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brf-rumortrackinganon · 5 days

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Oooh. Here's a hypothesis that fits the available facts.

Meghan plans to wear the Spencer tiara for the wedding and designs her outfit around it. It's Harry's equivalent of William giving Kate Diana's engagement ring, so his mother can be 'part' of proceedings.

The late Queen gets wind of the idea and puts her foot down quite late in the game. Before her marriage Meghan is neither Spencer nor Windsor so it is not her family tiara. Moreover she is marrying into the Windsors not the Spencers so it is more fitting that she have a Windsor tiara. And finally it makes no sense for the wife of the 'spare' to wear a grander tiara than the future queen did.

H&M throw the most enormous strop, "what Meghan wants Meghan gets" and demand the Vlad with emeralds or Eugenie's emerald tiara or something else not on offer.

Earl Spencer withdraws his offer of the Spencer tiara. He doesn't care either way and wants a quiet life. He and Harry fall out.

The late Queen digs out an obscure all diamond tiara with a similarish shape to the Spencer for Meghan, who later puts out PR saying she'd wanted it all along (a sure sign she didn't)

Earl Spencer uses the opportunity to reconcile with Harry wants a high profile anyone to attend his IG service.

The Spencer tiara was never an option for Meghan and Harry. They probably assumed they could get it because Harry was Diana’s son and if they did enough PR talking about how much they wanted it, Earl Spencer would probably fold and give it to them. Because there was *a lot* of press about the Spencer tiara 2017-mid 2018.

Say what you will about Earl Spencer and his view of/relations with the royal family, but the man is an aristo from one of the more aristo-est families in the UK. He knows protocol and he knows etiquette. He would never give Meghan and Harry the Spencer tiara and probably didn’t think twice about it after saying no, but probably realized how big of a fuss they could turn it into so my thinking is he probably let Sarah/Celia have the Spencer just to justify it to Harry and Meghan to shut them up. (Celia announced her engagement in The Times and The Telegraph on November 13, 2017. If that’s not “shots fired” for the Spencer tiara debate, I don’t know what is.)

Meghan’s only option was a tiara from The Queen. The Queen and Angela Kelly made a selection of three or four for Meghan (same as they did for Kate in 2011) and Meghan chose from that batch. Why she picked Queen Mary’s, I don’t know. (We know Kate chose the one she did because it was the smallest of the ones she was presented.)

So in sum: Meghan would have only ever gotten a Windsor tiara from The Queen. Bar none. It was either a Windsor tiara or no tiara.

Also the “What Meghan wants Meghan gets” fiasco was in response to Angela Kelly not giving Meghan the tiara for a hair trial when her hairdresser was in town. Allegedly, tiara protocol is that they must request it in advance and coordinate it with Angela (makes sense - it’s a heirloom piece of the family collection stores in an underground vault). Meghan and her hairdresser just randomly showed up one day demanding the tiara and Angela told her “no” because there’s protocol to be followed. Meghan collapsed on the floor sobbing to Harry, Harry went storming over to BP and confronted Angela with “what Meghan wants Meghan gets,” The Queen found out about it (either Angela told her or other staffers told her) and The Queen called Harry in and read him a “you get what you get and you don’t have a fit” riot act.

And allegedly, according to Lady C, Meghan wanted emeralds for her wedding and the only reason she knew of the Grenville’s existence (the one Eugenie wore) is because she heard Eugenie talking about it.

#brf #sussexes #theories #rumors #spencers

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marvelettesassemble · 4 years

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Girls United (Fred x F Reader)

Summary: You were tired of waiting to be asked to the Yule Ball. So the girls need to take matters into their own hands.

Word Count: 2150

Warnings: none, I think. Except that English still isn’t my first language

You were walking down the Gryffindor table and gave each girl from fourth to seventh grade a piece of paper. The receiving girls looked confused, but you mumbled they should open it later. Curious glances were thrown your way, but the girls packed away the notice. You saw how Ron Weasley tried to grab it from Hermione Granger, but she just shoved the paper down her pockets. When you finished the table, you walked back to your house table to meet up with your dormmates who just finished giving the other girls a notice.

You were a bit nervous, but still convinced of your idea.

„Ladies, we noticed something going on here and just wanted to make sure there was no mischief happening,“ you heard the voice of Professor McGonagall who stood behind you with Professor Sprout right next to her.

„Of course not, Professor. Here, if you want to see for yourself. But we hope you’ll keep this a secret,“ you said with a little smile hoping to ease their minds. Professor Sprout opened the paper you gave her and Professor McGonagall read it over her shoulder. At first the taller one rose her eyebrows confused but then a small smile formed on her lips while the herbology teacher was smiling widely.

„This is great,“ Professor Sprout approved while the head of Gryffindor didn’t say anything.

„This isn’t about a riot or something like that. But we noticed that some of the girls were really sad the last few weeks and we hope to cheer them up and so they still can have a good time,“ you tried to convince them.

„Well I’ll join your little meeting, I think I have a few tricks up my sleeve,“ Professor McGonagall finally said and you sighed in relieve.

„I’ll be there too. This will be fun,“ Professor Sprout exclaimed. And with a nodding in your direction they turned around to walk back to the teachers table. You saw them talking to Professor Dumbledore who just nodded shortly when they stopped talking.

Tired of waiting for the boys to come around?

The Yule Ball is just a few weeks away. Haven’t been asked out? No problem, you’re not alone. We decided we don’t want to wait anymore – so we’re going as friends.

We should be discussing dresses, make up, getting rid of pimples and other stuff and help each other out - not worrying if we’ll get asked.

You have been asked and want to talk about the stuff above? That’s no problem either.

We’re meeting at the charms classroom on Saturday at three p.m. We can help you with dressed and have a few tricks for unruly hair up our sleeves. Maybe you have some tips also?

Your Sixth Grade Ravenclaws

PS: We want to keep this a secret from the boys, so they don’t ruin the fun.

„What is it with almost all of the girls disappearing suddenly?“ Harry asked when he walked with Ron, Fred and George towards the Gryffindor common room.

„There’s something going on,“ Fred said.

„We just need to figure out what,“ George agreed.

When they entered the common room they saw their sister and decided to ask her. „Hey sister of ours,“ George said sweetly and threw and arm around her shoulder.

„We wondered,“ Fred sat down on the arm chair of the sofa.

„…if you happened to know,“ George continued.

„…why all the girls are acting strange,“ Fred finished.

„What do you mean by strange?“ Ginny looked up from her book.

„Everyone's giggling and they’re always surrounded by each other. They’re never alone you can’t even ask one out,“ Ron complained.

„Well maybe they’re having fun and you just waited too long to ask them. I think they already got dates. I mean the ball is just in one week. I’m sure you weren’t too afraid to already invite a girl, right?“ She said and although it sounded like she was asking she didn’t wait for an answer and walked towards the dorms with her book in her hand.

„Have you asked anyone?“ Ron asked his twins as he knew that Harry hadn’t asked anyone. His brothers shook their heads simultaneous.

About two hours later girls and girls and girls were leaving the Gryffindor common room. Dresses flowing in front of them so they wouldn’t get dirty. They were laughing and talking. „To the last meeting,“ they thought they heard one of them.

There were no girls in the room anymore except for some younger ones. „Who of you have gotten dates for the ball?“ Fred asked loudly into the room. A few boys, mostly the older ones, raised their hands but a lot of the other ones shood their heads or their hands stayed by their sides. „How the bloody hell does Ginny think they all have a date? This doesn’t sum up,“ he wondered.

„We’ll follow them,“ George exclaimed and a few other boys followed him. When they met Peeves on their way and asked him if he’d seen the girls who just left the Gryffindor room the poltergeist made and ugly face.

„It is awwwwwwwwwful! You just have to follow the noise, the awwwwwful noise. All the giggling and laughing, it’s disgusting. It’s been going on for weeks. You’ll find me on the other side of the castle.“ He was on his way after telling them that they should go to the charms room.

They heard the noise from far away. When Fred stood in front of the class room and was about to open the door it opened itself. Well at least it seemed that way until Professor McGonagall stood in front of them. „How can I help you?“ she asked and shut the door behind her when she noticed that the boys in front of her tried to get a look into the room.

