#british war relief dinner
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Orson Welles, Dolores Del Rio and Charlie Chaplin attend dinner for British War Relief, August 1941.
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had to see you
simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader
summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.
an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%.
word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here
simon ghost riley masterlist
You love the rain.
Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit.
But, at home, it’s refreshing.
It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next.
Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.
It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called.
On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices.
At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat.
Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather.
Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.
You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts.
Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.
You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.
The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.
When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.
That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them.
Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness.
It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.
It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock.
Short. Deliberate.
Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door.
When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them.
Only to see him.
“Ghost?”
He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.
His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.
You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.
Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.
“You lettin’ me in?”
Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it.
Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks.
He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second.
Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“
“Someone broke into my place.”
You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was.
Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back.
“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?”
“Not sure.”
Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”
He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain.
“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper.
As if it’s so rarely ever said.
You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything.
He’s Ghost.
Silent. Quiet, Ghost.
Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound.
Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?”
Silence.
A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.”
You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.”
He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to.
“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.”
You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him.
But you’re more nervous.
Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is.
Him being here.
And yet, not that odd at all.
“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.
He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him.
His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit.
“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add.
Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show.
And then, he says, “It’s nice.”
“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”
“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly.
“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.
Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.”
His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table.
“It’s not what I expected.”
“You’ve thought about my place?”
Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down.
You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward.
“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”
You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement.
“You were closer.”
Oh.
Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason.
Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months…
It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.
Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat.
“I had to see if you were okay.”
You don’t place the plates down, not immediately.
Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat.
He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue.
Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you.
“Well, I’m fine.”
“Had to be sure.”
You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.”
His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.
“Tea?” you ask.
Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips.
“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”
You make him snort.
And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.
If anything, it adds to it.
Shit.
Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.
“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand.
You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him.
Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between.
He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it.
It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down.
That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room.
He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes.
You cannot die.
Why?
But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again.
Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost.
Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm.
“What?”
Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’.
You forget how good he is at reading people.
Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle.
Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart.
Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat.
Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.”
Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk.
But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you.
Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.”
“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.”
“How then?”
Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit.
“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.”
You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name.
Your real name.
Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier.
“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”
“It?”
You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense.
“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?”
Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you.
He’s silent.
So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it.
Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.”
You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.
For what you’re not sure.
Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination.
So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.”
He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.”
But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape.
Go back.
Go back to him.
Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.
He came to check on you. You.
Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak.
It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.
It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again.
His hoodie is gone.
Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.
Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin.
“Tell me to go back to your living room.”
Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side.
You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again.
As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined.
“Words, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you.
“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.”
Speechless, your lips part.
Yes. Please, yes.
Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—
His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality.
“Simon…” you manage to whisper.
Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough.
He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.
Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips.
Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed.
He smells different than usual.
Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough.
“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?”
His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for.
“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up.
His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.”
If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it.
All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.
And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do.
“Wait.”
It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you.
Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.
And he smirks.
The devious bastard smirks.
Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him.
“Fuck…”
“Part them, sweetheart.”
And you do.
You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back.
The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.
You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big.
Almost too big.
The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans.
He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers.
You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him.
The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side.
“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours.
Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you.
“I want you.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”
“I hope you fucking don’t.”
His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.
You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds.
You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.
“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.”
“Simon…”
Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched.
He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you.
You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows.
“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.”
It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.
He does ruin you.
Not the first time, the second, but on the third.
Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom.
You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.
A painting in colours of his own design.
You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care.
Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe.
You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.
"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.
Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.
Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.
“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”
He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move.
Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building.
"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."
His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.
"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."
You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.
Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.
“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.”
Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.”
You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart?
His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.
“The latter.”
You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.
Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.
“You make shit tea, though.”
read part two
a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!
#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon 'ghost' riley#simon riley#simon riley x reader#ghost cod#ghost riley#cod ghost x reader smut#simon ghost riley x reader smut#simon ghost riley x f!reader#ghost x reader#ghost x reader smut#simon riley x you#cod ghost x reader#cod ghost angst#cod ghost smut#ghost smut
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Jeanette MacDonald - The Iron Butterfly
Jeanette Anna MacDonald (born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on June 18, 1903 – January 14, 1965) was an American actress best remembered for her musical films in the 1930s. MacDonald was one of the most influential sopranos of the 20th century, introducing opera to film-going audiences and inspiring a generation of singers. She became known as "The Iron Butterfly", for she was one of the most lady-like and beautiful women in Hollywood, but when it came to contracts, she was tough and kept unwanted advances in check, rarely making a misstep in her career.
She was the third daughter of Scottish-American parents and the younger sister to character actress Blossom Rock ( who was most famous as "Grandmama" on the 1960s TV series The Addams Family), whom she followed to New York for a chorus job on Broadway in 1919.
After working her way up from the chorus to starring roles on Broadway, she was casted as the leading lady in Paramount Studios' The Love Parade (1929), a landmark of early sound films. Despite making many successful films with Paramount, she next signed with the Fox.
MacDonald then took a break from Hollywood in 1931 to embark on a European concert tour, performing at the Empire Theater in Paris and at London's Dominion Theatre. She was even invited to dinner parties with British Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald and French newspaper critics. She returned to Paramount the following year and made more films.
In 1933, MacDonald left again for Europe, and while there signed with MGM, which brought her together with Nelson Eddy. The pair made eight pictures together, including Maytime (1937), arguably the best musical of all time. From then on, they were forever known as America's Singing Sweethearts.
In 1943, she left MGM and began pursuing other interests. She made her opera debut singing Juliette in Gounod's Roméo et Juliette in Montreal at His Majesty's Theatre. After the war, MacDonald made two more films, but quit the movies altogether in 1949. The 1950s found MacDonald in the Las Vegas nightclub circuit, on television, in sold-out concert tours, in studio recordings, and on musical stage productions.
In her final years, MacDonald developed a serious heart condition. She died in Houston, Texas while awaiting heart surgery; she was 61 years old.
Legacy:
Won the Screen Actors Guild award for Maytime (1937)
Crowned as the Queen of the Movies in 1939 by 22 million filmgoers in a New York Daily News survey as presented by Ed Sullivan
Has 2 RCA Red Seal gold records (one for "Indian Love Call" (1936) and another for "Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life" (1935)
Has 1 RIAA gold record for Favorites in Hi-Fi (1959)
Was one of the highest-paid actresses in MGM in the 1930s
Co-founded the Army Emergency Relief and raised funds on concert tours in 1941 to support American troops
Awarded an honorary doctor of music degree from Ithaca College in 1956
Named Philadelphia's Woman of the Year in 1961
Is the namesake of the USC Thornton School of Music built a Jeanette MacDonald Recital Hall built in 1975
Has a bronze plaque unveiled in March 1988 on the Philadelphia Music Alliance's Walk of Fame
Immortalized in cement at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, Hollywood in 1934
Co-wrote an autobiography, Jeanette MacDonald Autobiography: The Lost Manuscript, in the 1950s and which was eventually published in 2004
Honored as Turner Classic Movies Star of the Month for March 2006
Has two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame: for motion pictures at 6157 Hollywood Blvd and for recording at 1628 Vine Street
#Jeanette MacDonald#The Iron Butterfly#Silent Films#Silent Movies#Silent Era#Silent Film Stars#Golden Age of Hollywood#Classic Hollywood#Film Classics#Classic Films#Old Hollywood#Vintage Hollywood#Hollywood#Movie Star#Hollywood Walk of Fame#Walk of Fame#Movie Legends#Actress#hollywood actresses#hollywood icons#hollywood legend#movie stars#1900s
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(iii) daffodil ; portgas d. ace
↻ hurt/comfort, mention of blood, mention of injury, kinda angsty, mutual pining, crack (not literally), grammatical error, not proofread
↻ pairing ↬ ace x fem!reader!
also, if theres some different spelling in my writings, please dont mind it cuz i learned british english at school :)
series masterlist
today wasn’t the best day of your life. no― it was the worse. if anything, your best days were hanging out with ace, cuddling with ace, laughing with ace, reading with ace, ace, ace, ace.
everything had to do with ace. sure, ace had something to do with what was happening right now. but it wasn’t something that you hoped for. him bleeding out in front of you all because of you?
he chuckled. “what are you crying for?” the male asked, somehow tried to comfort you. “you’re bleeding! and i’m worried about you!” you shouted at him. “ouch... my ears,” he flinched.
“why would you do that?” ouch, that expression hurts him. the first time and the last time he saw that expression was during his time at marineford. that war.
.
the pain he was feeling couldn’t match the one that he felt in his heart. that look on your face. he doesn’t want to see that. he wants you to be happy instead of that anguish look.
he wants to comfort you to heaven’s back. the things he would do to take away your pain but he couldn’t. he could only stare at you from afar. the blank look on your face as luffy’s hands clawed at him tighter.
“a-ace?” the rubber boy called out. “luffy... would you tell y/n that i love her?” he asked. “w-what are you talking about?! you’re going to get out of here and tell her that yourself!” he yelled, tears starting to flow freely down his cheeks.
“i’m afraid i don’t... have the time to do that,”
.
“chopper? is he okay? please tell me he’s okay,”
“he’s fine y/n. it was just a slight gash. thanks to his devil fruit, he managed to sustain most of the injury. it could have been worse,” chopper explained. you immediately sigh in relief before rushing inside the med bay, ignoring the reindeer’s plea to let him rest.
of course, you weren’t going to bother his rest. you just wanted to be by his side. in case he wakes up. “hey...”
your eyes quickly flew open and were met with ace’s tired eyes. even seeing him without those injuries, it still hurts you. after all, he got hurt because of you. “w-why are you crying?!” he asked in a panic tone.
“you idiot! you shouldn’t have done that!” you scolded him, smacking his arm lightly. he chuckled lightly. “y/n... i’d do anything to see you safe and sound,” he said, looking at you with vulnerable eyes. “but what if it had been worse? you― you could’ve died!”
“but i didn’t. i will stay with you until my last breath. i will save you again and again,” you could feel your face warm up at his words. “hey... look at me please,” ace plead. ignoring your burning face, you looked at him slowly, eyes still wandering aimlessly. “i...”
‘should i say it...?’
“i lov-” the door flew open and luffy immediately lunched himself onto ace, ignoring the groan that came out of his brother. “ace!!!” luffy cried, hugging his brother tighter to him. “l-luffy! i can’t breath―” you quickly smacked your captain’s head.
“if he’s not dying right now, then he will the next few minutes of you hugging him,” you huffed. “s-sorry,” he apologized, wiping away his tears. “i’m hungry,” ace suddenly said with a sheepish smile. “of course! sanji―”
the blond was at your side in seconds. “yes, y/n-swan~” you chuckled at his enthusiasms. “will you bring dinner for ace?” you asked sweetly. “anything for you, y/n-swan!”
.
“i think my hands are suddenly numb,” ace pouted, faking his hurt expression. you sighed, moving closer and took the plate off his hands and feed him instead. “you’re such a baby,” you muttered frustratingly, trying to mask your flustered face.
after you finished feeding him, you get up from your seat to bring the dirty utensils back to the kitchen. “where are you going?” he asked, jerking his body towards you a little. “i’m going to bring this to the kitchen,”
“well, you can just ask sanji to do that right?” he asked, the light in his eyes dimmed. “i’ll just be putting this away. i’ll be right back,” you answered with a reassuring smile. “then hurry and come back or else i will die from this boredom,” he sighed dramatically.
you chuckled and hurry yourself to the kitchen. the moment you came back to his room, you could already hear the soft snores coming from him. you sighed in relief before retreating to the girls’ room.
you wouldn’t know how to handle him now that there was nothing to distract you.
.
“i feel so betrayed right now!”
you gasped loudly. “you were the one who slept on me!” you rolled your eyes at him. “you could have wake me up!” he shot back. you shot your hands up in a frustrated manner. ‘he’s such a man-child! i can’t believe he was upset about it,’
“ugh, could you two get a room already?” nami groaned, “nami!” you scolded. “what?! you two have been arguing like an old married couple,” she rolled her eyes. suddenly, you could feel shiver running up your spine. like when someone giving off a murderous glare.
but when you turn to see who it was from, it was from the one and only blond cook. “i mean...” your head quickly turned to ace. “what was that?”
“nothing!”
for the entire day, he acted weirdly around you.
taglist: @maaarshieee
#ace#ace x reader#portgas d. ace x reader#portgas d ace x reader#portgas d. ace#fluff#angst#hurt/comfort#one piece#one piece scenario#oneshot#one piece fandom#one piece fanfiction#one piece angst#one piece fluff#daffodil series#iii. daffodil#daffodils
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kiss me better. -rambheem-
[ continuation of hollow cries of the heart. ]
━ ━ 🌟 ━ ━
it had been a day since the incident — 24 hours since last bheem met ram, could find him through the vast expanse of the city. he'd heard that the riots had calmed down after special forces were appointed to lathi - charge on spot, which led to the crowds dispersing quicker.
water hoses were showered on the fire raging in some parts of the city— and bheem had no clue where ram had been deployed, or even if the elder was still safe from the dangers or no.
he hadn't returned, and won't return, bheem had realised with a sinking heart, after 6 hours of waiting for him to show up.
the sadness slowly turned into anger, despair as he began to start looking around for ram in the city, visiting police stations to ask if ram had been somewhere around. there was no answer.
at last, he went to bed, mind full of worry— his stomach lurching as everything that could've gone wrong ran through him. he'd barely able to get past his dinner, but he did it, for the sake of himself, and ram.
━ ━ 🌟 ━ ━
in the middle of empty, silent streets, lay a body clad in red uniform— eyes barely managing to open up as he fought to stay concious, each push of his knee made his knee throb— teeth clenching tight with the pain that shot through him.
a dreadful thought crossed his mind— 'what if he never reached home?'
blood— everywhere. his clothes are stained, eyes swollen and aching, ears ringing as he struggles to make noise, to ask for help— blood is smeared across his cheeks.
vaguely, he remembers. anger— blinding and burning his way through his rationality, as he charges straight into the mob of violent protestors.
he forgets, that he's one— and he's outnumbered. he fights, with all his might, his anger, his frustration— at himself, for hurting bheem, for being irrational — for taking away the one thing that bought him happiness, after years of finding solace in the dark.
belatedly, surrounded by the crowds that overpower him, screams and protests charging the atmosphere as they hit him and punch him, he realises — what a fool he had been.
to think he could win this war alone, to think he could survive without bheem, alone.
ram is dragged back to conciousness, when he hears footsteps approach him. for a moment, hope flickers in him— in the name of bheem. it dies down when he listens more closely, through the throbbing pain that threatens to overtake him, that the steps aren't as heavy, as calculated, as sure as bheem's are.
he rests his head against the cold concrete, a soothing balm against his burning body, as he lets out one last pained huff, a plea, a cry, a yearning all in one, the fight in him dying out— "bheema."
then, there's hurried footsteps running towards him, a figure, he manages to look through his blurry eyes filled with tears— clad in white kurta, and a face that's recognisable.
"ram?" the voice calls out, laced with panic, "it's me, babai." the voice confirms, arms coming around his torso to lift him up.
ram groans in pain, the relief so strong that it makes him weaker than he felt— he could rest now.
ram shuts his eyes close, ignoring the panicked shriek and the request to keep his eyes open— a quirk in his bloodied, busted lip— with a last thought, his mind finally relaxes.
he'd be able to go home— return to bheem, now.
all throughout the night, bheem shifts uncomfortably on the bed, clutching ram's pillow close to his heart as he tries to force himself to sleep— the howls of the dogs on the streets amplifying the ominous night.
