#throwing shade at Shakespeare | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

meidiary · 7 months

Text

( 📁 ) THEM ACTING OVERLY JEALOUS

synopsis: the monster trio and how they act when they're way too jealous for their own good...

characters: luffy, sanji & zoro!

warnings: a teeny tinyyy amount of swearing [:

a/n: first time writing for them so i'm pretty nervous!!! , hope you enjoy!! banner is made by me, inspired by the lovely @sixosix and the layout is inspired by the lovely @luckyscribbles <3

it was his fault! it really was.. he was the sole reason you were entertaining this way too confident guy- because he told you you were out of his league! can you believe that?! and now ZORO is throwing daggers at the poor man just with his piercing gaze alone..

ignoring zoro's needy angry glares he's sending you two, you continue charming your ... acquauntance, growing his already far too stretched ego. "oh darling, how i could melt in those beautiful emerald colored eyes of yours~" and with that sanji cringe-worthy comment you got him babbling on about himself... again.

you're getting progressively more annoyed the longer you hear him try to flirt with you. nonetheless you don't move an inch, because you know he's watching your every move; waiting for you to come moping to him about the guy. he'd feel a sense pride because you came back to him. and that pride, the face he makes whenever he turns out to be right about something, albeit it's a very handsome one, is the last thing you want to witness right now.

so you keep yourself from throwing this guy's drink in his face and telling him his cologne is absolutely murdering your sense of smelling.

you look up as you suddenly stop hearing the random guy talk about some castle garden of his. he gulps hesistantly whilst zoro stands before you, hands in his pockets. "we're leaving." no you're not! "oh zoro~ i barely-" "now." you stand up and turn to leave, but quickly turn back around and give the stranger a kiss on his cheek before leaving with zoro, causing his cheeks to change to a red-shade.

"miss! will i ever see you again?!" he asks before backing up seeing zoro's death glare. "my love, if we are meant to be we will definitely meet again!" what's up with you and these shakespear lines?

zoro gives you a slight shove with his shoulder as he rolld his eyes for what seems like the millionth time this hour. "i think i found my soulmate zoro!" you sang while you interlocked you arm with his. you were met with yet another eye-roll.

"you were the one that said he's out of my league, remember?" zoro huffs annoyed. "shit- that was a joke damn it!" "if anything you're out of his fucking league, dumbass" you lean onto him as you two continue making your way back to the going merry.

"maybe i exaggerated a bit too.." you slowly admit before hearing his usual chuckle. "just don't go flirting with some stranger again, ever. shit could've gone wrong real fast y'know?" you smile sheepishly and nod. "good thing you were there huh?"

and you could've sworn you say his cheeks turn into a rose color before he swiftly turned his head to the side, greeting sanji and nami. was he blushing..?

SANJI was this close.. this close to absolutely losing it and slicing this daring man up with zoro's swords. who does he think he is? flirtingly, charmingly speaking with his lover?! well truth be told.. you two weren't official, far from it actually;

you two were so close to finally having the months-due talk about the classic, what are we-question. but of course sanji had to hit on the waitress that casually passed your table. that was your final straw. if he couldn't stop his antics for one night, you would resume yours for good.

and oh how it made him clench his fists so hard they became white, how it made him ignore all the beautiful ladies surrounding him, for what felt like the first time ever, how he saw you with your pretty dress on, that he bought for you because it reminded him of you, sat on some navy's lap, entertaining the bastard not worhty of a single enchanting smile of yours. yet there you were smiling, no laughing at something the navy said, all while you were supposed to be with sanji. laughing at something he said, playing with his hair, sat on his lap.

he was this close to exploding and increasing his bounty a good amount by punching this navy untill his fists fell off. "sanji, don't you fucking dare." nami warned him, glaring at him from the other side of the table, not in the mood to be on the run again after finally being able to relax for a day.

sanji heard nami, he did! but the minute he saw the disgusting navy's hand run up your thigh causing you to jump off of him, he finally lost it. "keep your fucking hands off her you sewer rat!" he jumped up sprinting at the navy, his snow-white fists ready to release all the pent up anger he held.

but before sanji got to the navy he was stopped by you. your soft, slightly cold hands holding back one of his clenched fists. causing him to slowly unclench it. you tried to push sanji back, knowing his uproar would bring about another navy chasing. "you alright, love?" it's as if all his previous anger vanished the moment he felt your soft touch, smelled you sweet perfume, the moment you felt like his again. "y-yeah i'm good.. but we should get goi-"

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!" the navy man roared causing the others to swiftly join the yelling. "hey aren't those those strawhat pirates with a bounty?!" from the other side of the room it felt like you could hear nami's long sigh. "see what you've done?! grab zoro, usopp and i will take luffy!" everyone complied and assumed their role.

sanji lifted his leg up ready to kick zoro awake right before you pushed him slightly making him stand on two feet again. "not doing that sanji!" he playfully rolls his eyes at your statement.

waking up zoro and running to the ship in a hurry, with a good 3 dozen navy soldiers running behind you calling you names, was the usual. but what surprised you was sanji holding your hand tightly the whole way, not letting go for a second.

once on the ship, back to sailing on the waters, while everyone was catching their breath, sanji took you aside, he interlocked your hands with his while he locked your gazes, still breathless he looks at you earnestly. his eyes illuminating the moon's glow. "i'll stop the flirting my darling, i promise. the only woman i'll charm will be you.. so you better not grow tired of it." he chuckled still a little breathless. you smiled, leaning your body onto his. "you better sanji.."

"i'm all yours sweetheart. all yours"

LUFFY felt weird. he had never met this man before, yet he suddenly has the urge to gum gum bazooka him for the rest of the day. why is he feeling this way right now? is it because he hadn't eaten yet? no that can't be it.. he just had a very good meal with you; you two had split up from the rest of the crew to have your lunch at some fancy looking restaurant on the beach.

luffy furrows his eyebrows once again because of this feeling. he figures, after a while to be completely honest, that the reason he wants to kick this man off the island is that he's taking way too long speaking with you. he's been occupying you for a good 10 minutes now.

how could he? how did he dare to take you from him so carelessly? you two were enjoying your meals, yes you were chatting about the dumbest subjects known to the world, but you were enjoying it. and then some buff man comes and dares to ask you for directions?! it would've been fine if he had left after receiving them, but no, he had to keep talking to you!

luffy was starting to see red at this point. he gets it he does, you're a beautiful woman, you're smart yet very funny, energetic and enjoyable! but you're his. even though you don't know that, even though he never told you that, you are his. and no buff, tall, slick back haired guy was going to change that one bit.

luffy dropped his food and started to walk towards the two of you, angrily eyeing the bold man who was about to get bazooka-d to some far-away island. luffy started stretching his arms, getting ready to send him off.

you notice right away and block luffy's path to the man. trying to laugh it off, you said your goodbyes to the fella and dragged luffy back to the restaurant. "what were you thinking, luff! that could've ended up horribly!" you whisper-yelled, not wanting to attract any more unwanted gazes.

"he took you from me for 10 minutes! how was I supposed to endure any longer!" luffy childishly pouts as he resumes eating. "you could've just said so! no need to bazooka anyone anywhere luf'!" his furrowed eyebrows soften as he hears his nickname.

the first time you called him that he truly hated it. "it sounds like a dog's name!" he complained. but over time, that nickname became apart of him, it was apart of his daily routine; he'd wake up to it, adventure the world with it, buy groceries with it, hear scolds with it. he became one with that silly nickname you gave him, and he wouldn't give that three-letter name up for the world. he wouldn't be able to go a day anymore without hearing you talking about how "the seashells here are so pretty luf'!", or how "i just love it when it's only you and i, luf'," and let's not forget you waking him up with the usual "luf'! sanji finished breakfast, get up already!".

"you can't go off with weird men. i won't let you.. you shouldn't leave my side for some guy that doesn't even know where he's headed!" you chuckle at his remarks. "i wouldn't leave you for anyone luf'! just.. don't bazooka someone next time.. just talk to me."

"you're mine y'know.." luffy tells you while he's munching on some of his cold meat. your eyes widen at his sudden words. "w-what?" "i said you're mine!" he says louder, a little annoyed thinking you hadn't heard him the first time. "you never said that before.."

"never needed to," he takes another bite. "but you are, so don't forget that!" he furrows his eyebrows again while saying that earning a chuckle from you. "i won't.. don't you worry"

NOTE: and that's for my first one piece ficcccc!!!

3K notes · View notes

bianquitasworld · 7 months

Note

could you do one where dave and reader are watching movies and being all cuddly pretty please?

Rest and Shakespeare

Parings: Dave Lizewski x Reader

A/N: I need this man, sorry for not writing as much I’ve been caught up with studies and work. Sorry I kinda forgot to add the movie part I was so tired when I wrote this. 😥

The day had been a relentless struggle, from the demanding classes at school to the never-ending tasks at work. A grueling exam had left my mind in tatters, the pounding headache and the stress of deadlines had drained every ounce of energy from me. But all I could think about as I made my way towards Dave’s house was the comforting warmth waiting for me in Dave’s arms, being in his presence alone always helped melt all my worries away.

The cold air made a shiver run down my spine, I hug myself to find warmth. I couldn’t help but walk faster as I made my way towards his home, minutes away from being in Dave’s arms and in the comfort of his bedroom while he read some random comic to me that I knew nothing about, the way his eyes would light up when he got excited flipping through the colorful pages, I smile at the thought alone, the way he always held me as I slept, I felt the stress leaving my body already just picturing it.

I sighed in relief as I reached Dave’s home. I barely knocked, I saw the white curtains from his room move around as if someone was just standing there moments ago. I heard hurried footsteps rushing down the stairs. The door was pulled open immediately. Dave greeted me with a wide smile, his cheeks flushed with excitement. His glasses sat slightly askew on the tip of his nose, and he pushed them up with his index finger, his eyes sparkling with warmth and affection.

His clears his throat before speaking and leans against the front door.

“S-Sorry I made you wait for so long, I was doing homework?” His statement sounded more like a question as if he couldn’t think of anything to say. I couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Your homework consists of you watching me through your window?” I tease him, you notice his cheeks turning bright red. I couldn’t decide if it was from the cold air being let in to his house due to the open door or the embarrassment. I shiver from the cold air. “it’s freezing-“ I could hardly finish my sentence before he’s reaching for my hand, pulling me into his home, and shutting his door. I slip off my winter boots.

“My dad isn’t home, we can watch a movie-or or whatever-psh I mean movies are lame-unless you want to watch one then we can-“ Dave’s nervous rambling is a little funny, even if we’ve been together for a while he’s still always nervous and second guessing every word that comes out of his mouth. Especially when he’s around ‘the most beautiful girl he’s ever laid his eyes upon’.

“Dave we can do whatever you want as long as I get to spend time with you i’m happy.” I say softly, tiredness kicking in. truthfully, I just wanted to curl into a cave and hibernate till the next year.

A blush returns to his face and his eyes light up in excitement. “We can go read some-some comics if you’re cool with that because if you aren’t that’s like totally cool.” I hear Dave gulp as he stares at me, his eyes falling upon me.

“Sure, that’s ‘like totally cool’ with me Dave” I say mocking him, if it’s possible his face becomes two shades redder. “Okay-okay no need to get rude” He rolls his eyes. I hurriedly make my way upstairs with Dave’s heavy footsteps following behind, after entering his room I take off the thick winter coat I had on, I can’t help but jump on his bed and crawl under his sheets making a mess of his bed, no care in the world for manners.

Dave plops down beside me with a comic in his hand, he sits up and pulls me against his chest as I wrap my arms around him and throw my leg over his torso.

“You tired baby?” Dave’s voice is soft and caring as he notices the lack of noise coming from his partner. “Exhausted, too many responsibilities and deadlines..” a sigh follows, I feel Dave’s hand slowly caress my head soothingly, he puts his comic on his night stand and lays down fully, allowing himself to be the little spoon. “You’re too pretty to be stressed, allow me to help you relax my princess.” Dave says in a British accent “You’re such a nerd babe, i’m taking those comics and weird movies away from you.”

All that can he heard is an overly dramatic gasp, what a drama queen. “Thou shall not-MHm” I shh him by placing my hand over his mouth. “shh..sleep.”

Dave gives in and smiles against my hand, he slowly pushes it down and mutters “fine, fine, whatever..I was just trying to romance you.”

“Romance me? By talking like Shakespeare?”

“Some people find it charming-“

“Name one person-“

“Okay you know what go to sleep, shhh-“

“No, who finds that cha-”

“Shhhhh you’ve fallen into a deep sleep shhh-“

“Dave I swear-“

“Oh can’t hear you, you’re not talking because you’re in a deep deep slumber-“

“Slumber?? Who even says that?”

“I thought you were tired!?”

“I am!”

“then stop talking”

“You keep talking to me! You know what good night.”

