.

BUT FAILURE DOES NOT EXIST!!! If you do not accept that you failed, then you did not fail.

Stop resetting your mind into being someone who cannot enter the void after you “attempt” to.

Bloody hell, don’t even identify with the word “attempting” because it implies failure. Failure does not exist.

From now on, every time you wake up from your slumber, you woke up in the void. Because you always do. You always wake up in the void consciously.

From now on, everytime you affirm for the void, you enter instantly and effortlessly.

There is no “Ill try again tomorrow”. What do you mean “try”? Try what? That’s like saying “I’ll try to take a shit tomorrow.” You KNOW you are going to take a shit because you ALWAYS do. There’s no exception. You aren’t an exception. You aren’t a failure. You are a walking success.

You are chasing the void whilst running from it. How does that make sense my guy?!🤨

+ How can you even chase what’s inside you. Are you going to start running after your heart forcing it to pump blood in you?! Tf?! Ridiculous innit.

Now identify with success, because that is what you are.

You are a star, but there are millions of the stars in the sky that have the same ability as you. It is natural.

Now stop being like Pearl and trying to convince people that you are a star, and go convince yourself by proving it to yourself.

✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰

(Lmao can u tell i’m british from this post? Not ethnically british though. I don’t acc speak like that irl icl 💀 It’s just funny)

#void state #law of assumption #loa blog #loa tumblr #void #loassumption #loablr #manifestation #loa success #loa #void state tips #the void state #void concept

[spacelazarwolf]

Saying that you come off as a zionist 'because of the way you frame Jews and Israelis' is kind of creepy when the primary thing you've been saying throughout is that violence against them by a terrorist group is bad. Saying Jewish lives are important and that Israelis don't deserve to die just for existing in Israel is zionism now apparently.

it’s bc she’s using “zionist” as a dogwhistle for “jew i don’t like” and “zionism” as a dogwhistle for “opinion about israel palestine that i don’t agree with.” which is unfortunately what’s happening with most discourse.

and the problem is, if you don’t know what the fuck zionism is, you cannot be antizionist. you cannot be anti something you do not understand. that’s why so much antizionism falls into antisemitism, because so much antisemitism relies on ignorance. if you truly want to be an antizionist, that requires doing your due diligence, reading zionist literature and educating yourself on the ideology and history, or at least just educating yourself on the basics using sources that aren’t just social media. to be an effective antizionist, you need to understand exactly what it is you’re opposing and why you oppose it.

i don’t personally identify myself as an antizionist for reasons i’d rather not go into, but i’ll give an example i’ve talked about before. political zionism is the desire for a jewish state governed by jewish people, sometimes with the added assumption of the state being under jewish law. i oppose this because 1. i don’t believe in the concept of states, 2. there are other people who live in the area besides jews who need political representation, and 3. jewish law only applies to jews, so trying to have a state that functions under jewish law essentially makes it a theocracy which i oppose.

the same applies to a lot of the buzzwords often used in this conversation: colonialism, ethnic cleansing, genocide, apartheid.

what makes what israel is doing colonialism? how is that complicated by the fact it was preceded, if not directly caused by, british colonialism? how is it further complicated by the fact the jewish people originated in that area and that there are populations of jews who have been there for centuries? do you know what the settlements are and what makes them a problem?

what makes what israel is doing ethnic cleansing? what do you know about the nakba? how much do you know about israel’s practice of denying permits and demolishing palestinian homes? how does the dramatic decrease in the number of palestinians allowed to work in israel contribute to this?

do you know what genocide means? do you know how it is different and similar to ethnic cleansing? are you familiar with the history or displays of palestinian identity being illegal in israel? are you aware of how palestinians living in israel are legally identified and how that affects their connection to palestinian peoplehood? despite the fact israel does not control gaza, hamas does, what tactics is israel using to worsen the conditions there?

can you define apartheid? can you describe the policies instituted by the israeli government that fall under the definition of apartheid?

and most importantly, can you find all the answers to these questions somewhere besides social media?

you cannot just use these words because you saw others using them. you have to know exactly what they mean and exactly how they apply to what palestinians are experiencing, otherwise your antizionism and your activism are worthless.

if you want to be an effective activist, you MUST be able to answer these questions, because if you can’t even describe the problem you will be a hindrance to the solution.

#ask avishai

[skbeaumont]

Texas Heat | Joel x Reader

Chapter 1 - Worst Decision, Best Decision

Series masterlist

Chapter Summary: You've just finished a Masters back home in England, and, with little idea of what you want to do next, decide to spend the summer in Texas, staying with your mum's cousins, the Adlers. But its not the Adlers who pick you up from the airport: it's their handsome neighbour, Joel. Rating: Teen (for now) Tags/warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, age difference (reader is 25, Joel is 37), AU! no outbreak, porn with plot. Word Count: 1.7k

The Texas heat is something else. You’ve hardly been stateside more than two hours and already it feels overwhelming, cloying and claustrophobic. It doesn’t help that the air-conditioning in the airport is sporadic and patchy. By the time you make it through security, into the dry heat of arrivals, your shirt is sticking to your back, hair plastered to your forehead and you’re wondering why you ever let her mother persuade you this was a good idea.

“Go to Texas,” she’d suggested, when you arrived home from your last university term, unsure of what to do or where to begin with starting a life for yourself, “stay with the Adlers – they’re family and god knows Connie would love to see you. Spend the summer there – see what happens.”

And so here you are, too old for a gap year, really, at twenty-five, too young to commit to anything for more than a summer, dragging your suitcase – one broken wheel courtesy of British Airways – through arrivals, wondering if you’ve just made the worst decision of your life. Danny and Connie are strangers but for the fact that they’re your mum’s cousins, though you’ve seen enough photos of them to know who you’re looking for. You look out over the crowded lounge, trying to spot them.

The man your eyes fall on definitely isn’t Mr or Mrs Adler, but he’s holding a sign that bears your name (along with an assortment of hearts and two poorly drawn butterflies). He’s younger than Danny and Connie, maybe late thirties, dark hair curling around his ears, a patchy beard that only accentuates the strong line of his jaw and nose. His eyes – dark, hooded – are searching the crowd of passengers emerging from arrivals. You slow, watching the man, wondering who he is, wracking your brains to remember if the Adlers have a son or brother they haven’t mentioned before in their letters and Christmas cards, but you come up blank.

Eventually, while you’re still wondering who this man is and why he’s got a board bearing your name, your eyes lock with his. He raises his eyebrows – a question – and you sigh, start off towards him, the broken suitcase bumping against your ankles. When you reach him he holds out a hand for you to shake.

“’m Joel,” he says, voice deep, a smooth Southern drawl that you thought only existed in movies, “I’m Danny’s neighbour. They’re sorry they couldn’t be here, they had to take Mrs Adler – Nana – to a hospital appointment. I’m gonna drive you back to theirs, if that’s alright?”

“Of course,” You take the offered hand, shake it, trying not to think about how large it feels compared to your own, how much strength seems to rest in the callused palms and thick fingers. “I’m guessing you didn’t make that sign?”

Joel looks at the name card in his other hand, colour rising on his cheeks as he takes in the love hearts and butterflies that have been painted onto it.

“I can’t say I did.” He replies, “You’ve got Connie to thank for that.”

You laugh and he smirks too, mouth curving up with amusement, eyes crinkling as he does.

“I’m parked right outside,” he says, “I can take that, if you want?”

You hand him the suitcase, about to warn him about the broken wheel but he lifts it easily by the handle, the weight nothing to the shifting muscles that stretch the sleeves of his t-shirt.

His truck is huge, obscenely large compared to the cars you’re used to seeing back home in England. You clamber in, take in the toolboxes in the bed, a hard hat strewn on the back seat, large work boots in the footwell that dwarf your own battered Converse.

“‘scuse the mess.” Joel says, getting into the driver’s seat. “Been a busy week.”

“You’re a builder?” You ask.

“Contractor. Me ‘n my brother, though mostly me, if I’m being honest. You?” He asks the question without looking at you, already starting the engine, something grating in the ignition as he does so.

“Nothing, yet.” You reply, pulling your seatbelt on, “I just finished university – college – and I’m still kind of figuring it out.”

“What did you study?”

“Maths, then a Masters in Theoretical Physics.”

“Shit, smart girl.”

Something about the way he says this, his eyes lingering perhaps a little longer than they need to on your face as he does so, makes your stomach flip.

“Know what you’re going to do with it, now you’re done?”

“Not a clue,” You reply, looking out of the window as the city opens out around the truck.

“Well, don’t rush into anything. Nothing like your twenties to spend messing around trying things out.”

“That what you did?”

He scoffs out a laugh at this, gives you a sideways look. “Not exactly. I had a kid at twenty-two and spent the rest of my twenties figuring that out. Still am, really.” He pauses, flicks his sun visor down and taps a small polaroid that’s slid into the back of the mirror. “She’s thirteen now. Sarah.”

The girl in the photograph is pretty, all bright eyes and curly hair. She’s leaning back in a chair, giggling at something the photographer has just said.

“She’s beautiful,” You say, and you can see the pride bubbling up in him as he flips the visor back up.

“Smart, too. Struggles a bit with math, now they’ve started bringing in algebra. I’m not much help, either. Once you get past adding and minusing, I’m lost.”

You laugh at this, grin at him. “I’d be happy to help out. God knows I’ll have plenty of free time, and I like teaching.”

“Might just take you up on that.” He replies, giving you a soft smile in return.

There’s a dimple in his cheek as he does so, visible only through the patchiness of his beard. He seems to get more and more handsome the longer you look at him. Leaning back in the truck, you can’t help but let your eyes trace his profile, the strong curve of his nose, plushness of his lips. It’s more fascinating than the concrete jungle that’s passing by the windows of the truck.

He’s a good driver: steady, reassuringly confident. He lets one arm rest across the back of the truck’s long seat, the other gently holding the steering wheel, guiding the truck down the freeway. If you laid your head back against the seat it would rest in the curve of his wrist. You don’t, but you can feel the heat rolling off of his arm anyway on the back of your neck, warm in contrast to the cool air blowing through the AC unit. You let your eyes gently close, jetlag starting to creep up on you. Your limbs are stiff and sore from the long plane journey. The hot sun beats down through the windscreen, casting patterns on your closed eyelids. It’s peaceful, here, in the truck with this handsome stranger, and before you know it you’ve fallen asleep, head lolling back on the seat.

Next thing you know Joel’s gently saying your name, one large hand on your shoulder, rousing you from sleep. You open your eyes, squint against the bright sun. He’s parked up in the driveway of a large, brick built house on a suburban street. The garage door is open: tools are stacked up inside, ladders and racks of scaffolding. The drive and lawn are neat, a little scrubby from the heat. You turn, look over at a house you recognise as the Adler’s, the one you’ve seen in it family photographs sent with the yearly Christmas card. Your new home, for the next three months.

Joel holds the door of the truck open for you and your climb out, get your feet down on the solid concrete driveway. He moves round to the back, tugs out your suitcase like it weighs nothing, even though your arms are still aching from dragging it through security hours earlier.

“Connie left me the key,” Joel says, reaching a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a brass key on a flowery keyring. “I’ll help you get your stuff in, then leave you to settle in. Connie and Danny should be back in an hour or so.”

The Adler’s house is nice. Quaint, a little dated, décor straight from the 1980s, but it’s homely. You feel settled immediately. There’s a photograph of your mum on the bookshelf, from back when she was a kid, long before she moved from Texas to London.

Joel puts your suitcase at the foot of the stairs, asks if you want him to take it up for you, but you’re not sure which room you’re staying in so you tell him to leave it, that you can sort it out later. There’s a whining from the back room and you look at Joel, questioningly.

“That’ll be Mercy,” He says, moving through the hall to the kitchen, swinging open the door.

A bundle of fur throws itself down the hallway towards you, tail wagging. Joel watches, grin on his face as you bury your face in the dog’s soft coat and wrap your arms around him.

“I’d better head off,” He says when you stand up, brushing fur from your clothes. “You need anything, just give me a shout. You know where I am.”

“Thanks, Joel.” You say, watching him pull open the door, t-shirt bunching up around his shoulders revealing a tanned strip of skin just above the waistband of his faded jeans. “And I meant what I said about helping Sarah with that maths homework.” You add as he steps out onto the porch.

He turns back, shields his eyes from the sun to look at you, mouth turned up in a grin. “And I might just take you up on that, darlin’.”

And then he’s gone, long strides taking him back across the lawn and towards his own house. You lean back against the closed door and shut your eyes, basking in the imprint of Joel’s handsome face etched on the back of your eyelids, wondering if you’ve just made the best decision of your life.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller au #joel miller series

[bella-rose29]

Deck the Halls (and not your partner) - Part 1

Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, enemies to lovers, fake dating, set at Christmas (because I'm feeling festive)

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: swearing, lockwood is an arse, so is the reader, it's enemies to lovers what were you expecting really, Norrie is alive for the plot, I am British so if you're confused about words then that's why, mentions of extended family members being meanies, I think that's it?

Tag list is at the bottom (it's getting too long to put up here now), and as always if you would like to be added to/removed from it, then ask here or send me a note! <3

series master list

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

It was safe to say that Y/n L/n was not having a good morning.

George had been watching her over the top of his paper while she paced the living room on the phone, his eyebrows changing between furrowing and raising as he tried to figure out what was happening with only one half of the conversation.