━ ━ 🌟 ━ ━
blinking his eyes open, ram registers the sharp pain shooting through his brain the moment he tries to lift it. sighing, he relaxes back into the makeshift back, moving his legs until he finds a comfortable position.
the situation he's stuck in, isn't new to him — it has been a common occurrence in his life as a cop serving for the british so far — and everytime he thought it was his last day on earth, babai would save him.
he owed the man his life, in the most truest sense.
ram doesn't understand why this time however, it got to his heart more than it should've. each breath he takes, his heart trembles with it, the grip on his throat becoming tighter and tighter.
bheem.
he realises — guilt washing over him as the tremble in his heart instantly turns into an aching longing for the younger to be here. slowly, he finds himself closing his eyes as he drowns in the memories they spent together — each one more painful than the last.
babai enters the room, trying his best to be silent as he takes note of the surrounding — it doesn't seem as if ram is awake. babai narrows his eyes when he sees ram's eyes shake under his closed eyelids— a tear drop escaping.
unaware of babai's presence, ram lifts his bandaged hand to wipe away the tear, the same time as babai coughing, to make his presence known in the ram.
faster than lightning, ram's hands find themselves in their original place, his eyes shooting open as he strains them to see the elder stand in the corner of his room— looking at him, with a tired expression in his eyes.
he knows the lecture that's about to come— and a second later, sita opens the halfway shut door, humming a melody with a glass of water filled in her hand.
she stops when she sees ram, awake — then looks at babai's tired expression, looking back at ram to see the dried tear track on his cheek.
with the look in their eyes, ram knows, he's doomed. he lets out a groan of defeat, as he knows — that they know, this time, he attempted this stupid stunt not because of his dedication towards his nation, but because of something related to bheem.
━ ━ 🌟 ━ ━
"ouch!" ram lets out a pained hiss at sita's relentless smacking on his head — they're not strong enough to cause more bleeding but brutal— and sita doesn't seem on the mood to give up soon.
"you're an idiot!" she shouts, with one last smack, she gives up, rolling her eyes and taking a seat on the chair set beside his bed.
"babai," ram turns to the eldest with a pleading expression, just for his head to be smacked once again, as sita says, "what babai? he's not saying anything, you're an idiot and you'll apologise to bheem the first thing after you get well!"
she announces, ram turns to babai for help— just to see the man shrug, before letting out a sigh and getting up.
he looks at them both, assessing the situation, before pointing towards sita and commanding, "you— try not to kill him. for the sake of bheem."
and quickly steps out of the door to prepare food for them and ram lets out a frustrated groan— traitors, all of them are traitors.
sita, with the aide of an equally interested babai, had managed to get all of the details out of ram after she asked, "what did you do to him this time?"
ram was defensive at first, to buy himself more time, because knowing your mistakes and letting people you know that you've made a mistake is different.
but it's especially hard to hide infront of the two lone people who've known you for life— and so, ram began, with a defeated look on his face.
sita had met bheem twice. she'd also clearly seen how understanding and accomodating bheem was to ram's trauma. never did once, did she sense ram hide his true personality around the younger.
she'd taken a liking to bheem instantly, after he'd grinned at her, noticing how she'd also asked for a refill with bheem, both on their second plate of biryani.
he'd treated her with her favourite— ras malai afterwards, homemade, mind you, and that was how sita's heart was satisfied — ram was in the hands of a person who was sensitive enough to him and his past.
as for ram, the man couldn't possibly be more in love. their eyes were glued to eachother, sita had seen, with a fond look in her face— and how ram seemed to be attracted towards bheem without even being concious of it— it seemed hardwired in ram to care of the younger in every way—
to the point where he'd lightly slap away the younger's eager hand from the hot pot of biryani, preventing a burn. he'd later kiss the same place he'd hit— a timid "sorry" spoken and bheem, would collect ram in his hands and pepper him with affection.
sita placed a firm hand over ram's one, wrapped in cotton and netted cloth, and squeezed it, it was her way to show that she too, understood.
ram felt tears well up again, and almost felt angry at himself — sita was right. he was an idiot, only an idiot would make a mistake and later cry in regret.
"ram," sita called his name, ram looked up at her, through his blurry eyes, and saw her smile, "you need to understand — this is how love works. bheem isn't burdened by you, when he chose to be in love with you, when he chose to live with you— he knew and accepted every part of you, ram."
once more in life — ram felt that he'd almost breakdown with the sheer amount of gratefulness and relief that flooded his heart. with a rising realisation — he reflected on how frequent showing his emotions, and letting himself cry had become, after bheem showed up in his life.
he no longer possessed the strength to supress his emotional needs— the thought both terrified and relieved him.
"it's okay," sita soothed, patting his hand, "he'll understand." she finally said— and ram, he stuck to her words.
sniffing and wiping away his tears, he shook free his hand fron hers, faking disgust as he turned his head away— it was a pathetic act to cover up the emotions he'd let run free and sita saw right through it.
shaking her head at his childishness, sita felt the urge to land ram in some more trouble— she smirked, standing up and hands going to her hips as she looked at ram, "you want me to call bheem here, for him to lend you a shoulder, perhaps?"
she wondered innocently, a finger tapping her chin as she faked thinking deeply, bursting out laughing when she saw ram perk up, and then dull down— almost as if he was in a tug of war, the need to see the younger too strong, but the guilt and shame equally present.
well then, it was decided. sita would take it in her hands to reunite ram and bheem, again.
━ ━ 🌟 ━ ━
bheem sat outside their home, in a small space— working on a bicycle a random kid had dropped by. it had some issues with the chain, bheem had noticed.
he took the opportunity to distract his mind— away from the constant worry of whether ram was alright or no. he felt betrayed— this wasn't what he deserved. he smacked himself on his forehead when he felt his thoughts diverge once again.
from far away, bheem could make out a fairly recognisable figure cycling towards their home in full speed— his heart lurched in his chest when he could see clearer— and saw that it was babai, heading towards him.
"is ram okay?" was the first thing bheem had asked, without even considering if babai had come to him to ask the same question — how they could both be clueless about ram's whereabouts.
seeing babai pant, bheem felt stupid at his ownself, and rushed inside to grab some water that had been turned cold in his matka— and handed it to babai, watching the older man chug it down.
after a few seconds, babai looked at him, and said "please come with me— ram misses you." he wasn't ths most great at delivering messages related to love, and bheem understood that.
frowning, the younger narrowed his eyes, deliberately pushing down the hope that rose inside of him— the waves of anxiety washing over his stomach. "is ram okay? if he is, then i won't go." bheem definitively said— bent on not changing his decision.
upon seeing babai lost on what to say next, bheem explained— "i deserve an apology from him, besides ram said it himself — he doesn't think we should be together anymore." a tiny bit of his heart cracked when he said it out loud — but he didn't budge, still.
after much convincing, and babai repeating the words sita had told him, "we both know how much of a emotionally constipated fool he is" bheem finally agreed to go meet ram.
━ ━ 🌟 ━ ━
the moment bheem stepped foot into the vicinity of the home— ram could feel him. his heart rate picked up, palms sweating as he twisted uncomfortably, trying to sit up and achieving it with minimal success.
he felt as if he was a parched man, walking without water for hours and finally, he could sense water around him. it could be delusional because of the mind-numbing desperation, but ram waited, on the edge of losing sanity— for bheem to open the door and come.
he'd never say it, but he wouldn't know how would he ever have the courage to confront the younger without sita's help.
bheem waited, anxious, as sita talked with babai about something — before she looked at him, warm and welcoming, and ushered him towards a door. beyond it lay ram, he knew. with one last look at sita, he pushed the door open.
ram's breath caught in his throat as he looked at bheem— his bheem. ram couldn't look away, eyes tracing his face, the younger had turned paler, cheeks sunken in and eyes void and dull.
guilt washed over him again, as he looked away—nervous of what is to come. nothing would come out of his throat — it's as if they shut themselves and refused to work.
bheem's feet moved on their own accord when they saw ram, bandaged up and hurt. in an instant, he was looming over the elder, arms finding their way across his torso, careful of the injuries, as he bent down, meeting halfway into a hug.
it was awkward, tilted, uncomfortable — and yet, they both completely relaxed into eachother, a choked sob sounding out of ram as he whispered a broken, timid "sorry" and lifting his hands to wrap around bheen— tighter, holding him closer, letting himself get washed away in bheem's essence.
they both stayed that way, until bheem's feet started aching and ram's body hurt with how it had been — until ram's tears dried out, repeating the litany of apologies and bheem's voice had gone hoarse from whispering sweet nothings into his ears.
pulling away, bheem gently wiped away the tears of the elder, gazing into his eyes, where he saw a flicker of hope— emerging from pools of guilt and regret.
bheem knew they had a long way to go, too many nights spent talking, understanding, drawing boundaries and sharing comfort. he knew— they'd have to work, on himself, on ram, on their relationship together.
he also knew, it probably wasn't the smartest idea to stay beside ram, where his resolve to maintain a stoic face of indifference to ram's injuries would fail.
yet, bheem couldn't find it in him to care. cradling ram's face in his hands, his eyes watched carefully, every bruise, every swelling, the busted lips.
and ram, ever so delicate, fragile ram— his lips quivered, before he bit them to stop it— and unconscious habit he'd picked up at a young age— hissing when the busted lip split open, metallic taste coating his tongue.
eyes looking into bheem's, he felt the tears rise again as he asked, a request and an assurance— to test if everything was fine. if bheem would accept him in his heart, again.
"please," ram croaks, voice scratchy from overuse — fingers tightening around where it's wrapped in the younger's firm, sturdy hands. "kiss it better?" ram asks, jutting his lower lip out the tiniest bit.
his heart feels lighter when he sees bheem go soft, his expression pulling into one of those where it'd be so obvious he was in love with ram.
"oh rama," he breathed out— pulling ram closer as his lips meet with ram's midway, the blood smearing on their lips as bheem kisses ram— he pulls away momentarily, eyes flickering to ram's before they go downwards, a small curse falling from his lips as he sees the elder's lips glisten, plump and red.
if bheem had one weakness, it would be ram. he urgently closes the distance between them again, hand coming up to cradle ram's face, the elder's lips part, wet and hot, and bheem sucks on his lower lip abashedly.
it feels as if they are entangled for eternity, kissing and falling into the depths of the other — until ram pulls back, the need for oxygen overpowering him.
bheem, leans up and presses one last, quick kiss on his lips, before murmuring, "never, ever do that again."
sita sits outside on the verandah, a plate filled with various foods in her hands as she animatedly talks to babai — and when she sees none of them come out, she smiles, satisfied with her deeds.
━ ━ 🌟 ━ ━
a/n; man this turned out to be so fucking long, i gave up 3 times before deciding that it's either this gets posted today or, it goes untouched for the next three days. it's fucking 2:10 in the morning.
be honest, how do u guys read thru all my mess 😭⁉️
tags; @rambheemisgoated @rambheem-is-real @alikokinav @yehsahihai @bromance-minus-the-b
@sinistergooseberries @thewinchestergirl1208 @jeonmahi1864 @azraelcuror @sivuda @lovingperfectionwonderland @mikabilis @eremin0109 @floating-mushroom @obsessedtoafault @icarus-f4lls @prdnya-blog @kashti15 @jjwolfesworld @iamhereforthefanfics @fadedscarlets @kookiries @fangirlshrewt97 @ursulasteffany
[ if i forgot someone i am sorry 🤧 and lmk if u wanna be tagged in my upcoming rambheem fics! ]
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Day 1 - Tel Aviv
I forgot how wonderful Israeli breakfast buffets are. Allison loved the gigantic tub of Nutella with the assortment of freshly baked goods. It was a nice way to start the day.
First stop was to Ayalon which used to be a kibbutz that held a special purpose during the war of independence in the 1940s. On the surface, this kibbutz was a typical community of bakers, farmers, and teachers living in modern socialist bliss. Below the surface, literally 30 meters underground, a covert operation was taking place where 45 members of the kibbutz were producing 9mm rounds of ammunition for the Israeli army. At the time under British mandate, possessing a firearm was illegal and punishable by hanging. So those producing ammunition underground were rising arrest or worse. This group of bullet manufacturers produced over 2 million rounds by hand in the 4 years the operation lived underground. 12 hour shifts were taken and these “farmers” needed to look tan so a booth with UV light was installed for them to get some vitamin D while never being exposed to the sun.
We stopped for lunch at a large market in town where the temperature increased to 105 degrees. We spend about an hour looking around the art and grabbed some product. Then we found a cafe that offered a sampler of appetizers where we ate eggplant hummus, sweet potato patties, grape leaves stuffed with rice and raisins, and chicken livers. Allison did not taste the chicken livers…more for me.
We later drove to a suburb of Tel Aviv called Jaffa where we met with a man who founded a network of elementary schools for children born into interfaith families. In the US, being interfaith doesn’t drastically limit which schools you attend but here in Israel you either attend schools with Jewish, Islamic, or Christian curriculum. This muslim man fell in love with a Jewish girl and they struggled finding schools for their kids so they started their own. It’s a good story and it was relevant for Allison to hear about education in Israel.
There was about an hour to kill between getting back to the hotel and the start of Shabbat so Allison and I decided to grab a few beers and head to the beach and swim in the Mediterranean. The water was perfectly calm and crystal clear, a bit chilly but we enjoyed the relief from the heat.
Our Shabbat service in the hotel lobby was a bit abbreviated but the message was around the differences between thinking/acting with your mind compared to your heart. Allison and I learned that she initially thinks with her heart where I typically react with my brain first.
Dinner was back in Jaffa at a seafood restaurant. Nothing amazing but was fun to get to meet other members of the group. We all went out to a bar after supper for some “potions” that would make us move slow the next day.
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The Entente, Ians, and Shakespeare
entente - noun - a friendly understanding or informal alliance between states or factions (Google).
Lately, the entente has populated the domestic as well as foreign news. Due to the unmitigated wrath of Hurricane Ian, two normally politically unfriendly factions–Democrats and Republicans (namely President Biden and Florida governor Ron DeSantis)–are expeditiously seeing eye-to-eye in terms of relief funding: Biden being the giver, DeSantis being the receiver of the dollars. Ironic as it may seem, natural disasters affecting human life and interactions tend to motivate ententes albeit the human equivalent, war, often causes the opposite: strife among the warring factions as well as neighboring states that are forced to take sides. And then, there is the smallest, most personal entente, that which is made between friends or relatives, that might also prove pernicious or perilous.
Those of you who follow me (both of you) know that I belong to a book club of former colleagues. For October's selection, I, whose turn it was, chose Ian (no relation to the hurricane mentioned above) McEwan's Booker Prize-winning novel Amsterdam that involves a pact between two close friends, Clive, a well-known classical composer, and Vernon, a respected journalist. At the novel's entrance, the men interface at the sparse funeral of their mutual lover, Molly, who at a relatively young age, contracted an unnamed, fatal disease similar to ALS. As he fears a similar fate, self-possessed Clive decides to involve Vernon in a bleak entente: should he fall victim to a terminal disease, Vernon must agree to call in the British equal of Dr. Kevorkian to end Clive's life a.s.a.p. to prevent any unwanted suffering. Eventually, a reluctant Vernon does decide to sign the dotted line of agreement, but only if Clive consents to do the same for him. As Drama will have it, at the turning point, the two find each other in a political debate, which does irreparable damage to their friendship. The end, as you might have already guessed, is far from agreeable. In fact, it is a wonderful example of situational irony. (I'd love to spoil things and tell you what happens, but I'm hoping you'll read the book, which is under 200 pages and highly digestible, but probably not while imbibing champagne, a wine that figures into the plot.)