#aaron taylor johnson x reader #dave lizewski #dave lizewski x y/n #dave lizewski one shot #dave lizewski x you #dave lizewski x reader #kick ass x reader #kick ass 2 #kick ass #atj x reader

755 notes · View notes

hazyange1s · 29 days

Text

Silly Little Sebastian Sallow HCs

I LOVE that I’ve seen so many headcanon posts recently because I devour all of them. Here’s me throwing in my two cents with a bunch of random tidbits I’ve sprinkled into my fic/writing 🖤

He’s almost always on time. Though he can be a bit disorganized when it comes to schoolwork (hard to keep track when you’re doing your own side projects too), punctuality is important. Literally attached at the hip to his pocket watch.

Speaking of the pocket watch, it was his father’s.

Takes both Ancient Studies and Ancient Runes as electives.

His amortentia smells like pine from Scotland’s forests, smoke (a la confringo), old books, and the candies he likes to snack on 24/7.

Following that, Sebastian is a huge foodie and loves to cook for his friends/family.

Favorite color is red (a rich, dark shade like maroon)

Has a big soft spot for nifflers.

Loves Shakespeare - Macbeth and A Midsummer Night’s Dream are his favorites

Really just loves all fictional literature; from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice to Dante’s Inferno and Homer’s the Iliad.

Chaser for Slytherin but isn’t the biggest Quidditch fan otherwise (he just enjoys the glory and excitement of a good competition)

Super stealthy. The only person who can (usually) catch him before he sneaks up on them is obviously Ominis.

Actually a fair dancer - he and Anne used to make up routines in their living room when they were little

Dances a good ceilidh, too. (kilt kilt kilt)

Born in Aranshire and traveled a lot in his youth, as his parents’ research demanded it.

Is terrified of the Black Lake after having an awkward run-in with the giant squid his first year…but loves to swim elsewhere

Secretly hates his freckles :( but overall, he’s fairly confident in his looks - without being cocky (man knows the effects he has on ~ the ladies ~ (and gents) he just doesn’t always understand it).

The scar on his lip is from Anne scratching him during a fight over a toy at age 6.

Not the most “traditional” guy, but he IS a hopeless romantic after giving him time to be comfortable showing it.

Loves starting ridiculous arguments with Ominis when he’s bored

^^ man needs CONSTANT stimulation

Birthday is October 24, 1874; he’s a Scorpio sun, aries moon, gemini rising

Might add onto this whenever the urge strikes 😇

#also if he was in the modern age he’d DEVOUR star wars #hogwarts legacy #harry potter #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow x oc #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow hc #sebastian sallow headcanon #hogwarts legacy screenshots #sebastian sallow screenshots

162 notes · View notes

harmonictechnicality · 1 year

Text

Eddie’s Memory Log: Day 2-5

part 1 here | part 3 here | part 4 here | part 5 here | part 6 here

(ao3 link here)

There’s chewed up bits of food splattered violently all over the hospital lunch tray.

“Are you trying to feed me or torture me, Harrington?” Eddie wipes his mouth with the back of his arm.

Eddie still remembers Steve’s name.

“Kung Pao Chicken.” Steve over enunciates each syllable.

“My memory is fucked - not my speech, asshole.”

“Your attitude is fucked worse than your memory is.” Steve grumbles. “You asked for this yesterday, remember?”

Eddie chooses not to answer verbally and instead, shoves the tray away from his bedside.

Eddie doesn’t remember asking for Kung Pao Chicken yesterday. If that weren’t already obvious.

He dramatically chugs down a styrofoam cup of water. “Seriously, my tongue feels like it’s been assaulted.”

Nah, his fucking behavior today is all very reminiscent of that Shakespeare play - Steve only read the cliff notes for it during his junior year English class. Taming of the Shrew? Take a wild fucking guess who is the shrew right now…

Steve spoons a bite of his food into his mouth without throwing a tantrum. “Maybe your taste buds changed.”

“Maybe you’re wasting your time.” Eddie snaps back. “Maybe you should leave.”

Steve is not in the mood for this. Not today. Robin is still borrowing his car and he didn’t get a window seat on the bus, so his Patience has clocked out early. Not even in the goddamn building anymore.

“Fine.” He gets up, packing up his meal that he can’t even enjoy. Look, Steve’s not asking for a candlelit dinner by any means. But changing the weather forecast - dramatically pouring food out of his mouth in that way? Munson is a goddamn piece of work (Pollocks probably, considering the mess).

That reminds him:

Eddie remembers how to be dramatic. Theatrics must be in his bloodstream or some shit.

“Are you leaving or what?” Eddie is flipping through the tv channels, not even looking at Steve.

“I swear on your stupid little board game, you better be an angel tomorrow.” Steve scolds, gathering all of his things underneath his arm.

“What was that?”

“You heard me.” Steve points a finger at him. “Your memory is fucked, not your ears.”

“Your tongue is fucked for having such shitty taste in food.”

“Nice comeback.”

“And you shouldn’t come back at all.” Eddie hits an imaginary cymbal at the end of his lame joke. At least there’s humor in his damaged mind. Too bad it’s at Steve’s expense.

Eddie remembers how to tell jokes again. Mean jokes. (tbd on the rest of his humor though)

Steve isn’t planning on saying goodbye, but he remembers the kids. They’ll whine him into an early grave if he doesn’t return to Hawkins with a little more insight on Eddie’s memory levels. So he decides to ask one more question before leaving:

“Hey. Munson.”

Eddie flips the volume down on the tv, and looks at Steve. “What now?”

Still remembers his own last name.

“When’s your birthday?” Steve asks again. He already asked this yesterday, but it’s worth a shot.

Eddie looks out the window, closes his eyes for a few seconds. For the first time today, his expression goes serene. All the frustration lines on his face relax. Ease up.

He opens his eyes and answers calmly.

“January 10th.”

Interesting.

Eddie knows his birthday.

Memory log: Day 3

Steve should consider a career as a psychic or some shit. Maybe he absorbed all of Eddie’s memory skills unintentionally or maybe his little DnD threat was worth the added bitchiness. Whatever it is, Eddie is actually tolerable today.

“That’s the least vomit-inducing shade of yellow you’ve ever worn, Harrington.” Which isn’t exactly a ‘hello, it’s nice to see you,’ but Steve will take it because -

Eddie still remembers Steve’s name.

“So you remember me wearing yellow?” Steve clicks his pen excessively. “Seems pretty advanced.”

Eddie turns the tv off today. Woah. “Last week, yeah. Wanted to join PETA just so I’d have a good excuse to throw fake blood all over it.”

Okay yeah, still mean - but also, his memory isn’t so shabby either:

Eddie remembers Steve’s yellow sweater he wore last Tuesday!? That seems impressive.

Eddie knows who the fuck PETA is (Steve makes a mental note to tell Robin about that one cause holy shit)

Eddie is making snort-worthy jokes today. (Are they still at Steve’s expense? Hell yeah, but who the fuck cares? There’s goddamn chunks of memory in his cynical comedy.)

Steve stays for the entirety of visiting hours. Eddie doesn’t ask him to leave - not once. They mock shitty soap operas on tv and theorize that all of the actors are actually rejected pornstars.

Steve likes This Eddie.

Steve hopes this version of Eddie is still here tomorrow.

“Did you think I’d forget?” Eddie asks slyly while Steve heads for the door.

“Forget what?” Steve isn’t following at all.

“The Chinese takeout.” Eddie says sort of irritated. “Kung Pao Chicken, remember?”

Oh. Steve does remember. Eddie does not.

Eddie doesn’t remember redecorating the hospital bed with his chewed up food.

His face suddenly drops at Steve’s change in posture. “What?”

“I did bring it.” Steve hates this. “Yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember yesterday at all?”

Eddie whispers into his palm. “I remember you.”

“Right.” Steve’s chest gets tighter at his answer though.

While it’s encouraging that Eddie knows who Steve is everyday, and is comfortable dragging his style through the mud (or fake blood) - this puts such a damper on their good day. Steve can already see Eddie reaching for the tissue box, ready to soak his disappointment into off-brand snot rags. He can’t let the day end like this. No fucking way.

“Hey.” Steve knocks his knuckles over the wall, grabbing Eddie’s attention. “We’ll try again tomorrow, yeah?”

Eddie bunches up the unused tissue in his hand. “Whatever.”

“Take a good look at this non-vomit-inducing sweater.” Steve teases gently. “Don’t forget it.” He does a goofy twirl, and wiggles his ass while he turns around just to see if Eddie will laugh.

He doesn’t, but it seems like he’s trying incredibly hard not to. Always a good sign that ass-shaking is still humorous even after inter-dimensional brain trauma.

“Never said it was non-vomit-inducing.” Eddie retorts after fighting back his amusement. “I said it was the least vomit-inducing.”

“Ugh.” Steve rolls his eyes, gives Eddie a small wave as he heads out the door.

He can still hear Eddie trying to get the last word as he leaves:

“Maybe you’re the one that needs a brain scan, Harrington!”

At least it was a better day.

Memory Log: Day 4

Well so much for the Better Day. Somehow, Eddie’s attitude is now reaching Mister fucking Hyde levels today. He’s the bad dude, right? The Jekyll guy is a doctor, which must make him the chill one… ya know, medicine and shit. And seriously, doesn’t Eddie need to be on some more medications anyways? If Steve were smarter, he’d write the fucking prescription himself.

Whatever, Eddie is Hyde and that Shakespearean shrew lady all chopped up and tossed together today. He’s slinging insults like softballs and snarling his bruised upper lip every time Steve utters a single sentence. Steve is reconsidering his comment about not taking money from sophomores, cause this is bullshit.

“What sexually transmitted disease brings you to the hospital today, Harrington?” Eddie asks rhetorically. And annoyingly.

He remembers he strongly dislikes Steve Harrington, that’s for damn sure.

But… he still remembers Steve’s name so that’s a plus.

And wait -

“Hold on. Did you just make a Steve is a Hometown Slut joke?” Steve is way too excited about the prospects of Eddie remembering his promiscuous past.

Eddie tilts his head to the side. “Hometown Slut would be a good band name, actually.”

“Focus, Munson.”

“Uh, I guess?” Eddie reaches for his pudding cup. Huh. Maybe he’s sick of jello. “Why are you about to piss your pants over that?”

Steve flips to the first day of notes when Eddie didn’t remember jackshit about Steve in high school. He looks back up at Eddie. “Because that means you remember at least something about high school.”

Eddie shrugs. “I failed a lot of shit. It’s probably because there’s just way too much high school to remember. Something was bound to stick.”

Eddie remembers flunking Senior year.

And even though Eddie is living up to his satanic stereotype with his behavior today, Steve is beyond excited that memories are coming back. He just has to ask one more thing before leaving:

“Do you remember what color sweater I wore yesterday?”

Eddie examines Steve for a very long time. Hoping to spark the correct answer, Steve twirls again. Wiggles his ass. Gives a big, goofy smile.

“You’re weird.” Eddie looks away. Looks down.

Steve exhales loudly.

Eddie doesn’t remember Steve's least vomit-inducing yellow sweater.

Memory Log: Day 5

After Dustin analyzes Steve’s daily entries, they hypothesize that Eddie is struggling the most with short term memories (since he never quite remembers one day prior to the current day). It appears that some of his long term memories are gradually returning, so perhaps a little coaxing will speed those along.

“Well well well, if it isn’t -”

“Catch, Hyde!” Steve tosses a crushed velvety bag into Eddie’s lap.

Eddie pokes at the bag. “Hyde?”

“It’s either Hyde or Katherina.” Steve finally asked Robin the name of that bitchy character from the Taming of the Shrew. “But if you’re gonna play nice today, I’ll just call you Eddie.”

That solicits an audible gasp from him.

He must remember that Steve never calls him by his first name.

“Your references and gifts confuse me.”

“Maybe if you just open the bag, it‘ll un-confuse your sloshy brain.”

He dumps the jangly items onto his side table.

It’s slow - the smile that forms over Eddie’s face. It’s the first time Steve has seen Eddie smile with teeth since that night in the Upside Down. One of his teeth on the bottom row is chipped, but it doesn’t even matter. He’s smiling wide enough to show all of his teeth and that’s the fucking win for today. Everything else is just a bonus. Sprinkles and candles and confetti and party hats.

After so much loss, they needed this win.

“So?” Steve wants words now. Needs smiles and words combined. “See something you like?”

“My dice collection.” Eddie says it like the lyrics to a hymn. As if these geometric blobs are his religion and he’s praising their existence at the altar of his hospital tray.

“Do you remember what kind of dice?” Steve had Dustin give him some key definitions on this fantasy shit. Not for his knowledge, of course - for Eddie. Duh.

“D20s.” He answers fast.

Steve nods, walks over and tries to pick one up. Eddie slaps his hand away quickly. “Get your Grease Lightning fingers away from my children.”

Okay. Well.