"Are you... alright?" He wasn't the best at this sort of thing, but when it came to his friends he tried to put some sort of effort in to show that he cared about them. Y/n huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose and looking like she was about to break into tears. If that happened George would have to go and get Lucy, because he definitely had no idea how to deal with Y/n when she cried. Normally he went and made her tea and plated up some biscuits, and she always accepted with a grateful smile and a lot of sniffles and let him leave again when he stood awkwardly near her, shuffling his feet on the spot.

He got the feeling that wouldn't be happening now, and he'd be held hostage instead.

"It's my mum. You know I've got this family Christmas thing coming up, right?" She paused while George nodded, taking her hand away from her face to see his reaction, then continuing on as she gestured wildly. "She seems to think I have a boyfriend, which I absolutely do not-"

"What, really?" George exclaimed sarcastically, pressing his hands over his heart in mock surprise. Y/n glared at him, looking incredibly non-threatening in her very jolly Christmas jumper. He resisted the urge to snort, knowing full-well that his friend spent most of the time complaining whenever relationships were the topic of conversation, since she couldn't understand why she was still single.

"As I was saying," another glare was aimed his way, "Mum thinks I have a boyfriend, and my aunt overheard her on the phone just now talking about my non-existent boyfriend, and it was Aunt Linda-"

"The one who gossips to everybody?"

"Yes!" Y/n jabbed a finger in George's direction, expression wild and fierce. "The one who gossips to everybody! So by now I think my entire fucking extended family and every single family friend knows that I have a boyfriend, who does not exist, and thinks that he's coming to our family Christmas in the middle of fucking nowhere!"

"I thought it was your childhood town?"

"Which is in the middle of nowhere! Genuinely nothing but fields and forests and the general countryside for miles and miles. Oh, and to top that all off, my cousin will be there-"

"The bitchy one who makes you feel like shit who you also thought wasn't coming this year?"

"Yes. Her. And Linda is her mum so Steph'll definitely know." Y/n finished, throwing herself into the sofa with a groan, turning over slightly, and screaming into a pillow.

George was about to stand up and head to the kitchen to put the kettle on (Y/n normally screamed not long before crying full-out) when Lockwood poked his head through the door, frowning at the sight before him.

"Everything alright?"

"Y/n's having a crisis. Fancy a cuppa, Lockwood?" George properly got up now, glad that another member of the household was here to deal with the situation. Lockwood nodded, then frowned again when he realised that George was escaping and shutting the two of them in a room together. Lockwood absolutely could have left anytime he wanted, but it was likely that Y/n thought he'd volunteered for the role of caretaker and couldn't leave without looking like an arse, or starting yet another argument between the two of them.

George breathed a sigh of relief, then made for the kitchen. He'd need a cup of tea in a minute when Y/n realised who was there to comfort her.

~~~

"The fuck do you want, Lockwood?"

"I- uh... what's... what's the problem?" His voice sounded pained, like he really didn't want to be in the room, and Y/n rolled her eyes.

"If you don't care, then leave," she said, attempting to hide the wobble in her voice at the thought of having to find someone to drag to her family gathering for three days, where she would be interrogated and prodded and poked and watched every second of every minute of every day, and criticised for every tiny thing she did. She was dreading it, really, but at least the third day would just be her immediate family and her non-existent boyfriend. The first two days would be filled with inquisitive relations that hadn't seen her since last year, wondering about her job and why she hadn't pursued something more stable, or asking about her love life (that was completely uneventful) and why she wasn't thinking about settling down.

Lockwood's frustrated sigh brought her out of her thoughts, and she pulled her face out of the pillow enough to see him clenching his jaw as he studied the wall with a lot more interest than it deserved. "Fine. Vent if you need to. Can I help at all, or are you going to get on my nerves until you leave?"

"Do you always have to be such a dick, Lockwood? Or are you like that because you're compensating?"

"Fuck off."

"Lovely comeback," she snapped, turning to lie on her back, staring up at the ceiling instead of at her boss' face. If she looked at him any longer she might bore holes through his head with the intensity of her glare. Neither of them said anything for a minute, the only sounds the clock ticking away in the corner, counting down to her imminent doom, and George in the kitchen making tea. "My family thing, this weekend. Everyone thinks I'm bringing my boyfriend."

"You don't have a boyfriend though."

"I know that, Lockwood. But my family think that I do have one, and now I have less than forty-eight hours to find one." She heard him snort, and squeezed her eyes shut in the hopes that it would block out his next words.

"Good luck with that. Maybe Kipps'll volunteer? He needs the free food."

"Can't you have just the tiniest bit of sympathy for me?" She pushed up, moving to sit and direct her frustration at Lockwood. "I am in a near-impossible situation here and you're being insufferable right now!"

"Maybe you should take Lockwood," George said, and Y/n jumped at the sound of his voice in the living room.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" she asked, already eyeing up the plate of biscuits on the tea tray. "Wait," Y/n paused as she properly registered George's words. "Take him?" Lockwood looked just as horrified by the idea of it, shaking his head frantically.

"Yeah. Oh, here's your tea, Y/n/n."

"What about you, George?! Surely you could come along and help me out instead?!"

"I thought I told you already, I'm going to my own family's house for Christmas. Lucy's going to stay with Norrie, and Holly's spending the holidays with her girlfriend. Lockwood's alone, in this big old house, and you've got limited time and also limited options." Y/n was annoyed at how right George was, but she wasn't giving in so easily. Not when giving in meant spending three days with the one person she despised more than anything in the world.

"Fine, if you have no other options by the time you need to leave, I'll go with you. But I will not enjoy a second of it if I do," Lockwood finally ground out, and Y/n had to fight back a look of surprise at his words.

"You- what?"

"It saves being in this house alone over Christmas. I've done that one too many times now, and at least your family will be a distraction. And," he added, "a great way to see all your baby photos." His smile was wolfish, and Y/n wondered how anybody ever found it charming.

"Alright. But I'm finding someone else, so it looks like you'll have to miss out on this one I'm afraid." Her smile was simpering, sugar sweet and sickly with how faked it was.

George looked between the two of them, then sank back into his armchair with his tea. "That's that sorted then."

~~~

It was absolutely not sorted.

Y/n was panicking. A lot. Apparently nobody fancied spending Christmas with some random agent for three days in the literal middle of fucking nowhere with her entire extended family, which was incredibly inconvenient for Y/n.

She now was supposed to be leaving in roughly two hours, and was frantically shoving the last few things in her suitcase while phoning anybody that she could attempt to pass off as her fake boyfriend.

Anybody that meant she didn't have to take Lockwood.

Perhaps if he wasn't such an asshole all the time, she'd be less reluctant, but since the first day they'd met he'd been rude to her.

It had been after a job, three years ago back when she was a solo agent taking any work that meant she could keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. Her night had been long, making her tired and weary with how much her bones ached, and she was hardly looking where she was going when she turned the corner onto her street, making her bump into a tall figure. Her first thought when the two of them stumbled away from each other was how gorgeous this boy was, and her second was how utterly awful his personality was. She had apologised before she could see his face, already muttering excuses and explaining her lack of coordination, but within seconds he was opening his mouth and talking, telling her that she should have been more alert and "could she not stand on his shoes, they're new" and she'd taken a proper look at him and decided that yes, he was pretty, but he was also not particularly nice.

Then a few months later she'd seen an ad in the paper for a small agency that had needed a new agent, preferably with strong Touch, and had chosen to go along for an interview. What she hadn't expected was the boy from that night to be the one interviewing her, and evidently he was just as shocked to see her, his expression quickly settling into a frown.

"No thank you. We don't want careless agents like you, thank you very much." His words had stung more than she cared to admit, making the backs of her eyes prick and her throat close up with emotion. She'd almost turned tail and walked out the door (something she very rarely did), but a girl dressed mostly in blue and with an excited smile on her face came in to the room, asking if this was their new recruit. Apparently the boy couldn't say no to her, or the other girl that appeared a few moments later with her clothes all neat and ironed, or indeed the other boy with glasses and curly hair who had ketchup stains on his t-shirt. Within minutes of the three of them arriving in the room, Y/n had a job at the company as an agent with a strong sense of Touch, and was being given a biscuit and a cup of tea.

She had quickly learned that the first girl was Lucy, the second was Holly, and the curly-haired boy was George, and then Lockwood had introduced himself as the head of the company.

"Don't you have... supervisors?" she had asked, confused as to just how this company worked exactly.

"No." His smile had been tight, and he had left the room right after, pushing past his colleagues and heading up the stairs. Lucy had been quick to fill in the rest, explaining all the answers to every question that Y/n had, with Holly and George chipping in when she forgot something.

Lockwood had continued his behaviour from that day ever since, despite Y/n's best efforts to get him to like her, and eventually after a few months of attempted friendship offers, she gave up and leaned into the whole hating each other schtick that was apparently happening.

So no, she did not want to have to bring Lockwood to her family gathering for three days and pretend to love him. She didn't want to do that at all.

