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thecursedhellblazer · 4 years

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{ @imthebatman }

(( Look at me actually managing to respect a deadline outside university ones...well, more or less ^^” In my defence, this turned out to be much more than I had planned for it to be, but well, it’s done xD Good thing you told me about the bday thing in advance, otherwise I would have never been able to put this together and I would have gone for something easier and less time consuming >.> ))

(( So, first of all have a shitty edit of a Beebo ready to party: ))

(( But the real present is under the cut. I was kind of tempted to post it elsewhere, like on Ao3, because it came out much longer than I thought and Tumblr posts kinda sucks, but I decided to shove it down here anyway. And yep, I did write you a song fic u.u ))

(( Happy b-day, Palps! ))

“Everyone of us hides a story made of scars and sometimes shelters in a corner„

Thick grey clouds cover the sky, heavy with a rainstorm they might never truly deliver, not a single crack of blue in sight. Then again, the sun has never been a common presence in the sky of Gotham. It would feel out of place in the gloomy atmosphere that surrounds the city and among its many, dark moods. There’s little space for light when the air is so heavy, even in the moments of apparent peace. They are, after all, nothing but an illusion, yet another calm before the tempest comes back raging again, just as the silence of that slowly dying afternoon is.

John Constantine lights up a cigarette, letting the flame linger on its as he inhales the first mouthful of smoke. In the descending darkness, his mind finds it easy to overlap the hostile skyline that stretches before his eyes with his memories of London. Another city known for her gloomy weather, for the fog that so often lingers over her buildings, soaking the people she shelters in her bosom with humidity and cold. If he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, he can still feel it, that wet sensation that dives deeper and deeper, until it settles in your bones with the silent promise of never leaving you, no matter how far from it life will take you.

He lets his head fall back slightly, slowly blowing out the smoke towards the sky, watching as it fades, confusing itself with the clouds. He misses London, hell, he misses England in general. The country was never been kind with him and most of his worst memories belongs there, together with all the unsatisfied and sometimes vengeful ghosts he has left behind, but whether he likes it or not, it still is and will always be home. Assuming that there is a single place, in this world and all the others, that he can call such. He can’t deny that it’s fitting, though. A land that has brought him mostly pain and regrets, just as the physical house he has grown up in has been his personal hell ever since he can remember.

The magician grits his teeth, mouth curling in a frown. That is a whole other set of memories that haunts him and he doesn’t even need to make an effort to recall them. Every sleepless night spent in terror. Every hit, every bruise, every insult. Every time those hands touched him, brutal, merciless, unrelenting. The images and the sensations can get vivid enough to make his stomach turn and his hands shake, even after so many years. That’s the reason why he doesn’t dwell on them, the reason why he never talks about it. Repressing is easier. It’s almost like forgetting, with the different that the phantom burden never goes away. However, the heaviness Is something he is almost used to, by now, since he is constantly carrying on his shoulders the weight if not of the world, at least of all his mistakes and bad choices. And damn, most of the times he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two.

“So vulnerable, human heart’s an animal that doesn’t want to break cover„

It makes him wonder why he is still there. He has closed his case, the umpteenth clusterfuck that has brought him back to that city and to its lurking shadows. He has no reason to linger, especially not when that darkness calls his personal one out, causing it to resonate in tune with it. And yet there he is, perched on the railing of that balcony, skin and clothes stained with mud and blood. Not his own, for the most. It almost never is and, even when that’s the case, he always finds a way to be the last man standing, at the end of the day. The price for his life? Everything that can be taken from him and, especially, from the people who are unlucky enough to be around him, and then some more.

Constantine’s eyes slide close as he brings the cigarette back to his lips. The truth is that, despite what he tells himself, despite all the horrors and the losses he has faced, despite every lesson he has sworn to learn, he is weak. Selfishly so. He is so quick to deny others, and he is so harsh and unmovable in doing it, but with himself, oh, he has always been far too lenient. How that fits with his constant self-hatred, he isn’t completely sure. Perhaps it’s because he inevitably ends up losing everything he allows himself to have and keep, one way or the other. They have a cost, those indulgences, one that he cannot pay because he doesn’t have the means to do it. So Fate or Chance or whoever for them comes and snatches them away, sudden and violent, leaving yet another tear in his already far too broken core.