Eddie remembers his dice/children (and what they’re called)

Eddie remembers Grease? (Of all the movies Steve thought this guy would reference… Grease? Is it the leather? Hm.)

“Do you…” Steve is nervous for this question because he desperately wants Eddie to get this right. “Do you remember the name of the game you play with these?”

For a second, Eddie’s face drops the same way it did yesterday when he couldn’t remember the color of Steve’s sweater. But the dropped corners of his lips begin to twist into a devilish smirk.

“My dearest Stevie boy,” Eddie’s voice is dripping in that poisonous tree sap kind of way. “Dungeons and Dragons isn’t just a game. It’s a fucking worldwide phenomenon.”

Holy shit. Within those three sentences, Eddie almost sounded like Name Brand Eddie Munson again. The tone he always used with the meatheads at Hawkins High - that tone is back. The eyebrows that inch along his forehead like witchy caterpillars - those eyebrows are back. It’s just three sentences, sure. But it was Eddie rising from his gurney of a grave in many other ways.

Eddie remembers how to use his snarky tone of voice.

Eddie remembers how to make his eyebrows dance around on his face.

Eddie remembers *Dungeons and Dragons*

Steve is so excited, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands? What do hands normally do when they’re excited? Clap? Stay at his side? Flap around? Fuck, he has no goddamn clue, so he just decides to give Eddie a thumbs-up with one hand and ruffle his knotted hair with the other hand.

Multitask the shit out of his excitement.

Eddie laughs along with him now, still admiring his collection. Not even bothering to stop Steve from his hair ruffling thingy. Huh… why is Steve still ruffling Eddie’s hair in the first place?

Okay. He finally stops himself. Has to pull his own wrist away but he stops.

“Guessing it was good day, Munson?” Steve wonders curiously, still watching Eddie roll the dice around in his palm.

Eddie nods. Multiple times. “Good day, Harrington. Good day.”

A prickly sensation hits Steve as Eddie says good day. A sensation that suggests to Steve that he wants Eddie to have more than just Good Days. Steve wants Eddie to have Great Days. Steve wants to give Eddie great days and present them to him in tiny velvet bags.

That’s definitely a turnpike of a thought.

He did this on purpose too. Dustin is coming on Sunday, which means Eddie will remember this moment. He’ll remember the dice and the Good Day. That’s part of Steve’s plan apparently. He’s making plans like that now. Strange.

“It’s funny.” Steve is pondering over his own discoveries, but also Eddie’s faulty memory patterns.

“What is?”

“You have the hardest time remembering the events from the day before…” Steve pauses to reflect. “But you always remember me.”

Eddie drops the dice out of his hands. He doesn’t look at Steve though, he just freezes up. His bangs have grown out quite a bit, but Steve thinks that Eddie’s face is redder than it was just a second ago.

Eddie remembers how to blush.

And Steve is going to milk that reaction completely. “You always remember that I’ll be here the next day. Isn’t that funny?”

Eddie kind of choke-answers him. “Funny sure yeah ha ha.”

Eddie remembers how to feel flustered as all fuck.

“Well,” Steve lifts up - still as smug and devious as ever. “I’ll let you have some alone time to catch up with your children. I’m sure you have lots of adventures to plan together.”

“Right.” Eddie finally sweeps his bangs back, watching Steve head for the door. “Does that mean I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“God willing.” Steve is sort of itching to ruffle Eddie’s hair again, but he doesn’t. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

Eddie waves and starts cleaning up his collection, swiping them back into their bag.

“Yellow.” Eddie mumbles very quietly. Almost inaudible.

Steve stops. “What?”

“Your sweater.” Eddie explains anxiously. “The tacky burnable one. It was yellow.”

Eddie remembers Steve's sweater again.

And Steve couldn’t be happier about that. Now he’s the one smiling with all of his teeth. The bonus type of smile on a day full of wins.

“It sure was, Eds.”

#steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #I'll keep tagging in future parts unless you would like me to un-tag you ☺️#thank you for the love on this ficlet #this one is a little longer but I hope you like it #steddie ficlet #post season 4 au #I thought it might be fun to make my posting date Eddie’s birthday :)#just a smol thing

1K notes · View notes

freshlove-sturn · 3 months

Text

HELP ME OUT? PT 4

pt 1 p2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt 6 pt7 pt8

chris sturniolo x fem reader

pink- reader

orange- chris

blue- matt

purple- nick

summary: chris is falling behind in english. he knows he has to get in grade in check before his big lacrosse game, or else coach will bench him. so what better idea than to reach out to the smart girl who sits in front of him in class? after all, it's just a little help... right?

a/n: i did little to no research on lacrosse for this. please don’t judge me 😭

readers pov

the first bell rang through my ears and i walk down the crowded hall to my locker. a group of freshmen boys were laughing obnoxiously. blissfully unaware of me standing there, waiting for a chance to get in my locker. i muttered a few ‘excuse me’s’. none of which they heard.

“move.” i hear a voice behind me. the flock of boys hurrying away.

i turn around and see chris standing there, watching as the boys disappear down the hall. after a few seconds, he looks back down at me. the blue eyes that i’ve been craving to catch since the second he left my house last night. i was sure that the shade of blue was my new favorite color.

“thanks.” i smile.

“no problem. they’re on the jv lacrosse team. they’re painfully oblivious to their surroundings.” he laughs. god i loved that laugh.

“this is an every day occurrence” i say, quickly putting in my combo and opening my locker.

“it won’t happen anymore.” my face grows hot again. i knew for sure my face had just changed 7 shades redder.

“oh my hero!” i clutch my chest jokingly.

“yeah yeah. speaking of lacrosse, are you coming to the game friday?” he asks as i grab my books from my locker.

“i thought you said your big game was next friday?” i furrow my brows.

“well yeah. the big game is next friday. but there’s also a game this friday.” he grabs my books from me, placing them under his arm. he did it like it was second nature.

“oh. i wasn’t really planning on going, no” i reply. trying to act cool. shutting my locker door slowly.

“why not?”

“i don’t understand lacrosse. and i don’t really even know anybody who plays. well, besides you obviously” we start walking down the hallway to english. so close that our arms occasionally brush against each other as we step.

“aw look who needs a tutor now.” he teases. bumping into me gently.

“oh hush.” i roll my eyes. a smile playing at my lips.

“you should come.” he suggests.

“i don’t know.” i respond. looking down at my shoes.

“please” he begs. “for me?”

i swore i felt my heart do a flip in my chest. “fine.” i try masking my excitement. he grind. chris sturniolo wanted me to come watch him play lacrosse.

“sick. how about today instead of you teaching me english, i teach you some lacrosse, help you out for once, yeah?” he grins. he makes it almost impossible to say no.

“chris you need to be studying for this test.” i try reasoning with him. honestly, i just wanted to listen to him talk more.

“come on y/n. let’s take a break from the books today and have fun” we enter our classroom. taking our seats. he places my books down on my desk. but instead of taking his usual seat behind me. he sits down right next to me.

“okay fine.” i cave.

“hell yeah. i’ll come pick you up after practice. is that cool?” he smiles.

“that’s cool.” i smile back at him.

chris pov

as soon as practice ended i i couldn’t get in the van fast enough.

“we’re picking up y/n” i tell matt as soon as he gets in.

“what? since when? i thought i was dropping you off at her house?” he questions, throwing his year in the back.

“we’re gonna hang out at our house tonight. i’m gonna teach her the basics of lacrosse. she’s coming to the game friday.” i explain.

he wiggles his eyebrows at me. he doesn’t say anything, but i know exactly what he’s thinking.

“matt it’s not like that. we’re just friends.” which wasn’t a lie. we were just friends. i just so happened to think about her every second since he sat a foot in front of me rambling on and on about shakespeare and how beautiful his work is. she was a whole hell of a lot smarter than me. i liked it. i admired her for her intelligence. it’s like she knew everything. the one thing she didn’t know? i was falling for her. scarily fast.

we arrive at y/ns house. i get out of the van and walk up to her front door. knocking a few times. she opens the door.

“hi.” a big smile plastered across her face. i loved when she smiled. the way her eyes squinted. the way her cheeks looked so full. the kind that grandmas squeeze and pinch and tell you about how adorable you are.

“hey.” i smile back at her.

we walk out to the van. i open the door for her and climb in behind her. sitting in the seat next to her rather than the passenger seat. the seat i claimed as my own since the second matt got his license. the seat i never left. just so she didn’t feel lonely. and also because i just wanted to be close to her. her sweet perfume filled my nose. it was like a warm vanilla. like fresh baked cookies. sweet.

the drive to my house was fairly quiet. just meaningless small talk like ‘how are you’ ‘good. you?’. the works. when the car stops and matt throws it in park. i get out. holding the door open for her again. i go around to the trunk and grab my duffel bag and all my lacrosse gear and lead her out to my backyard.

“here. put this on.” i hand her my helmet.

“what?” she blurts out.

“put it on.” i gesture down at the helmet. making motions with my hands, acting like i was putting a helmet on myself.

“i thought you were just gonna tell me about lacrosse?” she giggles. my helmet still in her hands.

“oh we’re playing. i want you to get the full experience. i’m showing you how it’s done.” i smirk.

i walk closer to her, taking the helmet from her hands. i gently brush her hair out of her face and slide the helmet on over her head. she doesn’t say anything. she just looks up at me. her cheeks turning bright pink. i carefully strap up the chin strap. adjusting it accordingly. once i get it all sorted out, we just stare at each other. not saying a word. we didn’t need to.

i hand her my stick. “here’s this too.”

she takes the stick from my hands. our finger tips grazing each other. it felt like electricity shooting down my spine.

something about her being in my lacrosse gear made me feel on top of the world. i couldn’t stop smiling at her.

“lookin good y/l/n” i try to sound as casual as possible.

“thanks.” she peers up at me through the cross bars on the helmet. a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

“so basically the object of the game is well, scoring more points than the other guys.” i explained half assed. i couldn’t explain things with the same flow as she could.

she laughs at my bluntness “kinda just like every other sport?”

“besides golf.” i retort.

“besides golf.” she repeats.

“you can use your stick to catch and pass and stuff. and you can use it to get the ball away from the other team.” she looks at me intently. taking in everything i was saying.

“here. catch this” i toss a ball to her.

she catches the ball with her hands. i laugh and roll my eyes. “with the stick, goof.”

“oh right” she laughs and tosses the ball back to me.

i throw the ball to her again. she attempts to catch it, but misses. earning a sigh of defeat.

“you’re good you got this.” i encourage her. i toss her the ball again and she catches it.

“WOOHOO” i cheer. she chuckles and tosses the back back to me.

“better watch out christopher. i’m coming for your spot.” she taunts.

“we’ll see about that. how about you try scoring a goal? here’s let’s say the goal is from this tree to uhh roughly about here” i walk from the tree to about a half way marking before the next tree. sticking a twig in the ground to mark our makeshift goal.

“if it’s like, a foot above my head it doesn’t count.” i explain.

“oh don’t even worry. i got this in the bag” she says confidently.

“alright im gonna like, guard you, so i’ll kinda have to get all up in your bubble. unless you don’t want me to then i-“

“it’s fine chris” she cuts me off. i smile at her.

“alright. here’s this” i place the ball in the net of the stick “okay. play on three. 1. 2. 3!”

she runs towards the goal. i move in front of her, blocking her. her chest pressed against mine as she tries pushing past me. she’s laughing. she was enjoying herself. she was enjoying herself and having fun with me.

she launches the ball towards the goal we made. i reach up with matt’s stick, sort of purposefully missing the ball. it fell through our goal.

“YEAH!” she cheers. smiling ear to ear.

“SHE SHOOTS AND SHE SCORES!” i yell.

“told you i was coming for your spot.” she teases.

“oh yeah?”

“yep. your coach is gonna see my skill and be begging me to join the team.” she states, matter of factually.

“that’s if i don’t get you first” i grin. without warning i pick her up, hoisting her over my shoulder and spinning us around.

“chris put me down!” she giggles, smacking at my back.

“what’s the magic word?” i smirk.

“please!” she laughs.

“atta girl.”

i place her back down onto the ground. our bodies still close to each other. she takes my helmet off slowly and looks up at me. her hair laid messily in her eyes. i brush it behind her ears softly. my hand resting on the side of her cheek. a comfortable silence fills the air around us. i’m surprised you couldn’t hear my heart practically beating out of my chest. she looked she so perfect. she was effortlessly beautiful. the way the sun illuminated her gorgeous y/e/c eyes was enchanting. her freckles became more visible in the gleam of the bright sun that was setting. my eyes flicker down from her eyes and down her her plump pick lips, then back up again. she did the same. her lips felt like a magnetic field that was pulling me in. i began to lean down, slowly.

our lips were still a few good inches away from each other when nick walked outside. causing the both of us to whip our heads to the side.

“oh shit am i interrupting something?” nick throws his hands up, taking a few steps back.