„We were wondering where the girls went,“ a fourth year Gryffindor said.

„And don’t you think they would have told you, if they wanted you to know or invite you?“

„Professor, is [Y/N] there?“ Fred asked suddenly.

The teacher rose an eyebrow. „Yes, Miss [Y/L/N] is here.“ She confirmed.

„Well can you get her?“ the red head asked further.

„If you had asked for that directly I would have told you that I’ll ask her if she wants to meet you. Wait a moment.“ She disappeared before they could get another glance. They didn’t have to wait long before asked girl stood in front of them, a biscuit in her hand.

„Are you having a tea party?“ Fred asked confused and went to grab a sequin out of your hair. If this was the case they had made a big deal out of nothing.

„Was that what you were going to ask me?“ you asked and took a bite of your biscuit.

„No, I wanted to ask if you want to come to the dance with me,“ he said not expecting a rejection. He hasn’t heard of a guy who bragged about going with you.

Your face didn’t give anything away and you looked at the guys who stood behind the Weasley who asked you out. They didn’t look as if they had expected the question except maybe his twin.

„And what makes you think that I’m going to accept this NOW? The ball is one week away. Did you think I was waiting for you to come around? So, no. I’m not going to the ball with you. I was already asked. If that was all I’m going back in.“ Freds mouth was wide open and you had to admit that you were quite proud of yourself.

He starred at the shiny thing in his hand. Someone was laughing behind him.

„Oh shut it, at least I asked,“ he snapped and walked back to the common room. He shouldn’t have waited so long. Now another bloke was the lucky guy.

Of course were some of the girls listening to what was happening outside of the classroom. You stormed into the room and almost hit your classmate with the door when she didn’t step back quickly enough. „Of course he is asking now,“ you seethed. „It’s not like he could’ve asked sooner.“

„Would you have said yes?“ Hermione asked from her chair while trying to fix the potion for her hair.

„Of course,“ you huffed. „We weren’t flirting for nothing the whole time.“

„Don’t get riled up. We’re going to have a good night!“ You nodded at your friend who walked you back to your chair so you could finish your dress.

Most of the couples were meeting in front of the great hall, so you weren’t quite sure how all of the girls were supposed to go to the ball. But McGonagall was a lifesaver and she let you use her class room to get ready. She even cleaned the place and placed mirrors and dividers in the room.

What started as a quick idea because you were bitter was one of the best experiences. The girls were helping each other and had a really great time. Some friendships were built while spending time with people from other houses. As Professor McGonagall were needed in the Great Hall to supervise the event, Professor Sprout would lead you to the dance.

You said goodbye to the girls with dates first, stopping them to place a lock here or wipe some smeared make up here or just to say something encouraging. When it was just the ones who didn’t get asked or decided they rather went with the girl group.

„Ladies, I hope you are ready for your entrance. Forget the Champions here we come,“ Professor Sprout said proudly and opened the door to lead you into the hall. You stood in pairs of two and were walking down the stairs. A few boys stopped to look at the large group of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Slytherins and Gryffindors who smiled brightly and walked confidently to the ball.

You heard McGonagall calling for the Champions and saw her smiling when she saw the group of girls. She had really helped with a lot of the dresses to make them unique. Professor Sprout lead you into the hall which looked completely different. The house tables were gone instead there were smaller tables. There was a room for dancing.

You saw Fred while walking with your arms linked to your best friend. You throw a wink at him while he was just gawping at you.

You weren’t really sure, but you thought you heard something about „what a minx“. The Champions started dancing and Harry had still found a girl and Hermione was asked way before we pulled the card about the girls dance. So when the dance ended, you knew that your two Professors had pulled some strings so the next song wasn’t too slow so that you girls could dance without it being to awkward. You whirled your friend around and you were in a spin and laughing whole heartly you saw a familiar red head in front of you.

„Will you dance with me?“ he shouted so you could hear him above the music.

„Later,“ you promised and danced further with your friend.

You made your way to the table where Fred was sulking with his brothers and other Gryffindors. „Why are you making these faces? Why don’t you ask a girl if she wants to dance?“ You pointed towards some girls who were sitting at some tables.

„Well they obviously didn’t want to come and dance with us,“ George Weasley prompted.

„No, we wanted to come with you. You just weren’t asking us and we were tired of waiting. What do you think it did make us feel to be asked on such a short notice? That we were a last-minute solution? So, we decided we wouldn’t sulk. But I’d bet that these ladies wouldn’t say no to a dance or a conversation,“ you promised.

„And would you like to dance?“ you held your hand towards Fred. It took a moment before he grabbed it and you pulled him towards the dance floor.

„I really wanted to go to the dance with you,“ you said when you put your arms around his neck.

„Why haven’t you asked me then? You were never shy with me before,“ he said while he placed his hands on your hip.

„Because you were never shy with me either. So, when you didn’t ask me, I thought maybe you didn’t want to go with me,“ you said while not meeting his eyes. „How about we spent the evening together from now on?“ was your suggestion.

„I’d really like that. And I promise I won’t wait too long the next time,“ he promised. And after he finished his sentence, he bent forward to press his lips against yours, just for you to meet him halfway.

#weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #yule ball #writing #weasleys #fred weasley ff #girls united #amwriting

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ekhap · 3 years

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The Beginning

And, with the first post on this account minutes ago, I am proud to present my first story for this tumblr - the Beginning. Bandit/Montagne, Rated T

Read it here! or below!

“I need you to look at me, okay? Look at me – everything is going to be okay. I swear.”

It wasn’t. He’s lying through his teeth and Dom knows it.

—*—

When Dominic Brunsmeier joined Rainbow, it was the break of a lifetime. He could start new – create a whole new persona that only Elias would see through. A persona that he could feel comfortable in.

Harry calls it a coping mechanism. Dom, though? It’s an asset of the highest degree.

Only when he joined and was faced with 18 new faces – he had never even heard of a Monika Weiss or Marius Streicher in the GSG9 – that he realized his mistake. These weren’t his buddies in Hell’s Angels, or even the normal workaholics in the GSG9, but battle-hardened professionals. Quite frankly, they could care less about how he presented himself. So he made them care.

Luckily, this didn’t make him too many enemies. In fact, he buddied up with the SAS bum who insists everyone call him Smoke. He says it’s to add to his mystique, but Dom just so happens to know that it’s reallybecause if another colleague calls him Jamie he will go feral.

A former alcoholic and a father to an adopted daughter. Yet again, someone who simply does not care who or what he is, but how much he can drink, prank the others, and win bets. They sabotage the coffee machine justright to make Thatcher infuriated when his tea taste like metal, and they giggle like schoolkids getting away with something.

Then, Dom’s eyes wander. Aurelia “Six” Arnot takes regular trips to other countries to scout out other counter-terrorism unit. American, Canadian, Brazilian, and Japanese men and women join the already-crowded halls of Hereford, and Dom thinks.

Thinks about how close the Spetznaz are, yes, but specifically how Kapkan and Glaz always drift towards each other before Fuze and Tachanka. How Rook looks when he gets off the phone after talking in excited French. How Thermite gravitates towards Pulse, who could really care less. How that traitor Smoke smacks Mute’s behind before demanding he make out with him. And then how Mute does. In the middle of the workshop.

Dom thinks, and he doesn’t like the thoughts his brain is spitting out.

—*—

“Please, put a little bit of effort in, Dom, we got to get you out in one piece.” A shot rings out in the distance.

The mission was supposed to be quick. The hostage was in a small holding cell, awaiting execution. Six had told them that they most likely had twelve hours to raid the Spanish cell of terrorists before they executed the hostage. A woman named Miriam, a scientist at the peak of her career, but the other operators could care less.

Dom cares. He remembers. Doesn’t do anything with the information, but she deserves a name. He missed his when he was undercover.

Bad Intel, he can imagine Six’s voice saying. He’ll be in the hospital when Ash gives the debrief, and he can imagine the casualty report - soclose to being pristine. Too bad he got shot, but at least it wasn’t dear Miriam.