He bites back a scoff. The approaching night he’s watching now is nothing but yet another of indulgences. He knows where he wants it to lead him and he knows that he doesn’t deserve it. He should climb down the way he has climbed up, like the thief he is, and leave Gotham without looking back. He should and he would if he was enough of a decent person, but it’s been years since he has had any real shred of decency left in him. So, instead, he’ll stay and wait, as he always does. He’ll stay and take everything he can get his hands on, enjoying comforts and pleasures he has done nothing to earn. He’ll take and take and take, until the day when the tiny breach he has been using to crawl inside that small world where he doesn’t belong will be closed and he will find himself in the dark once again, alone and with yet another deep crack in his soul.

Blue eyes lock on the grey, threatening sky. It will happen, eventually, but not tonight. So, for now, he sits and soaks himself in the advancing shadows, his back to the lights that start to colour the windows of the manor. The symbolism isn’t lost to him, it never is, even if most of the times he pretends not to notice it, just to end up mulling over it later on. It’s a taste of what’s waiting ahead for him, once his time would have run out. It won’t be this quiet, though, and it won’t be this painless. The torment that fills his chest, however, that will be there, his eternal companion in death as it has been in life.

“If you want to back down I’ll try to understand but I just can’t help it I would, if I could give you a new innocence so, please don’t fear my caress„

The hand that descends on his shoulder is expected and by now very familiar, just as is the figure that presses up against his side. He has heard, or rather felt, the other man approaching him, even while lost in his thoughts, but he hasn’t turned around. He hasn’t needed to, not when he can easily imagine the whole scene in his mind without having to see it taking place in reality. Oh, his bloody imagination is just that good, but it’s a double-edged sword. His nightmares and lucid dreams are proof enough of what it can do, just as it is of how much it can wreck him when it chooses to.

Strong fingers travel down along the magician’s spine, taking in the tension that lingers in his muscles and the new tears that have been ripped in the worn material of his trench coat. However, in particular, they don’t miss how the exorcist initially reacts, stiffening even more under the touch, struggling until he manages to make himself accept it. It’s been months since they have agreed to let that thing between them officially exist, but the doubts and the reluctance are still almost as palpable as the bumps of his vertebrae.

Bruce bits back a sigh, deciding to pay no mind to it. He has almost resigned himself to the fact that there will always be a part of Constantine that will never accept his most gentle touches. The magician seems to instinctively recoil from them, as if they somehow hurt or as if he expected to get pain out of them. He has tried to bring the subject up, but John can be as stubborn as Batman himself when he chooses to and that has never led them anywhere, if not into an ugly fight. He is tempted to try again, but by now he knows the older man well enough and he can tell that, whatever he has faced that day, has been hard on him. A fact that inevitably destroys the already limited fertile ground there usually is for discussion. So, instead, the vigilante just keeps caressing, until the body under his palm has become as pliant as it’s capable of being.

“You’re a mess, Constantine,” he comments at that point, one eyebrow slightly raised and the lightest hint of amusement in his voice. What he doesn’t say is that he knows. He knows about the missing pieces and the darkness, about the stains and the scars. And he is fine with them, whether John likes to believe it or not, because he himself is far from being unblemished. He will be fine with them as long as the magician is aware that there’s no reason why he should fear Bruce and what he is willing to offer. He isn’t going to press, not even if he wishes he could, not even when he has all the rights to. And he isn’t going to ask for things that Constantine cannot give in exchange. What he demands, however, is to not be shut out and that’s something that it’s not up for discussion.

The exorcist finally turns to face the vigilante, an unimpressed look on his face. It’s a mask, a façade to hide all the thoughts that have been storming inside his mind, and they both know it. However, from Bruce’s indulgent expression, John can tell that, at least for that night, he will be allowed to keep his act up without having to try hard. It makes him feel both relieved and pained, because he has once again wrapped his hands around something he hasn’t earned and he will shamelessly drain that privilege until there will be nothing left to get out of it. Story of his life, really.