“uh no.” i clear my throat. “i was just uh teaching y/n how to play lacrosse”

“oh… right” nick nods his head slowly and walks back inside.

i couldn’t wrap my head around what just happened. did we almost just kiss?

“it’s getting kinda late. i should probably get going home.” y/n breaks the awkward silence that had fallen between us.

“i’ll walk you home. it’s only a few blocks.”

“oh you don’t have to do that.” she hands me back my helmet and i toss it into my bag.

“yes i do. you aren’t walking home alone.” i insist.

“okay. thank you.” she smiles.

as we head down the sidewalk, we don’t talk much. just random facts about each other. middle names, what our siblings are like, nothing too entirely special. but i paid attention to each detail of everything she told me like it was something sacred. my heart is still racing from the thought that i almost knew what it felt like to have her lips on mine.

as her house comes into sight, i feel a bit disappointed. no amount of time i spent with her ever felt long enough. i walk her up the stairs to her front door.

“thanks for walking me home.” she smiles slightly, fidgeting with her bracelets.

“no problem. anytime.”

“i had a lot of fun today. i needed that.” she smiles up at me. the porch light tracing over her delicate features perfectly. i wish i could take a picture of this moment with my mind. she truly was the most beautiful girl i had ever seen.

“i had a lot of fun too.” i admit.

before i can say anything else, she places a quick peck on my right cheek. i was instantly flustered.

“goodnight christopher owen.” she smiles and opens her door, walking inside without another word.

i stand there stunned. her lips were soft, just like i had imagined.

that’s a feeling i could definitely get used to.

a/n: HOPE YALL LIKE THIS!! i can’t decide if i like this or not. i started writing it and everything just kinda flowed out of me 😭 none of this was really planned tbh. kinda just made it up as i went.

taglist: @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @chrissturnioloswifesblog @pepsiimaxx @honestlybabymiracle @luvmxtt

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo triplets x reader #chrissturnioloxreader #christopher sturniolo #space camp wellness #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #fresh love #cut the camera podcast

68 notes · View notes

deathmetalunicorn1 · 11 months

Note

Hi there, I love your writing and I was wondering if it’s alright if I request a Morticia Reader with Yandere Jack (My Baby Boy), Odin, Poseidon, Chen Gon (He screams Gomez), Hades, Loki, Beelzebub, Buddha, Hajin and Zerofuku (Platonic, she basically adopted Zero and cares for him like he’s her son)

She’s known to be elegant, aloof, poised, deadpan, well-mannered, finds beauty in the macabre, though polite she’s unafraid to state her opinion and sees no reason to apologize for her loved ones’ lifestyle

She’s also fiercely loyal and protective of her family and is in a deep romantic relationship with (Love), and only had eyes for him, she has a unique outlook on life and has a personal green house for all the carnivorous and poisonous plants she grows and cares fondly for

-Beautiful, dark, deadly, passionate, loving, unique, all were words used to describe you and all of them were true.

-You were like the moon against the dark night sky, surrounded by pitch black darkness, bright but eerie and quiet.

-You found enjoyment in the dark and macabre, but to you, they were normal, beautiful things, skulls, poisonous flowers, dangerous plants, death, how lovely.

-Many thought you were odd by the way you dressed and carried yourself, always wearing elegant black gowns paired with matching jewelry with spider or coffin motifs. However, sometimes you would wear different colors when it was warmer out, just a slightly lighter shade of black with an umbrella, you didn’t need any unwanted color in your complexion.

-Your tone was always even and deadpan, never showing emotions the way others do, so nobody could ever tell if you were joking or not about feeding someone to your kitty-cat, an actual lion that you kept around who was like a housecat with you and those he knew, but vicious and violent with strangers.

-Many made comments that you would be attractive if you were ‘normal’ but where’s the fun in that? It’s much more fun to keep others guessing- keeping them on your toes.

-Speaking of keeping others on their toes, if anyone was to visit your private greenhouse, they would need to watch where they step or risk losing a few.

-Your garden was notorious for being filled with poisonous and carnivorous plants, and not just little things like little Venus Fly Traps, no you had a giant 4 ½ foot one that would eat people if they got close enough if you hadn’t fed them yet!!

-However, due to their healthy fear of your garden, you didn’t have many visitors, which you liked, less of a risk of your babies getting trampled or damaged.

-Your lover liked you the way you were, you were unapologetically unique, and he loved it, you were so different from other women and that’s what drew him to you.

-At first he did think you were a little odd, intimidating was a word he liked to use, as you weren’t afraid to speak your mind and there was always an air around you, a silent warning, but as time went on, he fell hard for you.

-Jack- He adores everything about you, from the way you dress and carry yourself, to your hobbies, to your passion, he had never met someone so bright but also so dark before. You were brutally honest and so full of life; your colors were stunning to him, and he loved to just gaze at you. Your wit and charm never failed to bring a smile to his face, and he knows that he could tell you anything and you would give your honest opinion, but you would always support him. You would bond over Shakespeare and tea, him reading to you while you knitted quietly, a soft, content smile on your lips. Fiercely protective of you, would not hesitate to throw words or hands with others if they would dare insult you, and you found it refreshing that he would defend your honor, even going as far as challenging them to a duel.

-Odin- You adored your darling lover, from his darling ravens, his rugged looks, seemingly endless knowledge, and his unfaltering loyalty to those he cares about. He loved your passion, he could tell when you were happy, tending to your plants or talking long moonlit walks, and while others would only see you with a neutral face, he could tell you were beaming. Odin preferred the quiet, so you were a perfect match, he could sit with you in your greenhouse, minding your plants that could be nippy with him, and ‘read’, holding an open book while looking at you, watching your fluid movements flittering about. You were the only one, besides Odin, that Muninn and Huginn would perch on, sitting on your shoulders, enjoying your attention and affections. When Odin wanted attention he would just wrap his arms around you from behind and just hold you, which you thought was cute, but you enjoy it as well.

-Poseidon- You didn’t bother Poseidon with loud squeals and fawning eyes, like other women who would eye him, you were calm, mature, and so elegant, while being dangerous at the same time. You would hesitate to threaten to poke out another woman’s eyes if she didn’t keep them to herself, and due to your even tone she couldn’t tell if you were serious or not, until you held up your hand, nails pointed out at her. You actually made Poseidon laugh that day, and that was also the day you made him blush when you stepped into his arms, telling him how good he looked smiling. You didn’t force Poseidon to do anything, only asking him, like if he wanted to go on a moonlit walk with you, and he appreciated that, as previous women were always demanding him to do things with them. You would never force your lover to do anything he didn’t want to as you respected him and he respected you for that.

-Chen Gong- At first he was intimidated by you, you were so beautiful and so confident, he felt like he wasn’t worthy to stand in your presence. However, once he found out more and got brave enough to ask you out, he was instantly head over heels in love. He would gaze at you like you hung the stars in the night sky, lighting up his life. He was the opposite of you, cheerful and warm, he was like sunshine while you were moonlight, but he adored everything about you, how you dressed, what you did on a normal day, tending to your garden, you were stunning. If you were in the same area, he couldn’t look away from you, his eyes were always on you if you were around. He never failed to flatter you, bringing you flowers and jewelry, thinking that you would like them, “These roses made me think of you, so I brought you some!” and you always appreciated his gifts, pressing kisses to his face, leaving lipstick marks all over his face, which always makes him melt.

-Hades- You were enamored when you learned that your lover was the king of the underworld, ruling over the land of the dead, and Hades loved that you didn’t mind. His kingdom was beautiful, dark and mysterious, but also so homey and cozy feeling. Hades adored your elegance, your even tone and voice, you were perfection in his eyes, everything and anything you did, he was watching with hearts in his eyes. As he loves you, you are the same for him, he’s regal, calm, a true leader, but also passionate about the things he enjoys. So protective of you, will not hesitate to come to defend your honor, should someone dare to insult it, especially in his presence, it was those rare moments that you would see that Hades was indeed a king. Once he was done dealing with the offending party, however, he was right back to you, kissing the palm of your hand, inquiring if you were alright, which you would always appreciate, giving him a kiss on his cheek, leaving a kiss mark that he would refuse to remove for at least an hour.

-Loki- The first time he saw you his eyes shot out of his head in the shape of pulsating hearts, ogling you and when you flicked them away as if they were a pest, Loki fell hard and fast for you. You find him to be mildly annoying, at first, but when he gave you a bouquet of rose stems, the flowers at the top gone, your favorite flowers, you couldn’t help but open your heart. Definitely a prankster, but never to you, he will pull pranks for you, to make you smile or laugh, and when you smile, he’s immediately in your arms, grinning up at you with a goofy look on his face, adoring the vision. He was very passionate about you, he loved everything about you and was so territorial over you it was almost amusing, Odin liked it because you were able to keep him distracted and out of trouble.

-Beelzebub- Two peas in a pod, both of you were dark, quiet, stoic, and serious, but also loyal and so in love with each other. You didn’t bother him while he was researching, other than bringing him some tea, and he didn’t like your plants, having been bitten by one too many, but supported your love for them, not telling you to get rid of them, like other men tried to tell you to do before. Your passion for what you loved, the macabre, let him relax, as he too enjoyed it, but was less open about advertising it. That’s another thing he loves about you, you weren’t afraid to be you, he did his best to not get close to others, not wanting to hurt and lose anyone else, but you seemed to soothe his inner demons, literally, Satan liked your vibe so he did nothing against you, as he could sense you would be able to hurt him, but he wasn’t completely sure how. This let Beelzebub get close to you and you opened your arms to his love and would gladly drown in your affections.

-Buddha- Complete opposites, as far as vibes go, but at the same time, you both looked so good with each other, balancing each other out. Buddha was very physically affectionate with you, something you didn’t really mind, as he liked to hold you, while you were more words of love, telling him what you loved about him, and covering his face in lipstick marks from your kisses, which would always make him melt. Buddha helped you explore more treats and you taught him about your plants, which he would always hide behind you, not wanting to get bitten again, until you taught him how to feed your babies, which he did have to admit he was fun. You were happy with your lifestyle, something Buddha knew and appreciated, which is why he never tried to make you change, and he was happy just being with you.

-Hajun- Very territorial and easily jealous about you, you didn’t care what he looked like or that he was a demon, you loved him the way he was, and due to that, he adored you, worshipping everything about you. He didn’t find you weird or strange, he found you soothing and calm, to him, you were just Y/N, his love. Hajun was almost like a giant cat with you, he would sit on the floor in front of you and lay his head in your lap, minding his horns and he could just bask there for hours if you let him, because you have in the past. Returning to being jealous and territorial, if another man was to catcall you, or worse, insult you, all he could see is red and would fly into a frenzy, threatening to maim and kill those who would dare approach you in such a way. However, all you need to do is put one hand on his arm and he will be instantly calm, you were the only person able to calm him down, as he would never forgive himself if he hurt you, but you trust him not to, something he adores.

-Zerofuku- Your darling son, you found him peeking into your greenhouse one day and seeing his curiosity while you were feeding your larger Venus Fly Traps, you invited him in. Many told him that you were a scary woman, evil and wouldn’t hesitate to feed him to your plants, but he quickly learned they were wrong. You were so doting and gentle with the child god, treating him like you were his mother, giving him head pats, teaching him new things, and showering him with affection and love, in your own way and Zerofuku loved it! He loved being with you, even though he was the opposite of you, being a ray of sunshine, and you adored him, humoring him when you held his hand while he walked you around the gardens, you shielding yourself with your umbrella and you taught him the beauty of moonlit walks, seeing fireflies and looking at the stars together. You weren’t scary, you were like a mother, one that he loved dearly, and you loved him.

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror jack the ripper #ror odin #ror poseidon #ror chen gong #ror hades #ror loki #ror beelzebub #ror buddha #ror zerofuku

333 notes · View notes

talesofadragon · 10 months

Text

𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬

Synopsis: The world was not created in colors to be lived seldom in white, black, or even gray. This is what Y/N believed, and she resolutely refuses to be told otherwise. But when a night at the city’s most prestigious nightclub triggers a series of misfortunate events, Y/N’s world of hues is thrown off balance, colliding with a stranger whose eyes may be blue but his world is a handful of shades too dark.

Pairing: Mob Boss!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Mature scenes. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 3.3K

Chapter 2 - Morally Gray | Varicolored Schemes Masterlist

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 god’s hell on earth.

Back in college, Y/N had to take a mandatory liberal arts elective. And up to this day, she still doesn’t understand why it’s called that when she didn’t elect to take it. Her professor at the time had the stupendous idea to focus on Renaissance drama as if this was the single most enthralling subject for a bunch of twenty-year-olds.

While her memory retained nothing besides the fact that most of William Shakespeare's characters were speculated to be queer and The Spanish Tragedy seldom had an interesting plotline, she now recalled one particular quote she didn't know she remembered: "Hell's empty and all the devils are here."