Who the fuck is carrying him, anyways?

—*—

When he first approaches Marius, it didn’t go as successfully as he had hoped. Though, he should have expected that, as asking him directly, “Want to come back to my place,” with no preamble at the local bar would have made anyone confused. If Dom was being honest, though, the way he spit out his drink was hilarious.

When Marius awkwardly tries to explain that sorry, I’m not interested you in that way, Dom’s eyes are already drifting. There’s a brunette in the corner showing off her cleavage, but she’s giggling with her friends and raiding a party isn’t Dom’s style. Right now, anyways. A guy with a strong face sitting three bar stools away from Marius, exactly Dom’s type, except for the fact that he’s drinking tea. At a pub not a mile away from a military base. That strong face is already only surface level, in Dom’s eyes.

When Marius asks if he’s paying attention, he looks back down at the poor engineer blushing, as if he was putting himself out there.

“No, I wasn’t.” Dom says, kisses Marius on the cheek, and before Marius can retaliate, confidently strides off. Monika comes out of the bathroom and looks at Marius quizzically before he shakes his head.

So, no, Dom’s first journey into Rainbow’s pants didn’t go specifically as planned, but he still tried, didn’t he? And so what if it stung a bit to see Marius blushing at Doc the next day, Dom’s mind had already moved past any thought of the awkward engineer. Surely. And so what if Doc was confused when Marius thanked him profusely for the chocolates, and asked him out. Finally. It was all a part of Dom’s plan.

If he couldn’t do the job, someone else can do it better.

—*—

It’s an agonizing turn of the head to see his savior’s face. Previously, he had just lolled his head back and was happy that someone decided to check if he was alive or not.

Strong jawline. Hard-set eyes. Balaclava obscuring everything else about his face.

“I’m going to adjust you, alright? Tell me if you’re in pain.” It’s a French accent, and oh if luck would have it that Doc was carrying him out of the building. After Chimera and Truth or Consequences, there was the off-chance that it was Lion carrying him out, but Dom doubts that he would make any effort after Dom told him he deserved to get punched by Thatcher. And after he told him that he could fuck his sky daddy if he loved him so much.

Finally, the man stops walking, adjusts his hold on Dom, and digs his fingers directly into the wound site. It’s all Dom can do to groan to try to make his savior aware.

He gets the hint, and moves his hand so it’s gripping a bit further up on his thigh.

—*—

Then something happens a year into Rainbow. August 13th, exactly. A day of mourning for Dom, but for those that don’t get the hint, a day to throw presents at him and act like they care.

Some of them do, actually. Smoke gets him an explicit t-shirt he found online with a woman sitting on a man’s face. Elias throws him a gift card and tells him to go buck wild. Marius, surprisingly, gives him an intricate machine made of inter-locking gears that all turn simultaneously. It’s an invitation, though not the same one Dom extended at the bar. It sits on his desk that he never uses, now, and reminds him why he still talks to the engineer endlessly infatuated with the doctor.

First, Rook is comforted by Elias. This sets the springboard for the two men to snap together like magnets, almost worse than the disaster couple in the SAS. They’re awkward, cute, and fawn over each other and it makes Dom want to hurl every time he sees them interact.

Second, Blitz introduces Montagne to him. A man that matches his namesake in how he towers over Bandit, but shocks him with how nice he is. He stands in stark contrast to the bubbly Rook, excruciatingly serious Doc, and analytical Twitch with his niceties.

Gilles, he says his name is. But everyone calls him Monty.

Third, Dom goes drinking. This, in of itself, would be hardly worth mentioning, but drowning in the reminders of his brother, how Cedric could have been here instead of him and Dom would have been just as happy for him, he looses sense of time at some point. His last memory of that night is sizing up a short woman with cropped black hair, and he wakes up in a bed with Monty, clinging to his arm.

So, technically, the something happens one day after, but it’s all the same to Dom.

After staring at the mountain of a man for entirely too long, he begins to wake up. Stretches the arm that’s free, shakes himself out a bit, all before he opens his eyes.

They’re a beautiful icy blue.

“Good morning,” Gilles mumbles.

Dom simply moans. Quietly. Staring at his neck.

Then, it all hits him. His head starts pounding, and he feels like throwing up violently into the nearest receptacle. He turns onto his back and groans openly.

“Here, take this,” Dom glances over and sees two pills extended out. He gingerly picks them up, and is offered a glass of water. He takes it and takes greedy gulps. Gilles chuckles lightly next to him.

“So, uh,” Dom starts, forcing himself to look back at the man, still holding the glass of water and no longer clinging to the other man’s arm. “How was the sex? Because, really, I cannot remember any of it.”

“Dom, we didn’t- I would never-” Gilles begins tripping over himself to explain himself. It’s endearing. Almost. Gilles stops and clears his throat. “I, uh, Elias called me, and asked me to check for you at the bars in the area. He said he checked the three closest to Hereford but had to get back to base. He said that he would’ve called Marius but he wanted to make sure that you came back in one piece. I found you slumped in a bar stool, and I brought you back to base, but you-uh, didn’t have your key readily accessible. So, here we are.”

“So here we are.” It’s a story that makes sense. He hasn’t been able to pick anyone up since his days in Hell’s Angels, when he shaved his head and looked more intimidating than attractive. But, there is one question.

“So why the hell am I wrapped around your arm?”

“You wouldn’t let go of me last night, I was going to sleep in the living room but you’ve got a surprisingly strong grip when drunk, you know?”

“So I’ve been told.”

—*—

The blinding light of the sun forces Dom to close his eyes, and when he’s roughly laid down onto a stretcher that he realizes, yes, he survived that ordeal, and no, he didn’t lay on the floor for a period of time after getting shot in nearly the same spot.

It’s hard, but he turns his head towards the man who saved him and sees the massive riot shield that could only belong to one man.

—*—

Nothing changes. Monty is the highest form of the good – the perfect person to fall in love with.

So Dom doesn’t. It’s easy, he was in denial about who he really was for seven years, what’s a flight of fancy.

Except he keeps happening.

The two go out drinking. Dom, for the first time, goes a month without blacking out. Then two. Then he stops keeping count. As Elias becomes more and more infatuated with Rook, surprising even himself with how much he could dote on another man, Monty becomes a permanent figure in Dom’s life.

It’s disorienting. And almost unwelcome if he wasn’t so… Monty. Stable, kind, awkwardly funny Monty.

Then he mentions an ex-wife, and everything is almostperfect. Why get your hopes up when they have no chance of being interested in you? After all, Monty has never expressed interest in anyone, no man nor woman, so the most logical solution is that he’s straight and retired from dating.

Then, of course, Dom ends up in Monty’s lap desperately making out with him. Or bouncing on his cock. Or mouth filled with that same, succulent-

And he always wakes up in a slightly cold sweat, slightly panicked, feeling just slightly off. He can’t even look at any of the other people at the bar without thinking but what if? And, really, it’s too hopeful for Dom’s liking.

When he brings it up to Smoke, the other man’s cheeks are flushed from an interaction with Mute. It’s the only time that he seems to have for Dom anymore, but he doesn’t mind, not with a mountain of a man slowly wedging his way into his life as a permanent figure. Just ask him, mate he said. Worst he can say is no, but he’s wrong. It could be somuch worse.

—*—

What happens in the next few minutes is a solid blur for Dom. He sees Doc’s face, eyes full of judgement as if it was his fault he got shot through a wall. Stares at Monty’s back as he debriefs Ash on the situation, who writes it down diligently. Feels a piercing pain in his thigh as the bullet is taken out, and he finally, finally, slips into the unconscious world.

—*—

He doesn’t ask Monty for anything. It’d be too rude, to ask the man who graces him with his presence for more than that. He basks in the man like a cat in the sun, and when they get drunk enough to crave physical contact, Dom files those memories away for lonely nights. Never reaching what Dom would deem perfect, but who can claim to have that, anyways?

Time passes. He finds out that before everything, Monty was considering going to a music school for the cello, and Dom can’t help but chortle imagining the trained killer sitting on a stage, brow furrowed in concentration as he plays. Monty delves deep enough into Bandit’s past to find the trauma, and they spend a night in Dom’s room, the owner crying into the other’s arms.