Unfortunately, it was starting to look as though she wouldn't have a choice.

~~~

"Well? Please? Come on, I never beg for anything from you."

"I know, and I'm actually rather enjoying it."

"Prick," Y/n muttered, frowning at Lockwood. "You said that you'd do it if you had to. Well, you have to. So pack your bags and let's go; the train's in an hour."

"Fine. But I am not happy about this." He made his way back inside his bedroom, leaving Y/n stood outside the door (she refused to cross the threshold of this one particular room).

"Oh, because I am personally so ecstatic about this situation!" Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and Lockwood paused in his packing to glare at her.

"It's not my fault you couldn't find somebody to pretend to date you for three days."

"No, but I'll blame you anyway."

"Charming."

"Hmm. Hurry up."

"We've got ages, stop fretting like a mother."

"The train leaves in an hour, and it takes ten minutes to get there. Then you have to factor in maybe five to ten minutes of traffic, and difficulties getting through the gates at the station which is what, another five minutes? And then if there are any problems with the actual trains then we want to be early just in case so that a plan can be made to get a different one, and also if there aren't any problems then we at least want to be there early so that we can get on first and get a table. So no, we haven't got ages, we've got minutes before we need to go. Hurry up."

Lockwood had been staring at her in disbelief while she talked, his jaw slack and his eyes wide, but when Y/n glared at him again he went back to packing. "You really think that much about travelling?"

"There is so much that can go wrong with trains, so yes."

"Fine," Lockwood huffed, coming out of his room to cross into the bathroom, grabbing his wash bag out of the cupboard and shoving a toothbrush and flannel in. "Where's the toothpaste?"

"I've got some, so we can share. Trust me, you don't want to share with George. He's like a dragon with the way he hoards his toothpaste."

Lockwood gave her a weird look as he zipped up the bag, heading back into his room to finish stuffing items into the large bag he was taking with him as luggage. Y/n was sure he'd repurposed a kit bag for this, but if it meant she wasn't having to explain to everyone why she had failed at bringing a boyfriend that didn't even exist then she supposed she could forget about where the kit was currently being stored.

"Ok, I think that's everything," he said, running a hand through his hair as he stood up, yanking the bag up and over his shoulder. He was still in a suit, which Y/n thought was ridiculous since they didn't even have any meetings today other than the one with her family, and when they made it to the bottom of the stairs he grabbed his jacket and signature long coat. Y/n was already in her own winter coat, thick scarf wrapped around her neck and gloves poking out her pocket, her boots echoing throughout the building. They were the only two left now, since the other three had already left for their own Christmas celebrations, so Lockwood had to spend an extra minute finding the keys to lock up, and then another minute trying to put them back in his pocket. In the end, Y/n was so frustrated with how long he was taking that she snatched the keys from his hand and shoved them in the chest pocket on the inside of his coat, turning and dragging her small suitcase behind her into the pre-booked taxi.

"Sorry, he takes a while to do things every now and then. He's immensely stupid," she said, smiling at the driver as the man put her suitcase in the boot of his taxi. He looked concerned, frowning up at Lockwood where he was coming down the stairs, then nodded slightly, his expression morphing into confusion.

The drive itself was fast, and there were no problems at the station, but Y/n still couldn't help but feel that something would go wrong on their journey to her parents' house.

"The only thing that's wrong-"

"Don't say that, you bastard!"

"-is me being here."

"Oh. Well, that's true."

"Why couldn't you have just gone on your own?"

"You'll see when you meet everyone. Are you... will you be alright? I mean, it's literally everybody still alive in my family along with all of our close friends, which is near on fifty people, all in my parents' house."

"What are you trying to say?" Lockwood's expression was stony, and a coldness had come into his eyes that Y/n had only ever seen back when she was trying to be his friend and asked about his family. She had since learned that they had died when he was young, and had steered well clear of the subject afterwards.

"I just... it's a lot for me, and I do this every year. I can't imagine how awful this'll be for someone who's..." she trailed off, trying to find the right words.

"Who's family is dead?" Lockwood asked, more forcefully than he needed to.

"No, I didn't mean-" Y/n said.

"Sure," he cut her off, tone sharp and as bitter as the wind that was whipping around them. She tried to speak again, but he scoffed and turned away before she could explain what she had really meant by her words. Lockwood didn't seem to be relenting anytime soon, instead choosing to stare out at the tracks with a clenched jaw. The conversation died, and they didn't say a word until the train pulled up to the platform and they were attempting to find a good seat.

When they were finally sat down, bags secure and able to relax a little, Y/n sighed softly at Lockwood's still tense figure. He wasn't looking at her, which she supposed was a good thing because generally when he looked at her he was coming up with something rude to say. But if they wanted this to work, they needed to be talking.

And apparently, Y/n had pissed off her fake boyfriend.

Ugh, she thought. This is going to be a fucking shitshow.

part 2

Tag list (hopefully this is everyone): @anathemaloren, @augustisintheair, @avdiobliss, @briar-rose23, @curseofhecate, @dangelnleif, @el-de-phi, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @informedimagining, @karensirkobabes, @locknco, @mischivana, @mitskiswift99, @mrsklockwood, @mrsyixingunicorn10, @no-morning-glories, @novelizt, @ran23sblog, @superpositvecloudshipper, @t2sh0, @taygrls, @tournesol77, @whenselenefallsinlove, @wordsarelife

#lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #enemies to lovers #fake dating #christmas

[saintsenara]

you said “the eleven-year-old riddle, for example, is written in a way which suggests he has an accent and uses words and expression which would be understood as working class”. Can you elaborate on what you mean? I love your meta btw. You are brilliant

thank you for two tmr-related follow-up questions to the slughorn/snape bonanza meta, anons!

[and thank you for calling me "brilliant", anon no. 1. picture me kicking my little feet in the air and chirping like a cat which has just seen a bird outside.]

how is the eleven-year-old riddle shown to be common as muck?

besides the fact he lives in an orphanage.

it's things like this:

“You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course — well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!”

while none of this is in a demonstrably non-standard dialect of british english [i.e. riddle doesn't use contractions like "ain't" or "innit", or say "i never did nothing to little amy benson..."] it's definitely a way of phrasing his speech - especially when coupled with the fact that this quote reads like he's speaking really quickly, and he's described as looking "furious" - which would be considered uncouth, especially in the 1930s. [not big fans of emotional volatility, the posh].

his refusal to speak deferentially to dumbledore - and the fact that when he's eventually induced to call him sir he is described as being "unrecognisably polite" - is a similar indication that he doesn't exist as a child in the sort of context where he's forced to perform more refined manners in order to get what he wants.

[the sixteen-year-old riddle is considerably more obsequious, because he recognises that the way to get things out of e.g. slughorn is to comport himself like his upper-class peers.]

and he also - which is iconic of him - calls mrs cole a bitch here. "cat" is a slang term for a gossipy or meddling woman - and while it doesn't quite have the full heft of "bitch" [you find it used with impunity by middle-class women in pretty much every piece of literature written pre-1950...], it's incredibly rude for a child to say it to a stranger who he assumes is a doctor.

riddle does also use non-standard english - for example, when he says of dumbledore's wand:

“Where can I get one of them?”

[the correct form would be "one of those".]

it's this which really hammers home - beyond the ways in which it can be inferred from the context of the setting and the scansion of his [and mrs cole's, they speak fairly similarly] speech - that he has a london accent which would be understood, especially when combined with his second-hand possessions and his general rowdiness, as working-class by the sort of people who otherwise seem to end up in slytherin.

exactly what accent this would be depends on where we think the orphanage is. the closest we come to locating it in canon is that riddle buys [or, let's be real, steals] his diary from a shop on "vauxhall road". this isn't a real place, but vauxhall is an area of south london.

but most people - including me - usually place it in east london [i like, as i've said elsewhere, to put it on dorset street in spitalfields, which is the site of one of jack the ripper's most brutal murders]. this would have him born within the sound of bow bells, meaning he'd have every right to call himself a cockney and would undoubtedly speak with a cockney accent.

the south london and east london accents are recognisably distinct from one another [and from north and west london accents], but they would both be understood as common in the time period, when both anyone born into an upper-class or upper-middle-class background and anyone who aspired to be thought of as having done so would speak with [something as close as they could to] received pronunciation.

why do i think slughorn remains chill until after riddle refuses his job offers?

riddle's conversation with slughorn about horcruxes happens at some point in his sixth year - the academic year 1943-1944. we know this because he's a prefect - but not yet head boy, because he's killed his father [his second victim - the riddles are killed in the summer of 1943, after myrtle is killed at the end of the 1942-1943 school year], and because it just makes sense from a narrative standpoint for this pivotal moment in his life to take place at the same time harry's own life is transforming.

my presumption is that the chat happens during the first term, and that riddle doesn't actually create the diary horcrux until afterwards - so let's say the conversation happens c. november 1943 [when riddle would still be sixteen - the age the diary tells us he is]. slughorn then spends a full eighteen months continuing to support and favour him - advocating for him to be head boy, attempting to set him up in prestigious jobs, presumably being willing to support his application to teach defence against the dark arts - after he's aware that he's not opposed to a bit of splitting the soul.

i don't imagine for a second slughorn would ever have turned him in - he is, after all, fundamentally a coward, and he's clearly worried that he'd get in trouble himself for discussing horcruxes with a pupil - but if he were properly troubled by the discussion i think his behaviour would resemble how he treats harry while he's trying to collect the memory: unfailingly polite and unflappably jolly, but still mysteriously unable to be cornered alone.

and - actually - i think this is the specific source of slughorn's shame over the incident, and it's why i really don't like the memory acquisition scene - "you have no idea how frightening he was" - in the half-blood prince film. slughorn is clearly rattled by the conversation, but he then seems to manage to convince himself that everything's fine and riddle was just being a teen show-off with a morbid streak.

[and the adult voldemort - for his part - evidently has no suspicion at all that slughorn took the conversation seriously enough to waver in his cowardice and admit what he'd told him.]

but riddle refusing to accept his help in securing a job - and, therefore, refusing to enter into the sort of patron-client relationship slughorn canonically establishes with pupils from non-elite backgrounds - is riddle indicating that he refuses to be restrained by the norms of wizarding society.

it's a big "fuck you" to slughorn from the perspective of social convention notwithstanding the other context - a presumed-to-be-muggleborn orphan asserting that he can make it in the world on his own terms without tugging his forelock to the pureblood elite - but it's also evidence that he has no intention of finding himself in a situation where slughorn can control him personally.

it means that slughorn finds himself in a position in which he can't dangle the threat of reporting him to the aurors for [conspiracy to commit] murder/taking an interest in dark magic we can presume is illegal unless riddle does something he wants. and it makes it impossible for slughorn to continue convincing himself their conversation was purely macabre curiosity.

slughorn can convince himself that the eighteen-year-old riddle - the polite and brilliant head boy who undoubtedly continued to attend slug club meetings without incident in the period 1943-1945 [since him being barred from such occasions would have tipped him off that slughorn was worried] - can still be treated in a way which has served him well since he started teaching, and can have his... odder aspects constrained by the pressure of wizarding social convention.

the twenty-year-old riddle - on his own in his knockturn alley shop, with its dark reputation, and apparently uninterested in settling down nicely under the thumb of a respectable patron - cannot be.

and slughorn is terrified of this - and the repercussions it has the potential to bring upon him - but he's also going to be offended by it -and i think it's really interesting to skewer his canonical dislike of being associated with death eaters a little by playing with that offence: i.e. that he's not only unimpressed because lucius malfoy's in azkaban, but because of the whole bending-and-scraping-and-saying-my-lord act.

#asks answered #asenora meta #tom riddle #lord voldemort #surprise! it's the class system!

[hedgehog-moss]

i absolutely loved your recent explanation of french to english and english to french translations! sometimes, i read a book translated into english and you can just tell with the way sentences are traslated that they were written in another language first e.g. 'praising the portentous architecture of the sky with trite formulas' from elena ferrante's book (trans from italian).

not diminishing native english writers but that sentence stood out to me as like "oh okay, i dont know if a native english writer would have written that but, from my understanding of italian, that's been directly translated", it was very interesting if you understand what i'm trying to say. thank you.

You my friend are a sourceist ! :) As we call people who enjoy “feeling” another language right underneath the surface of a translation.

There’s a whole rivalry between translators who favour “sourcières” vs. “ciblistes” translations (as we say in French). Literally it’s sourceist vs. targetist, but English prefers verbs so I think you’d call it foreignising vs. domesticating translations. Basically it’s whether you prioritise the source language (preserving as much of its specificities as possible, even if it means “foreignising” your own language a little, writing in a way that will feel a bit unnatural to your reader) or prioritise the target language (“domesticating” the original text to make it more familiar to your reader, like when American publishing houses re-publish British books and change “Mum” to “Mom”). It’s often simplified as, are you more loyal to the author you’re translating, or to the reader you’re translating for. Most translators will say you need to find the right balance between the two extremes (but most translators are secretly targetists) (that’s my impression anyway.)

Both methods can lead to awful translations when you go too far in one direction—I remember making a post a couple of years ago about a translated book I was reading that was set in Kazakhstan, in which a character (who was supposed to be speaking Kazakh in the context of the story) said “We can’t invite every Tom, Dick and Harry.” That’s domestication gone too far—it was so jarring and nonsensical in a setting where all the characters had names like Kazangap and Sabitzhan!