Oh, William. Something true did come out of his mouth.

"You look like someone murdered your cat," Yelena remarked as soon as Y/N stepped into her line of sight. The closer Y/N got to Yelena, the more prominent the scowl on the blonde’s face became.

Y/N glared at her best friend, throwing her bag harshly onto the coffee table, followed by her drenched notebook and coffee tumbler. Yelena's green eyes fixated on the chaotic mess, only momentarily straying when Y/N completed the picture with a heavy thud as she unceremoniously took a seat.

“Coffee,” she managed to let out. Yelena extended one of the cups to her side, but Y/N swatted it away in favor of the taller one. “You take the small one. I’m in urgent need of a pick-me-up.”

Yelena arched her brow, pointing at the cup inches away from Y/N’s lips. “It’s a Nitro Cold Brew.”

“Don’t care.”

“You’ve never ordered it before.”

Y/N shrugged, taking her first sip. “I’m open to trying new things.”

“Do you know how many shots of espresso are in there?” Yelena’s tone was borderline incredulous. Y/N didn’t care.

“Maybe I need the kick.”

“It’s espresso, Y/N,” Yelena grumbled. She glanced at the discarded pumpkin-spice latte she had grabbed for her best friend, her nose scrunching in disgust at the thought of having to drink it herself. “It’s not tequila.”

A loud huff reverberated across the back of the coffee shop they were sitting in. It was ludicrous of Y/N to think that her day would get any better with a cup of coffee when that horrendous drink made her want to empty her stomach.

Begrudgingly, she slid the drink back to Yelena and snatched her own. “I’ve had a terrible day.”

“You don’t say.”

“Scratch that. A terrible week. And a half!”

“What happened this time?” Yelena carefully asked.

Inadvertently, Y/N’s brain decided it was more than adequate to remind her about the tragedies of the past week and a half. At first, it started alright. Great even. She didn't drink much when she went to Purgatory, so she woke up the next day without a single tingle in her head. Her day went about alright, and she even told Yelena—albeit briefly, given the hangover her best friend sported—about her interaction with Steve.

That day was pretty uneventful, and so was the next one. But then, it was as though the floodgates of hell had opened, and Lucifer had prophesied her as the Chosen One, destined to endure the ultimate suffering.

Between a car splashing her with mud and having her get to her meeting looking and smelling like Ron Weasley’s great aunt Tessie, someone leaving a dent on her precious car, and a teenager in a Spider-Man mask trying to rob her only to throw her back her money and take her favorite purse... let’s just say she didn’t want to take a trek down that particular memory lane.

“An old woman stole my umbrella.”

And as if her being drenched from head to toe didn’t suffice, Yelena had to spit her espresso-loaded coffee directly on her juniper green shirt. Thank God she wasn’t wearing white this time.

“I’m sorry, птичка,” Yelena enunciated in between chuckles. “I thought you said an old woman, who is supposed to be much less nimble than yourself, stole your umbrella.”

“Laugh all you want, Yelena. But that woman was like a fucking torpedo when I told her I could only help her cross the street because the coffee shop was on the opposite side of wherever she had to go!”

“Savage,” Yelena commented. Suddenly, and in a very uncharacteristic manner, she turned quiet. As Y/N sipped on her coffee, her eyes flicked up to catch her best friend’s pensive expression. She was tapping her fingers against the plastic coffee cup with her gaze idle on the rain.

“What’s wrong?”

There was silence at first, followed by a loud exhale. Then, after ten more seconds, Yelena placed her elbows on the table, shifting her body forward. “I have to tell you something.”

“Oh no!” Y/N vigorously shook her head. “Don’t make my week even worse. Please.”

Yelena's eyes held a rare empathy, a sight that Y/N seldom witnessed. It was evident that the forthcoming words were about to unveil something dreadful. Y/N just knew it.

“Baron Zemo, the Sokovian investor I told you about, called me today. He wants to talk about the Red Room.”

Y/N blinked twice. The despair she felt evaporated, replaced by a much more joyful sensation. "That's amazing!" she exclaimed, fully aware of the immense effort her best friend had put into creating the Red Room—a local dance studio that nurtured young girls' passion for dance.

But Yelena didn't seem too enthusiastic about the prospect. Her mouth twitched, transitioning from a scowl to a thin line. "He wants us to meet in person. The day after tomorrow," she revealed. She grabbed her coffee cup and took a rather long sip of her coffee—as if it served as her liquid courage. "He's in Romania."

“Romania!” Y/N hollered. Screw joy. She was confused as hell. Because while she wasn’t the most prodigious student in the world, nor did she have a modicum of aptitude in Geography, she did know that Romania was thousands of miles away. “Why didn’t you let me know before? And do not even attempt to tell me you didn’t have these plans before, and you just had them now!”

Yelena winced. “You’re still hung up on that?”

“Yes!”

“I’m sorry, okay. My team has been in contact with him for months, and we’ve heard nothing. He called this morning and said he’d like to discuss the business along with expansion prospects. But he has an opening in three days or in seven months. That guy is an important investor. I couldn’t pass up on this opportunity.”

Well, when you put it that way, Y/N thought. As much as she wanted to yell and hurl her pumpkin-spice latte at the wall, she couldn’t help but be happy for Yelena. Yes, bad news were pelting her mercilessly, but that wasn’t the case for her best friend.

“At what time is your flight?” she asked in a steady voice.

Yelena smiled appreciatively. “Midnight.”

“I’ll drive you.” She rushed out of her seat, engulfing Yelena in a warm embrace. They held each other for a few seconds, but the touching moment soon melted when Y/N shifted to the right and felt something hit the floor with a thud. “Please tell me it’s not your drink.”

“It’s not.” Y/N’s shoulders eased. “It’s yours.”

A bad week and a half, she repeated in her head.

Luckily, Lucifer had decided to move on to the next unfortunate soul, leaving Y/N with two mundane days. Apart from her supervisor, Maria, grilling her about delivering the latest interior design schemes for the Odinson project, nothing exciting happened.

On the second day, Y/N drove Yelena to the airport and only departed after receiving a promise of a nice gift. She had dropped her off at nine in the evening and made it home around an hour later.

Having nothing better to do, she changed into her pajamas, made herself some popcorn, and decided to treat herself to an episode or two of FRIENDS. Her enthusiasm was unrelenting as she continued watching episode after episode, surpassing the four-episode mark.

Little did she know that her streak of luck was finite. Just as Yelena texted that the plane was taking off and the clock struck midnight, Y/N's fairy godmother played the cruelest joke on her—the power cut off.

“Oh, come on!” Y/N whined exasperatedly. She kicked her legs against her rug, throwing a tantrum like a child who’s been denied candy. After a steady string of curses, she fished out her phone and turned on her flashlight.

Since she was living in a house rather than an apartment, she peeked through her window to check if she was the only one facing a power outage. Most of the lights were off in the houses around them—it was midnight, after all. But the street lights were, in fact, on.

Once outside, she located the panel and opened it. The switches appeared to be in the “on” position, but she noticed that some of the wires looked worse for wear.

“Seriously, Lucifer. What do you want, you bastard? My soul in exchange for some peace!” Maybe that wasn't the wisest thing to say to the devil. Next thing she knew, the wires inside the electrical panel were cackling, and sparks began to fly. The sudden noise startled her, causing her to jump back in surprise. “That was a joke! Don’t they have those in hell?”

Capriciously, the energy within the panel flared up. Y/N decided it was best to stop talking.

Nervously, she started chewing on her nails. It was already midnight, with electricians available at this hour. In a situation like this, she would have called Yelena, but Yelena was already on a lengthy 8-hour flight to Sokovia. Seeking help from neighbors at this late hour wasn't a viable option either. And though she could consider sleeping in her car, the trembling in her fingers and her foggy breath reminded her of the biting cold.

Finding herself at a crossroads, Y/N pondered going inside and waiting for tomorrow to come. In the end, it’s not like her bad luck could possibly get any worse. But the crackling electricity was intensifying her anxiety and making it difficult to make a decision. Until she was suddenly reminded of something.

Don’t hesitate to give me a call. Even if it’s at four in the morning, the voice inside her head echoed.

Was it egotistic on her part to call Steve just because she needed help? Yes. Was it completely illogical to expect him to be awake at midnight? Uh-huh. Was she going to do it anyway? Absolutely. In fact, she was on the second ring now. And she just hoped Lucifer didn’t have any more tricks planned.

"Hello?" The first thing she noticed was the skepticism evident in the voice. The second realization was that it belonged to a woman.

Lucifer, Y/N called in her head. You can kill me now.

“Uhm, good evening.” Great. Now that the easy part was out of the way, she was left with one last dilemma. This woman could potentially be Steve's wife, and she's going to confuse Y/N for the mistress. Fun-fucking-tastic. “I’m sorry, but is this Steve Rogers’ number?”

“Who is asking?” the woman fired back.

Maybe it was time to end the call. “I’m Y/N. I, uh, kind of need some help.”

"I'll inform Mr. Rogers that you called," the woman replied. A flicker of hope ignited in Y/N's chest, only to be extinguished as quickly as a discarded cigarette crushed on the pavement when the woman abruptly hung up the phone, leaving her stunned and disheartened.

Y/N clutched her phone tightly against her chest. She stomped her foot on the ground, tears of frustration beginning to well up in her eyes. These two weeks had been horrible, and there wasn’t the slightest sign that it was going to get any better.

Y/N massaged her eyes with her thumb and index fingers, feeling the strain of the cold and the situation weighing upon her. As she started mentally searching for the correct placement of her flashlights and candles, her phone began to vibrate, her ringtone reverberating through the quiet and empty street.

Biting her cheek, Y/N fished it out. To her delight, it was Steve. She immediately pressed the accept button, anticipating to hear the woman from before. But a different voice greeted her instead.

“Steve?”

“Evening, Y/N.” His tone was placid and calm. Good, so Y/N hadn’t disturbed him with her unexpected call. “Everything alright?”

“I am so sorry to call you at this hour,” she hurriedly replied. Y/N barely took a breath before she continued, “I didn’t want to bother you so late, and I didn’t want to ask for a favor either. I know this makes me sound so selfish, but believe me, Steve. I had the most horrendous two weeks of my life, which is why I never texted you—”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, Y/N. I didn’t give you my number with any expectation that you might call or text me. It’s okay. And I don't think that you're selfish. You've obviously taken your time before calling me, so what's the issue? You're not in trouble, are you?"

He’s so sweet, Y/N thought. She hadn’t even realized she was smiling at his words until she had to clear her throat.

“Something’s wrong with the power at my house. My best friend is out of the country and most of my neighbors are sleeping. Normally, I wouldn’t worry about it and wait till tomorrow, but my electrical panel is acting out. So, I don’t know what to do.”

“You send me your location and wait for me to come,” he replied matter-of-factly with too much confidence and little to no hesitance.

Y/N’s heart fluttered in her chest. The gentle heat in his words dispelled the coldness that had clung to her, leaving her feeling embraced by warmth.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re no bother at all, Y/N. I’ll be waiting for your text.”

As soon as he hung up, Y/N immediately sent him her location. When she made sure he read it, she decided it was best to wait for him inside her house. It wasn’t like he was going to be there in the next twenty seconds. So, she sat by the window, grabbed a flashlight from her cupboard, and turned it on.

She felt giddy for some reason—excited to see him again. There was a certain kindness to him, she supposed. A comforting aura that told her that when he was there, there was nothing to fear. Maybe it was the fact that he towered over her, and she was sure his whole body would engulf her if she ever found herself in his arms. Or maybe it was his blue eyes that consumed her whole.

A car's headlights suddenly pierced through the darkness, grabbing Y/N's attention and pulling her out of her reverie. Startled, she glanced down at her phone, disbelief washing over her as she realized she had been lost in her thoughts for what felt like an eternity. To her surprise, only fifteen minutes had actually passed. A wave of relief and gratitude washed over her when the car parked by her house.

Y/N's heart raced with anticipation as she hastily bolted toward the door, unlocking it and eagerly stepping outside. Though her giddiness and excitement turned to confusion when she realized that Steve wasn't the one who emerged from the car.

“Miss Y/N?” a man called out. It was Sam, Steve’s best friend. When Y/N nodded, he continued, “I’m Sam Wilson, and this is Bucky Barnes. Steve sent us.”

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” She shook their hands. “Thank you so much for coming. I'm sorry to have bothered you this late.”

“Where’s the electrical panel?” Bucky cut to the chase. Now that he was close, he looked a bit intimidating. He stood at the same height as Steve, though slightly less physically built.

Y/N led him to the panel, taking a step back to allow him to work. He carefully examined it while she fidgeted with her hands, gazing at the car they had arrived in.

“We were in the area,” Sam’s voice cut through. Y/N’s attention turned to him. She looked like a deer in the headlights. “Steve lives upstate. He figured it was faster to send us.”