File, file, file.

It’s years later, with their relationship built on respect and genuinely enjoying each other’s friendship that Flores is recommended to the new Six, Harry, that Bandit takes a good look at his life. Desperately clinging onto a crush that could have otherwise been easy enough to push underneath a pillow and suffocate, should he have chosen to cut off all contact.

He thinks about Goyo and Blackbeard, whispering with smiles on their faces, then fighting five minutes later. Kapkan and Glaz always carpooling. Elias and Rook considering getting a bigger apartment.

It’s so fucking unfair. But fair isn’t what Dom asked for, did he?

Flores waltzes into Rainbow, and smiles when he talks about his husband. How if Rainbow proved stable enough, he’d fly him out to live in Hereford. Picture perfect, the essence of stability.

So Dom makes a move. Sees his surroundings, and refuses to remain, what he sees, as an outlier.

—*—

When Dom wakes up, he’s in the nearest hospital. The clinical white lighting blinds him for a second, but when he comes to his senses, he takes a look around his room.

It’s perfectly clean, no flowers, personal items, or anything, really. The clothes he wore on the mission sit in a neat pile in one of the two chairs, and in the other sits the mountain of a man who Dom has come to rely upon. Sleeping peacefully, his head lolled forward. He’s too perfect to disturb.

Luckily, staring at Monty seems to have done enough to disturb him, and he begins his long process of waking up that, so far, Dom has only seen once. The scrunch of the shoulders, raising of the elbows, big sigh, all before he opens crystal blue eyes.

What beauty, wasted on Dom.

“Hey,” Dom says, voice gravelly. He would cough but he worries Monty would see him as sick or weakand he worries about Monty worrying.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” And there it is, the slight smile, just a bit slighter since last time he saw it.

“Should I ask about the sex or is that too far?” And, yes, there it is, the killer smile that could make Dom faint again.

“It was alright, would’ve been better if you weren’t bleeding out, but,” he reaches a hand out to Dom’s face and strokes his thumb over the cheekbone. It’s so comforting that Dom has trouble breathing for a second. “I was thinking, though.”

“That’s never good.”

“No, you’re right, it’s not.” He takes the comforting warmth away and grabs a hold of Dom’s hand. “But I think, once you get out, we should talk. Does Augusta’s sound good?”

And Dom flashes back.

Do you think we could go somewhere different? He asked.

Somewhere different how?

Augusta’s has great food, even Maestro approves of her cooking.

Are you asking me out?

And Dom shuts the fuck up and shakes his head.

“Augusta’s sounds perfect.” And Dom can’t stop smiling.

Maybe, just maybe, Monty wasn’t lying on the battlefield. It could, just maybe, be alright.

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bluebellhairpin · 5 years

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Out of Goodwill [2]

The Hobbit X Reader

Part One || Part Two || Part Three

A/N: Oops. I’ve wrote this instead of other things. Someone give me a badge for best procrastinator? But this part is a bit longer than my usual quota, have fun! - Nemo

Summary: The night ends, and a new day begins. And now you have to leave seven in your house. Let’s pray they won't break anything while you and Bard go out into the real world for the day.

Masterlist

The time spent after dinner was… A little wild.

First you needed to figure out where you’d place everyone when they slept, which was harder than it would’ve been considering everyone wanted to make sure you weren’t kicked out of your room or sleeping on the floor.

Eventually arrangements were made; Thranduil and Legolas would share the master bedroom, also known as your parents room for when they visited. You didn’t like how big it was, even if you did use the walk-in wardrobe. In all truth you thought Legolas would get kicked onto the floor with some pillows and a blanket, but that was for those two to decide.

Balin and Dwalin got your room, and you felt very lucky that you just cleared everything out to re-decorate, so it wasn’t like there was anything embarrassing left in there aside from your clothes. You trusted them not to snoop.

Thorin and Bard got your spare room, which held two single beds which usually housed your siblings when they visited, and you shoved a double mattress from under the master bed between the two singles for Fili and Kili.

You dared not tell them that you’d be sleeping in front of the fire with another single mattress, you didn’t even pull the mattress out from its place before you knew they were all asleep. You wouldn’t hear the end of it if they didn’t believe you were just going to bunk next door. You didn’t care if they found out tomorrow, you just needed rest.

The next morning, you found, reluctantly, that Bard was an early riser. Like, five in the morning early riser. He was also very curious, and you gave away sleep to answer every question that came your way.

He asked of the food you ate, the clothes you wore, what jobs you had, your family, your economic system, and everything else in between. To your surprise and thankfulness, he was a good listener, and a quick learner. By the time you discussion was over, he knew how to work the microwave and kettle.

Thranduil emerged from upstairs at six thirty, and you shoved a mug of coffee in his hand as soon as he opened his mouth. He looked down at the mug, then tentatively took a sip, scrunching up his nose at it. You took the mug back and proceeded to make him a cup of tea, which he seemed to like more.

Balin and Legolas were the next to wake, and luckily they woke at your weekday alarm of around seven. Balin also had plenty of questions, and he seemed to be drawn to your collection of books. He was eyeing them last night, and you told him he was welcome to read them as long as he didn’t damage them. He picked up The Hunger Games first, you felt obligated to tell him it was fiction, and that your encyclopedia would be a little better to get to know your world. He kept reading The Hunger Games instead.

Legolas followed you around, watching what you were doing as you got ready for work at the distance a cat would watch it’s owner at. You caught him trying to copy your actions, but when you asked him if he wanted to be taught he said he didn’t need to know.

Thorin and Dwalin emerged from their respective rooms as you were about to go into yours to pick out your clothes for the day, and Dwalin straight-up asked you where food was. You told him to ask nicely, or harass Bard, of which had been informed all about the kitchen earlier, which drew a short laugh from Thorin.

Fili and Kili both woke right as you were almost ready to leave for work. They were shuffling on their feet and still half asleep, but they both wanted to know where you were going anyway right as Bard appeared at your side asking to come with you.

“I’m going to work.” You told the brothers, and even now you only just realised how huge they were. Human-sized dwarfs were scary huge. “And…” you looked Bard up and down, “No, you can’t come. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Can’t you get me other clothes?” he asked, and you had to think for a second. You had clothes from pretty much everywhere seeing as you picked out clothes based on what they looked like and how comfy they were. You even had a men’s suit tucked in your wardrobe because there wasn’t anything stopping you. Now that you thought about it, your dad did leave one of his suits behind last time he visited.

Ten minutes later, Bard emerged from the bathroom with his former clothes folded in his hands and your father's grey three-piece suit. You had to admit, Bard looked good.

“What is he wearing?” Thranduil asked with a quirked eyebrow, already on his fourth cup of tea.

“It’s called a suit, and he needs it because it’s just about the only decent menswear I have that’d fit him.” You explained, taking the cloths from Bard to place them down on a side table and then shoving him down into a seat.

“Hey! What are you-”

“Calm down, I need to fix your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“What isn’t wrong with your hair would be a better question.” Thranduil mumbled into his cup, clear not happy that Bard was shoved into the seat across from him.

“Legolas, slap your father for me, would you?” You said, calling over to the other elf who was making a messy work of frying eggs as Kili looked on with a grin. Legolas snapped his head over to you, shock written on his face as Thorin and Dwalin laughed at Thranduil’s frozen posture. “What? It’s not hard to keep your mouth shut, Thranduil.” You said, finishing with Bard’s hair and you had to admit, it was an improvement, even slightly.

You made your way back to the front door, calling back to Balin.

“Balin, you’re in charge, if anything goes wrong… Legolas!”

“Yes (y/n)?”

“You remember how to use that phone, right?”

“I think so!”

“Balin, if anything goes wrong get Legolas to call me. Whatever you do,” you said, leaning back into the lounge to address everyone, “Don’t go outside. You’ll cause a riot.” They all seemed to understand, and you looked to Fili and Kili. “You two hearing me?”

“Yes (y/n).” They said, looking at you with eyes that made you want to believe them.