When a pact of any kind is mentioned, particularly one involving money, I tend to find the nearest exit as soon as possible. William Shakespeare's "Neither a borrower nor lender be/For loan loses both itself and friend" (from Hamlet) is the one quote that has stayed embedded in my memory for good reason. Ententes involving the loan often turn sour as the borrower, who is often a friend, forgets he is the borrower and usually absconds with the funds, forgetting the original terms. Which is why when push comes to shove and I feel the urge of altruism or am backed into a corner, I tend to give food rather than cash. Why? It is a pure need rather than a want. Most people who consistently rely on relations or acquaintances rather than a legitimate bank to make ends meet are usually guilty of poor decision-making regarding their own lives. Rather than learn from their mistakes, they keep making them, knowing that they can always depend on the lender, the friend or relative, to be at their beck and call with wallet open and the willingness to be forever generous. I am sure that if you are reading this, you know exactly what I mean as you have "been there, done that" and couldn't afford to buy the T-shirt after it was all over.
The takeaway: There is nothing wrong with giving, but there are ways of being magnanimous without enabling. An honest entente need not involve anything controversial that might test the love between you and someone close to you. It could be as easy as, "The next time you find yourself short of cash, give me a call, and I'll cook you dinner." Feel free to borrow the line. It's on me :).
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Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton CVO OBE FRGS FRSGS, led three British expeditions to the Antarctic. His journey began at 16 when he left school, and went to sea. During the following eight years, Shackleton learned his trade and in 1898, he was certified as a master mariner, qualifying him to command a British ship anywhere in the world.
Shackleton's first experience of the polar regions was as third officer on Captain Scott’s ‘Discovery’ expedition 1901-1904 on which Scott, Wilson and Shackleton set a new southern record by reaching latitude 82°S. The three men all suffered from snow blindness, frostbite and scurvy. Scott sent Shackleton home on a relief ship in 1903 on the grounds of ill health although there is conjecture that Scott's true motive for removing him was resentment of Shackleton's popularity with the crew. Although in public the men remained mutually respectful and cordial it has been suggested that Shackleton's dislike of Scott provided the driving motivation for his return to the Antarctic in an attempt to outdo Scott.
During the ‘Nimrod’ expedition 1907-1909 Shackleton established a new record reaching latitude 88°S, only 97 miles from the South Pole, the largest advance to the pole in exploration history and members of his team made the first ascent of Mount Erebus. Despite the difficult conditions and shortage of supplies Shackleton's ability to communicate with each man kept the progress of the party focused. Their return journey to McMurdo Sound was a race against starvation, on half-rations for much of the way. At one point, Shackleton gave his one biscuit allotted for the day to the ailing Frank Wild. For these achievements, Shackleton was knighted by King Edward VII on his return home.
When Amundsen reached the South Pole first in 1911, Shackleton turned his attention to the crossing of Antarctica from sea to sea, via the pole, a journey of 1,800 miles across the continent, and set about making preparations for what became the fateful Imperial Trans-Antartic Expedition 1914–1917. Public interest in the expedition was considerable; Shackleton received more than 5,000 applications to join it. His interviewing and selection methods were considered eccentric; believing that character and temperament were as important as technical ability, he asked unconventional questions. Shackleton also relaxed traditional hierarchies to promote camaraderie, such as distributing the ship's chores equally among officers, scientists, and seamen. He also socialised with his crew members every evening after dinner. Despite the outbreak of the First World War on 3 August 1914, ‘Endurance’ was directed by First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill to proceed and left British waters on 8 August.
Disaster struck when ‘Endurance’ became trapped in pack ice and was slowly crushed, the wreck finally slipping beneath the surface on 21 November 1915. The crew escaped with provisions, camping on the sea ice for almost 2 months until it disintegrated. On 9 April Shackleton ordered the crew into their three lifeboats. After five harrowing days at sea, the exhausted men landed at Elephant Island, 346 miles from where the Endurance sank. Shackleton gave his mittens to photographer Frank Hurley, who had lost his during the boat journey and Shackleton suffered frostbitten fingers as a result.
Elephant Island was an inhospitable place, far from any shipping routes and rescue by means of chance discovery was very unlikely. Consequently, Shackleton decided to risk an open-boat journey to South Georgia Island, a stormy ocean voyage of 720 nautical miles, Shackleton's most famous exploit.
The strongest of the tiny 20-foot lifeboats, christened ‘James Caird’ after the expedition's chief sponsor, was chosen for the trip and Ship's carpenter Harry McNish made various improvements, including raising the sides, strengthening the keel, building a makeshift deck of wood and canvas. Although Shackleton had clashed with McNish during the time when the party was stranded on the ice, he recognised his value and the vital importance of crew morale to the success of this mission. Shackleton, McNish, Worsley, Crean, Vincent and McCarthy set off on 24 April 1916 with supplies for no more than four weeks, as Shackleton knew if they did not reach South Georgia within that time, the boat and its crew would be lost.
For fifteen days they sailed through the waters of the southern ocean, in constant peril of capsizing. Thanks to Worsley's navigational skills, the cliffs of South Georgia came into sight but hurricane-force winds prevented the possibility of landing. They were able to finally land on the unoccupied southern shore the following day and after a period of recuperation, Shackleton, Worsley and Crean set off to cross the island over dangerous mountainous terrain equipped only with boots they had pushed screws into, a carpenter's adze and 50 feet of rope. After 36 hours they reached the Whaling Station at Stromness on 20 May. Shackleton immediately set to work to organise the rescue of his men on Elephant Island. His first three attempts were foiled by sea ice but eventually evacuated all 22 men, after four and half months of isolation. He then travelled to New Zealand to join the ship Aurora to rescue the second group of men stranded at McMurdo Sound who had carried out its depot-laying mission to the full, but had lost three lives including that of its commander, Aeneas Mackintosh.
When Shackleton returned to England in May 1917, Europe was in the midst of WWI. Suffering from a heart condition, made worse by the fatigue of his arduous journeys, and too old to be conscripted, he nevertheless volunteered for the army.
In 1921, he returned to the Antarctic but died of a heart attack while his ship was moored in South Georgia, and his body was buried there.
Upon his death, Shackleton was lauded in the press but was thereafter largely forgotten, until later in the 20th century when he was rediscovered as a role model for leadership in extreme circumstances.
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"This is a song called Grace...and one day I was cleaning up my room, and I was thinking that, uh, um, my usual obsession with death and dying, and there can be a point where you really don't care, because there's someone..."-intro at St. Ann's with Gods and Monsters, March 13, 1992
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"This is a song about...it's not about another dream, but it's about not feeling so bad about your own mortality when you have true love..."-intro at Sin-é, July 19/August 17, 1993
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"This is for anybody here tonight, who's ever been stepped on, who's ever been fucked with, but it doesn't matter, because somewhere, there's sombody who has the guts to really love you...no matter what you are, no matter what job you hold...this is called Grace..."-intro at the Black Cat, Washington, DC, August 13, 1994
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"Grace is an important quality. I wrote the song Grace when I had just found out that someone loved me, someone I wanted. Suddenly I was no longer afraid of death, of all the snares and confusion of my life. I've been very abused. By people around me. Especially in LA. I had so many spears in my heart of considerable weight that I carried around with me. And suddenly I looked down and realized that the spears were still there because I hadn't torn them out. And then I did. Nothing mattered anymore. Not the hands that had brought them there, not the heart that had accepted them. I think grace means so much. A grace, for example. 'God is good, we thank God for this food.' Blablabla. But you're also saying grace about a body or a parade. Grace means a lot in people. The ability to look ahead, to maintain warmth, to preserve the part that nourishes life. Or grace as in dancers. You need grace to dance. Besides, I love the name for a woman. Or a man. Yes, I would call my son Grace (joking). My children would love me forever."-Knust interview, September 13, 1994
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"It's about not fearing death or fearing any of those, you know, countless slings and arrows that you suffer sometimes on this earth because somebody loves you. You're not afraid to go, you're not adraid to withstand what you need to withstand because there's a tremendous fuel that you feel regenerating inside because of somebody else's love for you. That's what Grace is about. And just about...life, just about sometimes life being so long. At the time I was anticipating leaving Los Angeles for New York so I was waiting to go, and I'm not afraid to go, I'm not afraid to die, I'm not afraid to go away from this place or leave any place, but it just goes so slow you know? And I had somebody who loved me in New York. A lot. And it was amazing, still is. (In British accent) Love, lovely love."-interview at the Pacific Club in Antwerp, Belgium, September 21, 1994
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Regarding “Grace,” a song that is indicative of Buckley’s spiritual as well as artistic philosophy, Buckley states, “The song is about being released of the fear of being trod upon by people around you and suffering harm at the hands of others because of somebody loving you for real. You can achieve great heights of purity through somebody else’s love for you.”-Virtually Alternative Magazine no. 5, 1994
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Buckley considers "grace" to be, "the quality about people that matters. Any hardship, any pitfall, any sling or arrow in your direction that you're forced to withstand, any abuse, or any thought of even growing old, you need that quality...grace in men is especially appealing, women are very graceful, but men usually are not, and I like it when I see it in them. It also carries the meaning of having an implication, like the beginning of something or the death, saying grace."-Art+Performance, October 28, 1994
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What does grace mean to you?
Everything that the word carries. Grace is what matters in anything. Especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain…love, death. About people. That’s what matters. That’s a quality I admire very greatly. It keeps you from reaching for the gun too quickly…it keeps you from destroying things too foolishly. And sort of keeps you alive. And it keeps you open for more understanding. You know, people say grace for dinner, 'God is great, God is good…’ eh, you know. But I see an invocation when I hear that word. And also, it’s like the sound of…
So saying the word grace, invokes a state of grace?
It could, yeah.
Say it now. Let’s see if we can...(laughs)
Hey, don’t make me say it. Don’t make me invoke a state of grace here on this room…(laughs)
But also, the song itself is just a eulogy to no one. About…I always describe it as not fearing anything, anyone, any man, any woman, any war, any gun, any sling or arrow aimed at your heart by other people because there is somebody finally who loves you, for real. And that you can achieve a real state of grace, through somebody else’s love in you, you know. And you’re totally out of fuel, and totally out of understanding…so I said it. It’s a song about my death, but not fearing it.-Much Music, October 28, 1994
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"For me, it's a quality about people that matters most. In the face of adversity, in dealing with others, in love, dealing with enemies, in dealing with death. It's something that transcends, that carries people. Also, I decided the word. But it also...it fit to me because the song is about not fearing death anymore, or even fearing torture on earth because there's finally somebody who loves you for real. And sometimes you can achieve grace through somebody else's belief in you. And grace just sort of...I don't know, if I was writing a death letter, I felt that that was a grace as well, you know, saying grace...or for the dead on earth, or for somebody who's just very broken down. And just a last act of defiance, but also a beautiful prayer. That's what it could be, so I named it Grace."-Japanese interview, November, 1994
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What does Grace mean to you?
It's not religious or mystical. It's very ordinary. That's the thing that makes people divine. That's a quality I appreciate in a person. Especially in a man because it is very rare."-L'indic, March/April, 1995
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"Grace is basically a death prayer. Not something of sorrow, but of just casting away any fear of death. No relief will come you really just have to stew in your life until it's time to go, but sometimes somebody else's faith in you can do wonders."-MTV Europe interview, 1995
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"I see many other colours of sacredness," he says. "And grace is a quality in people that I just enjoy. It's a very human quality."-Sydney Morning Herald: August 25, 1995
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Grace, the title he has given to his first record is “mostly just a quality about people that I enjoy."
How does he recognize it?
“Ah… sort of... a transcendental soul in somebody's behaviour. Like a soul that's wise… Like somebody who doesn’t stoop to violence so quickly in the face of a problem, because they’re a little bit more potent of a soul. It’s rare,” he stresses.
Has he discovered many people with this quality?
"No!...that are purely like that? Everybody has it at one time or another, it's just like sadness, sometimes people have it, sometimes they don't, but it's something that I love, or, it's something that I need, desperately, because so much shit in your life can be so caustic, it's deadly, and you need to be steady in the way that you live, in order to have your thoughts together. Because basically, it's just fucking survival," he says, making one of his frequent cognitive leaps that leaves me half-baffled. "There's nothing else to it, so you have to be self sufficiently aware. And that's something you lose from time to time, but you have to get it back, otherwise you don't live very well. I think there's a graciousness about people, I especially like it in men, because it's totally rare."-Beat magazine, August 30, 1995
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Grace is the title of your album. What does it mean to you?
"Grace there meaning a prayer like a death prayer - not being afraid of it, sitting totally immersed in trouble and all those crappy slings and arrows that come to you in regular life, and then someone begins to love you for real, and instead of wishing for death, even thinking about it, it's not a factor at all. Death meaning relief."-Rip It Up, February 1996
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"Rise Up to Be" opened up with a cascade of notes like rain on a fretboard, then dove into a rugged melody with enough rocky crevices for a mountainside. Singing along, Jeff retitled it "Grace," inspired by the time he and Moore said their goodbyes at the airport on a rainy day. "The rain is falling and I believe my time has come/It reminds me of the pain I might leave behind," Jeff sang. With its images of a woman crying on his arm and of his contemplating mortality, the song equated love with pain, rebirth with death.-from Dream Brother
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The explanation of this Buckley lyric was just as ambiguous as that for "Mojo Pin". The most common read was that he was spelling out his sorrow at being briefly separated from Moore, but Buckley loved to mess with his audience-at various times he'd introduce "Grace" as "a song about my death, but not fearing it" and, during an early Gods and Monsters show, as "(my) usual obsession of death and dying". While playing at Sin-E he'd declare it to be "a song about not feeling so bad about your own mortality when you have true love". Buckley seemed to have even less of a clue of its true meaning at a Chicago show in 1995 when he went into the following rant before playing the song. "Shit's happening now," he said. "It's all about now, now, now. Bigger, faster, sweatier, whiter, blacker, gracer." Lucas wrote both songs as "inspirational messages" for himself and Buckley.-from A Pure Drop (of course, the context of the rant isn't mentioned, and imo the "gracer" is merely a segue 😑🙄🙈)
#grace#jeff buckley#mylove#supremebeing#favorite#behind the song#read his quotes apter#the meaning is quite clear
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I've been actively blogging for more than six months, even though I've had a tumblr account for ten years. I started reading One Direction (specifically Larry) fanfiction about the same time.
Originally, I read exclusively canon compliant fiction--I was hungry for industry insider, what-could-have-happened narratives. But I've slowly branched out into other genres. I find fanfic--good fanfic--super calming. When I've had too much stunting, too much noise, I grab a fanfic and immerse myself. So I thought it was time to do a post about my favorites. Keep in mind, I'm terrible at cataloging, and I have over 150 bookmarks on my A03 Account, so this is by no means an exhaustive list.
I'm not including the classics like Tired, Tired Sea and Escapade. While I do love both of those (so well written), because a lot of people know about those already.
My all time favorites are by @helloamhere
1. The Multipicity of Powers - https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580229
Maybe in another universe he isn’t different. Maybe he hadn’t been given an impossible choice. Maybe he wouldn’t have lost everything and broken everything and then fallen impossibly, irrevocably in love with the first next thing that was kind. Maybe in that universe he doesn’t feel like he’s never breathing, always pretending, teaching the kids even though they all have to learn alone, trying hard not to read the headlines, and so afraid, every day, that he won’t be a good enough teammate to the superhero he can’t live without. He knows that love isn’t supposed to feel this way, slid secret under your skin like a surgical razor, an invisible war held close over the tender vein that keeps you alive. On the other hand, Louis wonders, had he ever known how to do it any other way?
Maybe there’s a universe where he doesn’t have to keep all his secrets on the inside.
But this isn’t that universe.
//an X-Men AU.
Me: I never thought I'd love a super hero 1D cross over, but this is so well done. The backstory, the pacing, the characterization, the friendship. Read it.
2. Saving Symphony Hall and it's prequel Night Out - https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633921
“I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.”