“And I really appreciate it,” Y/N responded.

After Sam joined Bucky in examining the panel, silence filled the air for a while. The sound of electricity hissing intermittently persisted until both men finally stepped back.

“The bad news is, some of the fuses seem to have melted and need replacement,” Bucky explained. “The good news is, it shouldn’t be too difficult to fix. But, it’ll have to wait until morning.”

Y/N’s shoulders slumped slightly as she absorbed the information. What has she ever done to be rewarded with two terrible weeks?

“Alright. Thanks for the help. I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour,” she said, sounding apologetic.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Hold on a minute,” he interjected, a touch of worry in his voice. “You can’t just go back to your house like this.”

Confused, Y/N asked, “Why not?”

“Because it’s freezing outside, and you’re gonna get hypothermia without any heat in your house. Not to mention it’s not safe.”

Y/N chuckled lightly, trying to brush off the concern. “I have quilts, you know,” she reassured him. “And a lock.”

Sam shook his head. He turned to Bucky, who licked his mouth before he spoke. “If you do that, doll. I have a feeling our boss will not be too happy about it,” Bucky admitted. “Let me call him.”

Bucky stepped away from the group, pulling out his phone to make the call. As he conversed with Steve, Y/N caught fragments of their conversation before the phone was handed to her.

“You’re not seriously going to sleep in your house?” Steve’s voice sounded both worried and protective.

Y/N responded with a soft hum, trying to downplay the situation. “I have quilts and a lock.”

“And I have a perfectly fine apartment nearby that I don’t use. It’s not too far from your place.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her eyes focused on the ground. She then looked up, biting her lower lip. “Steve,” she started, her voice wavering slightly.

He interrupted her gently, understanding the weight of the situation. “Look, I know we’ve barely met. But I can’t just let you sleep in your house under such circumstances. Especially after Bucky and Sam couldn’t help much. I don’t use that apartment, and if it makes you feel safer, you can text your friends your Live Location and take your own car there. I just want to help.”

Y/N was taken aback by Steve’s unwavering concern and kindness. She realized that his offer came from a genuine place of wanting to help, even though they were relative strangers. After a moment of contemplation, she nodded appreciatively.

“Alright, Steve. Thank you,” she finally responded, her voice filled with gratitude. “I’ll take you up on your offer.”

“Glad to hear it, Y/N. Could you pass Bucky the phone, please? We’ll make sure you’re safe and warm tonight.”

Y/N handed Bucky the phone. She quickly explained to Sam that she would be retrieving a few belongings from her apartment. On her way inside, Y/N shot Yelena a text, including her live location and a brief explanation. Just in case.

Taking a moment to gather her essentials, including pepper spray for added security, Y/N made sure to remember to take Steve's jacket, the one he’d offered her two weeks ago. With her belongings in hand, she set off on her way. If only she knew what she had gotten herself into.

Series Taglist: @crazyunsexycool @patzammit @wintasssoldier @themrsrogers

Steve seems like a knight in shining armor. Does he not?

: ̗̀➛ Read Chapter 3 | Star Command Blue

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers #captain america #captain america x female reader #captain america x reader #avengers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel mcu #avengers #steve rogers x y/n #mafia steve rogers #mob steve rogers #mob!steve rogers x reader #mafia!steve rogers x reader

172 notes · View notes

blackswaneuroparedux · 9 months

Text

‘Pimpernel of the Hellenes’, ‘Major Paddy’, ‘Enchanted maniac’: Will the real Paddy Leigh Fermor please stand up?

Paradox reconciles all contradictions. - Patrick Leigh Fermor

So one evening I was baby sitting my nephews and nieces here in our family chalet in Verbier, high up in the Swiss Alps. It was my turn to baby sit as the rest of my family enjoyed the fantastic classical music concerts and events showcased at the two week long Verbier 30th Festival. The little scamps had gone to bed and my father and I watched an old British war movie on DVD, ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ (1957). It was filmed by the legendary team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger based on the 1950 book ‘Ill Met by Moonlight: The Abduction of General Kreipe’ by W. Stanley Moss.

I’ve seen the film a couple of times before, but until now never really paid attention to where the title came from. My father said it was from Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream’ And so it was. In the play, Oberon, the king of the fairies and the Queen are having a fairly bitter drawn-out fight over custody of a changeling Indian child, and this is how the pissed off king greets the queen when they run into each other, “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania”. Oberon is basically saying "Oh Lord, it's you..." and Titania's response is basically a flippant middle finger. One of the best modern reasons to read Shakespeare: to throw playful erudite shade at others.

Anyway, the historical background of the film is the German invasion of Crete in May 1941. After an intense ten-day battle, Allied troops were driven back across the island, and many were evacuated from beaches along the southern coast. Some Cretans and British officers took to the mountains to organise resistance against the occupying forces. The German occupation that followed was especially brutal. Dreadful reprisals followed every act of resistance. The German commander, General Müller, insisted on taking 50 Cretan lives for every German soldier killed; he became known as ‘The Butcher of Crete’.

As a Classicist side note, there had been a close association between Britain and Crete since the early 20th century, when archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans had uncovered the sensational remains of a Minoan palace at Knossos. The headquarters of the British archaeological school in Crete was a large villa alongside the site, known as Villa Ariadne. Several archaeologists, who knew the island and its people well, went underground after the German occupation to aid the Cretan resistance. Continuing in this tradition, scholar and travel-writer Patrick Leigh Fermor, who had got to know Greece in the 1930s, joined the Special Operations Executive (SOE).

During the German occupation, Major Paddy Leigh Fermor travelled to Crete three times to help organise local resistance against the hated German occupation. On the third occasion, in February 1944, he was parachuted in with a specific mission to kidnap German commander General Müller, to boost morale on Crete along with his erstwhile SOE comrade Capt. W. Stanley Moss MC (aka Billy Moss) of the Coldstream Guards. However, just after they parachute in, General Müller was replaced by General Heinrich Kreipe, who transferred from the Russian Front. Thinking that capturing one general was as good as another, Fermor merrily go ahead with the daring kidnap operation.

It’s at this point that the narrative of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s ‘Ill Met by Moonlight’ (1957) picks up. Dirk Bogarde plays Paddy Leigh Fermor, David Oxley plays Moss, and Marius Goring plays the taciturn German paratroop general. Blink and you’ll miss the late great Christopher Lee making a cameo appearance as a German officer in the dentist’s room scene.

The film naturally takes some liberty with the facts but it’s a cracking yarn of high adventure and drama. Xan Fielding, a close friend of Leigh Fermor from the SOE in Cairo, was taken on as technical adviser. The fact the film was shot in in the Alpes-Maritimes in France and Italy, and on the Côte d'Azur in France, far away from the craggy valleys and mountains of Crete itself. The director Michael Powell spent some time walking in Crete to get to know the island, but decided that, with the confused and volatile state of Greek politics, it was not suitable to film there.

Looking back years after he had directed it Powell didn’t think much of his own film. By contrast, Paddy Leigh Fermor, who was on set throughout the film shoot, was very happy with Bogarde’s portrayal of him with Byronic glamour. Watching the movie again ‘Ill Met by Moonlight’ remains a classic and stands out from many British war films of the 1950s because of its realism. The British SOE men and the Cretan guerrillas look absolutely right for their parts. It is dramatic and full of suspense while filled with much boyish humour.

I was disappointed with one notable omission in the film that did happen in real life. According to Patrick Leigh Fermor, at dawn one day during the journey across the mountains, General Kreipe was looking at the mist rising from Mount Ida and began to recite, in Latin, the opening lines of Horace’s ninth ode:

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte nec iam sustineant onus silvae laborantes geluque flumina constiterint acuto?

Behold yon Mountains hoary height, Made higher with new Mounts of Snow; Again behold the Winters weight Oppress the lab’ring Woods below: And Streams, with Icy fetters bound, Benum’d and crampt to solid Ground

(John Dryden 1685)

Leigh Fermor picked up on the General, and recited the remaining stanzas of the Ode. ‘Ach so, Herr Major,’ said Kreipe when Leigh Fermor had finished. Both men were amazed to realise they shared a classical education and a love of ancient Latin poetry.

Leigh Fermor later wrote that it was as though the war had ceased to exist for a moment, as ‘We had both drunk from the same fountains before.’ It brought captor and captive together with a strange bond. The scene was not reproduced in the film, as Powell and Pressburger probably thought it would make the men sound too academic for a popular cinema audience.

Leigh Fermor and Kreipe met again in the early 1970s, on a Greek television show, and got on famously together. The General said Leigh Fermor had treated him chivalrously as a captive. They remained friends until Kreipe’s death.

After sharing a late night drink with my father after the film, I began to muse on the figure of Paddy Leigh Fermor, a family friend and someone I met along with his wife, Joan, as a little girl. My grandparents, and especially my grandmother, knew Paddy briefly from their days during and after the Second World War.

My father shared a few stories about him when he and my mother visited his beautiful home in Greece, where even at his advanced age he remained the most generous of hosts and the most outrageous flirt.

One of my memories was getting into his battered old Peugeot in the drive way and trying to drive it when my feet could barely touch the pedals. It wouldn’t have mattered in any case as the brakes didn’t work as he cheerfully said later as we careened around a dirt road to go around the mountains for a drive.

Many years later in April 2022, I tried to visit the home of the late Patrick and Joan Leigh Fermor - a sort of pristine shrine to their memory that one can also stay in any of the rooms as a vacation rental - in the coastal fishing village of Kadarmyli in the Peloponnese, as part of a hiking and mountaineering sojourn around Greece with ex-Army friends. We couldn’t stay there as it was already rented out to other guests, and so we stayed higher up the mountain in a villa, but we swam in front of the Fermor’s home which was on the water’s edge.

You could never put your finger on Paddy Leigh Fermor. He hid behind his gift for telling yarns, and pulling Ancient Greek verses out of the thin air, as well as boisterously singing local Greek songs with a drink in his hand.

Even after his death in 2011, the question keeps nagging as to who was Paddy Leigh Fermor?

The Dirk Bogarde film too seems to ask, who exactly is the ‘real’ Patrick Leigh Fermor - or the real anyone? Taking its title from a Shakespearian play concerned with dreams and disguises, magic and power, ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ is all about questions of identity.

Under the film credits, we see Dirk Bogarde in uniform; then, unexpectedly, we see him in the flamboyant outfit of a Cretan hill-bandit. A title informs us that Major Leigh Fermor was also known by the Greek code-name “Philidem.” In other words, there are two of him (at least), and on one level the adventure the film is about to unfold reflects a conflict in his personality. It’s a conflict shared, unknowingly, by his Nazi opposite number, the fierce, arrogant General Kreipe (an unlikely “proud Titania,” but it’s true that he “with a monster is in love” – the monster of Nazism). Kreipe’s human side is so rigorously repressed by the demands of war and “glory” that he is genuinely unaware of it; ironically, this humanness, which constitutes the true manhood of this Teuton warrior, is revealed by a boy (equivalent to Shakespeare’s Indian Prince?) - who, in turn, is the most grown up person in the movie.

If “Philidem” appears under the credits, caped and open-shirted, a romantic dream-figure out of an operetta or a storybook, he is first seen in the film proper as a coarser, more down-to-earth version of the same thing – an ordinary Cretan peasant in a shabby suit, waiting for a bus. When he makes contact with the Resistance, his personality fragments further.

To some, he is the mystical Philidem, Pimpernel of the Hellenes and righter of wrongs. To others he is “Major Paddy,” the happy-go-lucky Englishman of popular movie myth conducting war as if it were a branch of amateur theatricals, a gentleman adventurer relying on breeding to get him through and making fun of the whole business. To Bill Moss (David Oxley), the newly arrived junior officer sent to assist him, he is the cool, fast-thinking professional soldier. And to himself? In his quietly passionate defence of Cretan life and culture, he seems someone else again: a scholar and aesthete outraged by the barbarism and folly of war, and by the moronic arrogance shown by his captive toward the Cretan people.

Whatever his persona, Leigh Fermor is a chameleon who never seems to change very radically in himself. Perhaps because he has this quality of seeming all things to all men – and being those things - he remains unfazed by the monolithic might of the German military machine. Fluent in Greek, he can also speak German like a German and is easily able to assume another disguise, that of a faceless Nazi officer. Although he and Moss make fun of themselves - “If only I had a monocle!” muses Moss when Leigh Fermor tells him he “looks like an Englishman dressed like a German, leaning against the Ritz bar” - they are able to effect the kidnapping with an ease that seems appropriately Puckish. General Kreipe is ignominiously thrust onto the floor of his own limousine, gagged, and sat upon by a couple of the peasants he so despises. Kreipe’s rage is compounded by his firm conviction that he has been snatched by “amateurs” - a belief Leigh Fermor and Moss slyly make no objection to, knowing how it will gnaw at his already shaky Master Race self-confidence.