“Don’ worry lass, I’ll keep an eye on ‘em.” Dwalin said, TV remote in hand and offering it to you as if you ask you to turn it on. You shake your head with a smile.

“You’ll figure it out, just don’t break anything.” And with that you left, Bard on your heels towards your work. You just really hoped no one questioned what Bard was doing with you, or why he was going to be lurking around the library archives all day.

Your first stop was a cafe, since you needed it, and because you always brought in a couple drinks and pastries for those you worked with. It was what you became known for.

While waiting around for your items, you looked over at Bard.

“We’re gonna have to give you another name.” You said.

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. With his head movement you noted a couple girls behind him staring. You let out a sigh, deciding not to address it.

“Because ‘Bard’ isn’t exactly a common name.”

“So what do you suggest to call me instead?” he asked,shifting his weight from one foot to the other and crossed his arms.

“Ben?” you suggested, and got an upturned nose. Ben was a no.

“Beau?”

“Getting better, but no.”

“You understand that this is only a name to use in front of others, it’s not like we’re completely changing your name.” you said, as your name was called. You went to collect your paper bag of food and tray of drinks, then returned to a slightly pouting Bard. “Okay, what about we try one more name, and if it doesn't even spark the slightest joy in you, we’ll give it up and you can stick to Bard?”

“Alright, hit me.” he agreed, moving to open and hold the door for you.

“Okay, let me think,” you started, Bard now rejoining you and taking the cup from th tray that was marked ‘HC’ for hot chocolate (you decided to start him on something less caffeine-infused), “Bryce?”

He looked up at you, his expression unreadable, and after a fe walking strides shook his head.

“No. That’s not right either.” He said, continuing in step with you as you let out a puff of air.

“Oh well, I guess you’re just destined to stick out as ‘Bard’.” You joked, sipping from your own drink as you turned the final corner to the library that sat on top of the cities archives.

When it came to getting Bard in the archives without a library card was a little difficult, but Bard flashed the girl on security a smile, stole one of your doughnuts to give her and he was in.

Your workmates, both avid book fans, saw Bard and their jaws practically dropped to the floor. When you introduced Bard as ‘Bard’, you think one of them almost fainted.

“Man, (y/n)” Harry said, pulling you away to gather his drink as Jazz talked to Bard, “How’d you get Luke Evans to come visit you at work?”

“That’s that thing, Haz,” you laughed, “It ain’t Evans.”

“What, you just managed to get a man that looks, sounds and acts like ‘Bard’?” Harry hummed, clearly not believing you as he took a sip of his latte.

“No, that is Bard.” he shook his head.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have seven more at home.”

“What, Bard look-alike?” he snickered, and you noted that Bard and Jazz were both looking your way.

“No, Hobbit characters.”

“Wait, like Legolas?” Jazz asked, bounding over to tug at your sleeve.

“And Thranduil.” Jazz gasped, seeing as she was a heavily elf fan, her next request didn’t surprise you, and made you laugh more than anything else.

“Can I see them?”

“After work!” And with that she was off, setting back to asking an amused Bard all sort of questions.

You thought he’d be there for a while, and a while he was.

It was only after your lunch break that you caught Bard wandering through the rows of shelves and files to try and find you.

“That Jazz is a bit of a character,” Bard started, making his way to you as you put away some files from earlier, drawing a smile to your face, “She’s… Very talkative.”

“Yeah, sorry if she gets a bit too ‘in your business’, she’s like that with everyone.” You say, glancing at him to see he was also smiling.

“Good to know I’m not as special as I thought I was.” he said, starting to pick and choose at the files on the opposite row. “You know, this world would be worth staying in, if I didn’t have people back home.” he said softly, almost a whisper.

“Damn,” you said, breathing in sharply, “We need to get you home.” you ran a hand along your face and lent against the filing cabinet.

“It’ll be okay, I know people in Laketown will only start missing me after a week or so. I was meant to go to Erebor for a while, they won’t be any wiser.”

“Why were you going to Erebor?” you asked, raising your head to look at him properly.

“That,” he started, voice still soft, “That’s a long story (y/n).”

“I have all afternoon, so start talking.”

----------

Series Taglist: @irisv-x

#the hobbit x reader #bard the bowman x reader #thranduil x reader #thorin oakensheild x reader #legolas x reader #fili x reader #kili x reader #dwalin x reader #balin x reader #the hobbit imagine #bard imagine #thranduil imagine #thorin oakenshield imagine #legolas imagine #fili imagine #kili imagine #dwalin imagine #balin imagine

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tommyomalley · 5 years

Text

Overstated Harm

I have been thinking lately about harm—when it’s real, and when it’s exaggerated for political reasons. And as harm escalates, at what point does it require us to intervene on behalf of ourselves or others?

Yesterday, I recorded a conversation for my podcast Theater Fag with playwright Isaac Gomez. We met in the offices of Steppenwolf Theatre Company in Chicago, where his new play “La Ruta” is currently finishing a sold-out run. “La Ruta” is about the women of Ciudad Juárez, a Mexican border city that suffers one of the highest crime rates in North America, if not the world. Disproportionately impacted by the violence in Juárez are women, who regularly go missing without any hope of being found.

Obviously the situation in Juárez is an example of real harm. Like gay men with AIDS in the 1980s—like trans women of color in the United States today—the women of Juárez are dying preventable deaths at an insane rate, and nobody in the dominant culture gives enough of a shit to make it stop. Isaac’s play, “La Ruta,” is a tortured cry for mercy, one belonging to a theatrical tradition that includes plays like Larry Kramer’s seminal AIDS polemic “The Normal Heart” and “Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992,” Anna Deveare Smith’s verbatim account of the Los Angeles riots (in which Congresswoman Maxine Waters is a character, by the way).

In our conversation, Isaac and I discussed the roots of violence in Juárez, which Isaac attributed to toxic masculinity and failed US policy. Of the former, Isaac elaborated that he can draw a straight line from small acts of gendered insensitivity—microaggressions such as a man interrupting a woman to explain a point she was in the middle of making—to more grandiose expressions of violence, such as rape or murder. My impulse in the moment was to disagree and question the equivalence I thought Isaac was making. But after a night’s sleep on the matter, I think agree with Isaac’s general point—unchecked privilege corrupts, and if we don’t intervene when violence presents itself, it will escalate.

The women of Juárez are in a daily fight for their lives. The stakes for them could not be higher. That’s why, when people start to talk about feeling “safe” and the stakes fall somewhere short of life or death, it’s important to pause before offering our support and validation. Unfortunately, not all claims of victimhood are intellectually honest, and sometimes, folks who identify as victims are actually perpetrators. These situations require a different kind of intervention.

This week, the boys from Covington Catholic high school in a Kentucky have been all over the news, after a viral video clip in which one boy wearing a MAGA hat—Nick Sandmann—stared down an indigenous veteran named Nathan Phillips, who was seemingly just banging his drum. Since the release of that initial video, dozens more clips have surfaced, some of which show that Mr. Phillips intentionally walked into the Covington Catholic group, and others of which show an unrelated group of Black Israelites screaming nasty shit at every person who passed them, including the Covington Catholic boys and Nathan Phillips.

Some people claim these videos exonerate the Covington Catholic boys. Others say they implicate Nathan Phillips as a provocateur. What’s compelling to me is the immediacy with which reactions split along party lines. Lefties are Team Phillips, righties are Team CovCath. I have way too much trauma surrounding Catholic schoolboys of my youth to be impartial, but what I will argue is that the Covington Catholic boys are not victims here. I don’t want them destroyed, but I want to see some accountability. And when I see a lot of white adults minimizing their actions, I feel compelled to intervene.

The fact remains that Nick Sandmann stood aggressively close to Nathan Phillips, his posture and smirk fixed with a rigidity familiar to anyone who, like me, has been physically threatened or assaulted by a Catholic school meathead. Regardless of the aftermath, this was not a boy who was standing by innocently. He was full of the all the bravado an underdeveloped pre-frontal cortex allows, and that—to my eye—is undeniable in any of the videos I’ve seen so far. It’s an expression of the toxic masculinity Isaac mentioned in our discussion of “La Ruta.”