“Oh christ, that's the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.”
“Wait, what?” Zayn asked.
“Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,”
“What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand.
“I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.”
“That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”
Me: The best sex scene I've ever read is in the prequel Night Out. Sexy, but tender. I love the characterizations in this duo--ABO but not traditional. Doesn't feel out of character.
3. Just Let Me -https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695350
The party was going well. So well, Niall had already sworn undying love to one multi-tiered chocolate cake, two friendly corgi-poodle mixes, Zayn’s hair, and the entire population of Los Angeles. So well, Zayn had only laughed and ruffled Niall’s hair and not even twitched towards a cigarette. So well, nearly everyone had spilled far past the boundaries of the night’s original plans, extracting bottles of vodka from the cabinets and losing a lot of clothes. Harry had proclaimed that he was finally going to throw a small and very grownup dinner party and of course here they were three hours later, fifty people half-naked in the pool. Soon to be full-naked, if Louis had to guess. Everybody in LA loved a heated pool. Everybody loved Harry.
Me: I love love love this. Harry is so gentle, and Louis is so stubborn and needy. It's ABO but subtle. I'll read this one again and again. It's comforting.
@HelloAmHere is one of the best writers I know--amazing stuff. I also love their werewolf story, but it's not finished, so I won't link it here.
Other favorites:
1. Seven Up by cherrystreet - https://archiveofourown.org/works/5828539
Very loosely based on the British TV show "The Up Series" and somewhat inspired by the song “Something I Need” by Onerepublic, we follow the lives of Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson in an interview setting every seven years. They fall apart and come together, their lives and emotions recorded. Harry calls it a time capsule. Louis calls it a pain in the arse.
Me: Trigger Warning, major character death. I literally SOBBED through the end of this. It was lovely and devastating. So good. But be warned.
2. Light, Spark and Fire series by @greenfeelings
Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.
Or, Louis and Zayn run a music label, Liam is Britain’s up-and-coming pop star, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down until he builds his own up, and Niall holds them all together without realising he does.
Me: A nice healthy three-parter. Characters you just want to live with for a while.
3. Relief Next to Me by dolce_piccante - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117942
AU. What happens when a baker and a graphic designer meet via a very specific Craigslist post? Fate, friendship, food, and maybe more.
Me: This one is super long, so be prepared when you dive in. It's got a lot of lovely bits, and some great smut.
4. 2012 'Verse by ashavahishta - https://archiveofourown.org/series/27601
Me: This is a five-parter and satisfies my love of canon compliant stories. It spans most of 2012 and into 2013, and illustrates the difficulties of Harry and Louis' relationship amid the band success and management disapproval.
5. Love After the End of the World by mercurial-madhouse (writing_practice) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/31251434/chapters/77248901
Society shattered when all electricity suddenly cut off across the globe, plunging the world into darkness. Now, Prometheus Industries is the sole remaining supply of power, a saving grace to those who survived Lights Out. As fugitives in no-man’s land struggling to break into Prometheus HQ, death lurks around every corner for Louis and Zayn. Things get complicated when a routine recon falls apart and Louis collides with Harry and his mates Niall and Liam, survivors with their own agenda.
When staying alive is already a constant battle, the deadliest weakness is to be in love. For Harry and Louis, finding each other sits on top of the endless list of What Else Could Go Wrong.
Me: Really unusual (as far as I can tell) end of the world story. I loved the characterizations of soul mates here at the end of the world.
6. Flightless Bird by audreyhheart - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401653/chapters/14656807
AU where Louis Tomlinson is a principal dancer with The Royal Ballet. When his rival from ballet school, moody dance prodigy Harry Styles joins the company, old wounds are reopened and old passions reignited. During the company's production of Swan Lake the secret that doomed their love is finally revealed, but will it be too late?
Me: Trigger Warning, sexual assault (by an original character to a major character). This was a little brutal because I hated to see a broken Harry, but it was well written and has a happy ending.
7. Wear It Like A Crown by zarah5 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1816771/chapters/3900322
AU. As part of a team of fixers hired to handle a gay scandal in Buckingham Palace, Louis expects Prince Harry to be a lot of things—most notably a royally spoilt brat. Never mind that the very same Prince Harry used to star in quite a number of Louis' teenage fantasies.
Me: I loved Louis in this one--actually they are both pretty great. Scratch that, they are ALL pretty great.
8. Shake Me Down by AGreatPerhaps12 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331958/chapters/7285322
Harry's new to college, fresh out of Catholic school and conversion therapy camp, and Louis runs the campus LGBTQIA organization.
Me: I don't like the self-hate here, but it was necessary for the story and H comes around. Found family vibe.
9. Gods & Monsters by Velvetoscar - https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090982/chapters/4550871
The instructions were simple: seduce and destroy Harry Styles. Not once did they discuss the option of Louis actually falling in love. So, naturally, that's exactly what he did.
Me: I loved Harry in this one. Louis gets there. I don't like Liam, but I don't think you're supposed to. Zayn is great.
10. Own the Scars by crinkle-eyed-boo (KimmieRocks) - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1010796
Louis has never felt like he was good enough: for his stepdad, for his life-long best friend, for the life he's supposed to want. After an accident that nearly costs him his life, Louis' parents send him to rehab where he’s forced to face his demons. On the long and difficult road to recovery, Louis must confront the truths he’s been avoiding about his future, his relationships, and his sense of self-worth. Because before he can love anyone else, he’s got to learn how to love himself first.
Me: Harry is lovely in this one. Trigger warning, substance abuse and near death.
11. Wild Love by purpledaisy - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1030904
AU: Two best friends try to date each other for forty days. It's supposed to be fun until emotions make it complicated.
Me: I loved this way more than I thought I would. It's lovely and messy and I love it.
12. Victorian Boy by audreyhheart - https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosann1986/readings?page=6
Victorian AU. Harry the virgin Duke of Somerset knows little of love, while Louis the sly Duke of Warwick knows too much. When the two dukes come together for the Bilsdale fox hunt in York, Harry finds himself drawn into Louis' bed. But when secrets from Louis' dark past come to light, Harry fears that the fox isn't the only one being hunted.
Me: Historical fiction I didn't intend to love. I LOVE Harry in this one. LOTS of smut, so be warned.
13. Keep Me Closer by zanni_scaramouche - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30752633
Louis expects Harry to react poorly, maybe even file a formal complaint and that’s gonna suck ass but Louis won’t say shit cause he knows he deserves it, so he prepares an apology before Harry’s even turned around.
What he doesn’t expect is Harry to fucking drop.
Me: lovely, protective Louis just trying to do the right thing.
14. Turning Page by purpledaisy for SockstheDog
https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826345
AU: Harry Styles tries to get lost in a place he’s never been. Louis Tomlinson has been perfecting the art of being lost for years. What they don’t expect to find is each other.
Me: sweet love story. Niall owns a bar, and is pretty great.
15. Freedom Always Comes With a Price by Cyantific - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30278514/chapters/74624262
A shared dream brings them together onto the X-factor stage, but one decision changes Harry and Louis’ lives overnight. Thrust into a world of instant stardom, they're forced to live a lie to sustain their dreams, but years of living in the shadows and under strict management takes its toll.
With the bands impending hiatus, there’s no better time for change, so they think.
Desperate for a solution, they turn to an unlikely source with a radical plan. An unfortunate accident sets everything in motion, but not how they intended, leaving Louis’ memories altered, Harry broken-hearted and full of regret.
Can Harry figure out a way to fix everything? Will he even want to once he sees how Louis moved on after the hiatus? Will Louis ever find out the truth of their past and can he forgive Harry after all this time?
In the end, two friends find out that memories are elusive, trust is everything and love is the only antidote.
Me: Heartbreaking when they lose each other, but really good in the end.
16. Little Technicolor Things by scary_crow - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025519/chapters/13821628
Louis is a poor writer and recent university graduate, depressed, anxious, and living in London when he meets Harry, an artist with a secret who likes to paint sunrises and pretty boys from California.
17. Hold You Now by solvetheminourdreams - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30253536/chapters/74556744
Three years ago, Harry Styles said goodbye to communications consultancy firm McQuiston Worldwide, leaving a life of travel and agency PR behind. When he accompanies his best friend to a family wedding across the Atlantic, he'll be forced to reopen old wounds and face his past—one that no one wants to hash out, but may just have to.
Me: Niall is great. They almost miss each other in this one, and you just want to bash them over the head. But they figure it out.
18. At Risk, I Fold by clare328 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542480
2015 is a stream of hotel rooms and whisky on the rocks, tired glances and touching hands under tables. It’s the bears and the bees under a rainbow sky, and Harry and Louis have to figure out how to grow up together, instead of apart.
Me: A canon compliant fic that feels like it could have really happened. Set in 2015. Lovely first chapter and scene where Harry writes If I Could Fly--i could read that chapter over and over.
19. Into The Blue by zarah5 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035822/chapters/2065499
AU. In which Louis is Harry's scuba instructor and quite happy to provide the requested special treatment, pun fully intended. It can't be all that difficult to convince Harry that they're on the same page, right? Also, Niall and Liam may or may not be dating, and Zayn is surrounded by emotionally stunted idiots. He bears it with dignity.
Me: AKA the Scuba fic.
20. Tie Your Heart by ArcadianMaggie - https://archiveofourown.org/works/546688/chapters/973236
Harry grows wings.
Me: How can you not love a fic where Harry grows wings? Trigger warning: injury of a major character.
21. I think I'll end this here. My last and probably first favorite (read it more than once) is...
my heart is breathing for this moment in time by usedtothebeach - https://archiveofourown.org/works/934996/chapters/1820282
When Louis first saw Harry at the 2010 X Factor Auditions, he thought he was watching a peculiarly special stranger. But Harry has known Louis ever since he was five years old.
Because Louis has a rare genetic disorder that causes him to Time Travel to important moments in his past and in his future - and to Harry, always to Harry. When they're put into a band together, it seems like everything Harry has been waiting and wishing for has finally come true. Except for the small fact that Louis doesn't know that Harry is in love with him- that Harry's always been in love with him. Fate, it would seem, is just getting started.
A story about growing up and growing together, and the impossible love that makes it all worthwhile.
Me: I LOVED the Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and I'm a huge fan of time travel, so this is right up my alley. It's really well done, weaving canon into fantasy and then going years forward in tme. I love everything about it. Great character development. Really good smut. Trigger warning, there's a little underage sex, so be aware. Anyway, LOVE this one so much.
I'll add to this but it's already longer than I meant it to be.
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Starlight
m. de lafayette x reader
chapter two | spies and white lies
summary: it was never your intent to be anything more than a common thief, but fate -- and a rather attractive general -- have other plans for you.
word count: 3.6k
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“What are we at now? Twenty argenti?” You grin and lean forward, elbows resting on the table. “Another round, Mulligan?”
The tailor gives you a look that only makes your smile widen. “I don’t know if I have anything left to wager.”
“Mulligan, your deployment is about to head out, you should get down to the loading dock.”
The look of relief on Mulligan’s face is nearly comical when Hamilton interrupts the next game you are setting up. Mulligan mutters a half-hearted apology, you wish him luck, and then he is all too eager to leave.
Hamilton places a hand on your shoulder and points you in the direction of Lafayette’s office. “The general would like a word with you.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Aren’t you always?”
“Fair point. Wish me luck, Lex,” you mutter, making your way into the lion’s den.
You knock twice on the door, and without waiting for a reply, you push open the door and let yourself into Lafayette’s office. Dim, warm light greets you – a stark contrast to the harsh white lighting found in most buildings on Philia. Lafayette sits at his desk, thumbing through pages and pages of paperwork. The navy cape usually worn around his shoulders is draped over the back of his chair, and he absently scratches his beard as he continues to read the papers in front of him.
“You wanted to see me?” You ask.
He nods toward the empty chairs in front of his desk. “Yes, have a seat.”
You sit down across from him and wait for him to inform you as to why you’ve been called into his office. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes before Lafayette finally puts down his paperwork and leans back in his chair.
He appraises you silently, then finally: “Hamilton says you’re cleaning my men out of their money.”
“I want you to know,” you say quickly, “that my actions have been completely legal. It’s not my fault you never taught your men how to gamble.”
“How much did Mulligan lose today?” He asks.
“Twenty.”
“You don’t feel bad about taking money from the poor guy?”
“It’s Mulligan.” The both of you share a laugh. “Did you call me in here to tell me to stop taking your soldiers’ money?”
“Not at all, feel free to continue scamming them out of their money,” he says with a shrug. “As long as you keep supplying me with intel on the New British battle plans, you can do whatever you want with your off hours.”
“I take it you’ve got a new mission for me?”
“Perceptive. This is why I hired you.”
“I thought you hired me because I’m expendable,” you say bluntly.
He stiffens at your comment and slowly shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. You’re incredibly good at what you do, and I think you’re the perfect person for this job.”
Lafayette hands you a tablet with the information for your next mission. This one is a bit different than the previous jobs he had you run. It had been your job to lay low at shady bars around Philia that had been known as sympathizers of the New British crown and report back any information you had overheard. On occasion, you had been sent to spy on wealthy sympathizers at dinner parties, galas, races, etc. All these events took place on Philia or neighboring planets. Looking down at the tablet, your eyes widened a little at the name of your next location.
“You’re sending me to Hesse?” You say in surprise.
“It would be…” he pauses and thinks through his words. “It’s rather vital we send someone to observe negotiations between the leaders of Hesse and New Britannia. We have reason to believe they’re discussing more than just a renewal of the neutrality act.”
“I see. It’s just that… Hesse is quite far. It’s not even part of the United Planets of Amerigo,” you say. Lafayette knows this. Hesse is a part of a large federation of planets that has remained neutral during the war between Amerigo and New Britannia. It’s out of Lafayette’s jurisdiction, if anything happened to you there…
“You don’t have to go,” he says quickly. “You can say no. If you don’t think you can—”
“You said this was vital, yes?” You say. “Who else would you send?”
Lafayette is silent while he tries to come up with another name. There isn’t anyone else they can send; his silence tells you.
“Alright. I’ll go.”
He eyes you warily. “This is a risky idea. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it. We can find another way. You shouldn’t go.”
“General,” you say firmly, “I’m going to Hesse. You said yourself that I’m the perfect person for this job; I already speak Alemanni.”
“You speak Alemanni?”
“There’s a lot you still don’t know about me, general. Glad I’m still full of surprises.” You scan the information on the tablet and stand from your chair. “Guess I should be going, then. I’ve got a lot of studying to do.”
“Our contact will be limited while you’re on Hesse, but if you run into the slightest bit of danger, press this button here on your bracelet and we’ll fly in to pick you up immediately.”
Lafayette hands you the bracelet in question, and you give him a nod before sliding it onto your wrist. You’re a few minutes out from the capital city, and the general is running through any last-minute details with you before he drops you off and the ship heads back into orbit around Hesse.
“Remember, this is a reconnaissance mission. You are not to engage in any combat whatsoever. Get in, get information, get out. Do you understand?” He asks.
Lafayette misses it when you roll your eyes, which is probably for the best. “I got it, general.”
He lands the ship, opens the cargo door, and turns his chair to face you. “One more thing.”
You groan. “What could you have possibly forgotten to say?”
Lafayette crosses his hands over his chest, taking one more good look at you. “Be safe out there.”
You’re a little shocked by his sudden switch to a softer tone, and it must show. You stare at him awkwardly for a minute before giving a small nod, grabbing your pack, and stepping out of the ship. Behind you, the ship begins to depart. You don’t turn back to watch it leave. You are now on a mission.