“Are we playin’ again that bloody game where we state the obvious? I know ‘m a mess, Wayne. But now, when am I not, hn?” He shoots back with an exaggerate eyeroll. He is hyperaware of the skilful hand that’s still working on the length of his spine. Bruce’s touch is always so warm and welcoming, despite the fact that he is always abusing the younger man’s time, his patience, his presence. That awareness is yet another torture for him, but at the same time he can’t help being greedy for it. “How did you know I was up ‘ere? Didn’t come in through the main door.”

The vigilante rolls his eyes, clearly making an effort to mimic exactly the gesture that has just been addressed to him. “Oh, you know. Alfred mentioned that he has seen someone in a dirty trench coat climbing along the front of the mansion,” he replies and his fingers dig in the magician’s side. It’s a playful gesture and he is pleased to see the obviously exaggerated reaction his lover offers, to play along with him. “I guessed that it had to be you.”

“Bullocks.” Constantine scoffs and turns his eyes back towards Gotham’s skyline, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “The ol’ codger ‘s always in my bloody way. Damn him.”

“Everyone of us has to face more than once that feelings are just a delusion„

Bruce’s lips curl in the shadow of a rare grin at the comeback, but when the silence threatens to fall upon them, he doesn’t stop it. Instead, he removes his hand from the older man’s back in favour of leaning against the railing with his elbows, eyes locked on the slowly darkening horizon before them. He makes sure to keep touching, his side still pressed up against the magician’s, close enough to feel him twitching and shifting. Movements so subtle that would have been lost to him if he hadn’t made sure that they shared the same space.

He bows his head slightly, to be able to run a hand through his dark hair. It’s odd to be there, willing and somewhat content, with someone who’s so radically different from. John Constantine is a continuous, often rabid flood of energy, always moving, always changing, and he has, more often than not, felt like a rock in the middle of a turbulent river. Unmovable in its stillness, because that’s what he is compared to the other man, firm and steady where the exorcist is constantly shifting and fluctuating. However, even the sturdiest rock is fated to be affected by the constant, abrasive touch of the water and, to an extent, he has known it since the very first time their paths have crossed, among the smoke and the loud music of a London night not so different from many others. Of course, he didn’t realise it, back then, but it has taken him to meet John again, several years later, and be faced with a much darker version of him to understand how deeply under his skin the other had already crawled.

His mind flies back in time, to the years that have preceded that fateful meeting and to the ones that have followed it. He remembers the people who have touched his life, the women he has courted, mostly for fun and to keep his reputation up. Their names are mostly lost to him, aside from the two he’ll never forget, because, despite the bitter end those relationships have met, they have played an essential part in making him into whom he has become.

Selina was everything his younger self has never been allowed to have before her abrupt arrival in his life. Freedom and mischief, broken rules and total disregard for the conventions of the society he has grown up in. She was the adventure, the thrill of the forbidden. Her kisses used to taste like fresh air and carelessness. Her touches were sweet oblivion from the responsibilities. Taking her hand was stepping into new, unexplored worlds. In the end, she had slipped from his fingers while he was distracted by Gotham’s call, going where he couldn’t follow, just as the wild animal she has always been.

Rachel, on the other hand, was sweetness and stability. She was a bright light against Gotham’s endless gloominess, a gentle warmth capable of heating up the coldest night. Kissing her brought back, for the illusion of a moment, the innocence he lost at a far too young age. The way her hands moved on his body whispered promises of a home where he could have, if not forgotten, at least finally moved on from the pain and the losses. Holding her hands used to bring him comfort as nothing else in his life ever has. In the end, she had been a painful but necessary sacrifice, because the world she was promising him, as desirable and tempting, would have implied abandoning his cape and his duty to the city.

“So much wasted time making a fool of our pride just to come to the bitter conclusion„

Bruce slowly licks his lips. Now, both women are gone from his life. They linger, though, as ghosts from his past, reminding him of how fleeting feelings can be and what delusions they charm you with. Leaving them behind has been hard, it has taken a long time and, in the aftermath, it has pushed him to come to the conclusion that the only one he would always be faithful to, the only one he would never be able to resist would be Gotham.