But foreignising can also go too far—it’s difficult to do it well because you need to make sure the foreign phrases, concepts or connotations you preserve don’t clash with your own language’s concepts or connotations (or writing style preferences). It happens infuriatingly often in French books translated from US English that the translator keeps the word “college” to mean “university”. I don’t know why this stupid mistake is so common, they’ve got to be doing it on purpose, do they think it makes the book feel more American? But it just confuses the reader because collège in France is middle school. The word already exists!!! and it brings to mind 11-14 year-old kids so it’s really jarring and takes you out of the story when you need to remember every time that the “collège” students here are older teenagers. There are times when calquing foreign words or phrases in your translation is a bold, interesting choice—but not when it removes something (meaning, clarity, connotations) from your language.

It does work when it adds something—novelty or poetry or a connotation that tells you something about another culture without clashing with your own. Like in your example, if you calque an interesting turn of phrase that feels natural in one language and less so in another (but more poetic, intriguing, etc), then your language gains something. I like when translators do this with terms of endearment, like preserving “my little lizard” or w/e instead of replacing it with kitten or your cultural equivalent—if I’m reading a book set in another culture, I’m delighted to learn what silly things people in that culture call their kids or SOs. But it doesn’t work if it removes something from your language—for example if a character in a French novel calls a boy a term of endearment that’s masculine in French but feminine in Spanish, better change it to something else so you don’t confuse the Spanish reader / make them wonder if the boy is being teased or what—you’re asking them to remove meaning / connotations from their language to replace them with something else and the clash just takes you out of the story.

So it’s always a balancing act between your love and respect for the original language / culture / author’s writing style, and your duty to the reader, who needs something familiar enough to be intelligible and pleasant to read. (But at a certain point domesticating your translation too much suggests a lack of respect for your reader’s ability to handle unfamiliar concepts and their curiosity about other cultures.)

I remember reading an article by a translator of, I think, Uyghur, who wanted to keep the phrase “like a third-day moon” to describe a finely curved eyebrow. That's a foreignising translation if your culture isn’t familiar with the lunar calendar and the typical reader is clueless about what the moon looks like on the third day of the lunar month—but if they can guess from context that it’s a delicate eyebrow, it’s not the jarring sort of foreignising that takes you out of the story because you can’t figure out the connotation or it makes no sense in your language; it’s the kind that makes you go “oh, interesting phrasing” and might teach you something (but in a subtle way!) about the kind of culture that would use it. It’s one of the joys of reading translated literature, to discover details of another culture almost without noticing, without having them explained to you in so many words. You’re just absorbing them by osmosis by being immersed in a story in which the translator managed to preserve the right kind & the right amount of surprising little turns of phrase.

#ask #language tag #i loved your ask; it gave me food for thought! #ou de la nourriture pour mes pensées comme qui dirait

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddiemas challenge.

King Steve

Prompt Day 12: Hallmark Movie Tropes | Word Count: 9963 | Rating: M | CW: Royal Inaccuracies | Tags: King Ralph AU, Unexpected Royalty, Platonic Stobin, Happy Ending, Steve POV

This one is also available right here on AO3.

Loosely based on the 1991 comedy King Ralph, starring John Goodman, but this time make it Steddie.

Steve shoves the key into the lock of the Wienerlicious front door, and jiggles it just so, trying to get the damned thing to open. Robin picked this place as their next place of employment, and he's pretty sure it was just to stick him in another goofy uniform so she could call him dingus more often.

Jokes on her. He looks damn good in lederhosen, way better than she does in the milkmaid getup. So, suck it, Robin. 

Even if he's too old for this shit. He's nearly thirty, and they're still bouncing from crappy job to crappy job, aimless.

He needs a purpose, but he just hasn't found it. Not yet.

He flips on the lights, and goes through all the opening procedures on his own. Robin won't be in until later, so he's gonna be on his own through the lunch rush. If there is a lunch rush. Sometimes, that's non-existent in this place. 

And it seems like today is gonna be one of those days. He hasn't had a customer in an hour, and he's bored out of his goddamn skull. Just watching the hot dogs turn on the roller grill behind him.

Finally, the door swings open, and in walks three stuffy-looking men in suits. Glancing around the place like they're walking in front of a firing squad instead of into a fast food joint.

"Welcome to Wienerlicious," Steve greets.

"We're looking for Mr. Steven Harrington," the first one says in a British accent, and Steve narrows his eyes. He doesn't think he owes money to anyone. Especially not to anyone British. Robin and him might be scraping by, but they've managed to do it all on their own.

"Who's asking?" Steve asks, putting his hands on his hips.

"I'm Gareth Jones and this is Inspector Goodwin and Inspector Williams," the first man says, like that means anything.

Steve doesn't think he's committed a crime, Pink Panther style, but maybe? He wishes he'd stolen some cash or jewels, but he hasn't, so he's not sure why they've sent two inspectors all the way to the Wienerlicious to talk to him.

"And you're here for…" Steve trails off, moving his hand in a hurry up and spit it out motion. He'd rather get this over with.

"Well, sir, that's a private matter for us to discuss with Mr. Harrington," Inspector Goodwin chimes in, and they are definitely British.

"Then, I guess you're shit outta luck," Steve says, moving back to wiping down the counter. "If you decide you want to order something, you let me know."

He watches them look between each other, clearly debating this offer. But they step up to the counter and study the menu, with a hint of disdain, before ordering three number seven combos. Steve makes them, and puts down the red baskets on a tray. Taking their money, and handing over their change.

They're staring at his name tag. Fuck. He forgot he was wearing it.

"Are you Steven Harrington?" Gareth asks, leaning closer, nearly across the counter.

"And if I am?" Steve asks, taking a step back.

"Then we have an exciting opportunity to share with you," Inspector Williams says, gleefully.

"Listen, I'm not gonna, like, sell Amway or knives or anything. So, just. No, thanks."

They look back and forth, like they don't understand what he's talking about.

Steve sighs, "I have a job. I don't want another, no matter how much money you think I'll be able to make, so thanks. But, no thanks."

Because, yeah, he's in lederhosen, but he's working with Robin and he gets a predictable paycheck. It's a fair trade-off.

"Sir, please, just give us a moment of your time," Gareth pleads, and Steve is annoyed.

"Just arrest me if that's what you're here for," Steve says, nodding towards the two inspectors. Robin will sort it out.

"Oh, no, sir. Not at all. They're here for your protection, for your safety," Gareth says, and Steve wrinkles his forehead at that idea. He's pretty sure he doesn't need protection. "Please, just hear me out, sir."

"Fine, one minute," Steve says, following them to a table, and sitting down, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Mr. Harrington-"

"Steve," Steve interrupts. 

"Steve," Gareth, the chatty one, says, but it seems physically painful for him to get out of his mouth, "it is my glorious duty to inform you that you're the new King of the United Kingdom, Your Majesty."

"The new King of what now?" Steve asks, because he's been King before. Sure, it was Hawkins High and not the United Kingdom, but he'll pass. He's grown and shit since then.

"Of the United Kingdom, and the entire Commonwealth, Your Majesty." 

Steve laughs, because why wouldn't he laugh. That's ridiculous. 

Then he remembers seeing the news headline that the entire Royal Family had been electrocuted and killed during a holiday photo session, and that they were searching their records for the next heir in line for the throne.

Steve bets they didn't expect to find him in lederhosen, slinging wieners with sauerkraut. 

"But I'm an American," Steve finally says, shaking his head.

"We are unfortunately aware, sir," Gareth answers.

"Then, how am I the next in line? That makes no sense." Steve questions, he's never even been to England. 

"On your mother's side. There's no delicate way to say this, but your grandmother had an affair with Prince Richard, and your mother was the product of that affair. So, you're in the line of succession for the throne through the House of Wyndam-Pryce bloodline."

"Okay, go talk to my mother then," Steve says, "she'd love to be a Queen."

"It doesn't work quite like that. See, there's what we call male-preference primogeniture-"

"Well, that's just sexist," Steve says, crossing his arms. He doesn't know what that last word means, but he definitely understands male-preference and can fill in the blanks.

"Yes, well, perhaps that's true," Gareth says, looking flustered, then looking excited, "but you could press to change that! As King. With the help of Parliament. You could work to change it."

"Now, Jones," Inspector Williams says, "you know the law prohibits Monarchs from solving problems."

"Yes, well," Gareth says, backing down a little, "that's a different issue altogether."

"This all seems suspect," Steve says. He wishes Robin were here. She'd know what to ask, what to say to all this. "If I'm not solving world problems, which to be honest, I'm not sure I'd be all that great at anyway, what exactly does this even entail? Is it not like being the President here?"

"No, that's more like the Prime Minister," Inspector Goodwin answers, "not exactly, but closer. You, as King, would be a ceremonial figurehead."

Steve is confused, but that's not exactly new. 

"I don't understand," Steve says, because he definitely doesn't.

"You are the new King. It's your birthright, sir."

Steve is pretty sure he's not interested in any birthrights. He's seen Buffy. Kristy Swanson was hot, but he doesn't want any of that shit for himself. No fucking way.

Unless.

"How much does it pay?" Steve asks.

"Well, it doesn't, exactly…" Gareth trails off.

"Then, again. No," Steve says, moving to stand.

"But as the sovereign, it all belongs to you. To the Crown," Gareth says, and Steve starts picturing that and now it doesn't sound so bad at all.

"All of it?"

"All of it, Your Majesty," Gareth confirms.

"So, are you willing to go with us, Your Majesty? To England?" 

And maybe he'd make a different decision if Robin were here to talk him out of it, but he nods.

"You can't go be the King," Robin says, pacing around the room, one of his shirts clutched in her hands. He jerks it out of her grasp, and stuffs it into his suitcase.

"Apparently, I can," he says, "and you can come with me."

She scoffs, "And do what? Be your lady-in-waiting?"

"Yes!" Steve says, he doesn't know what that is, but yes, if it gets her to come. Absolutely. 

"Steve, no," she says, shaking her head.

"We'll get married really quick and you can be my Queen," he says, nodding his head, "think how fun that'd be? You and me? Ruling a whole country?"

"And the Commonwealth," she says, but shakes her head, snapping out of that idea. "No way, they'd make me have your babies."

"Ew," he says.

"Ew, right back at ya, dingus," she says. 

"Then, I'll go first. Scope it out. And you can come later, once I'm settled in."

"This is a bad idea, Steve," Robin says, really talking with her hands.

"Careful, I'm the King," Steve teases.

"Not my King, dingus, you better keep that in mind," she says, and he smiles, pulling her to his chest.

"I wish you'd come," he says.

"I don't even have a passport," she says.

"Well, neither do I. But apparently, as the King, that doesn't really matter much."

"Oh, this isn't going to go well," she says, pacing again, worrying some more.

"Maybe not, but it'll be an adventure, right? C'mon. Come with me," he begs, trying to give her the eyes. But she's immune.

"Maybe later. If this sticks. I'll get a passport, legally, and come make fun of you in your stupid cape or whatever," she says, and he hugs her again.

A day later, Steve steps out of the black town car, and looks up. Jesus. This place is wild. Fucking crazy, it's a palace, like, for real. He still kind of assumed they'd been teasing when they showed up at his place of work, explaining that while he was once 46th in line for the throne, that he'd now been bumped up to number one. Just because the entire extended royal family died in a freak accident during a portrait session for their annual Christmas card.

That's a lot to swallow.

Do they not have a designated survivor? Robin has told him about that, in the US. They should have, it seems like. Most definitely.

Water, metal and electricity did not mix. And snap. They were all gone.

And now he's here.

King.

He's being led inside this freaking mansion, and it's way less funny. He's a freaking American. A bastard, apparently, and he shouldn't even be eligible for the throne. Robin looked it up. Made sure he knew that, as she railed on him for even considering doing this.

But they were desperate. And here he is. Steve Harrington, American. King of England. No, Great Britain? United Kingdom? The Commonwealth? He scratches his head and scrunches up his face. He doesn't remember. They went over this on the plane, but he's already forgotten. Shit.

He's just pretty sure it's not the King of England. Even if that sounds right to his American ear.

There's some old, stuffy British dudes waiting to lead him around, and he follows. But he's starting to think he can't be the King. Not again. He's pretty sure being the King of Hawkins High will be nothing in comparison to this. This is actual insanity. 

Actual royalty.

They leave him in his new royal bedroom, and you could fit his and Robin's whole apartment inside this one room. He stands and looks out of the window, and feels homesick. He'd rather be in that tiny apartment with her, than here surrounded by all this opulence. He shouldn't have even agreed to get on the plane, especially not without Robin. They couldn't make him accept this offer, he's pretty sure. Even if they were pretty adamant about it, at the time. It felt like he didn't have a choice, even if he's pretty sure he did. Still does, maybe. He hasn't been, like, crowned or anything. He thinks he can still say no, and probably will.

He'd just been hand stomping lemonade and slinging hot dogs, minding his own business. He was just a little delirious and desperate for something new, anything at all.

He was bored.

And then there these stuffy dudes were, telling him he was the new King. 

It all happened so fast.

He should call Robin soon, to let her know he landed. He really wants her to move here to be with him, if he decides to stay. Surely, that's something he could make happen, with all this money and all these resources.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and there's a guy, probably about his age, standing there, hands properly folded behind his back. When Steve looks at him, he bows his head at the neck.

"Hey," Steve says, turning to face him fully, "I'm Steve."

"I'm Edward, your private secretary, Your Majesty."

"What can I do for you, Eddie," Steve says, and he watches as the man cringes at the informality of it all. He just doesn't look like an Edward. He looks like an Eddie. But if he doesn't like that, Steve won't force it on him. At least not to his face. Not yet. He'll wear him down, first.

"Nothing for me, sir. What can I do for you?" Eddie asks, stepping a little further into the room.

"Edward, I think I'd just like to go to bed," Steve says, and Eddie moves towards the bed, drawing down the sheets and fluffing his pillows. 