Hesse is vastly different from Philia. Where Philia has a temperate, warm climate, Hesse is considerably colder. Fortunately, it’s not snowing when you arrive, but the chilling winds are so harsh you don’t think it would make a difference. Traffic on the streets in Hesse is minimal, and you attribute this to the less than desirable weather. You’re not going to get any information from the inanimate light posts or street signs, so you find what looks like a promising tavern and head inside.
The tavern contrasts the icy Hesse environment; inside is warm and bright, backed with patrons from wall to wall and buzzing with conversation. As you make your way to the bar, you pick up on bits and pieces of the conversations happening around you. You’re in your element.
“You have to stop worrying so much. She’s a smart girl, she would call you if she needed any help.”
It’s been a few cycles since Lafayette dropped you off on Hesse. He didn’t expect you to call for him immediately, but he can’t stop himself from worrying a bit when he doesn’t hear from you for a few days. Lafayette is on a spaceship by himself with nothing better to do except work through piles of paperwork and think up every scenario that could go wrong for you on Hesse. If anything happens to you, he will be to blame.
In his defense, Lafayette had never wanted to send you to Hesse in the first place. It had been a rather forceful suggestion from General Washington after the head of the army had seen your success rates. Of course it made sense that you would be the one to take on this mission, but that didn’t make Lafayette feel any better about it. He voices these concerns in a call to Hamilton while he orbits endlessly around the planet.
“I’m serious, Lafayette,” Hamilton says, beginning to sound a little exasperated. “There’s nothing you can do at this point. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you panicking over this anyway.”
“Was this a huge mistake?” Lafayette asks, effectively ignoring all of Hamilton’s previous statements.
“No, it wasn’t. We need information on these treaties, I have no doubt New Britannia has something up their sleeves. If anyone’s going to figure it out, it’s her. You didn’t have a choice.”
It must be the eleventh or twelfth time Hamilton has repeated these sentiments on this call alone. Lafayette decides there’s no point in continuing on this line of conversation, so he surrenders for the time being.
“You’re right,” he says. “No point in worrying. So, have I missed anything while I’ve been gone?”
“Not much. Mulligan’s sent some intel back to us from his latest mission, nothing big yet. Oh, Laurens arrived back yesterday. A few bruises and a broken finger or two, but other than that, he seems to be fine.” Hamilton is happy enough with the subject change.
“He made it back in one piece? Well, how about that. The way he fights, you’d think he’s got a death wish.”
On the other line, Hamilton releases a bark of laughter. “You’d think so. Most men in your battalion are rather careless when it comes to safety. You think you had a hand in teaching ‘em that?”
“Me? I hardly think—”
He pauses mid-sentence when the light on his computer begins flashing a few times and a succession of beeps start sounding. Whatever he was about to say is lost at his lips when he stares at the blinking light. Lafayette has been waiting for this.
“I have to go,” he says to Hamilton, “it’s her.”
Lafayette doesn’t offer more of a goodbye, not that he needs to, and hangs up the call with Hamilton. Immediately he kicks into gear, sliding into the pilot’s seat and speeding toward the surface of Hesse in the direction being sent to the ship from your bracelet.
He’s surprised to find your tracking signal coming from a few miles outside of the capital, but he’s even more surprised when he finds the position you’re in. Amidst a forest of snow-covered trees, a fortress peaks out over the treetop with Gothic towers and intimidating sculptures. Along the top of one set of battlement walls, a fight has broken out and blasts of light are being shot from one side to the other. As Lafayette gets closer, he sees that you are on one side of this battle, doing your best to fend off a squadron of joint Hesse-New Britannia troops. It could be going better for you; you’re crouched behind a heavy shield, leaning out now and then to fire a blast at the soldiers who are gaining ground second by second.
Lafayette can’t be sure from this distance, but when you see the ship approaching, he swears he sees a grin spread across your features. Then, in a move that surprises both Lafayette and the soldiers, you stand from your position, and with a few steps, you’ve flung yourself off the castle walls. Lafayette curses under his breath, racing forward in the ship, opening the bay doors, and turning the ship sideways to catch you while you plummet from the air. Somewhere behind him in the ship, he hears a loud thud and is relieved to know you’ve made it onboard.
The soldiers recover from their shock and begin targeting the spaceship instead. Lafayette is able to avoid any significant damage to the ship by weaving through the trees, but it isn’t an easy task. When the blasts begin to fade and the fortress is far enough behind, the spaceship shoots up into the air, racing out of Hesse airspace. Lafayette navigates the ship for a bit, but once he feels they’re safe, he switches the ship into autopilot. He has a spy to debrief.
Lafayette finds you in the cargo bay, looking a little worse for wear. “Are you alright? Injured?”
You look up at him and grin. “Fantastic.”
After a quick observation, Lafayette concludes that “fantastic” would not be the word he used to describe your current state. Your hair is a mess, your face is covered with dirt and cuts, and you are cradling your wrist that looks bent out of shape, the skin around it already turning into a purple-blue color. He raises an eyebrow.
“Alright, I suppose I’ve been in better shape,” you say casually.
Lafayette steps closer, gently pulling your arm to him so he can inspect the injury. His eyes darken as they move from your wrist to your eyes, and you’re suddenly aware of the proximity between the two of you.
“Who did this?” His voice is quiet, but the low growl in the back of his throat sends chills down your spine.
Your uninjured hand takes the arm that is holding you, and his grip on your arm softens. “No one. I think I might’ve broken my wrist on landing.”
His eyes lower and he releases you. Suddenly aware of your closeness, he takes a step back.
“You think?” He scoffs, walking over to the wall and opening up the first aid kit. You’re sitting on the ground, back pressed up against a crate, and Lafayette kneels beside you and begins to tend to your wound. “Tell me about the mission while I patch you up.”
“I think it went rather well. I found a job as a translator my first day on the planet.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Turns out there’s a lack of Alemanni-English speakers on Hesse, and the New Britannia diplomats were in need of a translator. Right place, right time, I suppose.
Anyway, I was brought to this Hessian duke’s castle where the negotiations were being made. The first few days of negotiations gave me nothing to report on; just usual diplomatic pleasantries and treaty renewals as had been stated by New Britannia. However, last night negotiations took a different turn.
The New Britannia ambassador told the duke that the New British army was in need of troops, and they were willing to pay large sums. They’re hiring Hessian soldiers as mercenaries.”
“Mercenaries? I thought Hesse wanted to remain neutral in this war,” Lafayette frowned, placing a bandage over one of your larger cuts.
You nod in agreement, “That’s what I thought, too. Apparently, many of the Hessian princes are in a lot of debt – they need the money and the Brits backed them into a corner. I was going to call for you to pick me up last night, but I thought I could dig up some more information.”
“And did you?”
“Of course I did, general,” you grin again and pat the leather bound journal next to you; Lafayette hadn’t even noticed it before. “Snuck into the ambassador’s office this morning and found this. Looked like it had some information on upcoming battle strategies, but I didn’t have much time to read through it, I was caught by one of the ambassador’s guards. Barely made it out, guess I was lucky you were there when I needed you, huh?”
“Lucky only begins to describe it. You shouldn’t have put yourself in unnecessary danger.”
“I took care of myself, didn’t I? Besides, I think General Washington will find this information rather helpful.”
Lafayette can’t help but smile when you hand him the journal. He flips through a few pages, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise. This is more information than he had hoped to get out of this mission. Lafayette sets the journal down beside him, pulling a sling out from the first aid kit and gently lifting your arm into the fabric.
“I’ll make sure you receive proper medical attention once we get back to Philia, but this should do the job for now.” Lafayette tucks the journal under his arm and stands to his feet. “I need to make a call to the generals to update them on the information you’ve just shared with me.”
“Of course.”
“Get some rest, you look like you need it.” He begins to walk in the direction of his personal quarters but pauses before he leaves the room. “Oh, and starlight?”
You look up at him.
“Good work.”
Once Lafayette leaves the room, you can’t stop the proud smile that appears on your lips. Still, Lafayette is right about one thing: you need some rest. With whatever energy that is remaining, you pull yourself to your feet and begin to search for somewhere more comfortable to sleep. You were provided with your own quarters on the ship, but the room is small, windowless, and cold. You doubt you could get any rest there. It’s been a long couple of days, so you give yourself the authority to wander the ship in search of something comforting. You’re careful to avoid the direction of Lafayette’s personal quarters, even though that’s where your heart is being pulled toward.
Somewhere in between the kitchen and the bridge, you find a large observation room, and it takes your breath away. A large window gives you a view of space that leaves you in awe. Stars and planets swirl past you in a mixture of colors and brightness as the ship races back to the familiarity of Philia. The vastness of space should be intimidating, but for some reason, you feel safe. There is a world of opportunities open to you, and somehow you’ve managed to end up on this little spacecraft drifting through space and time. There is nowhere you’d rather be.
The observation deck is by no means extravagant or luxurious, the metal walls have sustained a fair amount of scrapes, a stale odor hangs in the air. Somehow, it feels more like home than anywhere else on the ship. You curl up on one of the old, stiff couches pushed against the back wall. As stars pass by, you count them. One, two… thirty-eight, thirty-nine… It’s somewhere between eighty-two and eighty-seven that you finally lose count and your heavy eyelids finally succumb to sleep.
Hours later, or maybe it’s days – you can’t really tell the passage of time in space – you begin to stir. When you open your eyes, the planets and stars outside the observation window are passing by slower, and in front of you, you can see the brown and green landscape of Philia. You pull your blanket around yourself tighter and enjoy the moment of peace. Who knows when you’ll have a chance to relax once you’re back on Philia, most likely you’ll be given another mission.
It’s not that you don’t enjoy your job; it’s the best job you’ve had in decades. You wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but you like doing work that feels important, work that makes you feel like you’re making a difference. The paycheck is a nice benefit as well. Still, the life of a spy for the United Planets of Amerigo isn’t exactly relaxing. Taking on new identities each week and the risks that came along with it was exciting, but incredibly stressful. Maybe one day when the war ended you would settle down. Picket fence and an army of kids might be too much to ask, but you could see yourself moving to a quieter planet and building a home for yourself… and maybe someone else. You gazed out the window, looking at all the planets and picking which one you would one day grow old on.
“Great view, isn’t it?”
Your eyes flick from the window to where Lafayette stands in the doorway. He wears his white uniform as always, watching you carefully, the gold in his dark eyes bright underneath the starlight. He crosses his arms over his chest and casually leans against the doorframe.
“I come here when I need to clear my head. It puts things in perspective, gives me a sense of…”
“…peace,” you finish for him.
Lafayette stares out the window for a moment, nods and turns back to you. “Yes, peace.”
The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, Lafayette watches the way the light dances over your skin and can’t help but admire the artwork. You stare back into his eyes until you feel that he’s on the verge of staring right into your soul. You’ve never been completely open with someone before, and you’re not ready to be now, so you look away. The connection is broken, and he takes a step back, looking anywhere but at you.
“I just came to let you know that we’ll be landing in Philia soon,” he says, turning to leave.
“Wait,” you shrug the warmth off your shoulders, “I believe this belongs to you.”
It had taken you a moment in your sleepy consciousness to remember that you had no blanket when you had fallen asleep. At some point, Lafayette must have found you and covered your sleeping body with his navy cape. Always the gentleman. You fold up the fabric in your arms, already missing its warmth, and cross the room to return it to its owner.
“Thank you,” he says politely.
Your hands briefly touch when you hand him the cape, and the both of you linger for a moment too long. The moment is over when you pull your hands away, and the both of you silently agree not to address it.
#lafayette x reader#daveed x reader#marquis de lafayette#thomas jefferson#thomas jefferson x reader#daveed diggs#daveed diggs x reader#hamilton#hamilton x reader#reader insert#slowburn#enemies to friends to lovers#spy!reader#spaceau#scifiau
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Miles Between Us Chapter 6 ~A Wrinkle in Time~
Previously in The Tethered Ties ...
And when he finally glanced back down at the laptop, he nearly choked. Right there on the screen, peering up at him, was a cantankerous-looking, crocodile Dundee version of Harry. Same eyes, the same face, and though a handsome fellow, this man's skin looked weather-beaten, and he had a scary scowl on his face.
"Jamie," Claire giggled. "I'd like you to meet my uncle ...Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, also known as uncle Lamb."
Ah, holy fuck! Though uncle Lamb looked like Harry, Jamie knew this man was nothing like Harry. Harry was ...or had been a polite, refined and jolly ol' chap with a very posh accent. This man was far from the polished look Harry presented. This man looked like he'd seen the world and confronted danger and probably wrestled crocodiles as a hobby. Convincing uncle Lamb that he's good enough for Claire was not going to be a walk in a park. Jamie knew he had a long evening ahead as he gingerly sat down in front of Claire's laptop and braced himself.
Jamie cleared his throat and sat up straight. "Good evening, sir ..."
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Jamie had a dream. It was unlike any other dreams he had before.
He was cycling down a road, the cold wind stinging his cheeks, a plastic container of pastries in one hand. Excitement rose within as he followed the familiar route to Murtagh's house, huffing and puffing when he picked up speed. He was dropping off his ma's freshly baked treats to his godfather, hoping Murtagh would have time to go fishing.
An ear-splitting screech of brakes echoed in the air, along with mangling metal crashing and twisting.
He stopped. The plastic container dropped from his hand, and his bike collapsed to the ground. He began walking towards the crash site, sensing with every step, he was nearing a metamorphic truth that would change him forever.
Despite the trepidation mounting in his chest, he couldn't stop moving towards the wreck. He quickened his pace and then began to jog, and then he ran. Faster and faster.
He ran until the breath whooshed out from his lungs in burning gasps, and he slowed to a standstill in front of the harrowing scene that was before him.
The wind picked up, and the clouds dimmed the sun. The acrid stench of burnt rubber and engine oil filled his nostrils. A familiar face appeared through the cracked windshield, calling out his name in desperation. For a second, his heart ceased to beat, and his breath caught in his throat.
Harry?
"Save her ...please ..."
The plea struck his ears, and he tried to move, but he was stuck on the spot. He twisted his body and stretched out his arms, willing his feet to budge, straining and grunting and chanting a soundless prayer for strength. A piercing scream jolted him out from his struggle, unfettering him from the invisible force holding him in place, almost tumbling over from the abrupt release. He realised they were cries from a child.
He moved towards the car and wrenched the back door open, seemingly the only side still intact from the collision. A child, no more than the age of five with angry red blotches on her cheeks and wild curls, was restrained by the seatbelts. Her pudgy wee arms were outstretched as she screamed on top of her lungs, crying out for her mummy.
He stared in disbelief, immobilised by the uncertainty of his next course of action.
"Save her, Jamie ..." He glanced up to see Harry's face contorted in pain, eyes imploring. "There's not enough time."
"But ..."
"Go! Take her with you ...Now!"
Spurred by adrenaline and fear, heart pounding against his chest, he began to move. He unfastened the strap across the wean's body and grabbed her from the seat. Wee arms and legs wrapped around him as he spun around and headed for the moor. Holding tight to his bundle, one hand bracing the tiny head pressed against his neck, he ran as fast as he could. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Harry watching him through the window and then the car exploded.
Jamie woke up lurching upright to a sitting position, his top clinging to his clammy skin and his heart racing like a freight train. Swallowing air in big gulps, he yanked off the duvet and swung his legs out of bed, trying to even his breathing. Then he began to shake as he heard the distant roar from the deep recesses of his brain, and the floodgates of memories swung open in vivid hues. It came in massive waves, raising recollections and visions to the surface that had been submerged under the basement of time. A deluge of dispersed images merged into one, and a stream of realisation emerged. Suddenly everything was as clear as day. Everything that Murtagh had told him of Claire's parents earlier was now clicking into place. The child they'd rescued that fateful day was Claire! Except, in his dream, he'd been the only one to save her.