Part of the PR campaign the Covington Catholic community is waging involves blaming the Black Hebrew Israelites, a group of absolutely wild bigots that stand in public spaces and say naaaaaaaasty stuff about gays, women, etc. The reason for this PR move, I believe, is that Covington Catholic knows on some level that truth seekers will look at Nick Sandmann in those videos and see a young man eager for conflict, not peace. To avoid this murky discussion, they instead point to the Black Israelites as the instigators. “Look, these folks said faggot, that’s way worse.” Unfortunately, these two unrelated wrongs don’t change the interaction between Sandmann and Phillips on that video.

I was once a teenage boy, and I remember what a brutal period of self-discovery those years were for me. I made so many mistakes and treated folks around me with tremendous disrespect. To say the least, I’ve spent a lot of my adulthood making right the wrongs of my youth, and I am so lucky that every single fucking person wasn’t armed with a recording device when I was 16. I share this because I truly wish the best for the Covington Catholic boys—that they may overcome this moment, emerging on the other end with renewed faith and commitment to peace. I don’t see that happening, however, because as Nick Sandmann told the Today Show’s Savannah Guthrie, his only regret is that he didn’t walk away from Nathan Phillips (a subtle suggestion that Phillips was the aggressor), and he does not feel that he has anything for which to be sorry. If the only offense the Covington Catholic boys committed that day was Nick Sandmann glaring disrespectfully at an elder, then that would be enough to warrant an apology. Unfortunately, Nick Sandmann and whatever crisis PR firm is handling his case do not agree. (If you do not think Nick Sandmann’s glare was disrespectful, then let me ask you this: how would you feel if you saw him standing that way before your mother, father, grandparent?)

The problem is not so much the Covington Catholic boys as it is the adults who thrust victimhood on them. (And unrelatedly, I can’t help but imagine, if society cared this much about gay boys as it does about these Catholics then Bryan Singer would’ve been dealt with decades ago. But that’s another story.) The community that has built around Covington Catholic is absolute—the boys were not wrong, and any assertion otherwise is an attempt to ruin children's lives. Their supporters are misrepresenting the stakes in order to argue that MAGA folks are under attack. An attack on these boys gives MAGA supporters a chance to transfer their own feelings of victimhood, and so the amplification of their stories has created a deafening “poor me” echo chamber.

Speaking of poor me, in December I got into a Twitter fight with a playwright named Jeremy O. Harris, whose “Slave Play” was a controversial hit for the New York Theatre Workshop. The controversy wasn’t so much about the play as the playwright himself. I haven’t read or seen Slave Play, so I can’t speak to the piece’s merits, but I can speak to the way Jeremy behaves on social media, which seems to be carefully cultivated.

The initial buzz around “Slave Play” was huuuuge. As Jeremy himself said, the play went viral. The reviews from white NYC theater critics were overwhelmingly positive, with a few notable exceptions. On Twitter, however, criticism began to mount from a surprising corner: other black theater makers took serious issue with the way black women in particular are treated in the play. Some folks went as far as to say that Jeremy’s play was its own sort of violent act against black women, and they used things he’s said and tweeted publicly to support this. I won’t quote any of them, but it’s all there for you to find, if you want to.

All I can honestly say about Jeremy Harris is that I do not believe his social media persona is authentic. While “Slave Play” was enjoying an often sold-out run, he began tweeting about all the death threats he and his cast were receiving. For sure, horrific shit got hurled at Jeremy and his collaborators. At the same time this was happening, producers were looking seriously to bring the show to Broadway. Jeremy took to Twitter and called attention to the tweets and emails, claiming the threats he and others received numbered in the hundreds. I called bullshit on that number, and I wondered whether every mean tweet he received was actually a “death threat.” I suggested Jeremy was performing victimhood to engender sympathy that would distract from his critics and/or help facilitate a transfer, and perhaps that’s a leap too far. But I tweeted what I tweeted: I do not believe Jeremy Harris received “hundreds” of credible death threats over a play at an off-Broadway house. (For the record I never @ mentioned Jeremy on Twitter, he found my tweets on his own.)

In my back-and-forth with Jeremy, I made the mistake of roping critic Elizabeth Vincentelli into the discussion. Wasn’t really fair of me, because I don’t know her. But she was one of the only mainstream dissenting voices in her assessment of “Slave Play,” which she said ripped off better plays like “An Octaroon” and “Underground Railroad Game.” Elizabeth responded on Twitter to tell me that her problem was with the play, not the playwright, and she sort of scolded me for making inferences about Jeremy’s personality based on his tweets. Jeremy, who loves to herd critics on social media, jumped back in after EV’s capitulation, letting her (and me) know that “we stan critics.” The “we” referred only to him. Lol.

The funnier thing is that, two weeks later, on her podcast “Three on the Aisle,” Elizabeth did exactly what she admonished me for doing on Twitter—drawing conclusions about Jeremy the person—and she used much harsher language than anything I tweeted. She doubled down on the derivative nature of “Slave Play,” describing it as “a play that is embarrassing in its self-satisfaction and the way it revels in this empty provocation that is not really provoking, because people are just expecting it.” She elaborated:

“It’s is also written in an incoherent, smug manner that I found really, really annoying. Just the ineptitude of the writing was confounding, I felt. This play should’ve stayed in the oven, it was not ready to be pulled out… Reading the script afterwards, it annoyed me even more. The script is a window into the way this playwright’s mind works that is not really all that interesting.”

She later described anyone who was shocked by an event that happens in Jeremy’s play as “a target sitting still.” Harsh words for an artist and his audience. I wondered why she would be so brazen on a podcast yet conciliatory on Twitter. It made me wonder if she was afraid to bring the full weight of her position to Twitter, in writing, before Jeremy. And if that’s the case, then what positional power does she perceive that he has over her? Could be generational. Jeremy and his social media followers are presumably savvier to the medium than EV, which I imagine she would understand, so perhaps that’s part of the reason. Regardless, my question now, in light of everything, is: do we still stan critics like Elizabeth? (FWIW, I do. EV is one of the greats among NY’s theater critics.)

My beef with Jeremy truly isn’t so personal, although his personality seems challenging based on our Twitter interactions. That’s not real life, though, I know that. Jeremy and I have never met, only battled from our phones. Theater is the art I care most about, and I’m interested in who holds the power to create it.

Jeremy is a power-holder, despite repeatedly trying to position himself as an outsider. As far as I can smell, Jeremy is disingenuous in these claims, as he was when he overstated the number of actual threats he and others received. I believe that doing so helped bring attention to his play. Of course I have absolutely no concept of what it’s like to be a queer black person in America, but I do know that Yale Drama School—where Jeremy is finishing up his MFA—is the nerve center of NYC’s theater establishment. You cannot graduate from Yale Drama School and call yourself a theater outsider. Sorry. It’s just not honest. And when we allow dishonesty, for whatever reason, we allow injustice to escalate. And we stan only what’s just.

#la ruta #steppenwolf #theatre #theater #juarez #el paso #covington catholic #sandmann #phillips #catholic school #kentucky #march for live #harm #harm reduction #jeremy o harris #slave play #nytw #new york theatre workshop

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shostakobitchh · 7 years

Note

One shot of Ariel attempting hide the fact that she's super sick from Snape during class? Glad your back I missed your writing!

“You look like you’re dying.”

Ariel sent a poorly executed Look of Death and Imminent Suffering at Damon, who lifted a hand to feel her forehead.

“You’re burning up.” Damon frowned. “You need to go to the infirmary before you hurt yourself… or someone else by accident. Are you contagious?”

“M’fine.” Ariel said, leaning her head against the cool stone – it felt glorious. Her sinuses felt like they’d been filled with hot water.

“You look like death warmed over… actually, no, you might just be a walking corpse at this point.”

“Fuck off.” Ariel growled. “I was up all night – I don’t exactly take my appearance into account when that happens.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Damon gave her I-Have-Good-Intentions eyes.

Ariel squeezed her eyes shut, her fist curling against her forehead as she swallowed. Her throat felt like it had been lined with barbed wire. “I know… sorry. I feel awful… I didn’t sleep a wink.”

