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Affordable House Removals in Bristol: Your Trusted Solution for Stress-Free Moves
Introduction:
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say don't go | charles leclerc
pairing: charles leclerc x reader
based off of taylor swift's 'stay don't go'
why'd you have to lead me on?
why'd you have to twist the knife?
walk away and leave me bleedin'
word count: 5.2k
tags/warnings: slight angst, mentions of being disloyal, this is kinda sad, mention of smut i guess but blink and you miss it
You weren’t one to let your past haunt you. It was the past for a reason, it belonged behind you, all you could do was grow into a better version of yourself.
But what the hell were you supposed to do when Charles showed up at your door after six months of silence?
It was a week into December and you were reluctantly putting up Christmas decorations because you were tired of the comments your friends made, telling you to get into the holiday spirit. Now you had the silver tinsel gripped in your hand as Charles stood on your front step, light flurries landing on his coat only to melt immediately after.
It was the middle of the day and you lived in a crowded area, but passersby on the sidewalk and those driving past had no idea there was a Ferrari driver only metres away from them.
But no one would guess that Charles Leclerc would be travelling to Bristol during his holidays.
“What? Were you in the neighbourhood?” You asked, flicking the tinsel off of your hand and shaking off any remnants. You watched it fall to the floor before looking up, “Felt like stopping by?”
“Can I come in?” Charles asked, glancing behind you. Was he looking to see if you had company? If you had moved on? Regardless of what, or who, he was looking for, his shoulders relaxed when he could tell you were alone. All that was behind you was cardboard boxes labelled Christmas.
“Give me three good reasons why I shouldn't shut the door in your face,” your demand was laced with your usual sweet tone, the same one that always intimated Charles because he never knew what to make of it. Never once did you raise your voice, you never yelled, never showed signs of anger. Even when you were annoyed, you always sounded calm.
He sucked in a breath, “Well, it’s cold out.” He chuckled, but when you didn’t see any humour in his words he just nodded and moved on. “I was, in fact, in the neighbourhood- well I was in London, just figured I’d make a quick trip out west.”
Those weren’t good enough reasons and he knew it. You moved to grab the door and Charles reacted by holding his hand out to stop it from shutting, eyes trained on yours.
His cheeks were red, not accustomed to the British winters. He wasn’t wearing mitts and you could see how his hands had responded to the dry air by cracking at the knuckles. His lips trembled, not because he was nervous but because this was probably the coldest his body temperature had dropped to in a long time.
Which had you questioning how long he had been standing outside your door before finally knocking.
“There’s some things I’ve been meaning to say for a while now,” Charles spoke softly and you could see his breath with each word. “And you don’t need to say anything, but I’d love it if you’d listen.”
Maybe you felt bad that he was cold. Maybe you were curious as to what he had to say to you after so long. Maybe part of you still missed him and if these were the last few minutes you’d get with him, you weren’t going to let them pass.
Whatever the reason, you held the door open and he stepped inside. You watched as he ran his fingers through his hair and slid his coat off, hanging it on the empty hook on the wall. Your eyes darted down to the shoes he wore and Charles recognized that look, knowing better than to walk any further with his shoes on. He smiled, sort of, remembering the first time you asked him to take his shoes off when he entered your apartment.
If this was six months ago, you would have had slippers waiting for him to put on, but instead Charles was left to just his socks. You, though, seemed quite cozy. The matching sweats and jumper was only a shade darker than the slippers you wore and Charles almost asked where you purchased the set from, but he held his tongue because now wasn’t the time for casual conversation.
“Tea?” You offered, glancing at the kettle sitting on the stove. It had started whistling only minutes before he showed up but you hadn’t had a second to pour yourself a cup, too caught up in trying to untangle tinsel.
“Don’t want to put you out,” he shook his head, but when you manoeuvred past him to step into the kitchen, he didn’t stop you from grabbing two cups from the cupboard. He watched, standing at a cautious distance, as you made the two drinks the same way you always did.
Charles was brought back to the time he walked into his own flat in Monaco and you were kneeling on the counter, trying to find a suitable cup because all of his mugs were too big and bulky for tea. He held his hand to your back, worried you’d tip backwards, which you didn’t, but you were happy he was there to help you off the counter and greet you with a kiss.
“I’ll invest in new cups,” he said. He never did.
He didn’t like the silence that lingered between you now, probably the first time it ever bothered him, so he cleared his throat, “I like your new place.”
You nodded, “Thank you.”
He glanced around at the decor and spoke up again, “So you’ve been well?”
“You don’t need to pretend to care about how I've been.”
“I do care.”
The slow yet icy stare you gave him as you peered over your shoulder had Charles wondering if showing up here was a good idea. Instead of opening his mouth again, Charles looked at the decorations littered on the floor.
He was drawn towards the open box of ornaments that was placed on the couch. He noticed the tree in the corner, but all you had put up so far was a string of lights. Curious, he looked closer into the box and smiled to himself when he saw a vintage Formula 1 Ferrari, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He also spotted a racing helmet, but couldn’t recognize the driver it belonged to.
It wouldn’t have shocked him if the rest of this box was F1 inspired Christmas ornaments. Either ones you had purchased yourself or ones that were given to you as gifts.
Charles was always amazed at your knowledge of Formula 1. With your father being a retired driver himself, he shouldn’t have been surprised when you swept him under the rug during a trivia night. He admired your passion for the sport and maybe that’s why when he met you in the Ferrari garage, he wasn’t as quick to judge you like he was to everyone else who had purchased VIP passes for the weekend.
You were there for the sport, for the racing, you didn’t care who was driving the car, it wasn’t like you had favorite drivers.
You were raised to appreciate the history of the sport, the roots, the beginnings. Because of that, you were drawn to the older teams, the classics. Williams, McLaren and against your fathers wishes, Ferrari. So of course you wanted to experience the Ferrari hospitality during a race weekend at least once. To see the cars up close, to be in the garage, to see the race from an entirely new perspective.
It was Australia, the third race of the 2023 season. It was a race that Charles tried hard to forget due to his DNF at the first turn, but there were highlights he cherished before the incident.
He remembered standing in the garage before the first practice session and turning his head to flash a smile towards the VIP members standing at the back. He paid no attention to any of them in particular, but you stood out. The way you were so focused on the screen, taking in the Tech Talk segment that was playing on F1TV. You hadn’t even noticed Charles looking.
He saw you again the second day, closer to the front of the group before the start of FP3. You were wearing a white set, arms crossed over your chest with the headphones resting around your neck. You weren’t watching anything this time, instead you were in the middle of a conversation with a few of the mechanics.
At first, Charles thought they were flirting with you. But when you pointed at the rear wing, lines drawn across your forehead and eyebrows pinched together in studious fashion, Charles got the hint that this wasn’t just a casual conversation.
And then you held out your hand to introduce yourself, your once serious expression turning soft. You smiled at the mechanics as you shook both of their hands, seeming truly grateful to have met them.
Naturally, Charles was curious as to what sort of conversation just took place. He waited a few minutes before asking Mark, the one of two mechanics who seemed to be doing most of the talking.
“What was that about?” Charles asked.
Mark looked over his shoulder at you, but you were too engrossed in the screen again to notice the few sets on you.
“You don’t know who she is?” Mark asked.
“Should I?” Charles glanced your way. This time, you caught it.
You were also the first to look away.
“Damon Hill’s daughter,” Mark chuckled, probably in disbelief himself over who he just met. “She’s also got her masters in engineering. You know what she pointed out- the activation time for DRS is delayed compared to everyone else on the grid. I don’t know how she noticed it, but we’ll take a look at the data and if she’s onto something we’ll fix it before qualifying.”
Damon Hill’s daughter. The 1996 world champion. He had made a name for himself, known for being one of Schumacher's rivals during his prime. Charles knew he had kids, but didn’t know who they were.
He wanted to introduce himself, but he waited till after qualifying.
Was he a little taken aback when you seemed to be paying more attention to Carlos’ side of the garage at the end of the day? Maybe, but you had been watching him all weekend so far so he didn’t like the sudden change.
His P7 starting position was nothing to be overly proud of, but the congratulations was the first thing out of your mouth when he approached you.
“Thank you,” he nodded, suddenly feeling a bit more pride now than five minutes ago. He glanced at the car and then back at you, at the VIP lanyard resting over your chest, at your eyes that momentarily had him forgetting why he walked over to you in the first place.
You held your hand in the same polite manner you had with the mechanics and you introduced yourself as Charles shook it slowly.
“Damon Hill’s daughter,” he stated. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
You cocked your head slightly, “Is that a line?”
A blush crept up to his cheeks when he realised how flirtatious he sounded without trying to, “No- I mean,” he licked his lips. “I guess it could be but I wasn’t trying for that.”
“I only just graduated,” you answered his question, which wasn’t really a question. “Figured I’d watch a few races, check out a few teams before I decide if I want to dip my toe in the motorsports field.”
“Driver?” He asked, eyebrows raised even though Mark had told him what you studied. But you laughed and Charles was glad he brought up the idea of you getting behind the wheel. He could get used to your laugh.
“Engineer,” you corrected. “To be honest, I think IndyCar might be more my thing. Plus I know Arrow McLaren is looking to expand, hire a few more performance engineers. Mind if I use you as a reference? I saw those mechanics working on your DRS set up, don’t let them take the credit for catching the activation error.”
It was his turn to laugh. He liked your humour, something else he could get used to.