Thinking about it now, he can tell that it has been easier than expected, to choose to wear the mask and the cape and to dedicate all of himself to the Night. She has always welcome him with open arms, with her secrets, her dangers, her battles. It has always felt right, like nothing else ever has. And so he has been fighting the madness that sprouts from her shadows ever since. Or, perhaps, the truth is that he has started his fight much before choosing to become Batman. Perhaps he has been sworn to the city and to its darkness since that night in that alley, when he has been left on his knees, between the lifeless bodies of his parents, screaming at the sky in agony for what had been so brutally stolen from him. Maybe it has been then that he signed his destiny, without even realising it.

A bitter, pained smile touches his lips at those thoughts. Even nowadays, despite everything he has gone through, he can tell without a doubt that he has found his calling and that the prices he has paid to follow it have been worth what he has got. It doesn’t make the sacrifices less painful, it doesn’t make the solitude less heavy to bear, but he is aware that, at the end of the day, the regrets won’t be burdening him enough to cause him to fall in the abyss he can see under his feet.

“I know, it hurts to mend all the shattered hopes but would you truly tell me that it isn’t worth pricking yourself with its thorns if it’s done to pick a rose?„

Bruce’s eyes leave the now dark sky and land on John once again. The man sitting next to him is the one variable he could have never predicted. He materialised on his path like a bolt from the blue, and definitely as dangerous as one. A walking bunch of cigarettes and arrogance, dressed in a trench coat that has seen much better days, incomprehensible but powerful words between his lips and nothing less than real magic on his fingertips. A ticking bomb shaped like a man, dragging the chains of a mysterious and yet obviously wrecked past and of his literally damned future. And yet, there he stood, still managing not to give a flying fuck about everything and everyone.

He remembers very clearly his own reaction, the first time they met after so many years. Batman was utterly annoyed by his flamboyant, caustic attitude and Bruce, from behind the mask, wondered where the messed up but still somehow hopeful young man he had found himself entangled with in London ended up. Constantine is not what he used to be, not even close, not even behind the parts of his act that are just for show. The sharpness and the cynicism in his eyes immediately made it clear, more than any rude word or flare of anger could ever have.

Peeling off all those crusted layers of smugnesss and exaggerated self-confidence hasn’t been easy, especially since the magician has fought him back at every step, but, all considered, it hasn’t taken too long for the self-loathing, the scars and the endless pit of regrets to emerge. John hasn’t lied, with his earlier answer. He always is a mess, a bunch of shattered pieces held together by a lot of bravado and willpower, and none of them is where it should be. He has seen the never healed wounds and the blood on the magician’s fingers, the only results of his vain attempts to get the shards back into a semblance of wholeness. And, before he could realise it, he was being overwhelmed by the urge to reach out and take his hands, mend the cuts, stop him from giving up on himself over and over again.

The truth is that he is still trying. Trying to make himself respect the limitations he has been given, trying to make it be enough, despite wanting so much more. However, Constantine has been adamant and he knows what it would mean breaking the rules he has willingly accepted. For all the contingency plans Batman has, Bruce himself tends to be defenceless, when his feelings are on the line. And he has seen how vengeful John can be, never above playing dirty, never above stomping over every single boundary, if it means achieving his goal. He would have found a way to get back at him, of course, eventually, but the irreparable damage would have been done anyway.

On good days, he tells himself that seeing the shock on the older man’s face that day, when he has chosen to put his heart in his callous hands, when he has chosen that “nasty piece of work” over everything else the world has to offer, has, on its own, almost made it worth the fights, the pain, the struggling. Then, there are the rare times when he has been allowed to see John blooming, with power, wits and a determination as bright as the light of his spells. In those moments, watching his shattered soul soaring, even if just through the hellish sky it is trapped in, aside from making him fall a bit more in love each time, vanishes every lingering doubt.

“I can’t promise you eternity but bare your soul for me Whatever it takes, you won’t regret having yourself let go once again„

“I’ll never bleedin’ get what you find so enticin’ ‘bout this soddin’ place.”

The exorcist’s voice breaks the silence and he turns to find Bruce staring at him. Oh, he has been aware of those eyes locked on him for some time now and that’s the reason why he has decided to speak up. There is something, in the younger man’s expression, that’s making him uneasy. He knows that look far too well by now and that’s the problem. His lover gets it every time he is thinking about something deep, something that involves him, or, rather, them. It doesn’t always lead to an attempt of conversation, thankfully, but it always gets too close to his sore spots for comfort.