“Because you’re sick.” Damon said pointedly. “So you shouldn’t be here.”

Here was the dungeons, outside of her father’s classroom, waiting for him to open the door and begin class. Ariel hadn’t wanted to miss it – they had a lab practical today, and she knew that if she didn’t show, her father wasn’t going to be very happy, even if she was possibly dying. The response to that was what really kept Ariel here instead of crawling up to Madam Pomfrey. If Severus knew Ariel was sick, she wouldn’t see the outside of their quarters for at least a week. He went a bit mental if she wasn’t feeling well, even if it was just a little cold. Ariel was pretty sure that this was the flu, but she could handle it. If she could escape Voldemort three times, she could handle a double period of potions with Severus while half-awake.

When Ariel looked up at Damon, the lines of her vision dragged, like everything was moving in slow motion. She blinked, about to ask why they weren’t moving like they should, when the classroom door flew open.

Her father glared coldly at all of them scattered about the corridor. His stare made them all lean away, like they were a wave of dread. He never looked at Ariel when he was Professor Snape, though – that was really the only difference between Dad and Hated Potions Master. Ariel could be a piece of furniture to him during school hours, for all she knew.

“In,” her father commanded coldly, and they all obeyed silently, as they always did.

Damon kept his hand hidden, but firmly planted around her waist as they entered the classroom and sat down at their regular spot. Ariel couldn’t even begin trying to make out the words on the board. All the letters kept floating off in different directions.

“Ariel?” something was touching her arm – a hand. “Ariel, are you alright? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“M’fine,” Ariel said, her voice as garbled as her thoughts. “Let’s start.”

She winced as her bottom hit the stool. Everything was so sore, even after lying in her bed all night, wrapped up in four blankets as the chills came and went. All Ariel wanted was to go back to bed and never leave – if she had one wish, it would be that. Or a PepperUp Potion. Or five.

“You can’t brew.” Damon sighed. When Ariel looked up, he was studying her cautiously, like he was afraid that if he spoke, the strain to listen might send her over the edge. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I always brew.” Ariel tried to say forcefully, but it came out as a moan.

“You’ll blow up the cauldron – you can barely keep your head up.”

“Not true.” Ariel said as her cheek hit the tabletop – the wood was cold too, and it felt wonderful. “Professor Snape will read me the riot act if I’m not doing work.”

“I think he’d rather have you laze around instead of dropping dead.”

“Sometimes, I think he’d like me better if all I do was lie on the couch and bemoan how ill I was all the time.”

“I think I would too.”

Ariel threw her full weight into her arm, trying to smack him, but it fell back against her side like a dead weight attached to a rope. “I hate you.”

“So you claim.” Damon snickered, squinting up at the blackboard. Ariel tilted her head up towards the front of the room as well. Severus was seating himself behind the desk, looking terribly bored. If he stayed there, Ariel could do damage control on her condition with much trouble.

Ariel buried her face in her arms and took a deep, steadying breath. She did feel like she was going to faint, but as long as she stayed still and didn’t strain herself, she would be fine. How long did the flu last? A day? Two? She’d only started feeling sick after dinner last night… Ariel had gone to Gryffindor Tower to study instead of her father’s quarters, knowing she wouldn’t get anything done down there, with Harry around. He had the incredible talent of distracting her without doing anything.

She peeked up, finding the cauldron already overflowing with blue smoke that smelled faintly of pine. Her father –

He was staring right at her. Shit shit shit –

Ariel quickly covered her face with her arm and pretended to be scribbling something down.

“Damon,” she hissed, scrambling for her textbook and a quill. “read me the directions.”

He paused, his hand stretched over the cauldron, about to drop ingredients in. “What? Why?”

Ariel moved her eyes in the direction of her father’s desk. He was already on the move, leaning over Flora Carrow’s cauldron to inspect it, but his eyes were on Ariel. I know what you’re trying to do, the harsh frown on his face said.

Damon understood at once, whispering the instructions down at her as Ariel scribbled them down in what she hoped what legible handwriting. She couldn’t even tell what kind of potion they were supposed to be brewing – her brain seemed to have shut down the majority of her intellect.

Ariel gritted out what she could read clearly, trying to at least attempt appearing like she was doing something other than suffering. She wanted to rip the paper in half, with the amount of effort it was taking to hold herself upright and talk. It felt like an anvil was pressing against her spine.

When her father finally glided over to them, Ariel could practically feel him breathing down her neck. She wanted to threw the potions textbook at him and scream for him to go away and let her ride out the rest of the class in peace, but it was blatantly obvious that something was wrong with her, and that he knew it.

She tried to make herself look convincing when he came around the opposite side of her table. Even Damon stopped brewing to watch as Severus stared her down, his jaw clenched in a way that told Ariel he was worried, but was choosing to be angry about it. Ariel blinked languidly back at him, and handed Damon the first thing her hands touched, still trying to appear like she was invested in the work.

Ariel thought she deserved an award for this – she was fucking resilient, if anything.

Her father scowled, his eyes promising further investigation as he turned and headed back up to the front of the room. Ariel let out a short sigh of relief, and buried her face back in her arms for just a second… just a moment to rest her eyes…

“Mr Malfoy,” her father’s voice caused her eyes to snap open. “is your lab partner asleep?”

Ariel whirled around, nearly smashing her nose into her father’s chest. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest, and as her eyes slowly traveled up his body to his face, Ariel found herself not being able to find it in her to convince him that she was certainly not sleeping during class.

“No, I’m not.” Ariel tried to say, but the chills seemed to have returned. She snapped her teeth together to keep her father from seeing how badly they were chattering.

“Doesn’t look like it, sir.” Damon answered, his eyes on her.

Severus wasn’t buying it – he never did. “Are you certain, Mr Malfoy? I could have sworn I heard snoring.”

Ariel wanted to bite out that she didn’t snore – the smug git – but she could feel herself shaking. Maybe Damon was right… maybe she was going to pass out.

It was with that admission that she her vision wavered, and the slow-motion feeling came rushing back. Ariel gripped the table, but could already feel herself falling…

There was the screech of chairs, and suddenly, Ariel was leaning heavily against someone with very bony shoulder blades – Damon.

“She’s sick, sir.” Ariel heard Damon hiss. “She shouldn’t be here.”

“Then why is she?” her father snarled back. Ariel didn’t have it in her to open her eyes.

“She insisted –”

“Clearly, she is not of sound mind.” He snapped. “Take her to the infirmary right now, Mr Malfoy, before she cracks her head open against my classroom. I don’t care much for paperwork, and there will a mountain of it if that happens.”

Ariel wanted to snap something cheeky back, but all she could manage was a pitiful moan as Damon wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her stand. She felt another hand on her arm, and then, something weighty dropped into her pocket.

With one last burst of desperate energy, Ariel forced herself to squint at Severus.

“M’fine,” she managed to croak out.

Her father rolled his eyes, but he was a whole shade lighter. “Obviously.”

When she got out into the corridor, Ariel reached inside her robes.

He’d put a PepperUp potion in her pocket.

#redsorrow #oneshot #writing until my hands fall off #snape vibes #ariel vibes

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angelichl · 7 years

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Hi how are u today? I just wanna ask if there's any interpretation of Harry song ?? Can you link it ? Also i wonder why nobody talks about how sad and concerned these lyrics are ??

Hi love!!! Thanks for the question and sorry this is a long post … brace yourself haha. I haven’t seen much analysis of the lyrics, which is very strange! And yes, I have noticed that not many people are discussing the meaning behind Harry’s lyrics. They are very heavy and full of significance, and, you’re right, quite sad. But SOTT is also very hopeful. It’s a song of comfort and reassurance. Sign Of The Times reflects Harry’s tremendous strength and courage, in the most honest way.

Below is a link to one of the only interpretations I found interesting and adequate but not necessarily accurate followed by my own analysis. (I refrained from discussing Larry until the very end, so if you’re not into that, feel free to skip the last segment.)

Get ready, because this post is doozy.