“Mark mentioned you pointed it out,” Charles nodded, unable to keep from smiling. He liked the way you spoke. Not only did he find your accent endearing, but he liked how sure you were of yourself. You knew your talents, you knew what you were capable of. He admired it.
“Good luck tomorrow,” you said, taking it upon yourself to end the conversation. You adjusted the purse over your shoulder and gave him a soft smile. “It was nice meeting you, Charles.”
And then you walked off, happily letting someone else from the team accompany you, probably an engineer. Probably someone who could match your expertise in a conversation.
Charles didn’t know when he’d see you again, but he took it upon himself to make sure it was sooner than later.
Following Australia, the drivers had a bit of a break. Almost an entire month.
It was only a few days into the break when he asked his manager to get Damon Hill’s contact information.
Confused was an understatement when your dad called you and said ‘Tell me why I just got an unsolicited text from Charles Leclerc asking if he could have your phone number’.
By the end of the week, Charles had flown you from Paris, where you resided at the time, to Nice. He was there at the airport to pick you up and drive you to Monaco.
You spent that entirety of the break together.
Charles was smitten. As were you.
But you were cautious.
You knew first hand that racing was at the top of his priority list. You weren’t about to get your hopes up and think that these few weeks meant anything. He just had time on his hands and you showed interest.
However, it was hard not to fall for Charles. He treated you well when you were together. He was easy to talk to. He made you feel safe, admired, wanted. He asked all the questions he could think of to get to know you. He made you breakfast in the morning, or at least he tried to. The mornings when you woke up to the smell of burnt eggs were just as entertaining. Plus you figured you could get used to the way he wrapped his arm around your waist as you took over. The kisses he peppered on your shoulder that tempted you towards pulling him back to the bedroom.
By the time the season picked up again for round 4 in Baku, you were so used to being around him that you had to tell yourself not to be hurt that he didn't suggest you go with him.
You and Charles did a lot of things during those few weeks, but never once did you label what you were. That conversation never came up. Neither did the exclusivity talk.
He still called. He texted you daily. He treated you like you were special, but racing came before a relationship. Even your dad reminded you of that. He told you not to dwell on it, that Charles would come to his senses when he felt secure with the team, with the season. He didn’t need the support of a girlfriend, he needed the support of his team.
And then Charles informed you he was flying you out to Miami. He wanted you to watch the race again. He wanted you there.
You didn’t accompany him to the track, but he greeted you with wide arms and the brightest grin when you showed up at the Ferrari garage. His hand stayed on your lower back for a bit as he showed you around, giving you a proper tour but when you came across Mark it was almost as if Charles passed you off.
He said ‘Here, chat with Mark for a bit, I’m sure you’ve got some opinions about the car’ and then he walked away.
You tried not to think too much about it, maybe he had obligations, media, signings, something. He wouldn’t fly you out to Miami and abandon you the first chance he got. He was a driver, he had priorities. You weren’t one of them, not yet.
It was a difficult situation to be in. When Charles gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it. But when he was gone, he was gone. Distant, on his phone, sometimes he quite literally disappeared like at the end of the day on Saturday and you were left in the Ferrari garage wondering where the hell he got off to.
But then he knocked on your hotel room door at a little after 10 and who were you to turn him away?
Charles pulled you towards the bed, dragging you with him as he laid on the mattress. He asked about your day between the kisses he left down your neck. You answered as best as you could, but when his hands found the button of your trousers, it became a little more difficult to collect your thoughts.
When he gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it.
You had forgotten all about his disappearances earlier. They didn’t matter, he was here now. His lips trailing every inch of your skin as your back curved off the bed. You tried to remind him that he had a race tomorrow, that you both could just go to sleep if he wanted but Charles only smirked and raised his face back to yours.
He hovered his lips above yours, teasing you with a ghost of a kiss, “Ma chérie, I’m not going to sleep until I hear you scream my name.”
He kissed the corner of your lips and then trailed down towards your ear, adding a quiet, “At least twice,” to the end of the original statement.
And Charles was true to his word. He had you seeing stars with just his tongue alone in a matter of minutes.
Charles worshipped you, he took care of you. In a short period of time, he came to know your body and how to get the reactions he desired. He loved seeing you come undone, loving being the one to bring you to the edge and watch you spill over.
Maybe it was a pride he was chasing, but you wouldn’t think of that possibility until it was too late.
When he climbed under the covers next to you at the end of the night, you could still make out the shape of his body, his gentle features, even in the dark. Your hand found his chest, sliding upwards until it wrapped around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him.
He traced his fingers over your cheek, pushing a strand of hair out of your face as he whispered, “Comment ai-je eu cette chance?” How did I get so lucky?
That did it for you.
You weren’t just smitten anymore. You were in love.
Another impromptu break after Miami meant you had a few more weeks with Charles before he had to give his attention back to racing. You didn’t spend it all in Monaco this time. After about a week, Charles suggested the two of you go back to your home. Back to Paris.
Paris with him was heavenly.
The rest of the world didn’t matter when it was just the two of you together. Your days were spent taking in the city, your evenings were spent in a variety of restaurants, lounges, anywhere he could spoil you, it seemed.
It was nearing your last few days before he had to leave when he suggested you take a midnight stroll. The weather was perfect, the streets wouldn’t be too busy. You had no reason to say no.
And there was something about walking the streets of Paris with Charles at night, holding his hand while he spun you under his arm beneath the glow of a street lamp. The Eiffel Tower was sparkling in the distance. Charles’ eyes lit up brighter than it.
There was something about him. About this moment. About the last few months. All of it led up to standing here with him now.
And you knew better, but that didn’t stop you.
“I love you.”
And just like that, you faded into madness. Slowly, silently, but it was inevitable.
Charles didn’t say anything. His lips parted like he wanted to, like he thought about it, only to ultimately lick his lips and inhale a sharp breath.
By saying I love you, you plunged a knife into your own chest, opening yourself up to vulnerability, but his silence only twisted it in deeper.
You backed up, hand dropping from his. Was that his doing or yours? He whispered your name, but only out of pity. He didn’t love you. He didn’t love you.
Suddenly Paris didn’t seem so heavenly.
Charles left that night. Maybe he thought you were asleep, but you heard the door swing on its hinges. You heard the wheels of his suitcase being dragged out into the hallway. You turned over in bed, despite knowing you’d find his side empty, but you didn’t think it would turn cold so fast.
A few days later, Charles was spotted walking into the paddock of the Monaco Grand Prix, but he wasn’t alone.
Next to him, the stunning Alexandra Saint Mleux. Even her name was beautiful.
You had heard whispers that Charles and her had a history, but you didn’t think anything of it. Why would you worry yourself with speculation when he was putting you on a pedestal when you were together?
He had a way of making you feel wanted, but you weren’t the only one who felt that way.
Did she know you two were together? That he was with you in Paris? Was he seeing both of you or did he run back to her the second you told him something he wasn’t ready to hear?
You tried to move on, really. There was no relationship for you to cling to, Charles never said you were exclusive. He just knew the right words to say to make you feel like you were.
You flew to Indianapolis for the Indy500. A rash decision, but the further away from Monaco the better. Your connections at Arrow McLaren gave you the chance to get a closer look at the inner workings of the team, had you momentarily forgetting about Charles. You wanted to be an engineer, not the girlfriend of a driver. You told yourself to get it together.
But then you returned home and seeing the slippers you had bought for Charles had you wondering why you couldn’t be both. You would have been both if he just said something, if he just told you he loved you.
You should have distanced yourself from Formula 1, at least for a little while. You should have turned down the invitation from a partnering brand of Ferrari, enticing you to come to Spain for the race. You should have flown back to the states, reconnect with Arrow McLaren.
Instead you found yourself in Barcelona. The entire time you were there you knew it was a mistake and if you couldn’t figure that out on your own, seeing Alexandra chat with some Ferrari team members below while you sat up above in the hospitality was a painful reminder.
Part of you considered talking to her. You wanted to know if she was in the same boat you were- and if she was clueless, maybe give her a heads up that Charles was going to say sweet nothings to her at night only to leave her in the dark.
But Alexandra wasn’t the one you needed to talk to.
Between practice and qualifying on Saturday, you made your way to the paddock knowing that’s where Charles would be. You walked past Alexandra chatting to someone a few motorhomes down, so you felt better knowing she wasn’t currently with him.
Luck would have it, you ran into Mark outside of Ferrari. He invited you in of course, always happy to chat about the sport with someone who appreciated it on the same level and you assured him you would, you just had to talk to Charles first.
You knocked on the door of his driver's room, not even sure what you were going to say. You were hurt, you were saddened, you were angry but you hadn't had time to think about what you would say to him when you were finally face to face again.
The door swung open and there he was. Shocked to see you, first of all, but not upset. You stood in the hallway and watched as Charles took a breath of relief, a sliver of a smile creeping up on his lips as he held the door open for you to walk in.
Your heart jolted at the idea that maybe, he still wanted you. The look he gave you was almost enough for you to forget he hadn’t said a word to you since you told him you loved him.
Almost.
You stepped in and leaned against the door after it shut, keeping a safe distance as he stood back against the massage table.
Your lips parted, but before you could get a word out, his phone started to ring. You both glanced at the contact, at who was trying to get a hold of him.
Alexandra.
You swallowed, waiting until he let it go to voicemail before your timid voice filled the room. “You love her?”
Maybe Charles didn’t know how to love anyone. You’d believe it, with the way he tensed the second the word passed through your lips. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either.