A cold shiver passed through him when a suppressed but very visual memory of Harry sprung into his head just before the car had exploded. Harry had just regained consciousness and had looked straight at Jamie with a sobbing wee Claire tight in his arms, the look on his face branding his consciousness forever. Though it had been relief carved out on the doomed man's face in knowing Claire would live, it had done nought to appease his soul. He glanced over at the woman beside him. She slept peacefully, her soft snores confirming she hadn't been affected by his fitful sleep.
Reliving the sequence of that event, he remembered now how the horror of that day had haunted him. It had been so bad, he'd been coerced to attend counselling by his mother. Too young to process Harry's demise, he'd literally felt on the edge of a nervous breakdown. After a year of refusing to talk about the ordeal, he'd shifted his focus elsewhere to stop the nightmares. There had been this unabating need to atone for Claire's parents' death, the urge to help and protect growing like a snowball, morphing into an avalanche to flatten and destroy any unpleasant memories and replace them with something good. He'd rescued animals and sheltered them in his father's barn. He'd defended kids against bullies at school. He'd volunteered for causes that involved helping the vulnerable. He'd enlisted to be part of the British Armed Forces, hoping to make a difference to the plights of those afflicted. He'd even gone as far as making a promise to his dying friend, killed in action during his SAS days. Jamie had felt so guilty for his inability to protect his best mate, Simon, he'd asked his friend's widow to marry him. Though thankful now the marriage had never taken place after having met Claire, his efforts to appease his guilt had been a struggle. All these years, he'd buried the horrors of war, the memory of losing Simon and images of Harry going up in flames with layers of what he'd thought were reparations. But what he hadn't known, his failings continued to fester below the surface. It was like a wound that refused to heal.
Had Murtagh's revelation triggered the suppressed memories to resurface? Or did it have something to do with his conversation with Claire's uncle Lamb? His mind wandered to their discussion earlier.
"Jamie," Claire giggled. "I'd like you to meet my uncle ...Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, also known as uncle Lamb. Uncle Lamb, this is Jamie, James Fraser ...my boyfriend. I'm staying with him for at least a week."
"Is that right?" the man on the screen harumphed with a growl as he stuck a thick cigar between his teeth. "Not what I was expecting."
Jamie disregarded the not so subtle dig. "Good evening, sir ..." he began.
Claire laughed. "Don't call him that, Jamie. It's too weird!" She glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. "If he's giving you "the look," don't worry. Uncle Lamb is all bluster."
"I heard that," uncle Lamb grumbled.
"Play nice, then!" she shouted from the kitchen.
Jamie eyed the man on the screen and squared his shoulders. He wished he'd been more prepared for this or at least looked presentable. Instead, he resembled a drowned cat after just having arrived home from work. Claire hadn't told him much about uncle Lamb and wondered if she'd said anything about him to the older man.
He stared at Harry's look alike. Does uncle Lamb ever smile? Or is that scowl permanently etched on his face? He wasn't sure. Maybe it had something to do with that cigar hanging loosely in his mouth.
Sizing him up, Jamie presumed they're roughly the same breadth, and if uncle Lamb was anything like Harry in stature, they should be the same height too. It's a good thing they were meeting via video conference. If they had been facing each other in person, he might be less inclined to shake hands, seeing how the older man looked like he was capable of committing murder.
An amused Claire came gliding out of the kitchen with a bottle of beer, seemingly unfazed by tension emanating from her laptop screen. "Don't mind his mood, Jamie," she chirped. "He's just grouchy because five of his men came down with food poisoning. And work is being delayed again."
Uncle Lamb growled. "Don't remind me."
Claire wagged a finger at her uncle before kissing Jamie on the forehead and handing him the bottle. "I'll go prepare dinner."
He took a deep breath as he watched her head back to the kitchen. Uncle Lamb could frown all he wanted. Ultimately, if need be, he would go through twenty uncle Lambs to show the world how serious he was about his relationship with Claire.
Jamie noticed the older man watching him very closely.
"So how are ye?"
"I don't like surprises," Quentin announced, obviously wanting to get straight to the point.
"Neither do I," he returned. Facing off each other for a few silent seconds, Jamie deliberately took a slow slug of his beer. He placed the bottle back down on the table and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "But surprises are nothing new to me. I was trained to be prepared against any surprises," he added, referring to his SAS past.
Quentin ignored the remark. "Claire told me ..." He leaned forward and rolled his khaki sleeves up, exposing tanned sinewy, muscular arms. "...you met just before Christmas."
"That's right, sir ...I mean unc ...I mean Quentin." The older man raised an eyebrow at him, and Jamie raised one back.
"Things seem to be moving along. Fast!"
"Claire and I have acknowledged that."
"She was there with you only a few weeks ago for her holidays. She's just got back to work. Did you persuade her to come back?"
"She's got a mind of her own."
"Are you serious about her?"
Jamie tried not to look rattled as the older man bombarded him with questions. It was only natural to be concerned about his niece. "Aye, I built her a shed." Ach shite, wrong answer ...what the fuck was that, ye clot-heid? He felt like kicking himself.
Quentin watched him in stony silence. "A shed?"
He inhaled deeply, careful not to show any signs of frustration. "Actually, it's a writing studio," he explained, feeling the heat crawling up his neck. "For when Claire comes over for a visit. She can work undisturbed there. I've even soundproofed the walls, and it's been comfortably furnished ."
Quentin said nothing. Instead, he slowly placed the cigar on the ashtray, raised his brandy snifter to his lips and drank.
Determined, Jamie pushed on. "Claire has handed her notice to her boss, and once her commitments in London are done, she'll be moving here ...to Broch Mordha." He tamped down the rising emotion from his throat as he thought of Claire preparing dinner for him in the kitchen. "Look, I may not look like the man ye hoped for, for yer niece, but ye dinnae ken me. I admit I come with a lot of baggage, but I'm working hard on it, and she's helped me tremendously in dealing with ..." He trailed off. He didn't want to pull the PTSD card out. This was about Claire, he reminded himself. "I ken her history. I ken she's moved a lot, lived in boarding schools, nae home to go to during the holidays, following ye half-way around the world when school's out. She told me she's never felt any sense of belonging anywhere ..." Quentin glanced away. "I want ye to know, I willnae be just another stopover for Claire. And even if she has to travel long distances to visit ye, she'll always have a place to return to. I have roots here, and I can give her..."
Quentin crossed his arms. "Give her what?"
Jamie cleared his throat. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm serious about taking our relationship further. As ye can see, she's staying here in my home until she goes back to London. Though there is this unspoken understanding between Claire and me, I dinnae want to be presumptuous ..." Jamie rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck. "...in thinking, she will move in with me when she relocates here to Broch Mordha. But I plan on asking her. And it would be verrae nice if ye could give yer blessing and ..."
He shook his head. "No!" His grin was more like a baring of his cigar-stained teeth. "Ask me again in a year."
Jamie ran a hand through his hair. "All due respect, I ken she will say yes when I ask. And I ken she's stubborn enough to make up her own decisions with or without yer blessing. But I'd rather I have it ...for all our sakes. I'm no' sure if ye are aware, but I have my own business that I share with my brother, I own a house, I have no mortgage, and I make enough to provide for both of us with enough left for savings. She can pursue her dream of writing to her heart's content without worrying about finances."
"You overlook the fact that she's a city girl. What if her writing career never takes off? What are her possibilities in the Highlands?"
"Oh, but it will take off. I have faith it will. She's very passionate about pursuing her dream, and rightly so, because she's a talented writer. I can attest to that because I've read one of her finished works."
Quentin's face softened just a tiny bit. "You have?"
"Aye, I have," he hedged. "Claire should have published her work ages ago, and I plan to encourage her to do just that. Her writing would be a wonderful gift to the world."
"You're doing a lot for someone you barely know."
"Quentin," Jamie sighed, swallowing his exasperation. "I'm in love with yer niece. I'm aware everything between us is happening fast, and I dinnae suppose there is a timeframe or formula to follow when it comes to relationships. I'm just winging this and going along with my guts. And my guts are telling me Claire is the one. I still cannae believe someone like her is even real and that she loves me back. I sometimes wonder if I'm dreaming. She brings the best out of me, and I want to do the same for her. So if helping her realise her dreams is all I have to do to keep her, that's what I'll do."
A few heartbeats of silence and watching each other closely passed before Quentin spoke again. "What did you say your last name was? I didn't quite catch it."
Ach, Christ, he's gonnae do a background check on me! "Fraser," Jamie replied.
The older man let out an impatient grunt. "Yes, yes, but which Fraser do you belong to? There are a lot of Frasers in the Highlands."
"My parents are Brian and Ellen Fraser," he replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
Quentin's brows knitted together, and his stubbled jaw flexed twice. "You mean Brian and Ellen from Lallybroch?"
Jamie shifted in his seat. "Ye know them?"
"And you're Jamie?" Quentin asked, ignoring his question.
Confusion descended over Jamie as he saw the transformation in Quentin's face. "Aaaye," he said slowly and deliberately. Where in the bloody hell is this going to, now?
"And Claire wants to move in with you?"
"As I've said, I havenae asked her, but I think she would like the idea of us living together. It would make perfect sense since we do love each other."
He grabbed the cigar and pointed the tip in his direction. "You have my blessings." Ignoring Jamie's sharp intake of breath, he tipped back the rest of his brandy. "Conditions are, there should be once a week phone-calls. Video or facetime ones or whatever you call it. And when I'm on British soil ..."
Jamie suddenly straightened up on his seat. "We'll visit, or ye can come and stay with us."
Quentin shot up on his feet. "Very well then, welcome to the family, Fraser. Go and get your dinner ...you wouldn't want your wife ..." he coughed, his face turning red. "...I mean your girlfriend reheating what she's just lovingly made."
Jamie got up as well, ready to shut the laptop, relief and confusion at the sudden turn around washing over him in waves. What the fuck just happened? Too bewildered for words, "Of course," was all he could muster.
Quentin hesitated, as if in search of the right words, his throat working overtime. When he finally spoke, Jamie couldn't help but hear the emotion in the older man's voice. "If Claire's father was alive today, he would think his daughter has made a fine choice."
His jaw dropped involuntarily. "He would?"
There was no reply. Too shell shocked, Jamie stood there staring at the screen for a full minute, long after Quentin had signed off.
When Claire reappeared from the kitchen, she launched herself into his arms and whispered, "Hungry?"
His bewilderment evaporated, happiness shrouding around him in such a way he knew everything was going to be alright.
Puffing out a breath, Jamie shoved a hand through his hair and made his way to the bathroom. He knew he wouldn't be going back to sleep for a while, so he might as well washed off those vivid dreams of Harry and clear his thoughts of that conversation with uncle Lamb. He felt like he was living in the Twilight Zone and badly needed to get his equilibrium back.
The silence of the night closed in around him until the soothing spray of the shower hit his skin. He wondered if Claire would remember anything from her parents' accident. She'd mentioned a couple of times, she had been five when they passed away. Considering that Claire was now in a happy place, content and well-adjusted, it was probably not the brightest of ideas to conjure up her past. But then, on the other hand, he suspected she might want to know what had happened that day. After all, she did have the right to know her history, no matter how painful.
The image of Claire's bright amber eyes and husky laughter flashed in his mind.
Jamie sighed, turned off the shower, and quickly dried himself off. When he realised Claire wasn't in bed, he made his way to the kitchen. He quietened his pace when he found her dropping teabags into two mugs, wearing only his t-shirt and a pair of woollen socks. She didn't hear him approach at first, looking deep in thought as she waited for the kettle to boil.
Moonlight streamed in through the kitchen window, creating a halo out of the wisps of curls framing her face, the whole scene reminding him she was everything he wasn't, a shining light where he watched her in the shadows. Sorcha! A force within spurred him towards her, needing to touch that light, hoping it wouldn't fade with his damaged soul.
"It's late, Sassenach. What are ye doing up?" he asked, walking towards the fridge.
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" she jumped, hands flying to her chest. She tucked a loose curl behind her ears and faced him with a sigh, a small smile slowly forming her lips. "You weren't in bed, so I thought you probably had one of your nightmares. I'm making us some chamomile tea. It helps with sleep and relaxation."
He wasn't sure if this was the time to tell Claire about his dreams, so he dismissed it with a wave of a hand and smiled. "Just a strange dream. Is that one of yer herbal remedies?" he asked, stirring the subject to something neutral.
She lifted a shoulder. "Something like that."
He opened the fridge and found a rainbow of colours of fruits, vegetables, yoghurts and juices. Claire hadn't been kidding when she'd said she went food shopping today. Obviously, root vegetables, eggs, cheese and a container of hummus he'd bought wasn't enough. Smiling, he grabbed a pear and shut the fridge door. "Do pears go with chamomile tea?"
Her face lit up, making his heart expand. "I suppose so." She poured hot water into the mugs and brought their teas to the dining table, Jamie following close behind her. "And it's good for you. You ought to eat more fruits."
"But you bought enough pears to feed an entire village, Sassenach," he pointed out, biting into the succulent fruit.
Claire giggled as she sat down. "The other bag of pears are for the sticky toffee pear pudding I'm going to make. Uncle Lamb loves making it for me whenever he comes over for a visit. So I thought I'd make some for us. He told me the recipe he uses was from my mum."
The way she smiled fondly at the memory made him want to draw her into his arms, but he took a seat instead. "With pears? I've only ever had normal sticky toffee pudding," he said, sipping some tea. "My ma makes it sometimes."
Her eyes twinkled. "I was told my mum loved to bake. And apparently, according to uncle Lamb, my favourite was cream buns."
Curiosity started to niggle in his belly at the mention of Claire's mother, even though he rebelled against it. Is this the time to talk about the death of her parents? Before he could change his mind, he came straight out with it. "Sorry to change the subject, Sassenach, but I have something to ask. What made ye come to the Highlands every Christmas?" he asked. "Ye mentioned once, ye like coming here during the Holidays. I mean, it's a great place to spend Christmas and all, but is there a particular reason?"
For a long moment, she stared at him with a faraway look. He realised he was holding his breath, half of him already regretting asking the question. There was a possibility her answer could lead to resurrecting a tragic event and snuffing the light out of her. And he needed to bask in her light some more. What was he thinking? Leave the past in the past, Murtagh had told him. He didn't know what lay on the other side of bringing up her parents' death. Either way, Claire didn't need to be dragged down with a sad memory.
Feeling suddenly foolish, he put down the pear he was eating and reached out to touch her hand. "Ye know what. Dinnae answer that. It's getting late. The tea is working its magic already, and I think I'm ready to go to bed."
A delicate frown marred her brows. "Are you sure you don't want to know?"
Am I sure? No, not really. "Go on, tell me then."
She suddenly beamed like the light that she was. "The reason why I love coming back to the Highlands every year is, this is the place where my parents met and fell in love. I'm not quite sure where exactly, but it was somewhere around here. As far as I know, the Highlands was their happy place where they made loads of happy memories and great friends, and every time I come here, it makes me feel closer to them. You might find it odd, but I do feel most at peace here. There's something that draws me to come every year. Call it gravitational pull or whatever. But it feels like it's my parents' way of sharing their happiness with me. Am I making any sense?"
His breath of relief released in a slow rush, lightness invading his chest, as he realised she didn't remember anything of her parents' death. Or at least he presumed so. But, if it's his burden to carry the truth of Claire's parents' death alone, so be it. Why bring up something dark that has no place in their lives anymore? Maybe one day ...in the far future. Her hand still in his, he stood up, pulling her to her feet before lifting her into his arms. She squealed in surprise. "It doesnae matter if it makes sense or no', Sassenach. If it feels right to ye, then it must mean something. Who knows, maybe the reason ye're probably drawn to the Highlands is that ye were conceived here. Have ye ever thought of that?"