It's overkill. But nice. 

"Thanks, you don't have to do that, but I appreciate it," Steve says.

"Your dressing room is over there. I'm sure there's some proper sleeping attire," Eddie suggests, pointing towards the right door. "And if you'd like a bath before bed, I can draw one for you, sir."

A bath doesn't sound half bad, but Steve is pretty sure he can run his own bathwater. He might be the King, and isn't that a stupid thought, but he hasn't forgotten how to do basic things for himself, not yet.

Eddie does it for him anyway, despite Steve's protests, and then shows him the little turtle bell on the marble ledge that he can ding if he needs assistance at any time.

"During my bath?" Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.

And Eddie nods, "Any time at all, sir."

That's weird, Steve thinks, but watches as Eddie closes the big double doors, leaving him alone with his bath. He rings the little turtle bell, and Eddie comes back through the doors.

"Your Majesty?" he asks, hands clasped in front of him.

"Are there bubbles?" Steve asks, and Eddie looks taken aback, but quickly nods and produces a bottle of fancy looking bubble bath from a cabinet.

"Thank you," Steve says, smiling, and Eddie nods at him curtly, before leaving. Again.

Steve wants to ring the turtle, just for shits and giggles, but refrains. He wants Eddie to like him. He's close to his age, and maybe they could be friends. Well, maybe not, he's stuffy like his colleagues, just not as stuffy. That's for sure. Gareth and Inspectors Goodwin and Williams aren't exactly old, but they were a little uptight. 

When he's good and pruney, he gets out, and wraps a towel around his waist. When he opens the doors, Eddie is standing there, at the ready.

"You can sit down, you know?" Steve says, walking around the edge of the bed.

"I really can't, Your Majesty," Eddie says.

"Says who?" Steve hollers from the walk-in closet, where he's pulling up a pair of silk pajama bottoms. They're nice, and feel good against his skin. He likes them. He's definitely not wearing the matching long-sleeve shirt though. No way. He can't imagine how uncomfortable that'd be to sleep in.

"Royal protocol, sir."

"Aren't I in charge now? So, if I say you can sit, you can sit," Steve says, coming out of the closet, towel drying his hair.

"That's really not how it works, sir," Eddie says, looking away from him. Clearly trying to get Steve to drop it. 

He will, for now. But that man is sitting before this is over with. There's no reason for him to stand around all the time. Steve's worked retail. He knows how much that sucks, and he didn't even have to do it in dress shoes.

"Did you need help finding your top, sir?" Eddie asks, and Steve realizes that's why he's being so weird. Oh.

"Do I have to wear it?" Steve asks, pulling his towel over his chest. Maybe he's being weird, or creepy, right now. Is he sexually harassing his secretary? At home this is fine, normal. It's like a locker room, right? They're in his bedroom. But maybe that's not cool here, he has no idea.

"Well, no, sir," Eddie says, "but it would be proper. But you don't have to, I suppose."

Steve tries to slide in bed without flashing his hairy chest at Eddie again, pulling the sheets up to his neck.

"There, I'm in bed," Steve says.

"Very well, sir," Eddie says, pulling the drapes closed, nodding at Steve, and hitting the lights on the way out, "Goodnight."

"'Night," Steve says back, as the door closes, and then he's gone. 

And Steve's all alone.

These sheets are super soft, and so is the bed. Steve closes his eyes, and thinks he'll be asleep in no time.

He wakes up to the sun in his eyes, as Eddie is pulling open the heavy curtains.

"Good morning, Your Majesty. Did you sleep alright?" Eddie asks, bowing his head at Steve, and Steve really needs him to stop doing that. It's unnecessary. Steve sits up in bed and scrubs his hand across his face. He did sleep well.

"Yeah, I think I did, thanks," Steve says, stretching, as Eddie goes into his closet and starts selecting clothes. 

"We'll have to get you fitted properly today, but these should do for now," he says, laying out a pair of slacks and a dress shirt. A belt. 

"Okay," Steve answers. He can wear that. That's not so bad. "What's on today's schedule?"

And he wishes he hadn't asked, because the list Eddie rattles off is never-ending.

"All that today, huh?" Steve asks, and Eddie nods. Then steps out into the hallway so Steve can get dressed.

He stands in front of the mirror, trying to tame his hair. He shouldn't have gone to bed with it wet, now it really won't behave. He might need to wash it again. He looks around, and realizes there is no shower in his bathroom. He's gonna need a bathroom with a shower, the bath was fine, but not for everyday use. 

"Edward?" Steve says, opening the door, and Eddie follows him back in.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Eddie asks, standing at attention.

"Is there a bathroom with a shower around here that I'll be able to use? I don't need it this morning, because of the bath, but in the future?" Steve asks, looking at Eddie.

"Yes, of course, sir," Eddie says, "I'll show you where that's at this morning."

"Thanks, also? Can I request some specific hairspray?" Steve asks.

Eddie pulls a little notepad out of his pocket, ready to take notes, "Of course, sir."

"Faberge Organics, the Farrah Fawcett spray," Steve says, and watches as Eddie takes notes. He doesn't even laugh at him. Maybe Steve should tell him it was discontinued, like, a decade ago. But it'll be funny to see how much sway this position actually holds. Maybe he'll send some staff member to find a lone can of it, long forgotten on the dusty bottom shelf of a drugstore.

"Of course, sir," Eddie says, putting the notebook back in his jacket pocket.

Steve steps out inside the hall, and isn't sure what he's supposed to do. Eddie must pick up on that because he holds his arm out, motioning for Steve to walk ahead of him. 

"I thought I could give you a more in depth tour this morning, sir, if you're feeling up to that?" Eddie asks, trailing him. 

Steve pauses, waiting for him to catch up. They start walking again, and Eddie's behind him again. Steve slows his pace, and Eddie slows his own. He feels like he's having to crane his neck back to even see Eddie as he explains all the rooms, all the antiques. The paintings.

That goes on for the whole tour of this floor, and then Steve waits at the top of the long, winding staircase. Eddie waits behind him.

"You do realize I don't know where we're going, right?" Steve says, holding his arm out, inviting Eddie to lead the way.

"Sir, you are the sovereign, no one walks ahead of you. Especially not your staff," Eddie says, and Steve looks at him like he's crazy, because that's a crazy rule. Steve is only King on a huge technicality. He's just a person.

But when it's clear Eddie is not moving until he does, he walks down the stairs, wishing Eddie would just fall into step beside him, at least.

And Eddie gives him the rest of the tour, from two steps over his shoulder. It's kind of weird and uncomfortable.

After the tour, he's led directly into a room to be fitted for new clothes, and Eddie stands nearby.

"We've prepared a few questions to ascertain your knowledge of English history," Eddie says, as they're measuring Steve for a new suit. 

Having your inseam taken is a little distracting, even under regular circumstances. Having three different pairs of hands nudging under your balls, right after you've been declared King, is another level of distracting entirely.

"Okay," Steve says, uneasy. He knows he knows nothing about history, "but I can tell you it's almost zero, right up front."

Eddie looks at him and asks, "When Anne Boleyn failed to give him a son, Henry VIII had her…"

Steve thinks, tries to come up with a logical answer, and settles on, "Adopt?" 

Eddie looks exasperated, "No. Beheaded."

"Jesus, that's a bit much," Steve mutters, and he swears he sees Eddie tamp down the barest hint of a smile. 

"Please pick a fabric, sir," Goodwin says, draping some swatches over his arm and showing Steve.

They all look the same to Steve. Various shades of dark, most with pinstripes. 

"You pick, Edward. I trust your judgment," Steve says, because he does. Eddie is dressed nicely, so surely he can pick the right thing for Steve to not look like he's wearing the curtains.

Eddie nods, quick and sharp, and then hands the chosen swatches over to one of the tailors. Pointing at three of them.

After his fitting, Steve is in jeans and a polo, even if Eddie fought him on it. "Here's a few traditional English dishes, sir, some of which you'll be served tonight. The kitchen chose things they thought you might enjoy, and I thought it might be prudent to make sure you're familiar ahead of time."

Steve nods. Okay. He can do food. He likes food. 

"Roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, fish and chips, bangers and mash, and of course, spotted dick." 

Steve's eyebrows shoot up as he looks at the bowl full of dicks in front of him that he had assumed were sausages. 

He grabs the silver tongs, and picks one up, carefully inspecting it like it might be a bomb, before looking at Eddie. 

"Dick of what?" he asks, scared of the answer. 

Eddie chuckles, "You're holding a banger. A sausage," he clarifies, pointing to some other dish, "that's the spotted dick, sir. It's a dessert." 

Steve looks and can see the raisins. The spots of the spotted name, he assumes. That's more reassuring.

"Please, sir, try it," Eddie says, so Steve lets him serve him a plate, so he can try everything so there's not an embarrassing incident at tonight's dinner.

"Sit, eat with me," Steve says, and Eddie shakes his head.

"No, sir," Eddie says.

"Edward, live a little," Steve coaxes, kicking out a chair leg, an invitation, but Eddie doesn't budge. Just stands at attention, a few feet behind Steve while he eats. It's good. He likes it. Even the spotted dick, which he can't even think about without laughing. How is he going to be able to eat it, or say it, in a public setting? Impossible.

"This is all good, I was scared what you might bring me, to be real honest," Steve says.

Eddie smiles, "Well, we went easy on you. I didn't think you were ready for the black pudding or haggis."

"I don't know what that is," Steve admits.

"For the best," Eddie teases, and Steve smiles at him.

"Tell me about yourself, Edward," Steve says, using his fork and knife to cut into one of the bangers. 

"I'm here to serve you, sir," Eddie says, and Steve looks back over his shoulder at him and rolls his eyes.

"No, about you. Not about me in relation to you, just about you."

"Sir, I don't really…" Eddie trails off, like he doesn't know what to say.

Steve won't make him talk, but he sure wishes he would. He'd like to get to know him better.

"If you won't sit, would you at least come over here where I can see you?" Steve asks, and he's happy when Eddie concedes, and comes into his line of sight. 

"How long have you worked at the palace?" Steve asks.

"Nearly ten years, sir. I've been a secretary for about two years, though. After my uncle retired, I was chosen to fill his duties."

Steve nods, hoping Eddie will continue and elaborate further. He doesn't.

So, Steve eats while Eddie stands by, quietly.

And it's weeks of meetings, fittings, lessons. Eddie and the rest of the staff are working diligently to get him ready to face the press and public.

Steve's trying. He really is, but it's a lot to comprehend. He doesn't understand all the rules, all the protocols, and he is constantly on the wrong foot. Doing something stupid, saying something stupid. He's never gonna catch on to this.

He flops back on his bed. He's going to make a fool of himself, and the Crown. 

Eddie comes in later, and takes one look at him, and starts digging in Steve's walk-in closet. He comes out with an all-white outfit and instructs Steve to put it on. 

Steve does. He's stopped fighting. Stopped asking why, a long time ago. It doesn't matter why, none of them care. He's just a small cog, in a big wheel. He's in charge, but he isn't. Not at all. None of his choices are his own. He's not sitting on a throne barking orders. He's following, trying to please the people around him. Trying to please Eddie.

Once he's dressed, Eddie takes him out to the yard of the palace, and gets down and straps big pads to his shins. They look like oversized, shin guards for baseball catchers. But padded. He was a catcher for one season in high school and hated it. It's the hardest job on the field, he's pretty sure. Pitching was easier. He did that in little league for a while. 

He's standing there in his padded shin guards, looking at Eddie for guidance. Eddie hands him a paddle. Steve tries to hold it like a baseball bat, and Eddie laughs, while trying to help him correct his grip. 

"This is a cricket bat, not a baseball bat, sir," Eddie says with a smile. 

"Oh, so more like croquet?" Steve says, lowering the bat in front of him, and Eddie grins.

"You know how to play croquet?" Eddie asks, looking surprised.

"Sure," Steve says, "I might not be royalty, but I do come from a rich family. Back home. We definitely played croquet from time to time."

Eddie smiles, and nods, "It's not like croquet. You want to keep the ball away from your wicket, not aim it towards it," Eddie explains, helping him adjust his grip, again. His instinct is still to draw it up like a bat, twirl it around in his hand. Test its heft. But Eddie tells him to keep it down, in front of him, to protect his wicket, the three stumps and two bails balanced behind him.

Once Steve is in place, Eddie yells, "Bowler!"

And the guy downfield throws the ball at him in a goofy fashion, bouncing it in front of him, and Steve hits it. And it sails up and away. They do it over and over. This is something he's actually picked up on quickly for once, and it's fun. Steve hits the shit out of the next one, and declares it a home run.

Eddie laughs, "A maximum, sir, but yes, the same idea, I suppose. Six runs." 

If it bounces to the boundary, it's worth four Eddie declares, and eventually Eddie goes to the other side of the little dirt rectangle, and they teach Steve how to run back and forth to accumulate runs that way, if he doesn't hit it out of the park.

"You can lead with your bat, sir, get it over the crease ahead of you," Eddie says.

"The line? The baseline?" Steve asks, and Eddie smiles. 

"Yes, sir, that," Eddie grins. 

And he runs past Eddie once more, passing in the middle, and he reaches up as they go past each other, offering him his hand, a high five.

Eddie clearly isn't sure about this, but still puts his hand up, and they touch as they run by each other, each headed to the opposite end from where they started. 

When they've finished, Steve leans over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard. But he's happy right now.

Once he stands, he looks at Eddie, smiling, and asks, "Do you want to play croquet next?" 

And Eddie laughs, honest to god laughs, and it makes Steve smile, big and bright. It's a great sound, and he hopes to hear it more often.

"Sure, Your Majesty, we can play croquet," Eddie says, and sends the pages to go find the equipment.

Pads shucked to the side in the grass, Steve watches as Eddie lines up his shot.

"Don't do it, don't even think about it," Steve says, breathing down Eddie's neck, taunting him as he tries to line up his mallet with the croquet ball.

Eddie laughs, and nudges him backwards with his elbow, and then freezes, like he's realized what he's done. Steve just shoves him back a little, hopefully assuring him that it's fine, that he likes this. That this feels normal, at least almost, and that's fucking priceless. To his sanity, to his heart. 

He's homesick for Robin, for America, honestly.

He wants to watch baseball or basketball on TV. He wants to drive his car. He wants a pizza, a burger, or some fried chicken. Anything. He can ask for anything he'd like to eat, and they'll bring it, but it's always a fancy version. They seem to have an aversion to actually just going out and getting him the junk food he's missing.

This has been a huge responsibility to take on, one he doesn't fully understand, with a very steep learning curve. But right now, they are just two guys playing a sport together, for fun.

That he understands, fully.

"This is the most fun I've had since I've gotten here," Steve says, standing next to Eddie as he whacks the ball through the hoop.

"I'm glad to hear that, sir."

Once the game is over, Steve stands there in the grass, happy. He looks at Eddie, "What sport can you teach me next?"