“I can’t commit, Y/N.” He tried to say, like that made up for everything. Like that’s the answer you were looking for.
“No, you can, Charles, but not to me.” You stated, keeping your voice calm. You weren’t one to yell. Causing a scene wasn’t your thing. You were always so soft spoken. Soft spoken, but straight to the facts. “Were you seeing both of us at the same time?”
“She knows, if that's what you're wondering." Charles quickly slid that piece of information in there. “She found out- about us. Threatened to leave me if-”
“If you didn’t choose?” You raised your eyebrows. Once again, his silence spoke volume. “So did you make up your mind before or after Paris?”
Charles averted his gaze for a second, “I realised in Paris I couldn’t love you the way you loved me.”
“You probably realised that a lot earlier,” you pointed out.
Charles must have known you adored him. There was no way he didn’t see the way you looked at him, the way you worshipped him. He knew and still strung you along, making you think he could love you back if you were just patient.
“You didn’t need to lead me on as long as you did, Charles.”
“I didn’t want to lose you.”
I didn’t want to lose you, he says. Bringing light to the fact that he had you. You were his, in a sense. Despite never saying the words out loud.
But he was never yours.
“So I was there, for what?” You asked. “As a backup? In case things with Alexandra didn’t work out?”
Charles was intimated by how calm you were. He would have preferred if you yelled at him, if you fought with him. It would make it easier on both ends to put whatever this relationship was to rest. Instead, you were serene. You came here to talk, to get answers, you didn’t come here to form a divide.
Because if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t ready to let go. How could you let go when you hadn’t spoken? He hadn’t given you closure, he didn’t say I don’t love you he just…didn’t say anything.
You weren’t going to beg for him to come back, but in the far corners of your mind you were hoping that your appearance here would make him question his decision. You were banking on the idea that when he saw you, he’d remember what he saw in the first place when you met in Australia.
If he changed his mind right now, you’d put all of this behind you. You’d stay at his side, you’d be there for him, you’d be his for real this time.
If he, once again, said nothing, you’d go. You’d go and you’d stay gone.
“I loved you,” you whispered. The past tense striking Charles more than he thought it would, but he didn’t show it. Loved. You loved him, and you still could.
Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Almost two and the only thing that lingered between you was silence. Heavy, loud, painful silence.
You grabbed the handle of the door and decided enough time had gone on. You deserved better than this, than a man who couldn’t make a decision, than someone who played with your feelings because they couldn’t figure out their own.
The second you pulled the door back, your name fell from Charles’ lips. You were one step into the hall, halfway to gone, and he stopped you.
All he had to do was say don’t go. All he had to do was tell you he wanted you.
With your back still to the Ferrari driver, you waited for those next words but they never came. You knew they wouldn’t.
That was the last time you spoke to Charles. You knew how to stay true to your word too.
So why was he suddenly here, six months later, sitting on your couch and looking at you like he was waiting for you to say something first when you made it clear a long time ago if you were gone, you were gone.
Charles only took a sip of his tea before putting it on the coffee table. He then moved the box of Christmas ornaments, not liking the divide it put between you as if he wasn't the one to create the wedge in the first place.
You were stupid, to speak first, but you were tired of the silence. He came here for a reason and if he wasn’t going to tell you why in the next two minutes, you were going to send him back out into the snow.
“How’s Alexandra?” You asked, not that you were interested in knowing if he was happy or thriving in his relationship. You were, however, impressed to see that he could in fact commit, but you were right about that. He just didn’t want to commit to you.
“Do you care?” He asked in return.
You shook your head slightly, “I do not.”
Charles smiled at your honesty. Your gentle tone didn’t match the brutal truth.
“So let’s not talk about her,” Charles said and you nodded in agreement. He shifted in his spot, glancing at the decorations, the tea, really anything but you.
And you weren’t about to wait again, not if this was going to lead to the one thing your silence always led to.
You sucked in a breath, “Charles if you don’t tell me why you’re here…”
He nodded, knowing that this was all on him. He was lucky enough to even be allowed into your home, and he knew you were slowly regretting that decision the longer he just didn’t get to the point.
Charles lifted his head, eyes finally meeting yours. He even flinched, like he was trying to reach for your hand only to decide against it at the last second, relying on just his words for a change.
“I shouldn’t have let you go.”
Part 2 - now that we don’t talk
#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc one shot#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc x y/n#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#f1 one shot#f1 fic#holllandtrash#say dont go#cl16 x reader#cl16
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how would you recommend watching doctor who? there are so many different guys idk how it works.
so the thing about doctor who is that there's two shows -- classic who (1963-1989, doctors 1-7) and new who (2005-2023, doctors 9-14). due to a renumber of the seasons and a change in production company, i think it's fair to call the upcoming version of who (2023-??, doctors 15-??) its own, third show. the reason it's been able to run for so long is that when the show's lead actor, (william hartnell as the titular doctor) had to step down in 1966 due to failing health, they made up some sci-fi bullshit: the doctor's species can 'regenerate' instead of dying, instantly healing but changing their appearance and some of their personality. this means that every time a lead actor has walked away (or, in one unfortuante case, been fired) the show's just recast the doctor and moved on, often with notable changes in tone and format.
the easiest option if you don't want to backwatch anything is to start with this year's christmas special, the church on ruby road (2023). it's an obvious jumping on point to the series, introduces you to all the basic stuff (the doctor, the TARDIS, the fact that it's a silly sci-fi show about fighting weird rubber prop critters), and presumably sets up the upcoming season 1 of the disney-bad wolf version of the show that's gonna come out in may 2024.
if you do want to backwatch, you have to decide if you want to start with new who or classic who. i personally would recommend starting with new who, because there's less of it, it's got higher production values, and (imo this is the biggest obstacle to getting into classic who) it's paced in a way that makes much more sense to a modern TV viewer (self-contained 45-minute episodes). also once you're invested in the show, its main character, and some of its classic elements, you get to soyjak at the screen whenever you're watching classic who and you get to see the oirign of a monster you already recognize. you can also skip classic who entirely and never watch it, they don't bring up anything from it in the new series without giving it a new explanation, but if you do this you hate fun.
anyway, starting points for nuwho: the most obvious one is rose (2005). it's the pilot episode for the new show and imo it holds up brilliantly -- it introduces all the most basic concepts of the show, but ultimately it's really all about billie piper and cristopher eccleston's performances and they deliver. the special effects are gonna be pretty terrible for a while because it's early 2000s cg. there's no jumping on point like it for the whole of RTD's run of the show (imo, the best run of nuwho) so if you want to watch seasons 1-4 you've gotta start on rose.
another episode that's written as a jumping on-point is (heavy sigh) the eleventh hour (2011). as well as introducing matt smith's doctor and his companion amy, this also does the whole rigamarole of introducing the show's core elements, giving a nutshell recap of its history in the form of the doctor's rooftop speech, and also signal what the oncoming moffat era is going to be like (whimsical, full of complex time travel plots, way more misogynist). i'm biased -- i'm a hater, one of this episode's central plot conceits sucks real bad and i also hate the eleventh doctor's whole run. but it is meant to be a jumping on point.
there won't be another one of those in nuwho until the pilot (2017). this begins moffat's final season with which he made the odd but extremely welcome decision to jettison all his convoluted continuity shit from the last five seasons and refocus the show with the doctor being a professor at bristol university with a mysterious secret. i think season 10 is a hidden gem and if you find starting from rose daunting this is the next best place to pick up. capaldi's doctor is a delightful abrasive eccentric with a heart of gold at this point in his run & the stories are wall-to-wall bangers with only a couple misses.
finally, you could start on the woman who fell to earth (2018), the first episode to feature jodie whittaker's 13th doctor and head writer chris chibnall. i'd recommend this even less than the eleventh hour, because while i actually like it more, i think it's a much worse preview of what the upcoming era is going to be like than that one. if you watch the woman who fell to earth and keep watching from the start of whittaker's run on the show off the back of it, you're going to be severely disappointed as most of the more promising aspects of the episode get instantly abandoned.
so, summary, if you're starting with nuwho, there's five jumping on points, which i'd rank:
rose > the pilot > the church on ruby road > the eleventh hour > the woman who fell to earth
but i want to start with classic who because i'm a contrarian
alright. classic who also has a few jumping off points -- before i mentioned them, let me just talk about that format thing i mentioned earlier. classic who doesn't have self-contained episodes for the most part, but rather for most of its run told each of its episodic narratives across between two and seven 20-minute episodes. this leads to a lot of weird pacing, forced cliffhangers, and infamously a lot of filler shots of the doctor running up and down identical corridors. so obvsies i'm recommending entire stories here nad not individual episodes. that said, let's look at where you could jump on:
an unearthly child (1963). this is, like, the start of the show. that said i don't recommend it as a place to start (funnily enough), for a couple reasons. firstly, because of dreadful fucking archiving by the BBC, a lot of episodes from the show's first six seasons are straight up missing. some of them have been animated by the BBC from surviving audio recordings, but some of them are just straight up lost -- due to the format, this means there's very few full complete stories, which makes this whole era really hard to navigate. if you don't mind that and really want to start in the black and white era, i'd still recommend the tomb of the cybermen (1967) instead -- hartnell's portrayal of the doctor as a haughty, slightly impish old professor is great, but troughton basically defined the character's core traits for the next sixty years.