Patrick Leigh Fermor, aka Major Paddy, aka Philidem, in the film’s closing moments, is far from being self-assured intellectual or dashing amateur adventurer or legendary outlaw of the hills. He’s just a tired man who wants to go home and rest up. “How do you feel?” asks Moss. “Flat” is the reply. “You look flat!” says Moss. “I know how I’d like to look …” murmurs Leigh-Fermor wistfully. Moss knows what he’s going to say, and joins in the litany: “Like an Englishman dressed like an Englishman – and leaning against the Ritz bar!” It’s easy to imagine them ordering drinks at that renowned watering-hole with all the suavity required by this little fantasy.

Still, the film’s last images of Crete receding in the distance, until all we can see is the sea, suggests that maybe Major Paddy’s heart is really back in those hills in the “fair and fertile” land that has become as much a Powellian landscape of the mind for us as the studio-built Himalayan convent of ‘Black Narcissus’ or the monochrome Heaven of ‘A Matter of Life and Death’. And, as the film POV closing shots departs both Crete and this film, I began to think that being “dressed like an Englishman and leaning against the Ritz bar” would, for Patrick Leigh Fermor constitute yet another disguise. After all, he said he was of Irish aristocratic stock.

Traveller and writer Paddy Leigh Fermor is best known for two events. He’s known for leading the commando group in occupied Crete to kidnap General Kreipe. But he is also known for the boy who, at a mere 18 years old, set off with little money and a lot of nerve in 1933 to walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople.

Patrick Leigh Fermor was, in the words of one of his obituaries, a cross between Indiana Jones, James Bond and Graham Greene. Self-reliance and derring-do were lessons learnt from the cradle. When Fermor’s geologist father was posted to India, he and his wife left the infant with family in Northamptonshire and did not return until his fourth birthday. In retrospect, he took great delight in being sent to a school for difficult children and getting himself expelled from the King’s School, Canterbury, when he was caught holding hands with a greengrocer’s daughter eight years his senior. His school report infamously judged him ‘a dangerous mix of sophistication and recklessness’.

Sharing a flat in Shepherd’s Market, one of Mayfair’s seedier corners, Leigh Fermor schooled himself in literature, history, Latin and Greek.

He honed his character with the company of extraordinary people and the words of great writers - he had a prodigious memory for prose as well as poetry. He befriended literary lions such as Sacheverell Sitwell, Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford. His travels began aged ‘eighteen-and-three-quarters’ when he rejected Sandhurst Royal Military College in order to walk the length of Europe from Hook of Holland to Constantinople. He took with him Horace’s Odes and the Oxford Book of Verse though Leigh Fermor could recite Shakespeare soliloquies, Marlowe speeches, Keats’s Odes and as he modestly put it ‘the usual pieces of Tennyson, Browning and Coleridge’ from memory.

Leigh Fermor was then a self-made man in the most literal sense.

Setting off from England in 1933, Fermor resolved to traverse Europe living like a hermit; sleeping in bars and begging for food. But his manly charms and boyish good looks found him being passed like a favourite godson from Schloss to palace by European nobility and he developed a lifelong penchant for aristocratic company. I his own words, ‘In Hungary, I borrowed a horse, then plunged into Transylvania; from Romania on into Bulgaria’. Having reached Constantinople in January 1935, Fermor continued to explore Greece where he fought on the royalist side in Macedonia quelling a republican revolution. In Athens Leigh Fermor met Balasha Cantacuzene, a Romanian countess with whom he fell in love. They were living together in a Moldovan castle when World War Two was declared.

Fluent in Greek, Leigh Fermor was posted as a liaison officer in Albania. Recruited as a Special Operations Executive (SOE), he was shipped from Cairo to German-occupied Crete where he lived disguised as a shepherd in the mountains for two years. On his third expedition to Crete in 1944, Leigh Fermor was parachuted alone onto the island and made connections in the Cretan resistance movement. While waiting for his compatriot Captain Bill Stanley Moss to land by water from Cairo, Leigh Fermor hatched a plot to kidnap German Commander General Heinrich Krieple. He liaised comfortably with Cretan partisans and bandits to pull off one of the war’s greatest coups de théâtre.

Disguised as German soldiers, Leigh Fermor and Moss stopped Krieple’s car at an improvised check point en route back to Nazi HQ in Knossos. Abandoning the General’s car after a two-hour drive, Leigh Fermor left a note indicating that the kidnappers were British so that there wouldn’t be reprisals against Cretan nationals. When the abduction of the unpopular commander was discovered, a German officer in Heraklion allegedly said ‘well, gentlemen, I think this calls for champagne’. It turns out that General Kreipe was despised by his own soldiers because, amongst other things, he objected to the stopping of his own vehicle for checking in compliance with his commands concerning approved travel orders. It’s why for instance the German troops, both in the film and in real life, dare not stop the General’s car as it drove through the check points at Heraklion.

Krieple was evacuated and taken to Cairo and Leigh Fermor entered the annals of World War Two’s most devil-may-care heroes. With characteristic panache, when he was demobbed Leigh Fermor moved into an attic room at the Ritz paying half a guinea a night. But his first travel book, ‘The Traveller’s Tree’, was not about the European odyssey or the Cretan escapades and centred on Leigh Fermor’s adventures in the Carribbean. Published in 1950, ‘The Traveller’s Tree’ was an inspiration for Ian Fleming’s second James Bond novel ‘Live and Let Die’ (1954).

As a host and house guest, Paddy Leigh Fermor was much sought-after. At one of his parties in Cairo, he counted nine crowned heads. He was a confirmed two-gin-and-tonics before lunch man and smoked eighty to 100 cigarettes a day. His party pieces included singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ in Hindustani and reciting ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter’ backwards. In Cyprus while staying with Laurence Durrell, Leigh Fermor apparently stunned crowds in Bella Pais into silence by singing folk songs in perfect Cretan dialect. As Durrell wrote in ‘Bitter Lemons’ (1957), ‘it is as if they want to embrace Paddy wherever he goes’.

He struck up a partiuclar friendship with the famous Mitford sisters, especially Deborah Mitford, later ‘Debo’, the Duchess of Devonshire. It was at the Devonshires’ Irish estate Lismore Castle that ‘Darling Debo’ and ‘Darling Pad’ met and began to correspond. A characteristic letter from the Duchess in 1962 reads ‘The dear old President (JFK) phoned the other day. First question was ‘Who’ve you got with you, Paddy?” He’s got you on the brain’ to which Fermor replies of a broken wrist ‘Balinese dancing’s out, for a start; so, should I ever succeed to a throne, is holding an orb. The other drawbacks will surface with time’.

After the war he travelled widely but was always drawn back to Greece. He built a house on the Mani peninsula - which had been, significantly, the only part of Magna Graecia to resist Ottoman colonisation since the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Before his death in 2011 at the age of 96, he wrote some of the most acclaimed travel books of the 20th century.

His books contain some of the finest prose writing of the past century and disprove Wilde's maxim that "it is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating".

Charm, self-taught knowledge and enthusiasm made up for the lack of a university degree or a private income. His teenage walk across Europe and subsequent romantic sojourn in Baleni, Romania, with Princess Balasha Cantacuzene are proof enough of that. But the difficulty of capturing such an unconventional and glamorous life is made harder by the certainty that Fermor was an unreliable narrator.

He was also an infuriatingly slow writer. Driven by a life-long passion for words yet hampered by anxiety about his abilities, Leigh Fermor published eight books over 41 years.

‘The Traveller's Tree’ describes his postwar journey through the Caribbean; ‘Mani‘ and ‘Roumeli’ (1958 and 1966) draw on his experiences in Greece, where he would live for much of the latter part of his life. But it is the books that came out of his trans-Europe walk that reveal both the brilliance and the flaws. ‘A Time of Gifts’ was published in 1977, 44 years after he set out on the journey. ‘Between the Woods and the Water’ appeared nine years later. Both describe a world of privilege and poverty, communism and the rising tide of Nazism, and end with the unequivocal words, "To be continued". Yet the third volume hung like an albatross around the author's neck. As the years passed, Fermor found it impossible to shape the last part of his story in the way he wanted.

Leigh Fermor was that rarest of men: a man determined to live on his own terms, if not his own means, and who mostly - and mostly magnificently - succeeded. Always popping off on a journey when he should have been writing about the last one, always ready to party, he was forever chasing beautiful, fascinating or powerful women, even when with his wife, Joan Raynor. She was the great facilitator who funded his passion for travel and writing, as well as women, from her trust fund. His love affairs were discreet but legendary.

Leigh Fermor was happiest among the rogues. Over a lifetime on the road, he sought them, and in turn they responded to his charm, nose for adventure, and his famous wit. He was a keenly-anticipated dinner guest - once outshining Richard Burton at a London society soirée, who he cut-off midway through a recital of ‘Hamlet’. As Richard Burton stormed out, the pleading society hostess said, “But Paddy’s a war hero!” to which Burton grouchily replied, “I don’t give a damn who he is!”

His partnership with and then marriage to Joan Raynor was an open relationship, at least on Leigh Fermor’s side. Paddy saw in Joan his kindred spirit. Like him, she spent much of her youth travelling to where she pleased; largely in France, where the photographer and literary critic Cyril Connolly became besotted by her. Joan was the daughter of Sir Bolton and Lady Eyres Monsell of Dumbleton Hall, Worcestershire. She was not only stunningly pretty but also 'a beautiful ideal, with the perfect bathing dress, the most lovely face, the most elaborate evening dress', as the Eton educated Connolly described her. Joan also stood out from the upper-class beauties of her day in that she supplemented her mean rich father's allowance by earning her living as a decent photographer.

In 1946, she met Leigh Fermor in Athens, while he was deputy director of the British Institute. Joan met him at a time when he was then in a relationship with a French woman called Denise, who was pregnant with his child, which she aborted. The pair would travel to the Caribbean together under the invitation of Greek photographer Costas, falling madly in love.

She was the only woman that - after decades of sexual scandals - matched his own erratic behaviour. Stories of how they dined fully-clothed in the Mediterranean, dragging a table into the sea, as well as their myriad cats and olive groves, paint a restless couple, who, when not out articulating the peoples of their adopted homeland, kept themselves very busy.

The attraction between Paddy and Joan was instant. So many love affairs that Paddy indulged in seemed about as brief as the flame from a burning envelope and you expected this one with Joan to be too. But somehow, miraculously, it lasts.

The two were apart a great deal, but in their case, absence did make the heart grow fonder. While Paddy was staying in a monastery in Normandy, supposed to be thinking monk-like thoughts that he would eventually put into his masterpiece A Time To Keep Silence, he was also writing sexy letters to Joan: 'At this distance you seem about as nearly perfect a human being as can be, my darling little wretch, so it's about time I was brought to my senses.' And: 'Don't run away with anyone or I'll come and cut your bloody throat.'

She tantalised him with descriptions of Cyril Connolly making passes at her; but she, like Denise, sounded a rather desperate note when she wrote: 'I got the curse so late this month I began to hope I was having a baby and that you would have to make it a legitimate little Fermor. All hopes ruined this morning.'

Fiercely independent - a trait that must have enamoured Paddy - they were best imagined as two pillars of a Greek temple, beside one-another but capable of holding up the roof of the world that they had built for themselves through the lens of ancient history and Hellenic culture. Indeed, it was said that they had a special ‘pact of liberty’. It is this unconquerable aura that led poet laureate John Betjeman to declare his love for her (he called her ‘Dotty’ and remarked that her eyes were as large as tennis balls). For Cyril Connolly, the photographer she shadowed, and with whom she had a scandalised affair during her first marriage, she was a “lovely boy-girl” and Laurence Durrell named her the ‘Corn Goddess’ because of her slender figure and short hair. But of all of these worthy candidates, it was the warrior-poet Patrick Leigh Fermor who finally won her heart.

To Joan, who described herself as a ‘lifelong loner’ in her diaries, her companionship with the uncomplicated Paddy was a relief. They had no children, nor did they want any - or so Paddy claimed. But those who knew Joan suspected she did want children but it never came to pass; and so she became a devoted aunt or dotted on other friends’ children. For both of them their dozens of cats gave them the next best thing to paternal satisfaction. Still, her morbid fascination with photographing cemeteries painted a much darker side.

Joan Raynor’s inheritance subsidised his peripatetic life at least until the enormous success of ‘A Time of Gifts’ in the late 1970s, which in turn created a new market for his previous volumes about Greece, ‘Mani’ and ‘Roumeli’.