Eddie just laughs, "Polo, I suppose. How do you feel about horses?"

And then it's back to the unfun parts. Steve showers, and throws on the clothes Eddie has laid out for him. And he attends meetings. He has his weekly Audience with the Prime Minister, one-on-one, without Eddie present. They always make him feel nervous that he's going to fuck up.

But it's only twenty minutes. He can do anything for twenty minutes.

Eddie works sports into his tight schedule, and Steve appreciates it. It's not everyday, but it's as often as they can fit it in, and they play and Steve pushes himself. To get better. To have fun. 

To impress Eddie, a little, with the one thing he's been good at here.

 

Steve's having a bad day, and he's had enough, so he pulls a baseball hat over his head, and walks out of the front door. Nobody stops him, but he's pretty sure that's just because they've never had to deal with a Monarch that was trying to escape the way he is. But he's had all of this he can take today.

He doesn't get far down the road, before he realizes he is being followed. He turns and looks, and there's Eddie. So, Steve slows down, stalls, waiting for him to catch up.

"You coming with me, or are you going back to tattle?" Steve asks, and Eddie smiles.

"Where are we going, Your Majesty?" Eddie asks, falling in step behind him.

"I'm hungry. I want some food, some American food. Something I'm familiar with. No spotted dick, or whatever the fuck that was. Is there something around here that I'll recognize?" Steve asks, and Eddie nods, and then he waits for Steve to start walking again, keeping two paces behind him.

Steve glances back at him, "How did you end up working for the royal family?"

"My family. It's just what we've always done," Eddie says. "My uncle had this position before I did. When he retired, the last King asked for me to step in, to keep with some sort of continuity, I suppose. He'd known me for a long time, since my childhood."

"I'm sorry you lost your friend," Steve says.

Eddie pauses, like nobody has ever said that to him before, "Thank you, sir."

Steve nods, "Well, what would you like to do instead?" Steve asks, and Eddie looks at him, like he hadn't expected the question.

"Working for the royal family is the highest honor," Eddie says, and Steve laughs.

"Okay, that's bullshit. You don't want to serve people. You don't want to serve me. That's not your dream. What do you want to do? What would make you happy?" Steve presses.

Eddie looks at him, like this might be a trap, even if it really isn't. Steve genuinely wants to know what Eddie likes to do. He wants to know anything Eddie will tell him. Which really, really hasn't been much. He's definitely not very forthcoming about anything personal.

"I like to play music," Eddie finally says. 

"That's cool," Steve says, meaning it, "are you any good?"

"Not bad, I don't think. I play with my friends in a little four piece, when I have the time. The palace requires a lot of my time," Eddie says, and then looks embarrassed. "Not that I'm complaining. I'm happy to be at your service, sir."

"Steve," Steve says, "please, just call me Steve."

"King Steve," Eddie says, and smiles at him, just a little. Steve realizes Eddie's teasing him, and it makes Steve happy. Like they might be friends. Or could be, in time. He definitely needs a friend here.

"Well, that's not the first time I've been called that, so it's an improvement. For sure. But try to work it down to just Steve, in the future. At least while we're alone."

Eddie nods, but he doesn't look like that's going to be something he'll ever do.

They walk a little further, and Eddie stops in front of a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Perfect. 

Eddie ushers him inside, and into a hidden corner booth, before going up to order. When he comes back, he gently puts down the tray, and acts like he's going to start setting everything up, like this is a state dinner. It's definitely not.

"Just sit. Eat with me," Steve says, and Eddie looks uncomfortable.

"That's really not…"

"Does it look like I care, Eddie? Please?" Steve asks, and he pushes a styrofoam plate in his direction, and starts loading it up.

"Are you a breast, leg or thigh man?" Steve asks, and Eddie blushes a pretty pink.

Steve's pretty sure he's not a breast man, and that's more than okay with him. Maybe he can use that in his favor, someday, hopefully.

"Anything is fine, si-"

"Steve," Steve corrects.

"Steve," Eddie whispers, like he might be caught and reprimanded. 

Steve smiles, and puts a couple different pieces on Eddie's plate, then some mashed potatoes. Gravy. A couple biscuits, and looks at Eddie as he pushes it his way.

Eddie is just looking down at it. 

Steve reaches down and picks up his thigh with his hands, and takes a bite.

"Finger lickin' good," he says, and Eddie giggles, as he picks up a piece himself, and takes a bite. It looks awkward, and a little dainty, but it thrills Steve that he's playing along. Getting a little more comfortable with him.

He wants to get to know him, Eddie, the man under the suit. Maybe the man, out of the suit.

On the walk back, Steve looks back at Eddie. 

"Eddie?" Steve asks, and Eddie looks at him.

"Yes?"

"Was there really nobody else? Is it me…or nothing?" Steve asks, because he's pretty sure he can't do this. Doesn't want to. At least not long-term. Not for his entire life. He's given it a good go, but he's not feeling it, at all.

"Well," Eddie says, drawing out the word, seemingly unsure if he should keep talking. 

"Well, what?" Steve asks, pausing, and pulling Eddie off the sidewalk and into a little hedgerow. They stand there looking at each other.

"There was one other option, but he didn't want to do it, so I kept my mouth shut," Eddie says, looking at the ground.

"So, that guy could say no, but I'm just the schmuck who had to accept this thing? This weight on my shoulders?" Steve asks.

"I didn't know you then. You were just a name, a profile, on paper," Eddie explains, still looking down.

"And you knew the other guy?"

Eddie nods.

"Who is it? Do I know him?"

Eddie looks up, quietly asking Steve if he'll keep this secret, and Steve reluctantly nods.

"My Uncle Wayne," Eddie says, "he's retired, and already he did his duty to the Crown, and didn't want that kind of spotlight trained on him. He just wanted to go on, living his normal life. He didn't ask for it any more than you did."

Steve nods, he understands, even if it doesn't make him feel much better.

"Oh," Steve says, "I understand. I just wish, well, that I'd have been given more of a choice, too. If I said no, they'd have found him, eventually, right?"

Eddie nods, "I'm sorry, sir."

Steve gets it. Unless he wants to make that old, retired man sit on the throne, he's stuck.

"It's okay, Eddie. But I feel alone here, most of the time, so I'd like Robin to move here. Can that happen?"

Eddie shakes his head, looking sad.

"Sir, they're never going to allow you to marry your American girlfriend. It's been a hard enough sell for you."

Steve laughs, pushing his bangs back off of his forehead, "Girlfriend? No way. She's my best friend. Platonic with a capital P, only."

"Oh, well, then, yes. I'm sure we could arrange for that to happen, assuming she'd like to come."

Steve grins, wide. That's the best news he's gotten in weeks.

They start walking again, "Do you live at the palace?" Steve asks.

Eddie chuckles, and shakes his head, "No, sir, I don't live at the palace. It just seems like it."

He's teasing, and it makes Steve smile.

"Where do you live, then?" Steve asks.

"Right around the corner, actually," Eddie says, and Steve stops walking.

"Can we go see it?" Steve asks.

"You want to go to my flat, sir?" Eddie questions.

Steve realizes that was probably rude to invite himself over, "Only if you want me to. You're not obligated, of course."

"I didn't think I was obligated, Steve," Eddie says, "but it might not exactly be tidy. I wasn't expecting a royal to want to visit me at home."

"Do I look like I'm gonna care about that?" Steve asks, and Eddie smiles, and redirects them, but still keeps just behind his shoulder. 

Eddie's apartment is nice, and not as messy as he'd sold it as. Steve looks around, at the pictures on the walls. At his guitar on a stand by the couch. Eddie is digging in the fridge and brings him a beer, which Steve takes with enthusiasm. He's been offered wine, and liquor, at the palace, but this is just a regular beer. That he'll be allowed to drink out of the bottle, no glass in sight.

It feels like home, and he twists off the cap, sliding it into his shirt pocket.

Eddie sits next to him on the couch, and they drink, and just make small talk. It feels normal. Cozy. Like he's in someone's home, instead of a museum, and he longs for a place like this to call his own again. He took it for granted back home, and now he misses those days. Misses Robin.

They don't stay long, and just walk back to the palace after they've finished their beers, but it's the best night Steve's had since he's gotten to this country.

"I can't move to London," Robin says across the ocean through the phone, and Steve slumps at his desk. 

"But, I miss you," Steve says, twisting the cord around his fingers.

"Well, you should have thought of that before you packed your shit and ran away to play King," Robin snarks.

She's teasing, but it's true.

"Will you at least come to visit?" he asks, hoping. Begging.

"Of course," she says, "if you're paying."

"I'm paying. I'm the King, you know. Just be aware you'll have to curtsy to me," he teases.

"Yeah, never gonna happen, dingus."

But she agrees, so he puts Eddie on the case to set it all up through his office.

"I want to go to the movies," Steve declares suddenly, and Eddie looks over at him. They're sitting across from each other at a desk, as Steve's going over paperwork from his red box. Signing what he needs to sign, asking Eddie about what he still doesn't understand.

"The movies?" Eddie questions. 

"Yeah, you know, a movie theater?"

"I'll see what I can do, sir," Eddie says, with a smile.

 

That night, Eddie guides him to a secluded room. And it's a private theater. Right in the palace.

"This has been here all along?" Steve asks.

"Well, yes, sir, but it's really for the staff. But I cleared it tonight, for you."

Steve doesn't even care what they watch, he just wants to have some fun.

"Thanks, Eddie," Steve says, settling into one of the chairs. Patting the one beside him for Eddie to sit, and after Eddie's collected a bucket of already prepared popcorn from a table, he does sit, and hands it over to Steve.

They sit side-by-side, watching a movie, sharing the bucket of popcorn, and it feels normal for a couple hours. He could have been on a date, a regular date back home, tonight. 

But it's Eddie, and he can't kiss him at the end of the night, even if he'd like to. This gift from him was more than enough.

Eddie follows him back to his bedroom, and turns down the bed, and Steve stands there, watching him.

"Thanks for tonight, Eddie. I had a lot of fun," Steve says.

"Me too, sir," Eddie answers, "goodnight."

Steve is standing out on the step, bouncing on his feet, nervous. Excited. Robin is on the way, and when they finally pull up with her, she leaps out of the car and runs straight into his arms. Not a curtsy in sight. He catches her and spins her, hugging her tight. He didn't realize it until this very moment, that one of the things he's been missing the most is human touch. None of these people touch him. No friendly hands on a shoulder, or arm.

No reassurance. No checking on his emotional needs. No comforting him. No checking in, at all. He's just supposed to function, as is, all on his own, he supposes.

He's been needing a hug, he realizes, and he buries his face in her neck, and if it's weird, she's going with it.

"I'm so glad you're here. Welcome to my new home," he says, and she grabs his hand, and he lets her pull him into the palace and up the staircase, at a near run. Dodging staffers, who bow to him as he is dragged past them. They clearly disapprove, but he doesn't give a shit. This is the most normal thing he's experienced in weeks.

She pauses at the top of the staircase, but only because she doesn't know where she's going.

He nods to the left, and he's being pulled along again, giving her directions to his bedroom, and once they're inside, she launches herself onto his bed, bouncing.

He smiles, and hops up next to her.

"Holy shit, Steve, look at this place!" she shouts, eyes wide as she looks around.

"I know, right?" he asks, but he's only looking at her. She's the only thing in this whole room that he cares about, that he loves.

That night he wraps his arm over her side, crowding up behind her, and she lets him hold her, "I'm so happy to see you."

"You better not be that kind of happy to see me," she says, contorting to get away from his crotch.

He laughs, laying his head on his pillow, "I'll try to keep it in check."

"You better, dingus."

And dingus sounds like a better, more fitting, title than King ever has, a thousand times over.

He wants to be her dingus, he doesn't want to be the King.

Steve is startled awake in the morning, by Eddie at the foot of his bed.

"Oh, Your Majesty, I do apologize," Eddie says, starting to back away from the bed, "I didn't realize you had company."

Robin looks at him, giving him the once over, "Well, not that kind of company, Jeeves. Let's get that straight."

Steve laughs, and nods, "Definitely not that kind of company, Eddie."

"We're best friends," Robin says.

"Platonic with a capital P," Eddie repeats, "as Your Majesty has said."

"Your Majesty," Robin says with a cackle, rolling towards him, and he slaps her on the arm, and it just makes her laugh harder. "King Dingus."

"He hasn't picked a regnal name yet, so perhaps that could be an option?" Eddie says, and Steve can't believe it. It's the funniest thing Eddie's ever said in Steve's presence, by far.

Steve laughs, throwing his head back, melting into the bed again.

Eddie just looks confused, and a little alarmed. But he still draws back the curtains, and brings Steve and Robin in a wheeled cart full of breakfast and coffee.

"Thanks, Eddie," Steve says.

"Sir, madam," Eddie says, and he bows his head at the neck, and then he's gone.

As soon as the door closes, Robin slugs Steve in the arm, "You have a crush on Jeeves!"

Steve doesn't even try to deny it, just smiles, "Yeah, that's Eddie."

Robin stays two weeks, and then she goes back home to their real life. And Steve's agitated. He misses her. He should have gone home with her. 

Eddie comes in carrying a large, heavy by the look of it, cardboard box. Great, now what?

"What's that?" Steve asks, standing to go take a look as Eddie places it down on the table.

"Your hairspray, Your Majesty," Eddie says, opening the flaps, "I'm sorry it took so long. I had to convince Unilever to engage in a short, private production run, just for you, sir."

"No fucking way," Steve says, reaching in to pick up a can, and it's really it. 

He grabs Eddie and hugs him, shaking him around, and Eddie is just a ragdoll in his arms, but Steve could kiss him, he's so happy.

"Thank you, Eddie, you're now my favorite person. Robin, who?" he teases, immediately taking a can to the bathroom.

Eddie follows, and watches him as he sprays it on his hair and tries to style it, even though it's not wet. 

"Just wait until tomorrow, I'll look so damn good," Steve says, and he meets Eddie's eyes in the mirror, and Eddie's blushing.

"I'm sure you will, sir," Eddie says, and Steve can feel it between them. The sexual tension. The attraction. He's not sure how to do anything about it, if he even can.

But he wants to, and it's nice to have that feeling again. About anyone. And he's happy it's Eddie that's making him feel like this, because he really likes him a lot.

"Can we go swimming today?" Steve asks, and Eddie looks at the schedule, and nods. 

"I think we can fit that in this evening, if you'd like, sir," Eddie answers.

"Yes, please," Steve says. 

That evening, they walk down to the private pool and Eddie stands there while Steve strips off his shirt.

"Aren't you coming in?" Steve asks. He's assumed Eddie would. It's a sport, and that's one of the few things they do together, as almost equals.

"Sir?" Eddie questions.

"C'mon, get in!" Steve shouts, laughing, splashing water towards Eddie, which Eddie dodges easily. But Eddie nods. Disappearing into one of the locker rooms.

Steve's taking bets with himself, if Eddie will be in one of those silly old-fashioned, striped swim costumes with shoulder straps when he comes back.

He's not.

He's just wearing a pair of basic black trunks, and Steve can't help it as his eyes rake over Eddie's pale, exposed skin.