spearhead from space (1970) is a pretty big format upheaval for the show and so serves as a pretty great classic jumping-on point. it's the first episode to be in colour, and sets up a new status quo for the doctor as being trapped on earth and working for an elite paramlitary organization called UNIT that operates out of a ratty office. it's an interesting premise that the show gets some great stories out of. the special effects are bad in the best way. pertwee has instant charm in the role and it's all around a banger by classic standards.
if you want to jump right to the one all the boomers are nostalgic for, you can also start with robot (1974). i wouldn't recommend it, though--tom baker is electric in the role from the start, but the episode itself kind of assumes a lot of the context of the third doctor's setup and supporting cast which you're not gonna have.
i wouldn't recommend anyone start at any point during the fifth or sixth doctors runs because i want them to actually like the show, so i guess the last jumping on point i could really recommend after robot would be, like, dragonfire (1987), which heralds the show's short-lived renaissance with the seventh doctor and his best companion, ace. but although you'd be watching some of the absolute best the classic show ever gets, it feels like it would be a weird and disorienting place to start.
finally, you could watch tales of the tardis (2023), a limited series produced to celebrate the show's 60th anniversary. each episode follows the same format: through a vaguely handwaved Palace of Memories plot, two much-aged characters from the classic series meet up and fondly remember one of the adventures they shared. the bookends with the original actors are mostly shameless fanservice, but the episodes they're reminiscing about are superbly edited down into a much more watchable format -- it works as a good 'sample platter' for most eras of the show (although, weirdly, there wasn't anything from tom baker's run!) and i think it honestly wouldn't be a bad shout to just start from tales of the tardis and then keep watching from whichever of the stories featured in it you liked most. that all said, if you want to start with classic who, i'd rank these jumping on points as follows:
spearhead from space > tales of the tardis > tomb of the cybermen > dragonfire > robot > an unearthly child
all that shit said it's fundamentally a very episodic show with very few exceptions like trial of a time lord and whatever moffat was doing seasons 6-7 so in the end you can basically just start with any episode and more or less get some of the idea. have fun and make sure to do the most important job of a doctor who fan, update the tardis wiki page for penis whenever one is mentioned
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in addition to being prone to an obvious naturalistic fallacy, the oft-repeated claim that various supplements / herbs / botanicals are being somehow suppressed by pharmaceutical interests seeking to protect their own profits ('they would rather sell you a pill') belies a clear misunderstanding of the relationship between 'industrial' pharmacology and plant matter. bioprospecting, the search for plants and molecular components of plants that can be developed into commercial products, has been one of the economic motivations and rationalisations for european colonialism and imperialism since the so-called 'age of exploration'. state-funded bioprospectors specifically sought 'exotic' plants that could be imported to europe and sold as food or materia medica—often both, as in the cases of coffee or chocolate—or, even better, cultivated in 'economic' botanical gardens attached to universities, medical schools, or royal palaces and scientific institutions.
this fundamental attitude toward the knowledge systems and medical practices of colonised people—the position, characterising eg much 'ethnobotany', that such knowledge is a resource for imperialist powers and pharmaceutical manufacturers to mine and profit from—is not some kind of bygone historical relic. for example, since the 1880s companies including pfizer, bristol-myers squibb, and unilever have sought to create pharmaceuticals from african medicinal plants, such as strophanthus, cryptolepis, and grains of paradise. in india, state-created databases of valuable 'traditional' medicines have appeared partly in response to a revival of bioprospecting since the 1980s, in an increasingly bureaucratised form characterised by profit-sharing agreements between scientists and local communities that has nonetheless been referred to as "biocapitalism". a 1990 paper published in the proceedings of the novartis foundation symposium (then the ciba foundation symposium) spelled out this form of epistemic colonialism quite bluntly:
Ethnobotany, ethnomedicine, folk medicine and traditional medicine can provide information that is useful as a 'pre-screen' to select plants for experimental pharmacological studies.
there is no inherent oppositional relationship between pharmaceutical industry and 'natural' or plant-based cures. there are of course plenty of examples of bioprospecting that failed to translate into consumer markets: ginseng, introduced to europe in the 17th century through the mercantile system and the east india company, found only limited success in european pharmacology. and there are cases in which knowledge with potential market value has actually been suppressed for other reasons: the peacock flower, used as an abortifacient in the west indies, was 'discovered' by colonial bioprospectors in the 18th century; the plant itself moved easily to europe, but knowledge of its use in reproductive medicine became the subject of a "culturally cultivated ignorance," resulting from a combination of funding priorities, national policies, colonial trade patterns, gender politics, and the functioning of scientific institutions. this form of knowledge suppression was never the result of a conflict wherein bioprospectors or pharmacists viewed the peacock flower as a threat to their own profits; on the contrary, they essentially sacrificed potential financial benefits as a result of the political and social factors that made abortifacient knowledge 'unknowable' in certain state and commercial contexts.
exploitation of plant matter in pharmacology is not a frictionless or infallible process. but the sort of conspiratorial thinking that attempts to position plant therapeutics and 'big pharma' as oppositional or competitive forces is an ahistorical and opportunistic example of appealing to nominally anti-capitalist rhetoric without any deeper understanding of the actual mechanisms of capitalism and colonialism at play. this is of course true whether or not the person making such claims has any personal financial stake in them, though it is of course also true that, often, they do hold such stakes.
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It Had To Be You: Chapter 4 - You've Got A Friend
Masterpost
PREV | NEXT
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU
Summary: Set a couple of months after Chapter 3, Benedict and you are becoming best friends.
artwork credit @colettebronte
Warnings: discussions of sex, swearing, publically faked orgasm
Word Count: 3.1k
Authors Note: Unbetaed. A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. In this chapter, we see vignettes of Benedict and reader's growing friendship. And well... this ends with a twist on the famous scene. Yep. You know the one. Enjoy <3
21 months ago (3 months later)
Benedict Bridgerton is one of your best friends.
If you had uttered that sentence to yourself ten, even five, years ago, you would have laughed your head off. But it's funny how life turns out. In the months after you reconnect, you start to meet up regularly, at least once a week, sometimes more, and you text almost constantly. Becoming each other’s crutch as you rebuild your lives as single people.
On the surface, you couldn’t be more opposites, but he’s matured, and you find his company the most soothing and the most fun. Be it while having dim sum in Chinatown, wandering Victoria Park or helping him set up his new warehouse flat. There's always a tiny frisson, an undercurrent of something between you that, to be honest, makes it more appealing. A pilot light of heat that could, maybe one day, become a bonfire if the timing were right. You are not sure it ever would be, but it would be stupid to deny to yourself that it's there. There is certainly no one you like to verbally spar with more.
He FaceTimes you as you lay in bed on a regular Tuesday in September; it's become a habit. Just jabbering away until one of you falls asleep. Talking about everything, anything, and something nothing, watching a show or film together in digital silence. A comforting presence.
“What are you watching?” he hums, scratching his beard.
“Don't judge me,” is your instant response, and he chuckles.
“Tell me,” his voice drops an octave in a way you are sure he knows has an effect on you. Physically. A little shiver down your spine. Bastard.
“Titanic,” you mutter as he bursts out laughing.
“You hate that film!” he exclaims, and you wish you could throw a pillow through the screen.
“That doesn’t sound like not judging!” you bemoan but concede he is right.
“Channel?” he asks, still giggling.
“Four… wait, are you going to watch too?”
“Of course, then we can argue about it in real-time,” something in that offer makes you feel comforted. “It's near the end!” he decries after briefly pausing to change channels.
“How would you know?” you lobby, and he fixes you with a pointed stare.
“Please. This was Gen’s favourite; I had to sit through it five bloody times.”
“How is she?”
“No idea. She didn't speak to me after the breakup. Besides, wasn't she your friend?!”
“Yeah, but we lost touch,” you sigh, “sometime about seven or eight years ago, she moved to Bristol, and then we sort of drifted.”
He hums noncommittally, watching the movie, “So you’re saying Rose should not have saved him by sharing that door,” he states as the final scenes unfold onscreen before you both.
“I never said that!” you argue.
“Yes, you did! In the car on the way from uni!” he smirks.
“No, I didn’t!” you volley back indignantly.
“Fine, okay, you didn’t.” He rolls his eyes.
“I mean, that dick was so good, they fucked one time, and she returned to the ocean to say goodbye to it 70 years later,” you point out drolly.
He tosses his head back and laughs so hard you can’t help but join in.
“Fuck that’s the funniest take on this film I’ve ever heard,” he wheezes.
“Right?! I can’t take credit; it's a comedy routine; I’ll send you a Spotify link,” you offer.
“Look forward to it,” he giggles.
The urge to ask him if he’s ever had sex so good he’d go to the spot it happened to commemorate it is on the tip of your tongue. You’re almost surprised he doesn’t use the opportunity himself. He’s definitely grown up.
“Are you sleeping okay?” he asks, rubbing his eye wearily.
“Doing better,” you admit, “not completely there, but better than I was.”
“Do you still sleep on ‘your’ side of the bed?” he inquires with air quotes.
“No. I’ve taken to sleeping wherever now,” you answer truthfully.
“Wow, you’re doing so well,” he sighs. “I feel weird if even a leg wanders over to ‘her’ side… and this isn’t even a bed we shared.”
“Yours was a marriage, mine merely a long-term relationship,” you try to justify why he might still be more impacted than you.
“Same difference, except you don’t have a lawyer bleeding you dry arguing about shit…. Urghh, I need a drink.”
“No, you don’t,” you argue, “stay in bed and drink your water.”