Claire slipped her arms around his neck and smiled. "Or maybe ..." she leaned in to nibble at his earlobe. "...because I was drawn to ye. Have you ever thought of that?"
Jamie laughed as he started to walk them towards the bedroom. "C'mon off to bed with ye ...I have an early start tomorrow."
Claire eyed him mischievously as she snuggled closer. "To bed or to sleep?"
With a guttural groan, he lowered his head, brushing their lips together as he gave his answer in kisses.
Dear Readers,
I hope this chapter made sense to you. As you might have noticed, I didn't write the events in this chapter in chronological order, and I hope you can understand why I wrote it the way I did. If it didn't make any sense, please, I'm all ears ...ask away, and I'll answer.
It was a challenge writing the dream part, so I hope I've done it justice. And mostly, I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed seeing the feedbacks in the previous chapter. So a big thank you for that!
Let me know what you thought about the latest instalment and until the next update, take care of your health and keep up the positive vibes. X 😀❤️
ADDED UPDATE - An explanation to this chapter
I was trying to be clever and do the first two part of this chapter in the reverse order that I may have left you confused than enlightened. I have copied and pasted an explanation to the question posted by one reader in AO3. I hope this will help clarify things. So here goes:
The dream was brought about by two triggers. First, was Jamie's conversation with Murtagh in Chapter five. Although in Jamie's dream he'd been the one to save Claire, in reality, it had been Murtagh. But it was Jamie who carried Claire to safety after Murtagh instructed him to. This was the conversation:
Murtagh puffed out a breath. "The last time ye saw Henry, he was in a car accident ...with his family."
"What?" he choked.
Murtagh turned tired-looking eyes on him, and there was a deep sadness in them that startled him. "It was the day they were coming back to Broch Mordha for the first time in years. I heard talks around the village that they've rented a wee cottage from Mrs Baird. And also heard words about a wean. I didnae want to stick around to find out. I thought I'd take a wee trip to Skye and stay there until Henry and his family were gone. I was just packing when ye came barging into my hoose tellin me that a car had smashed to a tree. I came running oot like a gudgeon with ye right behind me. Ye must have been nine or ten. It wasnae far from where I lived then. By the time I got there, Henry was still alive, and Jules was unconscious. He ordered me to get the bairn first and then Jules. My first thoughts were to save Jules, but the wee child was screaming, and Henry was begging me to save her. Between the two of us, we managed to get wee Claire oot, and I ordered ye to take her as far as possible from the site. And that ye did. But I couldnae save Harry and Jules because the car caught fire and Henry lost consciousness. When I smelt gasoline, I had to run, and that's when the car exploded."
The second trigger was brought about by seeing Uncle Lamb's similarity to Harry and also by their conversation via video conference. Towards the end of their conversation uncle Lamb realised Jamie was the young boy who'd carried Claire to safety before the car exploded. Uncle Lamb would have remembered this because he was the only living guardian of Claire and the story of his brothers' demise would have been passed on to him when he came to collect Claire. You will also notice that Jamie found it strange the sudden turn around in uncle Lamb's demeanour at the end of their talk. But Jamie hadn't known the reason for this until after the dream. The dream in a way brought back all the suppressed memories and everything clicked in place together.
Now Jamie is unsure of asking Claire what she knew about the crash and telling her his dreams. Seeing her happy and contented, he didn't want her to relive that past in case more grief than good comes out of it.
I hope I made more sense here. X
#melodyheart#wonderwall#milesbetweenus#ClaireBeauchamp/JamieFraser#claire beauchamp#jamie fraser#outlanderfanfic
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Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton story (in the best i can but many of this is on wiki)
This story isn't based on the musical itself. Since the musical is inaccurate to the bone with some stuff to make it into a drama or soap opera.
Eliza Schuyler or what people call her Betsey or Elizabeth Schuyler. Elizabeth was born on August 9th, 1757, to a powerful and rich family in New york. Eliza was the second child to 15 children which would downgrade to 8 children. She had 4 sisters and 3 brothers that lived up to adulthood.
The Schuyler family is a dutch family from the Netherlands during the 1600s.
Eliza in her youth met famous people, Benjamin Franklin and more. She was also described as being a tomboy.
Now older, (this part is still unsure about her first meeting with her future husband) there are many parts to like, his visit to her home with Washington, her being a nurse with her aunt in the colonies base, during their free time where she played the piano and he chills next to her, or the famous one at the ball) Eliza stayed with her aunt during the war as a nurse to the soldiers. Schuyler would end up meeting Hamilton during the winter. (you know I remember this funny story about their relationship that involved Washington and Washington had to stop them from falling in love with each other. And in today's standard words he was being a dad and telling Philip to control his daughter.)
During that time, she became close with Martha Washington who Eliza idealized her as a true woman.
After returning home from her meeting with Alexander, Hamilton had forgotten his password to the army headquarters. (which made me laugh a lot about) their relationship grew, even apart from each other. They wrote letters and planned what could be a secret wedding. But they ask for Philip's blessing to be engaged and married. Which was successful. Eliza learned that John Andre was captured. Eliza and even Alex were head over heels over John Andre.
John Andre was hanged for his crimes.
Eliza and Alex were married by December 14, 1780. The newlywed couple went to Eliza’s childhood home as a honeymoon at Pastures for a short time. But returned in early January of 1781. Eliza resumed her friendship with Martha until their husbands had a falling out. And Hamilton had to move into her father’s home, to a new house that’s across the river from Windsor headquarters. Eliza planned the ideas of a newly built home while helping Hamilton with his political writings. Some of the papers were written in her handwriting. They moved again to Albany with her parents.
Not so long ago, Eliza discovered she was pregnant with her first child and by next January, it would be a son named Philip. Alexander wrote letters to Eliza to make her calm about his safety.
While the war was coming close to home, the Schuyler didn’t have any losses with a quick-thinking Peggy saving their youngest sister from death or kidnap. While their father was away.
After Yorktown, Alex returned to her safely. Even if the war wasn’t fully over until 1783. Her eldest sister, angelica, and her husband john church moved to Britain which was claimed for business reasons. By Sept 25, 1784, Eliza gave birth to their second child, a daughter named Angelica.
By 1787, Eliza sat for a portrait that was painted by a prisoner. By 1786, she gave birth to their third child, a son named Alexander (jr). 2 years later, by 1788, she gave birth to their fourth son named James Alexander.
In 1787, Hamiltons took in a daughter by a soldier friend of Hamilton, who had already lost his wife and couldn’t take care of their daughter, Fanny, or Frances Antill, the youngest child of one sister. (who she will live with after 10 years with the hamiltons)
Through the years, Hamiltons were active socially to everyone, tending to balls and parties. Eliza even danced with George Washington. Both Eliza and Alex hosted a dinner party with Thomas Jefferson. When Hamilton became the treasury secretary, Eliza, Sarah Jay, Lucy Knox became leaders of the official society.
Eliza became an aid for Alexander and all of his Political work and even his idea for the Bank of United States and even he read out the Washington Farewell Address to her. She continued raising the children, until the time when John Church Hamilton was born in 1792.
2 years later, Eliza suffered a miscarriage that almost taken her life. Their youngest child became ill and Eliza became worried over her missing husband. This was the point of Alex resigning from public office. He resumed his law practice to be close to his family.
But then by 1797, things went downhill through the couple’s marriage where an affair was brought to light to everyone’s eye. Alexander has written a pamphlet that talks about his affair with a fair woman named Maria Reynolds. And the tale of his blackmail with her and her husband.
This causes Eliza to not believe at first but later did when Alexander confirmed it. At the time, Eliza was pregnant with their sixth child. (with many people not knowing if Eliza reacted or said anything besides not believing it at first, is still a mystery) Eliza left Alex back home and went to live with her father for a bit. She only returned because of a sickness that their eldest son had, which was incurable to him.
Eliza only forgave Alex when dying or thought they were gonna die of yellow fever. Not the death of Philip hamilton. They reconnected and fixed their marriage. The couple had two more kids, a daughter named Eliza in 1799 and a son who wouldn’t meet his eldest brother and namesake, Philip II in 1801. Philip Hamilton ended up dying in a duel at the hands of George Eacker. The couple changed by Philip’s death but they finished the first and only built home called the Hamilton Grange, named after Alexander’s father’s homeland in Scotland. Eliza and Alex became close again and wrote letters to each other when one was away, like when Eliza attended her mother’s funeral in 1803.
The couple lived there for 2 years until Alexander Hamilton died in a duel at the hands of Aaron Burr.
Within the years after and before Alex's death, her mother, her sister Peggy and her son Philip died before Alexander in 1803 and 1801. After, her father died months after and her siblings followed. Eliza had to pay her husband's debt and even sell the house to live with family or her children.
In 1798, Eliza accepted the invitation of a friend of the Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children. But now after 2 years after her husband’s death, she joins in and resumes with them. She met other women, including Joanna Bethune, the founder of Orphan Asylum Society. Eliza, herself counted as second vice president.
Throughout the rest of her life, she defended her Husband from critics, support his claim as authorship to the Washington Farewell Address, and requested an apology from James Monroe which refused multiple times until he gave in, when they met in person, talking about alexander shortly before his death (monroe). Eliza collects all the letters and papers of her husbands and helps her son, John Church hamilton.
Schuyler had a small package around her neck that had a sonnet that Alexander wrote to her, himself.
By her 90s, she made an effort to congress to buy and publish her husband’s work. Which they accepted by august. Still during her 90s, she did charity work, and helped out with dolley madison, and louisa adams who are both widows to james madison and john q. Adams.
Even so, she grew and helped out with everything she could. Eliza had suffered with short term memory loss which only allowed her to remember her husband by 1846.
By 1854 of November 9, Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton had left the world by the age of 97, in Washington D.C and moved to New York to be buried by her husband.
Eliza outlived all of her family except the Youngest that survived to British attack. By 50 years.
Happy Birthday Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton, and Happy 264th Birthday.
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Fic: The Honey Trap (2/?)
By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette
Disclaimer: They're not mine.
Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)
Story Summary: Peggy’d lost count. She wasn’t sure if she was a double or triple agent at this point, and in the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out of this alive.
Chapter A/N: Keep an eye out for the time stamps moving forward, this chapter takes us back to the beginning of all of this. Also, timeline, just like the rest of this, is AU.
Chapter 2: Like it or Not
September, 1944
Wallace was haggard. He had been undercover with Hydra since before the war started, when they had only just begun forming and the British government wanted to get a mole in on the ground level, and it showed. “I know it’s a risk.”
“A risk?” Peggy squeaked in a whisper, her arms wrapped tight around her to ward away the chill. “That is beyond a risk. That’s deep cover. That’s long term and incredibly dangerous.”
“Which is why you’re here, and not someone else,” Phillips filled in calmly. “Now let’s hurry this up,” he waved his finger around, swirling the mist his breath left in the cold air of the meat locker. “No one’s going to believe I left that steak sitting on that table this long.”
“They’re looking to recruit,” Wallace pleaded, the bags under his eyes somehow darker the more he talked. “I’d be your recruiter. I’d be the contact so we can keep this in house and with people we trust. No middle men.” He moved his gaze from Peggy to Steve, pleading. “They’re running it all over the world with secretaries from every country, every agency, it won’t seem out of the ordinary, I promise.”
Steve was unimpressed. “She’ll stand out—"
“Because of you!” Wallace finally let the words he’d been holding back out. “They’re looking for any and every way they can to get to you, to find out more about you, to figure out how they can stop and defeat the man who is almost singlehandedly taking out Hydra. If we do this now, together, we can control the flow of information. We can control how they see the circumstances.” He deflated. “We let this opportunity pass us by and they might find another way in; one we won’t know about until it’s too late.” His feel shuffled on the slick ground as he fidgeted.
The foursome looked at one another in the dark, cold meat locker. Phillips only waited a second before speaking. “You’re doing it.”
“Sir…” Peggy started, not refuting his order but far more cautious than she’d be with orders given while in uniform standing under a tent.
“Wallace is right, and he knows these guys better than we ever will. His intel has saved our asses more than once.” Phillips leaned forward, eyes serious. “We are never going to get this opportunity again, Carter.”
Steve sighed, crossing his arms and letting the captain in him take over. “What do we have to do?”
“Go public,” Wallace said plainly, nodding at the two.
Steve looked like a deer in headlights. “We don’t- we’re…”
Phillips couldn’t hold in his chuckle. “You think there’s anyone this side of the Atlantic that’s worked with the two of you that doesn’t notice you making sappy, lovesick eyes at her, son?”
Steve swallowed hard and Peggy pressed her lips together, but neither argued. They’d been discreet, but not invisible. Peggy shook her head, confused by the premise. “Why public? Why not just recruit me from the steno pool?”
Wallace narrowed his eyes, the plan blossoming in his mind clear and precise. “Trying to convince them that a random secretary that just magically showed up in the pool has knowledge of Captain America would be harder than trying to convince them you’re his girlfriend without blowing your cover. We have to give them a reason to trust you know what you know without letting to world know you worked for the SSR and blow any future deniability you might have as a spy. We let slip you two are an item. Something small but irrefutable. Then we build up tension after that-maybe you have a blow up, maybe you get reprimanded, I don’t have time for details, but then Phillips transfers you out back to London, Carter. I can move in from there.”
Peggy looked impressed. “A tryst with a secretary technically breaks the fraternization rules.” She looked at the men, knowing they all knew far more egregious violations of that were happening on a daily basis. “It’s enough for a formal write up and reprimand, which is not a very top-secret document to get your hands on.” Wallace smiled at her as she caught on and talked it out. “And with my connection to Steve…”
“You become my connection.” Wallace took a deep breath filled with relief now that Peggy seemed on board with the plan. “We can fake information into Hydra. We can give them anything they want to hear, real or fake, while siphoning our own information on Hydra back to the SSR, and they’ll think they have everything they want to know about Captain America.”
Steve shook his head, standing akimbo. “I still don’t know—”
“I do,” Phillips pointed at them. “Oh-six-hundred, in my tent tomorrow with a plan, you hear me?” He turned, mumbling on the way out. “My steak’s gonna be colder than my ass after standing in here for so long.”
They watched Phillips step out of the meat locker, which was handily only across the hallway from the bathroom in the small restaurant they’d met in so he could feign coming from there. Peggy turned back to Wallace. “What do you need?”
“Exactly what I told you.” He looked almost happy, a light starting to grow in his eyes. “A big screw up, something that can prove to Hydra you two are together, then a blow up. Once you hit London, I’ll move in from there. I’m already ‘monitoring’ the SSR steno pool and code breakers for good candidates.”
“I won’t disappoint you, Wallace.” Peggy was earnest, knowing how hard it was to be so deep undercover, knowing Wallace needed a friend now more than anything.
“I know you won’t.” Wallace didn’t even wait for goodbyes, but slipped out to the back loading dock through the small door, the way he’d come in.
Peggy finally let out the shiver she’d been holding in when she and Steve were alone. “Well, that was…”
“Unexpected?” He pulled his leather jacket off and draped it over her shoulders before bending down and lifting the cover off the drain. “We usually get intel drops, not major operation requests.”
Peggy bent down next to him, even though she was useless to lift the heavy metal that had been installed under the guise of getting run off out of the freezer when it was cleaned. In reality, the restaurant was an Allied cover used for clandestine meetings. “To say the least.”
She’d heard they also had excellent food, which was a shame because somehow she and Steve always drew the short straw of the sewer entry. Steve carefully lowered himself into the hole then reached back up for her as he balanced on the thin ledge above the sewerage. “So, what are we going to do?”
“Well,” she sat and slid down through the hole as Steve helped her, hands wrapped around her waist. “I suppose I could get caught coming out of your tent.”