His words gain him a raised eyebrow and he shakes his head because, despite what he has chosen to say, he doesn’t want to have that kind of conversation. Also because, among the other things, it would have forced him to admit that his statement is, for the most, a lie. He does understand the dark charm of Gotham far too well, not because he experiences it himself, hell no. As much in tune as that place can be with his own darkness, he is more than content to fuck off somewhere else whenever he has a chance to. No, the reason why he understands the strength of Bruce’s sense of duty, the reason why he knows exactly why the city will be, always and anyway, the younger man’s first priority is what John himself feels about magic. It’s not the same, and in his eyes Batman’s mission would always be, in spite of everything, much purer, less selfish, less corrupted. However, it’s the closest thing to a reflection of his own twisted existence that he has ever found in someone else’s life. And it’s why, perhaps, he shouldn’t be so surprised to see how willing the vigilante is to keep him around, to cherish him, despite all the deadly warning signs. They can be together while still prioritising their respective calling over everything else.

He chews the butt of his cigarette for a moment, and his eyes are looking lost once again. What they have couldn’t be further away from perfect, but, then again, it couldn’t be otherwise when people like them, all bruised and broken in different ways, are involved. It’s part of the reason why it works, even if all the odds are against it. And yet, he still feels bitter, now that he knows the stories behind Bruce’s past relationships. The way life has forced the younger man to choose or put a limit to the time he had to enjoy the bright sides of those bonds. John might have given up, at least for the most, on trying to push his lover to not choose him, but he cannot do the same with the time limit. There’s a clock ticking above his head, eating up, one by one, the seconds that separate him from that spot in Hell that has had his name for a long time now. And he will get himself damned again and again and again, endlessly, before he takes Bruce down with him. Denying the so often sung shared eternity of love is a gift, in their case.

He sucks in the last mouthful of smoke, hard enough that he can feel the burning down his throat and against his fingers, where his skin meets the burning hand of the now finished cigarette. There is no space for wistful poetry in what they share. Everything is harsh and desperate, ruled by the awareness of its limits, even in their quieter, warmer moments. Their shared passion always tastes like stolen time, and each kiss might as well be the last. It’s all just another story damned to end in tragedy, in flames, swallowed by the darkness. And yet, despite what he keeps saying, despite what he believes, there is still a part of him who wants to make it worth. For Bruce, mainly, but for himself too. He ascribes it to a streak of his selfishness, because that’s all it is…isn’t it?

But can it really be just selfishness, when you are fighting to make things better, even knowing that you won’t get to get an advantage for yourself out of it?

“Take me and make me as you want I’ll feed your dreams with my love„

Bruce feels the change in the mood even before John moves. There’s a sudden spike in the buzzing energy that constantly surrounds the magician and it usually indicates that he is about to do something either reckless or stupid. Or both, since when Constantine is involved the two things are, in most cases, the same. He isn’t sure what to expect, because his lover has the bad habit of being too hard to predict, and that’s one of the many things that Batman hates about him, because it makes the exorcist an incredibly volatile, untrustworthy ally. However, there is no cape or spell standing between them in that moment, and so, when the older man climbs off the railing, sets his feet down on the balcony and then lunges at him, he lets him, without a split moment of hesitation.

The kiss is bruising, hard, merciless. All teeth and tongue, no finesse, no patience, no softness. But it’s filled with scorching heat and the vigilante can’t stop himself from going weak, even if he would never admit it, because, when he can’t hold back the intensity that characterises all he is, John Constantine kisses both like a drowning man, lacing to the last gulp of oxygen he is being allowed, and like a starved demon, hellbent of devouring his soul.

Despite the force of the contact, though, he can feel the magician’s hands shaking, from where they are wrapped in the front of his jumper, pinning him against the railing. If it wasn’t so tragic, he could have appreciated the irony in seeing someone so arrogant and bold, a man who has gone as far as conning the Devil himself and mostly got away with it, so terrified of something as natural as love should be. If Bruce didn’t know exactly how it feels like, he would have been fascinated by how something human as emotional closeness can rip apart every barrier Constantine has so carefully built around himself, revealing the vulnerabilities, the fragility and the open wounds that are hidden under it.