“You can be very bossy sometimes, you know?” he opines but reaches for his glass of water on his bedside table as he says it, doing exactly what you suggest.
“It’s for your own good,” you point out.
“I know, I know. I suppose I should thank you. You’d be surprised how little men give a shit about their friends' well-being, even their best friends.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” you fire back. “You’re all clueless idiots with the EQ of a shrimp.”
“Wowwww, okay,” he mimes being shot in the chest, “please don’t take out your Dr Tom issues on the rest of us unsuspecting shrimps.” It’s in jest, but you can hear the underlying argument and know he’s right.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You don’t have the EQ of a shrimp. I’ll give you, hmmm, a crawfish,” you offer with a giggle.
“Oh great, thanks,” he deadpans, “Could you not at least give me lobster?”
“Okay, fine. I hear lobsters are very smart, so you flatter yourself there, but yes, okay, lobster Ben. Please go get some sleep.”
“Alright,” he yawns, “can I call you my lobster too?”
“Why?” you frown sleepily, bemused.
“Some lobster thought it could predict the World Cup winning team—always thought it was right. That’s very you,” he stares pointedly down the phone camera at you.
“Fine, I’m your lobster too,” you stick out your tongue a little.
He chuckles as you settle deeper into your pillow, flicking off the TV as the credits scroll. Even you can acknowledge having a person to talk to is so comforting right before sleep.
“Goodnight, lobster Ben,” you yawn, your eyes drooping.
“Goodnight, my little blue lobster,” he murmurs.
“Why blue? Cos I’m sad?” you hum, eyes closed.
“No,” he chuckles gently, “I have my reasons,” he says quietly, and you pass out as the call drops off.
——
“So I had that dream again,” you mention offhand as you wander down the Southbank from Waterloo a few weeks later. It’s a crisp October day; you’ve taken the afternoon off work to visit the Tate Modern—there’s some exhibit he wants to see.
“The sex dream?” he verifies, weaving around an old lady who shoots him a disapproving look.
“Yup,” you confirm, kicking through the colourful pile of leaves under one of the trees. “So we are going at it up on this roof terrace, and this time he flies away just before I orgasm. I mean, what the fuck is that!?”
“Let me get this straight: you’re having sex with some mythical half-man half-dragon creature?” he seems completely bamboozled by the idea. “And just before you can come, he flies off?”
“Yeah. What do you think it means?” you ponder.
“I think it means you need to get laid,” he laughs.
“Great fucking insight Sherlock Holmes,” body-checking him with your shoulder. “What about you? What’s your latest sex dream?”
“It’s always the same one. There’s this woman. She walks in, just wordlessly strips off my jeans and climbs onboard,” his cheeks have a high dot of pink that looks adorable, almost as if he’s embarrassed to say it.
“What does she look like? Are we talking Halle Berry? Helen Mirren? Florence Pugh?”
“I dunno… she’s just sort of faceless,” he gestures vaguely.
“Hmmm. Unusual. So then what happens?”
“I always wake up,” he sighs, staring into the middle distance, over to the Millennium Bridge.
“Wait….,” you stop walking and grab his arm, “...a faceless woman strips off your jeans and sits on you, and that’s the only sex dream you’ve had… ever?!” You can scarcely believe it.
“Yeah, it’s ridiculous, I know. I’d like to state for the record that I’ve had a much more varied actual sex life. And daydreams? Top fucking notch. But my unconscious, sleeping dreams? Very not sexy or just this one recurring one.”
“Does it ever change? At all?”
“I mean, sometimes I’m wearing trousers, not jeans?” he offers, looking nonplussed as to what else to add.
You cannot think of anything to say to that, so you just shoot him an exasperated look and walk away towards the entrance. How on earth can he get to sleep at night if that’s all he’s got to look forward to?
“Dinner after this?” he offers as you stare up at the giant sculpture suspended in the main Turbine Hall. It's been a fun few hours of wandering the exhibits.
“Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t,” you obfuscate, feeling sheepish as you bring your gaze to him.
“Hooking up?” he inquires with a comedy eyebrow wiggle.
“Maybe,” you deflect, tucking your hair behind an ear, somehow bashful to talk with him about your first date in six years. “I’ll have to see how the date goes first.”
“A date? That’s wonderful!” He seems genuinely enthused, a big smile claiming his whole face.
“Yeah, I mean… I hope so? Let’s see. It’s been a bloody long time,” and saying that, nerves flare in your belly. “Not sure what I should wear, to be honest,” you admit, glancing down, self-conscious of your jeans and simple black top. “You think this is okay?”
“Of course it is,” he dismisses casually. “You look as beautiful as you always do,” the compliment just falls from his lips as if you asked about the weather. It still gives you that slightly gooey sensation under your ribs. Bastard.
——
The next evening you’re three cocktails down at Bar Americain on a night out with some work friends when your phone buzzes.
BB: How was the date?
Y/N: He cried about his custody arrangement at the table.
BB: Divorced dad, eh? How fast did you scarper?!
BB: Guess it will be a while until you can get that orgasm, lol.
Y/N: ... I err, didn't?
Y/N: Oh, I got one.
BB: You slept with him?!?
You always love to push it with him when you are tipsy, be a little daring with what you say. So you have your tongue in your cheek, wishing you could see his face when he reads what you are about to reply.
Y/N: Yeah, I mean, to be clear, the crying didn't turn me on. Not one of my kinks. But he had these nice hands, and I could tell from his jeans something good was going on down there. I was right. 8 out of 10, very nice.
Y/N: And he didn't grow wings to fly off before I had an orgasm, either… so win!
BB: How does one hang up on a text….?
Y/N: 😜
Five minutes later, your phone buzzes again.
BB: Wait. Do all women rate the dicks of the men they sleep with?
Y/N: I don't know all the women in the world, Ben…
BB: How is that an answer?
Y/N: 🤷♀️
“Ant…” Benedict calls, tossing his phone aside on his kitchen island and going to consult his brother across the room. He’s pretty sure that can't be all women, can it?
——
“I don't understand this at all,” Kate frowns, resting her weapon on her shoulder like a lumberjack.
“What don’t you understand?” you reply, staring at the target at the other end of the cage. You've decided this is an excellent cathartic way to do girls' night—just flinging axes at Whistle Punks after a hard work day in early November.
“You think he's attractive?” she pauses to applaud your throw as it smacks just below the bullseye.
“Yup.”
“You get on really well and Facetime and text every day?”
“Yup.”
“He’s straight?”
“Yup.”
“But you’re NOT fucking?” Kate quizzes, shooting you a look as she steps up to the plate.
“Nope.”
“I literally don't understand,” brow creasing as she takes her aim.
“Why can't you be proud of me? Not just crawling into bed with him on the rebound. He’s become a really close friend. Plus, I get the straight man’s perspective on things. It's really helpful now that I’m back on the market again. I can talk to him about sex stuff, and he's honest,” you argue.
“Sounds wrong to me…”
“Kate, you are fucking a married man,” you point out her hypocrisy archly.
“Yeah… and that's the point! I'm actually fucking him. What sort of Bert and Ernie shit do you and this Ben have going on?!”
“Please. Bert and Ernie are lovers,” you answer scornfully.
“Well, if they were, all the more reason you guys should be?!” she practically yells, hurling her axe with such gusto the manager comes to check on you.
——
Benedict takes you for dinner in the run-up to Christmas at some place so trendy it doesn't even appear to have a name. It's also where something transpires that haunts your spicier dreams for weeks.
As usual, it starts with you both squabbling.
“Oh please, women fake them all the time,” you dismiss, stirring your soup.
“I don't doubt it,” he agrees, “but men can do it too.”
You shoot him a withering look. “Please. Half of men can't even fake enthusiasm; there's no way a man could fake an orgasm,” you argue with finality.
His eyebrows shoot up briefly as you take a triumphant sip. He puts his fork down and wipes his face with a napkin. Then he makes a low rumbling noise. Perhaps the food doesn't agree with him. When he does it again a second later, you get concerned.
“You okay?”
He doesn't answer; he just makes the noise again. It's a low growl that almost reverberates around in his chest cavity, and something about it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
“Is your food bad?” you ask, a frown flitting over your face.
Again no answer. Benedict just makes another noise, louder this time. It’s definitely closer to a moan, and he takes a deep breath rolling his head to one side as if he's stretching his neck and really enjoying the sensation. Somehow you can't look away; you just stare at him, spoon in hand. Wondering what the hell he is doing, but captivated at the same time.
“Mmmm, that's it, baby,” he groans, and your insides are suddenly aflame. You've never heard his voice go into that register, it's low and throaty, and you feel a flush creeping up your chest.
“Don't stop,” he moans and throws his head back with a gasp, his Adam’s Apple bobbing hard, and it's then you realise what he is doing. He is faking an orgasm. Right here. In public. In a bloody restaurant.
“Okay, Ben,” you hiss, “fine, you win the argument,” attempting to get him to stop.
But it doesn't work. His head tips back down, and two dilated pupils bore into yours, a hazy ring of blue around black.
“Do you like that?” He’s staring you down as he says it, panting slightly, his jaw firm, challenging, goading.
You want to crawl into a ball and disappear. How much of that is because your fellow diners are starting to look over versus how much your body is rioting is undetermined.
“Yesssss,” he hisses, closing his eyes and biting his lip.
“Ben,” you warn, but again it falls on deaf ears. There is nothing you can do to stop this. Mortification routes you to the spot—that and the pounding in your ears and the little frisson of static running down your spine.