Steve's not sure he's even seen Eddie's forearms, let alone is his bare chest. He has a tattoo. More than one, it looks like, and Steve grins. Fully enjoying the view. Maybe he's not as buttoned-up as he appears on the surface.

Eddie comes down the steps and pushes off, and swims towards Steve.

"What now, sir?" Eddie asks, treading water. 

"I was thinking about laps, but anything would be good with me," Steve says. As long as he's with Eddie, he's in.

And they fall into lane lines, and Steve breathes to his left so he can see Eddie, and for once, they are side-by-side, equals. They both do a flip-turn and push off, resurfacing together. Steve smiles, and keeps kicking.

He feels normal, here, now. Swimming. His teammate beside him. And Eddie is his teammate, maybe the only one he has in this place. He's surrounded by people, but he feels like Eddie is the only one that ever actually sees him.

And he's happy as they swim, together, until they are both struggling to breathe, clinging to the side of the pool. Steve rests his head on his arms, and feels good. Really, really good.

His happiness doesn't last long. 

The next morning, Gareth comes into his office, with four or five other staffers trailing behind him.

"Your Majesty, we'd like to discuss taking the first steps towards the wedding," Gareth says.

"Whose wedding?" Steve asks.

"Yours, sir," Gareth says, and Steve sees red. He knew they were scheming to set him up on dates with various available women, but this is too far. He'll be the King, but marrying a stranger isn't happening.

"I'm not getting married!" Steve snaps as he storms out, turning to hold his hand up, giving the universal motion to stop, demanding that they not follow.

Steve only wants to find Eddie.

Eddie is walking down the hallway, and Steve accosts him. 

"This is too far, you can't tell me who to marry, Eddie!" Steve yells, and Eddie quickly grabs him by the arm, and pulls him into Steve's bedroom, and shuts the door behind them. Locking them inside.

"Your Majesty, please, it's for the good of the country. To protect your bloodline, your birthright. You're the last. You need to marry, and produce heirs. That's just how it's done."

"I'm not the last and you know it!" Steve screams.

"Please," Eddie says softly, like he's trying to tame Steve, "please consider doing this. It's the right thing to do."

Steve crosses his arms across his chest, "Absolutely not."

"Sir, please," Eddie says.

"Stop calling me sir, if you're gonna fuck me over, at least use my name, for god's sake."

"Steve," Eddie says, "we aren't doing this to hurt you."

"Well, it sure feels like you are. What about love? What about who I love?" Steve asks, his voice softer.

"Love must be subordinated for the good of the monarchy, Steve," Eddie says, his voice softer now, too.

Eddie has called him Steve, here, and Steve can't even be happy about it.

"No. No way. No, no, no."

"Princess Caroline is a perfectly acceptable choice. You need to do this."

"You're serious?" Steve snaps.

"Yes!" Eddie snaps back.

"I won't, I'm not marrying someone I don't love!" Steve assures loudly, and he means that. They can't make him. "This place is terrible, this job, it's bullshit! It's all bullshit! I'd rather be selling hot dogs, or ice cream, than to be locked up here in this gilded cage! At least at home my choices were my own and I could fuck up my life any damn way I saw fit!" Steve screams. 

"Steve," Eddie says, scrubbing his hands over his face and Steve's never seen him this undone, "Why? Why are you fighting this? This is just how things are done."

"You know why," Steve says, crossing the room and closing the space between them.

"I don't…that's not…" Eddie mutters, looking anywhere but at Steve.

"Eddie," Steve says, taking him by the shoulders, "look at me."

Eddie does, reluctantly.

"I can't marry Princess Caroline, because I love you."

Eddie's face falls, like he's just been given terrible news, and Steve's stomach drops. He's miscalculated this, all of this, and immediately lets go of him. They haven't been flirting, they haven't been anything to each other. Steve has misinterpreted their whole thing.

He feels sick.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Steve says, taking a step back, "I shouldn't have said that to you. Please, don't-"

But his words are cut off, when Eddie is suddenly moving towards him, and finally, finally presses his lips to Steve's.

Steve reaches his hand up, and cups the back of Eddie's head. It's better than he'd even fantasized about. He kisses him, over and over, holding him. Finally touching him in all the ways he's longed to, for months.

"Eddie," Steve breathes out, once they've separated, and Eddie just smiles at him and takes him by the hand, leading him towards the truly outlandish bed. He hadn't dreamed this is where the day would end up, even if he'd dared to hope. 

Eddie pushes Steve onto his back on the bed, and the dynamic has shifted in a way that Steve loves. Yes, please. More of this. He watches as Eddie pulls off his jacket, his tie, and unbuttons his dress shirt.

It's the best strip tease Steve's witnessed in his whole life.

And when Eddie crawls on top of him, in just his underwear, Steve laughs and wraps his arms around Eddie, pulling him close. Pressing kisses to his shoulder, his chest, anywhere he can reach.

After, Steve brushes his hand through Eddie's hair, holding him, as they lay together. Eddie's legs are tangled with his, and they're comfortable here, together. 

"I need to quit," Steve says, softly.

"I know you do," Eddie answers, pressing his lips to Steve's chest.

"Will your uncle take over? If I do?" Steve asks.

"I'll talk to him," Eddie assures.

"Will you go with me when I leave? Or will you need to stay with him?" Steve asks.

"At first, I'll feel I'm obligated to stay," Eddie says, "he's my uncle. He raised me. But after he gets settled, perhaps."

Perhaps isn't a no, so Steve takes that as good news, and just pulls him closer while he has the chance.

"Maybe, you'd like to settle in with me here at my flat, for a stretch. Before you go home," Eddie suggests and Steve nods. Absolutely. Yes, to that. Please.

Eddie and his speechwriters help him perfect his abdication speech, and write his Instrument of Abdication letter. Wayne Munson, at his side. Stoic and quiet, but willing now, to accept this responsibility. 

Steve signs it, and Eddie, Gareth, Goodwin and Williams all sign as witnesses to his signature. 

And it's done, basically.

"You boys do realize I have no children, so this might come right back to you, after I'm gone," Wayne says softly.

And Steve and Eddie both nod. They know. But they appreciate this time Wayne's given them, to live and love. It's a gift, because he loves Eddie and wants him to be happy. Steve knows that, and he won't take it for granted. Not ever.

In a few days time, he's standing before Parliament, something he's never had to do, before now.

"My Lords and Members of the House of Commons, I know it is unusual for a King to address you in this manner, but I have some things I'd like to say, that I'd like for you to hear them in person, from me," he starts, before going on to apologize for being too set in his ways, too American for this duty. But he explains that there is another heir, an English one, also born into the House of Wyndam-Pryce. He tells them that it was discovered after Steve had assumed the throne, but now that he knows, he feels it only right to step down. He introduces Wayne, and turns over the Crown, happily.

As soon as he steps back from the podium, he feels like the weight of the world has left his shoulders. He walks out into the sunshine and smiles, closing his eyes, tilting his head towards the sky. 

He's a free man, once again. 

Eddie is waiting, and takes his hand, and finally, for once, Eddie steps out ahead of him, leading the way.

There are lots of people standing around watching him pack, and Steve looks around, "Are they scared I'm going to steal something?"

Eddie laughs, "Well, maybe. You can't take anything that belongs to the Crown."

"I only want to take one thing with me," Steve says, smiling.

Eddie grins, lowering his voice, "Me?"

"Okay, well, two things," Steve teases, and Eddie cocks his head, curious.

Steve walks down the staircase, carrying the giant cardboard box of hairspray. Eddie holds the door open for him, and then helps him put it in the trunk. Technically, it belongs to the Crown, but Steve is sure they'll never miss it. If Wayne wants him beheaded for taking it, bring it on. The man hardly has any hair at all left, so he definitely doesn't have a pressing need for hairspray.

"So, how was it to be King?" Eddie asks, settling into the back of the town car beside him.

"Well, I met you and I got a lifetime supply of my favorite hairspray, so pretty good, overall," Steve teases, and reaches over and takes Eddie's hand, looking at the window as the palace grows smaller in the distance behind them.

He's not the King, not anymore. 

But he's Eddie's boyfriend, his partner, and he's pretty sure that's a way more important role for him to try and fill.

Notes: This originally started for Steddie Holiday Drabbles, but the length got away from me. And then really got away from me. I couldn't condense this into 1000 words, it seems. So, I did something different for that Royalty AU and used this one here.

Royalty isn't really in my wheelhouse, but King Ralph popped into my head, and made me cackle. Sure, I'll make American Steve an unlikely King. No problem.

I'm sure Eddie had the job of about a dozen men, here. Go with it.

Also? John Goodman is a damn delight. Nobody could deliver the "dick of what?" line better than that, though I had Steve try.

Wienerlicious was from the show Chuck.

House of Wyndam-Pryce is a Buffy joke. That's Wesley's last name, and Wyndham was the fictional name in King Ralph. So it seemed fitting.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiemas and follow along!

#steddiemas #hallmark movie tropes #royalty au #steddie #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #king steve #platonic stobin #stranger things fic #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddiemas

[sgiandubh]

If...

If you think there is no exit plan, you are probably very candid.

If you think they have no support network, you might have an agenda. Or are, again, very candid about how some things work, in that world.

If you think any random Glaswegian will readily tell you, a nice tourist, what you burn to know, you might have no idea of British/Scottish mentality.

It's been two weeks since I started to interact with you, although I feel like I've known a handful of you for a good while. Following and trying to make sense of someone's written rants does that.

You are everything I thought you would be. Kind, thoughtful people. I have met and talked, sometimes at length, to some of the most intelligent, trustworthy, warmhearted, sensible, sensitive and empathic women I've stumbled upon in a long time. You know who you are. I shared in all honesty. You shared in all honesty, I know it. It is all safe with me and I am grateful for the honor. Each one of the tiny gems is safely stocked and your DM words do not travel to other inboxes. I thank you and commend you. You are these two's best fans. Truly.

Know I read and appreciate all your reblogs and comments, even if it would take a very long time to answer them all.

I often wondered what I would do in the statistically not that unlikely (given current location) event of a sighting. Three possibilities exist: 1) nervousness, silly face and shaky hands are no pretty picture; 2) look like an imbecile, take no pic, howl in own's car and then brag about in excited DMs; 3) take a pic praying Freya not to drop the damn phone, then share in private only.

For the life of me, I have no idea why I feel so protective towards two complete strangers. But this is my stand and I am a very stubborn person. I will not budge. I don't give a flying duck about what you might think of me. I share what I want to share about me, and with whom I want to share only: some already know a lot, some almost nothing. And when I go public with something, I believe it in all good faith and to the best of my abilities to be 100% accurate.

I cannot be taunted, angered, coaxed, bribed, lured. Try me. You'll get a nice teflon wall smiling right back at you. I am not going anywhere and I will die on this hill, because I know in my mind and in my heart it is the right one. Not all those who wander are lost.

[homonationalist]

At present, it is standard among practically all communities to fête the family as a bastion of relative safety from state persecution and market coercion, and as a space for nurturing subordinated cultural practices, languages, and traditions. But this is not enough of a reason to spare the family. Frustratedly, Hazel Carby stressed the fact (for the benefit of her white sisters) that many racially, economically, and patriarchally oppressed people cleave proudly and fervently to the family. She was right; nevertheless, as Kathi Weeks puts it: “the model of the nuclear family that has served subordinated groups as a fence against the state, society and capital is the very same white, settler, bourgeois, heterosexual, and patriarchal institution that was imposed by the state, society, and capital on the formerly enslaved, indigenous peoples, and waves of immigrants, all of whom continue to be at once in need of its meagre protections and marginalized by its legacies and prescriptions” (emphasis mine). The family is a shield that human beings have taken up, quite rightly, to survive a war. If we cannot countenance ever putting down that shield, perhaps we have forgotten that the war does not have to go on forever.

This is why Paul Gilroy remarked in his 1993 essay “It’s A Family Affair,” “even the best of this discourse of the familialization of politics is still a problem.” Gilroy is grappling with the reality that, in the United Kingdom as in the United States, the state’s constant disrespect of the Black home and transgression of Black households’ boundaries, as well as its disproportionate removal of Black children into the foster-care industry, understandably inspires an urgent anti-racist politics of “familialization” in defense of Black families. Both the British and American netherworlds of supposedly “broken” homes (milieus that are then exoticized, and seen as efflorescing creatively against all odds), have posed an obstinate threat to the legitimacy of the family regime simply by existing, Gilroy suggests. The paradox is that the “broken” remnant sustains the bourgeois regime insofar as it supplies the culture, inspiration, and oftentimes the surrogate care labor that allows the white household to imagine itself as whole. As a dialectician, “I want to have it both ways,” writes Gilroy, closing out his essay. “I want to be able to valorize what we can recover, but also to cite the disastrous consequences that follow when the family supplies the only symbols of political agency we can find in the culture and the only object upon which that agency can be seen to operate. Let us remind ourselves that there are other possibilities.

There are other possibilities! Traces of the desire for them can be found in Toni Cade (later Toni Cade Bambara)’s anthology The Black Woman, published in America in 1970, not long after the publication of the US labor secretariat’s “Moynihan report,” The Negro Family: The Case for National Action. The open season on the Black Matriarch was in full swing. And certainly not all of the anthology’s feminists, in their valiant effort to beat back societal anti-maternal sentiment (matrophobia) and the hatred of Black women specifically (more recently known as “misogynoir”), make the additional step of criticizing familism within their Black communities. But one or two contributors do flatly reject the notion that the family could ever be a part of Black (collective human) liberation. Kay Lindsey, in her piece “The Black Woman as a Woman,” lays out her analysis that: “If all white institutions with the exception of the family were destroyed, the state could also rise again, but Black rather than white.” In other words: the only way to ensure the destruction of the patriarchal state is for the institution of the family to be destroyed. “And I mean destroyed,” echoes the feminist women’s health center representative Pat Parker in 1980, in a speech she delivered at ¡Basta! Women’s Conference on Imperialism and Third World War in Oakland, California. Parker speaks in the name of The Black Women’s Revolutionary Council, among other organizations, and her wide- ranging statement (which addresses imperialism, the Klan, and movement- building) purposively ends with the family: “As long as women are bound by the nuclear family structure we cannot effectively move toward revolution. And if women don’t move, it will not happen.” The left, along with women especially of the upper and middle classes, “must give up ... undying loyalty to the nuclear family,” Parker charges. It is “the basic unit of capitalism and in order for us to move to revolution it has to be destroyed.”