Steve reached up, closing the grate and door over, and then leaned down and kissed her gently in the dark. “I don’t like that. I don’t like any of this. It’s going to invalidate you to so many of—”
She reached up, stopping him. “I’ve never given a damn about my reputation, and I’m not about to start, now. They can think what they want about me, but despite how long term and dangerous this could be, it has the potential to give us a huge advantage.” She slipped her fingers through his. “In fact, people talking about me can only help us in this. If Hydra think I’ve been ostracized, it makes more sense for me to flip sides.”
Steve stepped forward, squeezing her hand as he pulled her behind him. “I understand it. On an intellectual level… strategically… it makes sense.” He sidestepped a pile of garbage as he pulled them down the tiny ledge, his enhanced vision guiding them through the murky sewer. They had a half mile trek before it opened up and they could make their way back to camp on his motorcycle that was hidden in the brush by the drainage pipe. He huffed a laugh. “You know, you and me disappearing from camp like this probably only fuels those rumors.”
“Wouldn’t everyone be just—” Peggy paused, stumbling for a second on a slick patch before catching her balance and continuing, “just so scandalized to realize we’re not off for a snog in the woods, but traipsing through a sewer and getting secret orders?”
Steve slowed, turning back to her and taking her in his arms. “You know, it’s not too late for some of that…” he teased.
Peggy gave him a gentle smack on the shoulder and pushed him around, starting their march again. “Save it, soldier. I prefer to kiss you in settings that don’t smell like the latrines, thank you very much.” She waited until they were firmly on the move before speaking again, picking her way carefully behind him. “Despite the circumstances,” she whispered, knowing he could hear it, “I’ll take any excuse I can get.”
His hand squeezed hers tight again. “When this is all over…” It was a sentence they started often, but rarely finished.
She smiled, hanging on to his arm as she moved over a cracked part of the ledge. “Yes, yes. Dancing and dinner dates and all the romance I can stand, right Rogers?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He slowed, making sure she was over and steady before moving on.
“Well, like it or not, we may be stealing moments like this for the foreseeable future.” She sighed, thinking of what might lay ahead of them: weeks, or even months and years of deep cover.
“Not,” Steve grumbled, taking her hand tighter in his and pulling her behind him through the dark sewer, “I choose not liking it.”
~*~
The Next Morning
0600
Phillips waved his secretary out of the tent and rounded his desk, sitting on the edge so he could talk in hushed tones to the two across from him. “So, what do you have for me?”
Steve and Peggy looked at one another for a long moment before he pulled out his compass and handed it to Phillips.
The colonel shook his head. “It’s looks like that that give you two idiots away. Every time.” He sighed, holding up the golden compact. “Context?”
“The newsreel crew should be here tomorrow, right?” Steve started, motioning for Philips to open the compass. “We let them catch a glimpse of that on the reel, and you conveniently ‘miss’ it when you approve the footage.”
Phillips looked down at the compass, shaking his head. It was clear the picture of his best spy was rather comfortable in the compass and had not been put in there just last night. “How long have you been potentially compromising my best— No. You know what? I don’t want to know how long you thought this boneheaded idea of carrying her picture around was smart.” Phillips stood and made his way back to his chair, sitting heavily as he played with the compass. “Wasn’t a good idea then, but it should work well enough now.”
“We also have the element of speed,” Peggy added, looking between the two men carefully. “That footage can be across the allied countries in a matter of days, meaning Hydra will see it just as fast.”
Phillips nodded. “As soon as it’s out, the gossip rags will be all over the State Department’s poster boy having a sweetheart, and you get an immediate transfer.” He tossed the compass back to Steve, who caught it despite his surprise. “Help it along. You two go do a poor job of pretending to avoid each other. I don’t like making it look like we’re screwing up, but if we’re doing it, we’re gonna do it right.”
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I posted 1,567 times in 2021
104 posts created (7%)
1463 posts reblogged (93%)
For every post I created, I reblogged 14.1 posts.
I added 29 tags in 2021
#loki spoilers - 4 posts
#wandavison spoilers - 4 posts
#black widow spoilers - 4 posts
#bw spoilers - 4 posts
#wandavision - 3 posts
#tfatws spoilers - 3 posts
#loki show spoilers - 3 posts
#the falcon and the winter soldier spoilers - 2 posts
#chaotic good - 1 posts
#in the fall - 1 posts
Longest Tag: 42 characters
#the falcon and the winter soldier spoilers
My Top Posts in 2021
#5
Mom’s nuanced reaction/review of Captain America: Civil War
“Did they get an actor that looked like young Robert Downey Jr or was that effects?”
“Can you imagine being on your commute and seeing Captain America running past you?”
“Winter Soldier is much cuter than Captain America.”
“Black Panther is cuter than both of them.”
“That motorcycle thing? When he grabbed it and flipped? That was nice.”
“Is Spiderman Marvel? I thought he was something else.”
“I didn’t know Ant Man could do that! I guess he is relevant.”
“It was good. I liked the Star Wars and Manchurian candidate lines.”
25 notes • Posted 2021-03-27 23:29:56 GMT
#4
Y’all ready for Mom’s in depth Infinity War review?
“It’s all action and no plot.”
“I’m not done yet, I fell asleep and had to rewind.”
“Why did Josh Brolin even do this movie? Money, I guess.”
“Is this the one you had to wait a year to see what happened?”
“I was promised Idris Elba and I barely saw him!” (Gotta watch Ragnarok for prime MCU Idris, Mom.)
“All in all, I don't think I liked it.”
Edited to add, since I forgot: “Well, that’s most of my day I’m not getting back.”
29 notes • Posted 2021-03-30 00:00:04 GMT
#3
More spoilery Black Widow review
Told in bullet points, train of thought style
There were 7 previews and 2 different commercials reminding us that theaters were open again and this was how movies were made to be seen. A) We’re already in the theater Cinemark, chill and B) When I watch movies at home they start with I hit the godsdamned play button.
Flashback to 90s Ohio with adorable spy children. All my head canons of Nat knowing random 90s trivia is now valid.
Excellent use of American Pie.
The opening credits are more harrowing than any Marvel movie so far.
General Ross will never not be an idiot.
Hello attractive British fixer guy. I suspect you to be evil but you are not and that is a relief.
“People with friends don’t call me.” Dude all her friends are in prison, way to rub it in.
No, Nat! Don’t just put the McGuffin in your back seat!
Taskmasker is a Taskmistress, calling it now.
SHOOT HER LEGS NAT. Her shield is the size of a dinner plate. Don’t you meme?
I feel like the fact the gas is glowing is, like, a health hazard warning? Is there radium in it?
Nat and Yelena have an all out brawl when they reunite, which, based on sisters I know, seems accurate.
So Budapest is code for “that time we blew up a building in an attempt to kill my old boss and had to lie low for 10 days” I’m with Clint, here, that doesn’t resemble the Battle of New York at all.
Maybe plan an escape that is less likely to cause bodily harm.
Taskmaster shoots an arrow to remind us she can copy ALL The Avengers, even the ones without solo movies.
I REALLY don’t think either of you survived that car crash. Especially considering it’s Nat’s second major crash in two days.
So Clint DOES like hanging out in vents? That’s amazing. Which writer’s been hanging out on Tumblr?
So THAT’S where they took Sherif Hopper.
This is the most badass yet stupid prison break in cinema history.
“This is an awesome way to die.” I love Yelena, she’s my new favorite.
Don’t make period jokes to Black Widows, apparently.
“I was about to talk about Fallopian tubes.” I AM ADOPTING YELENA.
Alexei trying to give the girls a fatherly pep talk. Insert Will Smith “He’s got the spirit” gif.
Please let the pig breathe morally grey Rachel Weisz!
That being said, heavy Amanda vibes from Melina. They’ll get along.
“Pain makes you strong.” I feel like that’s supposed to feel like and inappropriate thing to tell a kid but that’s like, one of my family mottos.
Keep trying Alexei, you’ll get one of these right.
My biggest beef with this film is “No one has noticed a floating fortress over Russia only 4 years after aliens invaded New York.”
See the full post
33 notes • Posted 2021-07-10 05:48:28 GMT
#2
I turned 40 yesterday. According to the Young People™ on Tumblr, I am well past my expiration date and should sit quietly in a hole somewhere doing taxes and emotionally abusing my children.
Instead I’m going to play Sims and write some Captain America porn. Maybe listen to some Jimmy Buffet.
Age is just a number, kids. It will take years, if not decades to figure out who you are and what you’re good at and what brings you joy. Don’t stop your interests just as you find them. Life is a banquet and most people are starving to death.
35 notes • Posted 2021-07-24 20:03:58 GMT
#1
It’s been a few days so can we all appreciate that Vision beat his evil clone not with force but with a philosophical thought experiment? Like we still got the over the top shiny lights battle with Wanda and Agatha, but even THAT was won with Wanda out smarting her. WandaVision said brains over brawn and I’m living it.
98 notes • Posted 2021-03-09 21:42:25 GMT
Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →
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In 1992, a Canadian ecologist named William Rees coined the term “ecological footprint,” a measurement of how much any entity was impacting the planet’s ecology. A decade later, British Petroleum started promoting a new term: “carbon footprint.” In a splashy ad campaign, the company unveiled the first of its many carbon footprint calculators as a way for individuals to measure how their daily actions—what they eat, where they work, how they heat their home—impact global warming.
BP did not adopt the footprint imagery by accident. In the 30 years prior to the carbon footprint campaign, polluting companies had been using advertising to link pollution and climate change to personal choices. These campaigns, most notably the long-running Keep America Beautiful campaign, imply that individuals, rather than corporations, bear the responsibility for change.
“It was done so intentionally,” says Susan Hassol, director of the nonprofit science outreach group Climate Communication. “It’s a deflection.”
The universal adoption of the term “carbon footprint” hasn’t just changed how we speak about climate change. It’s changed how we think about it. Climate change has become an individual problem, caused by our insatiable appetite for consumption, and therefore a war that must be waged on our dinner plates and gas tanks, a hero’s journey from consumer to conservationist.
Yet the reality is that the future of civilization is being decided at a political and corporate level that no individual can impact. Just 100 companies are responsible for 71% of global emissions. Fossil fuel giants are funding climate change skepticism while simultaneously lobbying for tens of billions of dollars in subsidies. Big corporate names like Costco and Netflix are loudly committing to reduce emissions but unable to set meaningful targets or put plans in place. The Trump administration rolled back more than 100 environmental rules and regulations.
The reality is that the future of civilization is being decided at a political and corporate level that no individual can impact.
The same way that you give your child a toy to play with so you can finish your task uninterrupted, everyday citizens are busy changing out lightbulbs and buying electric cars while the true cause of global warming continues uninterrupted: a civilization dependent on fossil fuels. As Mike Tidwell, the executive director of the Chesapeake Climate Action Network, wrote in a 2007 op-ed, “every time an activist or politician hectors the public to voluntarily reach for a new bulb or spend extra on a Prius, ExxonMobil heaves a big sigh of relief.” A complete paradigm shift is needed—both in the way we conceptualize our individual climate impact and in the ways we calculate the emission impacts of those ultimately responsible: corporations and governmental systems.
One of the challenges with the carbon footprint measurement is how few of the factors an individual controls. Most of us have limited options for where we live, how far we have to commute to get to work, what kind of energy is available to heat our homes, etc. If we don’t own our home (and more than 30% of Americans don’t), we may not be able to properly insulate or install high-efficiency appliances. One research report from the Norwegian University of Science and Technology found that roughly one third of a city dweller’s carbon footprint is determined by public transportation options and building infrastructure. “We build our cities this way,” Hassol says. “It’s system change that’s really needed so that people have better choices.”
The inadequacy of our carbon footprint as a driver of change is painfully highlighted when you look at single-use plastics. Much attention has been given to how much plastic Americans consume (35.3 million tons per year, enough to fill the 104 million-cubic-foot AT&T Stadium in Dallas every 16 hours) and how each individual should be changing their behavior to help combat this waste. Everywhere you look, there’s a campaign to recycle more, or use metal straws, or bring your own bag to the grocery store.
In contrast, there are no public campaigns about the fact that packaging, an area where consumer control is limited, is the top driver of plastic production by a significant margin. The emissions impact of plastic manufacturing itself is rarely mentioned, along with the fact that much of our recycling still ends up in landfills. Some of the poorest nations are left to deal with hundreds of thousands of tons of soft drink bottles. The plastics are often just incinerated, creating serious environmental and health consequences. It’s a question as to whose carbon footprint is making a deeper impact on the environment: the family whose lettuce comes sealed in plastic (and who pays, not only for the product, but also for the waste collection and management services), or the company that is continuing to package food products in plastic materials, and then opting out of responsibility for their disposal.
Even if we just wanted to measure individual impact on climate change, the carbon footprint falls painfully short: “The current concept of a carbon footprint is too narrowly drawn,” Hassol explains. “It’s only the things I’m actively using and doing in my personal life and it doesn’t draw on other actions that are perhaps more important in the big picture as far as addressing climate change.”
For example, the average American has a carbon footprint of 16 tons. The average individual footprint globally is 4 tons. But that calculation doesn’t include who you vote for, how you invest your money, who you work for (and how much you travel for work, versus for leisure), or how you talk about climate change and influence others to get involved. “All of that should be part of the way we conceptualize our impact,” Hassol says.
Instead of obsessing over a single metric, Cameron Brick, a social psychologist from the University of Amsterdam, says he urges people to have an ongoing and evolving conversation between themselves and their chosen lifestyle. “It’s not a single number, because anytime you pick a metric, then we will begin to game it,” he says. Instead, a minimal-carbon lifestyle is a process—one that involves community-building and continuing to make improvements over time, he says. “My lifestyle is not perfect either, but probably better each year.”
Hassol points out that one of the most important ways that an individual can impact emissions on a wider scale is also the hardest to calculate: social contagion. “When people do something, it affects others around them and their emissions,” she says.
Studies have shown that energy-related behaviors are heavily influenced by peer groups, even more than cost or convenience. A study in California showed that every time a solar panel was installed within a certain ZIP code, the probability of another installation in that area increased by 0.78%. Similarly, if you know somebody who has given up flying because of climate change, you are 50% more likely to also reduce your own air travel.
“Your individual footprint is not the full measure of your contribution because you’re encouraging other people through your personal actions,” explains Hassol. She recommends that people who want to do more should research community solar options and ways to buy into clean energy in their communities, and then publicize those options among their families, friends and social networks, in order to create that initial momentum for change.
But what could system change look like? For starters, using measurements that actually hold the decision makers responsible for their emissions impacts, for the entire lifecycle of their product or service. That might look like Big Soda being held accountable not only for the manufacturing and transportation of their single-use plastics, but also for each and every bottle that ends up in somebody’s recycling bin (Coca-Cola is the top producer of plastic waste in the world). The shift also might look like emissions information being printed on product labels and unbiased regulatory bodies certifying the accuracy of corporate emissions reports.
On the policy level, interest in a carbon tax is growing. The Break Free From Plastic Pollution Act was reintroduced in Congress this year (as Senate bill 984 and House Resolution 2238), and would force a temporary moratorium on virgin plastic production, require minimum recycled content, and ban some single-use plastic food service items. Many states already have some form of a producer responsibility program, where the producer of hard-to-dispose products such as paints, batteries, and other hazardous materials, must finance proper disposal. This creates an incentive to design reusable or less-toxic products.
When we shift the focus from changing consumer behavior to changing producer behavior, we see where true change happens: in corporate boardrooms and among political leaders. The irony of the carbon footprint is that individual action does have the power to change the world, just not on the lightbulb and recycling level.
“This problem is too big to solve voluntarily one person at a time,” Hassol says. “We need to change the system and you have a role in changing that system.”
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