“You feel so good, baby,” he groans with a tiny tilt of his body; it's enough to make your imagination run wild—places it shouldn't. Dear god, this isn't right. He is your friend, one of your best friends; you can't be thinking such things.
To distract yourself, you look around at your fellow diners apologetically, shrugging as if you don't understand what he is doing. Thankful there are no kids in sight.
“Look at me,” he commands gruffly, and without thought, you obey; your eyes tear back to his. He is doing this deliberately, goading a response from you, from your body. And something in your snaps, you won't let him win like this.
“Go ahead, do it,” you mutter through slightly clenched teeth, so quiet only he can hear it. If he is going to do this, damn him, let him.
His hands wrap around the edges of the small table separating you, long fingers splaying out, and then his short blunt nails scratch down the wood. You don't think about those big, shapely hands doing the same thing on your body, no, definitely not. He is groaning and panting hard now, and it's utterly convincing. You can just picture him on top of….. STOP IT! You screech your mind to a halt. Don't go there.
“Come with me,” he snarls softly, just for you, and part of you wants to whisper back: yes, please, but instead, you bite the corner of your tongue to prevent a sound from escaping.
Then he turns theatrical, open hands thumping the table, grunting hard and rhythmically, and you just have to sit there and take it, so to speak. Just endure this weird mix of utter embarrassment and confusing arousal. Knowing you are flushed from head to toe. You daren't look around at the rest of the place, the buzz of conversation mostly dying out as they watch this formidable reenactment.
“Yessss, yesss, yessss,” he chants, and with a few convulsive body jerks and a long groan, his head lolls back, and he exhales a ragged breath loudly.
There are a few seconds of silence, and then he clears his throat, straightens up in his chair, shoots you a shit-eating grin, picks up his forks and jubilantly takes a bite of his dinner. He doesn't even bother to say anything; he knows he has won that argument, fair and square. You are still too shocked and disconcerted to speak.
“Sir, Ma’am,” the maître d' is suddenly at your table, “we would like you to leave, please.” his tone is decidedly stern. After a brief exchange of glances, you both burst into spontaneous giggles.
As you are bundled out of the door unceremoniously, not even being asked to pay, you hear a man ask a waiter a question that makes you laugh even louder.
“Did he have the daily special?”
Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fluff#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x female reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#it had to be you fic
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Inspired, in part, by this post by @mzminola but also something I've been ruminating on for a couple of years now.
Talking about pre New52 canon here mostly, though opinions about New52 or post Rebirth canon are also welcome to be added on, just specify it so we don't talk at cross purposes?
One of the thing that messes with me as an adult thinking back on comics is that you simply cannot put Alfred as the single member of staff who is dealing with all of the Manor.
I mean you can, comic logic, Alfred Is Not Of This World, whatever you want personally want.
Me personally, I cannot.
I need Harold to be down in the Batcave dealing with that part of the property until he dies in the 2000s at the very least, but also, consider how many hours there are in each day and how much Alfred has to do and how he's always serving dinner in time and laundry is done and everything is restocked and yet he also has the time to be personally chaffeuring the members of the family around and someone is also going to be having to deal with the household expenses and count balancing and -- and --
Like all of that PLUS keeping up with the superhero stuff PLUS cooking what sometimes are LAVISH spreads (WHICH TAKES TIME! PREP WORK TAKES TIME! COOKING TAKES TIME! ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE ONE PERSON AND ALSO HAVE TO GO PICK THESE PEOPLE UP AND MAKE SURE THEY HAVE THEIR LAUNDRY DONE AND THE GARDEN IS NOT OVERGROWN AND THE HOUSE IS CLEAN AND -- AUGH)
I cannot just accept that Alfred is doing it all, on his own, with the occasional WE-affiliated-and-vetted company called in to deal with, say, catering for a big event or whatever.
Especially not if Bruce is young and Alfred's supposed to be raising him, like oh god no, which is why the idea @mzminola talked about in their post (Bruce raised by his relatives) has taken root in my brain and is now my own personal very much cherished headcanon and a source of plenty of excuses for Bruce but also varied and eclectic skills and connections.
But okay, let's say that Alfred got left in charge of just managing things for Bruce until Bruce is of age and can take over things himself (in theory, in practice Bruce definitely pushes all he doesn't want to deal with about the house on Alfred and all he doesn't want to deal with about the company on Lucius Fox and sets up a contingency to get Tim to deal with shit for Bruce if Bruce were to be unavailable / unsteady / acting sus), while Bruce is being passed around from relative to relative.
There's still the staff that the Manor had before the death of Thomas and Martha to deal with. Gotta downsize that but you cannot just boot everyone and close shop.
I mean, yeah you can, but also, some of those people were probably there for a long time and Alfred wasn't just going to throw them out.
The way things work out in my brain is if Alfred is the "face" of the staff and the only one who, usually, interacts directly with The Family, while the others are in the background minding their own business, asking no questions at all.
They probably lost some people in NML during the Manor collapse, and the staff had to go through the harrowing process of getting new people that they didn't know nor trust in and then do their own version of vetting and making sure there was nothing hinky about any of them and that they understood the importance of the privacy of their employers, etc. etc.
Some of them must have retired at some point or moved on and were let go with more than fair compensantion and retirement packages and some stuff actually got outsourced a bit as technology progressed and things changed.
Especially after NML, actually.
Alfred is not going to hire someone just to come by to do all of the laundry, but he might have a trustworthy laundry service that is Bristol-based and is used to dealing with Rich People without asking questions.
And I am not say that they have to be In The Know life Alfred and Harold.
Actually, I prefer the idea that they aren't and that they just have this cushy job and loyalty to the Waynes and are all well compensated for being quiet and dealing with stuff on their own.
Sure, Alfred deals with the supernatural side of things, absolutely, and I am sure he has state of art machinery for, say, dealing with the costumes after patrol, but the Manor is huge and the upkeed is time consuming and exhausting and Alfred is too busy to do everything on his own.
So basically what I am saying is:
I have a might need for Alfred and his skeleton crew of long-time, trusted employees who keep the Manor running and stay out of the way of the bosses and everyone lives better like that.
I need Alfred's list of Trusted People who can deal with the family's laundry without messing it up and come do repairs when they are needed Upstairs since Harold won't leave the cave.
Give me Bruce's different childrens' different relationship's with said skeleton crew and Bruce's own distant relationship with them too and their reactions to things.
Allow me to have the skeleton crew sticking around and keeping the Manor up and running whenever Alfred is off around the world with Bruce for recovery / training / support purposes or who are still there and keeping things going when Alfred is too busy feuding with Bruce to look after everything else.
#meta#dc meta#my worldbuilding#things that haunt me#alfred pennyworth#running a Manor is not a one person job#The Skeleton Crew
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Happy Birthday Scottish actress Georgie Glen.
Georgie was born in Helensburgh on April 20th 1956 and as a child had little interest in appearing in school plays. She studied graphic design at Glasgow School of Art and moved to London in her mid-twenties to design book covers for the Thames and Hudson publishing house.
Looking for other interests she joined Floodlight Council, an organization set up to bring out adult’s artistic skills and then became part of the Questors Theatre Company in Ealing, West London. Here she met the late Alan Rickman - who, like Georgie, had a background in design before treading the boards - and he encouraged her to follow her acting ambitions. As a result she enrolled at the Bristol Old Vic drama school and on graduating had her first job at the Wolsey Theatre in Ipswich.
Even then she felt, somewhat modestly, that she did not have the looks for a leading lady but ever since her television debut in 1988 she has been a reliable supporting player in virtually every type of show from sketch comedy to period drama, notably in a recurring role as doughty Sergeant Jennifer Nokes in Heartbeat and the liberal, kindly teacher head of History, Audrey in'Waterloo Road - filmed in her native Scotland.
Indeed she may be said to be one of the first ladies of character acting and though her film roles have again always been in support of bigger names she has proved herself to be a scene- stealer par excellence, as one of the more enthusiastic in Calendar girls alongside Helen Mirren and Julie Walters.
As I said earlier she has been in every type of show, to name a few we have comedy roles in Harry Enfield and Friends, Alas Smith & Jones and Little Britain, drama series and films are two many to mention them all but there are dozens, the pick of them include Taggart, of course, Peak Practice, Doctor Findlay, Mrs Brown, Shakespeare in Love, Silent Witness, and I think a lot of you will maybe “say” oh yes, when I tell you that she was the Judge in The Victim in 2019, an excellent four part series set in Scotland also starring John Hannah and Kelly McDonald, and she was Denise in the brilliant Channel four show Damned!
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He is best known for Netflix hit Bridgerton, but Luke Thompson’s theatre pedigree encompasses Shakespeare, Greek tragedy and Ivo van Hove’s marathon A Little Life. He talks to Fergus Morgan about his passion for the stage and his worries for its future
Luke Thompson might have shot to stardom thanks to his role as Benedict in Netflix’s smash-hit series Bridgerton, but the 35-year-old actor is most at home on stage.
“I spectate on myself,” Thompson says. “I always have done. It’s been a bit painful in my life. And the only place on earth it doesn’t happen is on stage when someone else is spectating instead and so I don’t have to worry. You’re watching me so I don’t have to watch myself. I feel free. Those are the best moments of my life.”