Forty years later, the British writer Lola Olufemi is among those reminding us that there are other possibilities: “abolishing the family...” she tweets, “that’s light work. You’re crying over whether or not Engels said it when it’s been focal to black studies/black feminism for decades.” For Olufemi as for Parker and Lindsey, abolishing marriage, private property, white supremacy, and capitalism are projects that cannot be disentangled from one another. She is no lone voice, either. Annie Olaloku-Teriba, a British scholar of “Blackness” in theory and history, is another contemporary exponent of the rich Black family-abolitionist tradition Olufemi names. In 2021, Olaloku-Teriba surprised and unsettled some of her followers by publishing a thread animated by a commitment to the overthrow of “familial relations” as a key goal of her antipatriarchal socialism. These posts point to the striking absence of the child from contemporary theorizations of patriarchal domesticity, and criticize radicals’ reluctance to call mothers who “violently discipline [Black] boys into masculinity” patriarchal. “The adult/child relation is as central to patriarchy as ‘man’/‘woman,’” Olaloku-Teriba affirms: “The domination of the boy by the woman is a very routine and potent expression of patriarchal power.” These observations reopen horizons. What would it mean for Black caregivers (of all genders) not to fear the absence of family in the lives of Black children? What would it mean not to need the Black family?

Sophie Lewis in “Abolish Which Family?” from Abolish the Family: A Manifesto for Care and Liberation, 2022.

#sophie lewis #abolish the family #🌟 #reading

[duchessofostergotlands]

I’m so curious why William, Kate and their children aren’t called the Prince/ss of the United Kingdom? Does that title exist? It just makes sense to me considering they are so high up.

They are Prince/ss of the United Kingdom but that's their job (see baby birth certificates). A few things to keep in your head as you read this answer:

As I said before, titles are descriptions. They tell you about the person who holds them and their status. If you know how British titles work you can decode what they tell you.

Even though titles don't mean much today, the rules are symbolic of the past where a title did mean something so The Duke of x in the Middle Ages would have had a leadership role in x, the citizens of x might swear fealty to him or pay their taxes to him etc.

"The" is an important word in titles because it's the definite article. That means if you say "can you bring me a sponge?" it means any sponge. If you say "can you bring me the sponge?" it implies there is one specific sponge being referred to or there's only one sponge.

William was a Prince from birth. His title - HRH Prince William of Wales - has a territorial designation but no "the" and includes his first name so as per what I said above, the title is a clue telling you he's the son of someone who holds the Wales title but holds no territory in his own right. When he was made HRH The Duke of Cambridge that was a jump up because it was his title. It would historically have denoted that he personally holds the territory of Cambridge, not just that he's the son of someone who holds a title. So that's why it's The Duke of Cambridge. He's the only one. Then when he was made The Prince of Wales that was another step up because not only is he the personal holder of the title - as with his Dukedoms - but it historically was connected to a Principality and a Principality is higher than a Duchy (I won't get into why now, this is already too long).

So, their title couldn't be HRH The Prince and Princess of the United Kingdom because that would signify that they personally "own" the principality of the UK (in a metaphorical, historical sense) which of course is wrong; the King reigns and we've never been a principality. And if his title was Prince William of the United Kingdom or even The Prince William of the United Kingdom that would signify that he has no territory of his own. So if his title was Prince William of the UK that would actually be a massive downgrade.

#ask #anon #British royal family #titles

[chaoticloving]

talentless

harry styles x actress!reader

summary: harry gets advice on how to deal with criticism from y/n. y/n reflects back to when harry helped her. masterlist

warning: talks of rude people and parents, drinking

word count: 1.4k

a/n: yes, i’m alluding to a matilda fic. I would never forgive myself so not take the opportunity. but before that i’m def gonna build up their relationship more aka angst!! yay!! and like normal this is apart of the SOH universe but you don’t need to read that to understand this fic.

April, 2015

“How do you deal with criticism?”

It was late at night when Harry asked Y/n. They were in her bathroom, doing their nightly skin care routine—more like Y/n actually doing it, and Harry blowing the suds off his hands from his cleanser onto his girlfriend—and looking forward to going to bed after a busy day.

Y/n halted her movements, looking over to her boyfriend who got suspiciously quite a couple seconds ago. She missed his laughter.

She sighed. She wanted to yell at him, ask him why in his five years of in the spotlight he decided to look himself up; it’s the first rule of fame, never look yourself up—especially on twitter. But she knew that yelling wouldn’t help him, it would just make things worse.

“I-I don’t have to.” She tells him. “If I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist to me.”

Harry, sitting on the bathroom countertop, looks at his hands laying in his lap. He doesn’t move, it almost looks like he’s not breathing too.

“But I know that’s not what you want to hear.” She lays her hand on his, holding it and rubbing her thumb across his skin soothingly. Harry looks up, eyes watery and soft. “Let’s cuddle.”

She pulls him along behind her. Y/n removed the covers and gestures for Harry to get in which he gladly does. Harry’s love language has always and will forever be touch, nothing sexual, just loving touches make him feel loved and that’s all he really needs right now.

Y/n gets in behind him, being the big spoon tonight as Harry turns to hug Y/n from the front.

“You know I love you right.” She mumbles, her hand going to stroke Harry’s hair. Harry hums and she takes that as the sign to go on. “And you also know I’m not the best at taking criticism.”

After being together for three years, Y/n has slowly let Harry into her personal life in bits and pieces. But after a stressful night of work and with an added bit of drinking, Y/n had revealed to never being able to deal with criticism at all due to her extreme perfectionism. It was a real heart to heart conversation, one that will always be important to Y/n.

…

The bottle feels far to light for Y/n’s taste. She needs more vodka, a hard and biting drink is suiting for this situation, but she can’t seem to get the courage to get up.

Her phone has been buzzing a lot too, but like the unopened drink in the cabinet, she can’t seem to get up to answer it.

The ringing stoped for a bit. She didn’t know to feel relieved or saddened. She felt alone—something that always happens when she flies to the States for filming and interviews—even though she has some friends that she was filming with.

Gone Girl was an amazing film to star in. She was happy and successful but she just can’t shake what was going on.

She recently got a call from her parents. Obviously, she let it go to voicemail, but that’s stop her from listening to it.

And that’s why she’s on the floor now, of her New York flat drinking and finishing a bottle of mediocre vodka, wanting to cry but just can’t form the tears.

She hears banging on the door, Y/n’s head snapping over to the sound. The mystery person is all the encouragement she needs for jumping up, throwing the bottle away and getting a price of gum. But her plans are foiled when the door opens, and a familiar British voice fills the room.

“Love?” Harry calls out, holding the keys you gave him to the flat as he walks further in. He sees her, catching her red handed as she dumps the bottle in the trash, face blotchy and her whole body language on edge. Anxiety quickly creeps in. He doesn’t like seeing her like this, and can’t help but be a little scared. “What’s wrong.”

Harry was luckily in New York at the same time as Y/n was there to film some interviews. She didn’t know their time would overlap, but Harry wouldn’t be damned if he couldn’t see her. He had heard nothing from her end which was never a good thing; coupled with Harry’s anxiety, he came as soon as he could.

“Nothing.” She lies. Harry hates the smile she puts on—the one that reserved for interviews and red carpet phots, the fake one.

Harry hugs her, rubbing his hand on his back to sooth her. She lets him. “Please don’t lie.”

“I, I got a call from my parents today.” She hesitates to continue, but a kiss on the head begs her to keep going—to let it all out. “They were ‘critiquing’ me like normal. They said some stuff, about how my skills aren’t as good as they should be. It—“ She took a deep breath, still refusing to let a tear come out. “I just shouldn’t of listened to my voicemail.”

“No, you shouldn’t of.” Harry agrees. He pulls back, still holding onto her. “You know you’re better than them. You know your perfect. You know that you are all you need to be.”

…

“You know you’re better than them, You know you’re perfect. You know you’re all you need to be.” Y/n echoed him. She said it with the same passion and tenderness as her boyfriend said to her. It’s what he needed to hear.

“Oh yeah? Who came up with that.” Harry scoffed, joking, which is always a good sign.

“My boyfriend.” She hummed. “He’s so good with words like that. What ever comes out of his mouth is like some sort of magic.”

“Sound like a catch.” Harry said, arms wrapping around Y/n a little tighter and getting a face full of boob in the process.

“He is.” She agreed. “He’s also really pretty, talented, and the sweetest human ever.”

“Is he sexy?”

“Super sexy.” She told him, giving him a kiss. They sit in silence for a bit, Harry listens to Y/n heartbeat go, and Y/n plays with Harry’s hair.

“Hey H?” Y/n asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“What did you read?” She said slowly, she needed to specifically know what nonsense was set about her perfect boyfriend now, and in what ways she needs to remind him about how perfect he is.

“They said I was talentless.” A pause. “Going back to only getting through the X-factor with needing a band to only being famous from being with the guys.” He admitted. “They said if I was really talented, that I would leave like Zayn, and start my own music career.”

Y/n gulped. She of course talked to Harry about what Zayn’s departure ment for One Direction, and it was planned that a much deserved break would happen soon. But it was fairly obvious that they weren’t getting back together. Harry was scared to go off on his own, but Y/n had of course floated the idea of writing his own songs and performing alone, just Harry Styles.

“What if I go solo and I fail?” His voice cracked, squeezing Y/n so tight she had scoot squeeze his hand back.

“Harry, can I admit something?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I read your notebook.”

Harry shot up and looked at Y/n like a dear caught in the headlights.

The notebook had songs, personal songs, Harry was writing. And they all had one thing in common: they were about her. Who else could Harry write about love and passion then his girlfriend? The love of his life? He had no other muse then her, she was perfect.

“Those songs, Harry.” She stroked his cheek. “They’re so good Harry.”

He smiles, overjoyed with her praise. “You’re not just saying that?”

“When I run out of road, you bring me home.” She recited, the line unable to leave her head for the past couple of months since she stumbled across the notebook.

“Sweet Creature.” Harry murmured, slowly going back to his previous position. “You like it?”

“Yup.” She assures. “Expect when you call me stubborn. I am not—“

“You are so stubborn, don’t even try.” They both giggled and kissed, happy and content.

“But seriously, you have nothing to worry about my love. You will do amazing things.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” She kissed his head, causing a soft groan to come from Harry. “You are going to do amazing things.”

“So are you.”

...

taglist:

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@uhuhuh @sucker4angstt @b-reads-things @augustfaultline @bxtchboy69 @japanchrry @lilbredsticc @daydreamingofmatilda @springholland @cacapeepee @yourgoldengirls @tenaciousperfectionunknown @mxltifxnd0m @lukewearingbeanies @timmyslover 

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry x reader #harry styles x actress!reader #harry styles series #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one direction #bf!harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles x fem!reader

[stillcomethenight]

Straight up turning this into a post because I started writing Greek language centered Ladja HCs in my notes app. Please enjoy my descent into madness. (I don't know any Greek but I am a simple Linguistics student who grows weak at the thought of love being stored in language).

Nadja uses Greek names of endearment for Laszlo. This isn't really a headcanon since it did happen in the show but I believe it happened one singular time, so I'm just expanding on it? She actually starts using Greek terms of endearment after she spends some time in Little Antipaxos because she hears her fellow Antipaxons use them and she gets so nostalgic for the language. When she was growing up, she tended to be mistreated by those around her and so she tends to remember the Greek language as one that is used out of convenience and not out of love. But in Little Antipaxos she is reminded that it is her language and it is a language of love. That's why she never used to use Greek terms of endearment but now she does. When she starts doing it, Laszlo is quick to catch on and match her energy — he starts using Greek terms of endearment too. He doesn't speak a word of Greek but he immediately understands how much it would mean for her to be loved in her own language;

Also, Nadja sings Antipaxon songs to Laszlo. She is not a good singer. He doesn't care. In fact, he goes out of his way to learn how to play them on the piano. Even if no recorded music sheets exist at all. He might even try to sing one or two. His pronunciation is so, so wrong, but, unlike Nadja, he can sing. Imagine Nadja being so very upset about something. And Laszlo can't seem to cheer her up. So he starts very quietly and reluctantly carrying a tune in some very bad Greek. It's the last thing she expected to hear and the one thing that manages to cheer her up. The amount of love that goes into such a gesture doesn't escape her. The softest "Laszlo, you big idiot." leaving her lips as she's shaking her head with such affection;

In fact, I'm willing to bet Laszlo tries his hand at learning some Greek. Of course, he does pretty badly and he's awfully cocky when he does it. He adds the most atrocious British accent to it. But it doesn't matter, it couldn't have made Nadja happier. Like, he walks into Little Antipaxos with his newly learnt, like, 10 Greek phrases and confidently strikes conversation with the people there. They're overjoyed to hear him speak their language and so they start talking to him in native Greek at full speed. He has no idea what they're saying because his 10 basic phrases of Greek 101 did NOT cover any of this. He's just nodding his head and smiling and they don't seem to notice that he doesn't understand a word. Nadja walks in and they start enthusiastically telling her, in Greek of course, "You didn't tell us your husband speaks our language!!". Then the two of them leave and she's like "Why are they telling me you speak Greek?" "Oh, because I do!" "But you don't." "No, my darling, I do!! [Insert the absolute worst pronunciation of any basic Greek phrase here]. See? I am wonderful at it!"

#wwdits #what we do in the shadows #nadja of antipaxos #laszlo cravensworth #ladja #natasia demetriou #matt berry #wwdits headcanon #Wwdits hc