With Joan’s tacit consent, Paddy enjoyed amorous flings, discrete sexual affairs with high society women and sampled the low delights of the brothel. This activity rarely made it into his private letters, but the exceptions could be piquant. Writing in 1958 from Cameroon, where he was on the set of a John Huston movie, he told a (male) friend: “ Errol Flynn and I . . . sally forth into dark lanes of the town together on guilty excursions that remind me rather of old Greek days with you.” In a 1961 letter to the film director John Huston’s wife, Ricki, with whom Leigh Fermor had been having sex with (and would die in a car crash in 1969). “I say,” the passage begins, “what gloomy tidings about the CRABS! Could it be me?” Riffing on pubic lice and their crafty ways, he conjectures that, during a recent romp with an “old pal” in Paris, a force “must have landed” on him “and then lain up, seeing me merely as a stepping stone or a springboard to better things” - to Mrs. Huston, that is. As comic apologies for venereal infection go, the passage is surely a classic.

Like most high flying lives, it was far from blameless. Wounded women were littered in his wake. Some British visitors to Athens were less than impressed by this Englishman who posed as “more Greek than the Greeks”.

Some Greeks shared their disdain. Revisionist historians criticised his role in wartime Crete, and warned their fellow Hellenes that for all his fluency and charm, Leigh Fermor was no latter day Byron. His unoccupied car was blown up outside his Mani house, probably by members of the Greek Communist Party which he had vocally opposed. The accidental fatal shooting of a partisan in Crete led to a long blood feud which made it difficult for Leigh Fermor to re-enter the island until the 1970s, and possibly explains why he chose to settle in the Peloponnese rather than among the hills and harbours of his dreams.

His own books had already eclipsed those incidents, not only among readers of English but also in Greece, where in 2007 the government of his adopted land made him a Commander of the Order of the Phoenix for services to literature.

Travel writers such as the great Jan Morris have described Leigh Fermor as the master of their trade and its greatest exponent in the 20th century.

When ‘A Time of Gifts’ was published in 1977, Frederick Raphael wrote: “One feels he could not cross Oxford Street in less than two volumes; but then what volumes they would be!”

They are not for everyone. Leigh Fermor wrote that written English is a language whose Latinates need pegging down with simple Anglo-Saxonisms, and some feel that he personally could have made more and better use of the mallet. His exuberance is either captivating or florid. It is certainly unique among English prose styles.

Artemis Cooper, his patient and careful biographer wrote that “Paddy had found a way of writing that could deploy a lifetime’s reading and experience, while never losing sight of his ebullient, well-meaning and occasionally clumsy 18-year-old self … this was a wonderful way of disarming his readers, who would then be willing to follow him into the wildest fantasies and digressions”.

Those fantasies and digressions took decades to express. ‘A Time of Gifts’ had arguably been 40 years in the making when it was published in 1977. Its sequel, ‘Between the Woods and the Water’, did not appear until 1986. The third and final volume has been awaited ever since. Following Leigh Fermor’s death, a foot-high manuscript was apparently found on his desk.

Once he knuckled down to it, Leigh Fermor loved playing around with words. He was one of our greatest stylists and he was devoted to producing un-improvable books. But writing did not come easily to him, at least partly because it was something of a distraction from the main event, which was living an un-improvable life of unrepentant gaiety and fun.

For forty odd years, a legion of friends and admirers would beat a path to Paddy and Joan’s door. Artists, poets, royalty and writers came, all taking inspiration from their erudite hosts. A visit was an act of communion, a sharing of ideas and stories.

Leigh Fermor influenced a generation of British travel writers, including Bruce Chatwin, Colin Thubron, Philip Marsden, Nicholas Crane, Rory Stewart, and William Dalrymple. Indeed when Bruce Chatwin died, it was Paddy who scattered Chatwin’s ashes near a church in the mountains in Kardamyli.

When I was there in April 2022, I went to that same church to pay my respects.

But some of Paddy’s life energy was sucked out of him when Joan died in Kardamyli in June 2003, aged 91. It was related that Joan said to her friend Olivia Stewart, who was visiting: 'I really would like to die but who'd look after Paddy?' Olivia said that she would. A few minutes later, Joan fell, hit her head - and died instantly of a brain haemorrhage. Joan had often quoted Rilke: 'The good marriage is one in which each appoints the other as guardian of his solitude.' Now Paddy Leigh Fermor was all alone.

Leigh Fermor was knighted in 2004, the day of his birthday which he delighted in like a giggling schoolboy. But he missed Joan terribly.

For the last few months of his life Leigh Fermor suffered from a cancerous tumour, and in early June 2011 he underwent a tracheotomy in Greece. As death was close, according to local Greek friends, he expressed a wish to visit England to bid goodbye to his friends, and then return to die in Kardamyli, though it is also stated that he actually wished to die in England and be buried next to his wife, Joan, in Dumbleton, Gloucestershire. He stayed on at Kardamyli until the 9th June 2011, when he left Greece for the last time. He died in England the following day, 10th June 2011, aged 96. It was reported that he had dined in full black tie on the evening of his death. Paddy had style even unto the end.

A Guard of Honour was formed by the Intelligence Corps and a bugler from his former regiment, the Irish Guards, delivered the ‘Last Post’ at Paddy’s funeral. As had been his wish, he was buried beside Joan. On his gravestone in Dumbleton cemetery is an inscription in Greek, a quote from Constantine Cavafy: “In addition, he was that best of all things, Hellenic.”

Although Joan had passed away at the age of ninety-one, after suffering a fall in the Mani. Her body was repatriated to Dumbleton, the place of her birth - ironic that her dream was to be as far as she could possibly go from the rolling humdrum Worcestershire hills. But perhaps she intended to return all along. When Paddy was buried beside her it seemed that the ‘pact of liberty’ that these two lonely souls had forged themselves could be tested in the great elsewhere. Joan was more than his muse (as many of her obituaries were at pains to declare) but his greatest adventure.

To come around full circle from the movie ‘Ill Met By Moonlight’ (1957) that I saw that night in Verbier, my father told me that rather poignantly, General Kreipe, the German commander Leigh Fermor had captured - once an enemy, and later a friend - left behind notes and photographs from across his life. On one of those notes, it was discovered, the following was scribbled from a brief visit to Greece: “Somewhere, amidst all the disarray, was the story of Joan and Paddy, and” it concluded, “…of their lives together.”

His life with Joan and all that she meant to him was one part of the mosaic of who Paddy Leigh Fermor was. But it’s incomplete.

Paddy didn’t like the idea of a biography, and neither did Joan when she was alive. But friends had persuaded them that unless Paddy appointed someone to write his life, he might find himself the subject of a book whether he liked it or not. In Artemis Cooper they couldn’t have chosen a better writer to chronicle Paddy’s life as a man of action and letters. Cooper, was the daughter of another accomplished diplomat and historian, John Julius Norwich, and grand-daughter of Duff and Diana Cooper. As the wife of the historian Antony Beevor, she became a trusted friend of the Leigh Fermors. Cooper was too good of a historian to let her friendship lead her astray from being a faithful but serious biographer. Knowing this, she was told she could go ahead, but she had to promise not to publish anything until after they were both dead.

Paddy did not like being interviewed, and would keep her questions at bay with a torrent of dazzling conversation. He was the master at deflecting discussions away from himself.

He was also very unwilling to let Cooper see many of his papers, though the refusal always couched in excuses. ‘Oh dear, the Diary…’ It was the only surviving one from his great walk across Europe, and I was aching to read it. ‘Well it’s in constant use, you see, as I plug away at Vol III,’ he would say. Or, ‘My mother’s letters? Ah yes, why not. But it’s too awful, I simply cannot remember where they’ve got to…’ It was quite obvious that he and Joan, while being unfailingly generous, welcoming and hospitable, were determined to reveal as little as possible of their private lives.

While they were more than happy to talk about books, travels, friends, Crete, Greece, the war, anything - they would not tell her any more than they would have told the average journalist. But she persisted and got closer than most. He showed particularly gallantry in not talking about his romantic entanglements. But she soon twigged that anytime he described a woman as ‘an old pal’ it was a sure bet that he had an affair with her.

Intriguingly, Paddy liked to claim he was descended from Counts of the Holy Roman Empire, who came to Austria from Sligo. Paddy could recite ‘The Dead at Clomacnoise’ (in translation) and perhaps did so during a handful of flying visits to Ireland in the 1950s and 1960s, partying hard at Luggala House or Lismore Castle, or making friends with Patrick Kavanagh and Sean O’Faolain in Dublin pubs. He once provoked a massive brawl at the Kildare Hunt Ball, and was rescued from a true pounding by Ricki Huston, a beautiful Italian-American dancer, John Huston’s fourth wife and Paddy’s lover not long afterwards.

And yet, a note of caution about Paddy’s Irish roots is sounded by his biographer, Artemis Cooper, who also co-edited ‘The Broken Road’, the final, posthumously published instalment of the trilogy. “I’m not a great believer in his Irish roots,” she said of Leigh Fermor in an interview, “His mother, who was a compulsive fantasist, liked to think that her family was related to the Viscount Taaffes, of Ballymote. Her father was apparently born in County Cork. But she was never what you might call a reliable witness. She was an extraordinary person, though. Imaginative, impulsive, impossible - just the way the Irish are supposed to be, come to think of it. She was also one of those sad women, who grew up at the turn of the last century, who never found an outlet for their talents and energies, nor the right man, come to that. All she had was Paddy, and she didn’t get much of him.”

And I think that’s the point, no one really got much of Paddy Leigh Fermor even as he only gave a crumb of himself to others but still most felt grateful that it was enough to fill one’s belly and still feel overfed by him.

Paddy never tried to get to the bottom of his Irish ancestry, afraid, no doubt, of disturbing the bloom that had grown on history and his past, a recurring trait. “His memory was extraordinary,” Artemis Cooper noted, “but it lay dangerously close to his imagination and it was a very porous border.”

Within the Greek imagination many Greeks saw in Paddy Leigh Fermor as the second coming of Lord Byron. It’s not a bad comparison.

Lord Byron claimed that swimming the Hellespont was his greatest achievement. 174 years or so later, another English writer, Patrick Leigh Fermor - also, like Byron, revered by many Greeks for his part in a war of liberation - repeated the feat. Leigh Fermor, however, was 69 when he did it and continued to do it into his 80s. Byron was a mere 22 years old lad. The Hellespont swim, with its mix of literature, adventure, travel, bravery, eccentricity and romance, is an apt metaphor for Leigh Fermor’s life. Paddy Leigh Fermor was the Byron of his time. Both men had an idealised vision of Greece, were scholars and men of action, could endure harsh conditions, fought for Greek freedom, were recklessly courageous, liked to dress up and displayed a panache that impressed their Greek comrades. Like a good magician it was also a way to misdirect and conceal one’s true self.

What or who was the true Paddy Leigh Fermor?

Like Byron, Leigh Fermor appeared as a charismatic and assured figure. He was a sightseer, consuming travel, culture, and history for pleasure. He was an aristocrat moving in the social circles of his time. He was a gifted amateur scholar, speculating on literary and historical sources. Leigh Fermor, Byron’s own identity, is subject to textual distortion; it emerges from a piece of occasional prose in his books and is shaped by the claims of correspondence on a peculiarly fluid consciousness.

There is no hard and fast distinction to be drawn here between real and imagined, only a continuity of relative fictions that lie between memory and imagination as his biographer asserted. If there is a will to assert identity here, to disentangle fact and fiction, to give things as they really are and nail down the real Leigh Fermor then it is somewhere between the two. This is where we will find Paddy.

For many his death marked the passing of an extraordinary man: soldier, writer, adventurer, a charmer, a gallant romantic. As a writer he discovered a knack for drawing people out and for stringing history, language, and observation into narrative, and his timing was perfect. Paddy often indulged in florid displays of classical erudition. His learned digressions and serpentine style, his mannered mandarin gestures, even baroque prose, which Lawrence Durrell called truffled and dense with plumage, were influenced by the work of Charles Doughty and T.E. Lawrence. But one can’t compare him. I agree with the acclaimed writer Colin Thurbon who said, “There is, in the end, nobody like him. A famous raconteur and polymath. Generous, life-loving and good-hearted to a fault. Enormously good company, but touched by well-camouflaged insecurities. I would rank him very highly. ‘The finest travel writer of his generation’ is a fair assessment.”

As a child I didn’t really know who Paddy Leigh Fermor was other than this very cheerful and charismatic old man was kind, attentive, and took a boyish delight in everything you were doing. Only later on in adulthood was it clear to that Paddy was not only among the outstanding writers of his time but one of its most remarkable characters, a perfect hybrid of the man of action and the man of letters. Equally comfortable with princes and peasants, in caves or châteaux, he had amassed an enviable rich experience of places and people. “Quite the most enchanting maniac I’ve ever met,” pronounced Lawrence Durrell, and nearly everyone who’d crossed paths with him had, it seemed, come away similarly dazzled.

I am equally dazzled - more smitten in retrospect - for alas they don’t make men like Paddy any more. But every time I dip back into his books I think I discover a little bit more of who Paddy Leigh Fermor was because I find him some where between my memory and my imagination.

109 notes · View notes