Fortunately, Thompson has not been short of stage work. Born in Southampton in 1988, he grew up just outside Paris, returning to the UK to study English and drama at the University of Bristol, before training at RADA. He landed his first job almost immediately after graduating in 2013: playing Lysander in Dominic Dromgoole’s staging of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shakespeare’s Globe in London.
Since then, alongside screen roles in BBC One’s In the Club and Bridgerton, Thompson has starred in Julius Caesar at the Globe, Oresteia and Hamlet – opposite Andrew Scott – at London’s Almeida, and King Lear and A Little Life in the West End. Both he and co-star James Norton were nominated for Olivier awards for their performances in Ivo van Hove’s acclaimed adaptation of Hanya Yanagihara’s hard-hitting novel.
“A Little Life was such an intense experience,” Thompson says. “Intense in a good way, I mean. The material was very bleak, but acting is always pleasurable because you are indulging in a fantasy, even if it’s a dark one, and that is inherently fun.”
Thompson also thinks that theatre has lost some of its belief in itself. “Theatre is supposed to be provocative. I’m not on social media, but I think it can be very aggressive and vicious, and I think theatres cave to that a bit. Deep down, theatre is the opposite of social media. It is about people being in a room, exchanging opinions and emotions. I worry that social media is spoiling that a bit, which is a shame.”
What production made you fall in love with theatre?
I remember standing in the Yard at Shakespeare’s Globe in 2009 and watching Thea Sharrock’s production of As You Like It, and thinking: ‘Oh, wow, this is really funny and it actually works. When done simply and confidently, Shakespeare still speaks to us today.’ For my first job to be at the Globe a few years later was magical.
What are you finding inspiring at the moment?
I love watching Ivo [van Hove]’s company do stuff. There is something so wild about the acting in his shows. We get very bogged down with facts in this country, but Ivo understands the dream logic of plays. Some of the most moving things I’ve seen don’t completely make sense. I find that inspiring.
What do you wish you could change about the performing arts industry?
I wish theatre had more confidence. Right now, it feels unsure about how useful it is and about how taboo, complex and provocative it should be. I feel as though theatre has lost confidence in its societal function.
What is the worst thing that has happened to you on stage?
There was a scene in A Little Life in which James ran around naked for a bit, then I would bring him clothes. During one show, I couldn’t find his underpants, so I just brought him his trousers and he put them on. But I forgot that people pulled his trousers off again later and they were expecting him to be wearing underpants. James knew it was coming and I knew it was coming and we couldn’t look at each other for the rest of the play. I hope he doesn’t mind me telling that story. It was so funny.
What is the best thing that has happened to you on stage?
There are so many. That sounds naff but I don’t care. I love the challenge of going on stage night after night and trying to make something feel alive in front of an audience.
What role do you really want to play?
I would work with Ivo again at the drop of a hat. And there are loads and loads of roles I would love to play. I did a reading of a rewriting of The Seagull the other day. The role of Konstantin is really beautiful. I’d love to play that. I’d love to play Iago one day, too. Of course, I’d love to play Hamlet but it’s boring to say that.
What projects are you involved in at the moment?
I’m playing Berowne in Emily Burns’ production of Love’s Labour’s Lost with the Royal Shakespeare Company. She has set it on a Polynesian island owned by these big tech billionaires like Mark Zuckerberg or Elon Musk, of which I am one. It’s a really smart concept that unlocks a lot of very interesting stuff in the play. Season three of Bridgerton is coming out in May and June, too. And we will be filming season four soon after that. There’s a lot still to come.
Source: The Stage
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Jay is on his own in the enclosure now, with both Roberta the lioness and all three cubs having been moved on to other collections. I'm not sure if they'll be finding a new lioness to keep him company or if the zoo is just his retirement home now; he was born in 2010 (in Bristol Zoo), so he's getting on a bit by lion standards.
Despite what The Lion King may have led you to believe, lions don't actually do a wide-open, all-teeth-on-display gape when they roar. That first picture is about as wide as he opens his mouth for a roar. It is, however, impressively loud; you can hear him from all the way across the zoo, and could do so from further away if the traffic didn't drown him out.
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4 Reasons To Engage A Moving Company In Bristol
It has been a long time staying in a rented house and now you have bought a lavish home to spend the rest of your life. Maybe this is the reason or some other for which you are planning to relocate. Whatever may be the cause, you must be excited to start a new life. But have you thought about the arrangements? Moving to a new location with all your belongings is extremely complicated that you should not take very easily. It is one of the most challenging tasks that cannot be accomplished alone. For this work you will need sufficient manpower, which does not mean you will rely on your friends and family members, but a paid service.
In Bristol there are many moving companies ready to offer you service anytime. No need to struggle with your moving anymore as professional movers are there to help you out in every possible way. Read the passage to know the major reasons for hiring them.
Efficient in packing: Having many hands while packing all your goods is not just all. If you involve some amateurs then be prepared for the worst consequences. This is why you must hire professional movers who are experienced in wrapping delicate items as well as hefty things like wooden furniture, electrical equipment and others. They are more organized and maintain an inventory which gives assurance, not a single product will be misplaced.
No disruption in work: Appointing a well known moving company during the time of relocation, you can continue doing your other important works without any distractions. You can peacefully carry your official work as movers are taking care of everything. In other words you don’t have to suffer from any anxiety or tension in the entire process.
Safety: This is a big issue especially when your expensive belongings will be transported from one place to another by an unknown driver. It is true that you are meeting the driver for the first time on the final day of the move, but remember they are assigned by your chosen company that has a good reputation. So your valuable possessions will be in safe hands.
Cost-effective: First of all they charge a very reasonable price for relocation and second everything is included within the package. From packing, assembling, dismantling furniture, loading, unloading, insurance, etc they offer all these services at an affordable price. They do not charge anything extra at the end that will surprise you.
Knowing all the reasons, it is expected you will hire their service on your next move.
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He is best known for Netflix hit Bridgerton, but Luke Thompson’s theatre pedigree encompasses Shakespeare, Greek tragedy and Ivo van Hove’s marathon A Little Life. He talks to Fergus Morgan about his passion for the stage and his worries for its future via The Stage
Luke Thompson might have shot to stardom thanks to his role as Benedict in Netflix’s smash-hit series Bridgerton, but the 35-year-old actor is most at home on stage.
“I spectate on myself,” Thompson says. “I always have done. It’s been a bit painful in my life. And the only place on earth it doesn’t happen is on stage when someone else is spectating instead and so I don’t have to worry. You’re watching me so I don’t have to watch myself. I feel free. Those are the best moments of my life.”
Fortunately, Thompson has not been short of stage work. Born in Southampton in 1988, he grew up just outside Paris, returning to the UK to study English and drama at the University of Bristol, before training at RADA. He landed his first job almost immediately after graduating in 2013: playing Lysander in Dominic Dromgoole’s staging of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shakespeare’s Globe in London.
Since then, alongside screen roles in BBC One’s In the Club and Bridgerton, Thompson has starred in Julius Caesar at the Globe, Oresteia and Hamlet – opposite Andrew Scott – at London’s Almeida, and King Lear and A Little Life in the West End. Both he and co-star James Norton were nominated for Olivier awards for their performances in Ivo van Hove’s acclaimed adaptation of Hanya Yanagihara’s hard-hitting novel.
“A Little Life was such an intense experience,” Thompson says. “Intense in a good way, I mean. The material was very bleak, but acting is always pleasurable because you are indulging in a fantasy, even if it’s a dark one, and that is inherently fun.”
Thompson also thinks that theatre has lost some of its belief in itself. “Theatre is supposed to be provocative. I’m not on social media, but I think it can be very aggressive and vicious, and I think theatres cave to that a bit. Deep down, theatre is the opposite of social media. It is about people being in a room, exchanging opinions and emotions. I worry that social media is spoiling that a bit, which is a shame.”
What production made you fall in love with theatre?
I remember standing in the Yard at Shakespeare’s Globe in 2009 and watching Thea Sharrock’s production of As You Like It, and thinking: ‘Oh, wow, this is really funny and it actually works. When done simply and confidently, Shakespeare still speaks to us today.’ For my first job to be at the Globe a few years later was magical.
What are you finding inspiring at the moment?
I love watching Ivo [van Hove]’s company do stuff. There is something so wild about the acting in his shows. We get very bogged down with facts in this country, but Ivo understands the dream logic of plays. Some of the most moving things I’ve seen don’t completely make sense. I find that inspiring.
What do you wish you could change about the performing arts industry?
I wish theatre had more confidence. Right now, it feels unsure about how useful it is and about how taboo, complex and provocative it should be. I feel as though theatre has lost confidence in its societal function.
What is the worst thing that has happened to you on stage?
There was a scene in A Little Life in which James ran around naked for a bit, then I would bring him clothes. During one show, I couldn’t find his underpants, so I just brought him his trousers and he put them on. But I forgot that people pulled his trousers off again later and they were expecting him to be wearing underpants. James knew it was coming and I knew it was coming and we couldn’t look at each other for the rest of the play. I hope he doesn’t mind me telling that story. It was so funny.
What is the best thing that has happened to you on stage?
There are so many. That sounds naff but I don’t care. I love the challenge of going on stage night after night and trying to make something feel alive in front of an audience.
What role do you really want to play?
I would work with Ivo again at the drop of a hat. And there are loads and loads of roles I would love to play. I did a reading of a rewriting of The Seagull the other day. The role of Konstantin is really beautiful. I’d love to play that. I’d love to play Iago one day, too. Of course, I’d love to play Hamlet but it’s boring to say that.