SIGN OF THE TIMES LYRIC ANALYSIS:

https://www.bustle.com/p/harry-styles-sign-of-the-times-lyrics-warn-the-end-is-near-but-are-still-hopeful-49728

Now, I spent the past 36 hours thinking about this, and I even played it for my mom and asked for her input. Of everything I’ve read, half say SOTT is political and the other half say it’s romantic. What do I say? SOTT is both.

Let’s break it down:

Just stop your cryingIt’s a sign of the times

“A sign of the times” = something that is indicative of the current environment/era. A person may say “these riots are a sign of the times” to illustrate conflict. If crying is common enough that it is a sign of the times, something is seriously wrong, and the current period of time is full of sorrow, misery, and heartache. Depressing, no?

Welcome to the final showHope you’re wearing your best clothes

= the first introduction of the “endings/terminus” motif. It reminds me of wearing “your Sunday best [clothes]” to Church. (Notice: “clothes,” not “dress”)

You can’t bribe the door on your way to the skyYou look pretty good down hereBut you ain’t really good

Okay, so clearly this is where it gets a little fishy. Who is he talking to? Not the “you” he was telling not to cry earlier, rather, he’s talking to someone who is corrupt and superficial, and gets through life using money to his advantage (bribing). This person holds the facade of appearing benevolent, but underneath the mask, this person is not really good, i.e., this person is fake and pretends to be a good person but really just has nasty insides. Harry’s saying this person will not make it into heaven. Yikes.

We never learn, we been here beforeWhy are we always stuck and running fromThe bullets?The bulletsWe never learn, we been here beforeWhy are we always stuck and running fromThe bullets?The bullets

Clearly, Harry and the subject of the song (the first “you” mentioned) have been together for a while, possibly in a long-term relationship (hmm, I wonder who that could be? lol). They’ve been in this situation before, multiple times in fact, and though they are aware of it, they never learn from it, and thus never prevent it from happening. So they’re stuck in this awful loop, it seems. And stuck, indeed. In all his years of being a musical artist, Harry consistently writes about being trapped. Interesting. The bullets = conflict, but it is unclear as to what this conflict really is.

Just stop your cryingIt’s a sign of the timesWe gotta get away from hereWe gotta get away from hereJust stop your cryingIt’ll be alrightThey told me that the end is nearWe gotta get away from here

Here he’s reassuring his partner/romantic interest again, telling this person to stop crying because it’ll be alright. This is when he mentions that they need to escape. Shit, that’s heartbreaking. Something bad is happening to Harry and his love, the end is apparently near, and Harry is saying, let’s run away, let’s get out of here.

Just stop your cryingHave the time of your lifeBreaking through the atmosphereAnd things are pretty good from hereRemember everything will be alrightWe could meet again somewhereSomewhere far away from here

Now, this takes on a slightly less ominous, slightly more hopeful tone (see “things are pretty good from here”). Again, he is comforting and reassuring this person that everything will be alright. However, what makes my breath catch in my throat are the last two lines of this verse: “We could meet again somewhere, somewhere far away from here”. Not, we WILL meet again, but rather, we COULD. Not definite, just a possibility. How awful! Harry is saying, “stop crying, love, it’ll be okay. We need to escape this place because the end is coming, so you go this way and I’ll go that way, and we might run into each other again or something some time in the future maybe”. The fact that reuniting is only a possibility is agonizing. And … by “somewhere far away from here,” does he mean in the afterlife? Perhaps. Very morbid.

We never learn, we’ve been here beforeWhy are we always stuck and running fromThe bullets?The bulletsWe never learn, we been here beforeWhy are we always stuck and running fromThe bullets?The bullets

What’s interesting about this pre-chorus is that it sorta sounds like “your bullets” rather than “the bullets”. Interpret that as you will.

Just stop your cryingIt’s a sign of the timesWe gotta get away from hereWe gotta get away from hereStop your cryingBaby, it’ll be alrightThey told me that the end is nearWe gotta get away from here

“Baby” = reaffirmation that Harry is singing to his love, rather than just to a friend, or even to society in general (hence my disbelief in the politics theory). Again, more comfort and placation. This conflict clearly affects Harry as well, but he is courageously ignoring his fear and worry for the sake of his partner. That is the epitome of devotion. He must really love whoever he is singing to …

We never learn, we been here beforeWhy are we always stuck and running fromThe bullets?The bulletsWe never learn, we been here beforeWhy are we always stuck and running fromThe bullets?The bullets

Circles, we’re going in circles, dizzy’s what it makes us …

We don’t talk enoughWe should open upBefore it’s all too muchWill we ever learn?We’ve been here beforeIt’s just what we know

Miscommunication is adding fuel to the fire. In fact, it may actually be the conflict itself. Harry is very self-aware, and he definitely knows the components of a good relationship. These two really need to communicate, spill their guts, fears, anxieties, and worries to each other. No doubt, he’s right about that.

Stop your crying babyIt’s a sign of the timesWe gotta get awayWe got to get awayWe got to get awayWe got to get awayWe got to get awayWe got to, we got to runWe got to, we got to runWe got to, we got to run

This is agony. They need to get away; there is no other option. It’s dire, immediate.

Yes, Sign Of The Times is a romantic ballad that serves to comfort his love. Something is obviously wrong and the only way to stop the hurt is to escape. He’s ready to drop everything to get away from here, and this in particular reminds me of If I Could Fly. Specifically the lyrics, “I might give up everything / just ask me to”. It seems Harry has found his answer, and is now desperate enough to drop everything and run. Things must have gone from bad to worse during the time between IICF and SOTT. The idea of running away for the sake of saving your love is haunting.

Now, here’s my Larry analysis. I’ll try not to dwell, since half of the fun is piecing it together on your own, and of course this is just my opinion:

SOTT is a song written for Louis. Harry is both professing his devotion to and comforting the man he loves. They’re currently in a toxic environment, forcibly closeted, not allowed to show any indication that they even speak to each other. When Harry sings of looking pretty good but not actually being really good, he’s referring to whoever is in charge of this shitshow, because this person is clearly greedy and superficial and forcing two people to hide their wonderful love, which is vile. Harry and Louis have been in this situation before … for years, in fact. They’re quite familiar with being closeted: fake relationships, PR stunts, interviews and articles that portray them unfairly. They’re stuck in this situation, trapped by contractual obligations and the fear of professional failure.

There has to be a place where they can escape to, where they will not have to deal with all of this bullshit. Harry thinks there is, and he’s begging Louis to run away with him. The existence of a location far away that provides safety and assurance is breathtaking. I can only imagine these two in a place where they can be themselves, how happy they would be …

Harry is certain they need to run away, but he doesn’t seem very sure that this safe haven actually exists. All he knows is that it is worth it to escape the situation in which they are currently trapped.

There’s an image clear inside my mind: Louis arriving home after a paparazzi walk with Eleanor. He gets home and something seems off but he can’t quite place it so he ignores the unsettling feeling. Harry has been acting … distant, to say the least. Louis brushes it away, ignores the aching in his gut. Everything is fine, except … Harry is upset. Louis doesn’t know why. He doesn’t say anything, neither of them do. They’ve been together for years but this is something that never fails to strike Harry, to gnaw at his insides until he’s constantly on the verge of tears. He knows it’s stupid to be insecure, but he can’t help it. Their relationship suffers, especially because sometimes they are not the best at communication. There are nights when Louis debates confronting Harry about it but decides against it, and falls asleep sprawled out on the bed. Harry pretends everything is fine, but sneaks away when he hears Louis’ soft breath slow to a pace that indicates deep sleep, and then he escapes to the bathroom, turns on the shower, slips underneath the warm water, and cries.

So, there’s miscommunication. Harry and Louis don’t talk enough; they really need to open up. Harry is aware of this. Yet their love endures. He knows they need to run away. He’s ready to give up everything. He would do anything for the boy he loves.

Yes, Sign Of The Times is a romantic ballad. But it’s also political, remarking on the stigma surrounding the LGBTQ+ community, especially in media and entertainment. At the end of the day, Harry leaves Louis with a single message:

There is love to find beyond the horizon.

#sign of the times #sott #harry styles #louis tomlinson #larry stylinson #lyric analysis #lyrics #meaning

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