What projects are you involved in at the moment?
I’m playing Berowne in Emily Burns’ production of Love’s Labour’s Lost with the Royal Shakespeare Company. She has set it on a Polynesian island owned by these big tech billionaires like Mark Zuckerberg or Elon Musk, of which I am one. It’s a really smart concept that unlocks a lot of very interesting stuff in the play. Season three of Bridgerton is coming out in May and June, too. And we will be filming season four soon after that. There’s a lot still to come.
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Jaguar XJR-S V12 “Monaco” (by PBB Desing).
This is the Jaguar XJR-S V12 “Monaco” by the team at PBB Design based out of Bristol in England. It’s believed that just 12 of them were made – today they remain a rare and highly desirable version of the high-performance XJS.
The Jaguar XJR-S was released in 1988 as the new top-of-the-line version of the XJS from Jaguar. It was fitted with the HE V12 engine that had been developed by JaguarSport, an entity owned 50/50 by Jaguar and TWR Group (Tom Walkinshaw Racing).The XJR-S was fitted with a widebody kit, uprated suspension and brakes, wider wheels and tires, and upgraded interiors, however most people’s attention was focused on what was under the hood. The JaguarSport HE V12 incorporated a slew of improvements over the stock engine and produced 318 bhp as a result.In late 1989 the engine was further upgraded and the displacement increased from 5,344 cc to 5,993 cc (6.0 liters). It was fitted with a Zytek fuel-injection and engine management system, a modified air intake system, a forged steel crankshaft, forged alloy pistons, and it had a compression ratio of 11.0:1.This newer V12 was capable of 328 bhp at 5,250 rpm and 365 lb ft of torque at 3,650 rpm, putting it up near the top of the class in the luxury sporting GT genre in the early 1990s.
PBB Design was founded by Paul Bailey in Bristol, England. Bailey had formerly worked in the aerospace industry before moving to Bristol-based Glenfrome Engineering, a company that build special versions of the Range Rover including longer wheelbase versions and a futuristic version called the Facet.
In the 1980s Glenfrome experimented with a long wheelbase version of the XJS, this is where Bailey had worked on the car for the first time, and where the kernel of the idea that would become the Monaco would form.
Bailey drew his own plans for the XJS, being very careful to keep his design drawings true to the exact scale of the Jaguar so that they could realistically be applied to the car.
Glenfrome would be dissolved in 1986 however Bailey knew he was onto something with his new design for the XJS, so he formed PBB Design (Paul Bailey Bristol) in 1987 and set to work. He originally looked into creating new steel body panels for the Monaco but eventually settled on fiberglass due to the low weight.
The original body needed to be significantly modified with the front and rear wheel arches cut back allowing for wider wheels and tires, and the headlight section needed to be cut away.
The fiberglass panels, or body kit, was then bonded over the top – the result was a much wider car that looked more like the earlier D-Type and E-Type family than the XJS ever did.
A set of 17 inch Compomotive split rims were then fitted along with suitably wide high-performance rubber, the suspension was rebuilt, the brakes were uprated, and clients had a choice of interior upgrades.
Under the hood the original XJR-S engine was considered amply powerful by some, those who wanted more power could opt for one of the fire-breathing Rob Beere Engineering-developed 7.3 liter version of the Jaguar V12.
Due to the high cost just 12 examples of the PBB Design Monaco were ever made, one of which was ordered by the Sultan of Brunei, and they attracted much attention from Jaguar circles when they rarely come up for public sale.
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Oct. 3 (UPI) -- Ten U.S. drug manufacturers have agreed to participate in the initial round of the first-ever pricing negotiations between Medicare and the nation's pharmaceutical giants, the Biden administration announced Tuesday.
The highly anticipated Medicare Drug Price Negotiation Program was set to enter its next phase after the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services invited the drugmakers to voluntarily join the program in August.
The move comes as President Joe Biden seeks to fulfill a campaign promise to make prescription medicines more affordable for millions of aging Americans.
The drugs on the list are among the most commonly used to treat everything from heart failure, blood clots, diabetes, arthritis, and Crohn's disease, however, average Americans often cannot afford to buy the drugs, Biden said in August when the drug cost reform effort kicked off.
Previously, the White House said the drugs are among the top 50 prescription medications that seniors fill the most at retail pharmacies under Medicare Part D.
The companies electing to participate include Bristol Myers Squibb, Boehringer Ingelheim, Janssen Pharmaceuticals, Merck Sharp Dohme, AstraZeneca, Novartis, Immunex, Pharmacyclics LLC, Jannsen Biotech and Novo Nordisk.
Collectively, the companies' drugs brought in $50.5 billion from prescriptions covered under Part D between June 1, 2022, and May 31, 2023, with consumers paying $3.4 billion in out-of-pocket costs, according to a statement from the Department of Health and Human Services.
"Drug companies that manufacture these drugs have indicated that they will participate in negotiations with Medicare during the remainder of 2023 and in 2024, and any agreed-upon negotiated prices will become effective beginning in 2026," the statement said.
The pricing program is being funded through the Inflation Reduction Act of 2022, which expanded Medicare's authority to negotiate out-of-pocket drug costs, including a $2 monthly cap on certain generic drugs used to treat chronic conditions, as well as a $35 price cap on insulin.
The pandemic-era legislation contains a broad range of actions to mitigate high drug prices, including a plan that adds commercial health insurers to a requirement that forces drug companies to pay rebates to Medicare whenever medicine prices rise faster than inflation.
Merck and Johnson & Johnson have filed multiple lawsuits in an effort to declare Biden's plan unconstitutional.
Biden has vowed to continue to pursue lower drug costs, arguing his pricing plan was working to help struggling Americans while the pharmaceutical industry raked in billions in record profits.
"There is no reason why Americans should be forced to pay more than any developed nation for life-saving prescriptions just to pad Big Pharma's pockets," Biden said at the time.
When the pricing negotiations conclude, the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services will announce the prices of the selected drugs on or before September 2024, however, the new drug prices won't go into effect until 2026.
From there, the government will select up to 15 more drugs covered under Part D for 2027, and up to 15 more drugs for 2028, including drugs covered under Part B and Part D.
The program will add up to 20 more drugs each year after that, as required by the Inflation Reduction Act.
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The Nurse Shark || Beth Riley
RESIDENCE: Autumnworth House, which is a 46-room sandstone manor constructed in Gotham Height in the early 1900s. It sits on 50 acres of private woodland within Bristol County.
TYPE OF BED: Oak canopied Alaskan king-size bed. Only Beth doesn't really 'sleep' here as she is a chronic insomniac more likely to fall asleep in the living area sofa. Or in the window seat of her room, where she curled up with a good book or her knitting to watch the evening rain.
NUMBER OF BLANKETS: Being born and raised on a tropical island then moving to the east coast of the mainland was never easy and Beth is almost always cold. There are three blankets and a comforter, as well as the most luxurious sheets money can by. Most of the time, she has at least one blanket within reach anywhere else she might fall asleep.
NUMBER OF PILLOWS: There are approximately eight to twelve pillows on the bed at any given point in time, and she actually makes it to the bed, at least one body pillow that she sprawls over.
TYPE OF CLOTHING: Much to the housekeeper's perpetual vexation, Beth starts shedding clothes the instant she walks in through the door, always starting with her shoes at the door. When not expecting company, she usually pads around the house barefoot and in one of her brother's egregiously large tee-shirts. Sometimes with something on beneath. If she is expecting someone or has company, she will wear something slinky, soft, and probably french with a matching robe.
DO THEY SLEEP WITH COMPANY?: Beth says this is such an inappropriate question. {{She would if someone else offered}}
DO THEY SLEEP BETTER WITH COMPANY?: Beth suffers from chronic insomnia, as stated previously, as well as sleep paralysis and night-terrors. She spent the first sixteen years of her life sleeping beside her brother, and even occasionally afterwards when he was at home on leave. Moral of the story is that if she trusts the other person, absolutely she sleeps better with them beside her. Note we did not say *they* would sleep better.
DOES IT MATTER WHERE THEY SLEEP?: Absolutely.
WHAT DO THEY DO IF THEY CANNOT FALL ASLEEP?: Beth might read all night long. She might knit a dozen or more sweaters/blankets to donate to charity. She might lie on the floor listening to music, or she might...*ahem* garden. Depends on just how many weeks days she's been awake.
FREQUENT DREAMS, NIGHTMARES: Since infancy, Beth has had a night terror about a dark shadowy shape stalking her while she's in bed. She is absolutely convinced that if it ever manages to reach her head, that she will die.
DEEP SLUMBER OR NAPS: Beth doesn't know what deep slumber is. She can and does catnap whenever possible.
WHEN DO THEY SLEEP: as never as possible. {{she cannot think of a better, more realistic answer than this.}}
WHAT COULD WAKE THEM UP: A mouse passing gas in the deepest bowels of Blackgate Penitentiary. Someone complaining about '90s Grunge in sign language in Seattle might do it too. She is a light sleeper.
EARLY OR LATE RISER: It doesn't matter if your eyes never quite close, now, does it? "Not a early bird or a night owl but some sorta permanently exhausted pigeon, try an' mahalo."
~*~
Tagged by: my sweet C over at @nightmarefuele
Tagging: Hoist the Colours and Raise the Black
#Mahalo!C <3333#Demons With Subtle Guile|Gotham#All Our Tomorrows|DC au#Just Paint Your Face|His Highness
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