He knows all of that, just as John is aware of it as well. It’s a struggle for the magician to keep himself there in those moments, because there is nothing he dreads more than feeling so exposed. It makes him want to fight and, if he can’t fight, then it makes him want to run. And he has, at first, denying the feelings he felt coming from Bruce, denying the ones that have been growing inside his own chest. Now, trying not to is part of the terms of their deal he has to respect, even when the instinct screams so loud inside his mind that he can’t hear his own thoughts.

And yet, here he is. And yet here he stays. It might be a selfish choice, it might be stealing what he doesn’t deserve, but there is more to it, for them both. There is a something new budding in the time and in the space they shared, stubborn as just the two of them can be. It’s a feeling, it’s a reality, it’s a dream. Its nature is hard to tell, so foreign and yet so familiar. One thing, though, seems certain: it might be doomed to meet a tragic ending, but that doesn’t stop it from fighting to survive everything that’s coming in its way.

“You’re trembling and I can see what you feel inside you a shy bud’s already blooming„

#(( true seeing stone ::ooc:: ))#theprinceof-gothamcity #* Let's fall in love for the Night and forget in the Morning * ::John&Bruce:: {theprinceofgothamcity}#(( let's say this is from John's part too ))#(( even if the wanker did nothing aside from ))#(( breathing over my neck and judging ))#(( please ignore whatever damn typo might be in it ))#(( I swear I check it but ))#(( can never find them all x.x ))

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annesthaeticc · 3 years

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His Promise | Sherlock x Fem!Reader

| a uni!Sherlock fanfic

| FLUFF (with a lil bit angst cause why not, right?)

| 2701 words

| NOTE: this is the sequel of "His Constant" you can check it out here if you want to read it. i love uni!Sherlock as much as you do and this, i just, oh god, i really do not know where i got the energy to write this. this one's for u anon. i hope u love it as much as i do.

It’s been a few good months since yours and Sherlock’s confession to each other. Nothing has changed but everything has changed too. It’s terribly confusing to someone on the outside, but to you and Sherlock, it’s something that only the two of you can understand and live with. You followed the same routine but you’ve grown close to him, and him just the same as you. The boundaries that you were so terrified of crossing were diminishing through time, and he, on the other hand, felt liberated; he was finally free to look at you the way he wanted to and at the same time tell you and make you feel it.

There was not a single time when you longed to be near him and just be in his company. Lunch breaks were spent in the library and the two of you would spend it studying, other times it would be spent making out in the corner of the History section. Sherlock learned to disable the CCTV camera there and you didn’t dare to ask him how he did it. Afternoons were spent by your tree, just lounging and cuddling while reading a book. Nights would be spent with “c’mon one last kiss” and hesitations to go back to your respective dormitories.

The two of you’ve come so far and yet there’s more to go through.

It wasn’t perfect of course, there had been a few times where you struggled; balancing your academics with your social life (the kind of social life aside from Sherlock) and the bullies of course; people who had teased you non-stop for “dating the freak”. Sherlock watched you go through your breakdowns, not letting you fall into the pit of loneliness. He was always there for you, always making sure you smiled at least once in a day.

And you were going to miss him terribly.

Why?

He was graduating.

He started at the same level as you but his professors noticed his stellar performance albeit he still struggled with socializing, and so the administration offered him an advanced course. You urged him to do so, supportive of whatever choice he made. He accepted it, after a few months of his advanced course, he was now graduating. His graduation was happening by the end of the week, leaving you to study for a year. He was coursing through his academics seamlessly while you, you were trying so hard to keep it together under wraps and try to manage it.

Maybe it was because of the course and the unnecessary subjects you were taking; you were really struggling to appreciate it and work on it. Or maybe it was because you were already starting to miss your Holmes. Your Sherlock Holmes. And to think he hasn’t even packed his bags yet.

Said Holmes casually strolled inside the library, absentmindedly solving a Rubiks cube. He walked to the farthest corner in the room where he knows you’ll be. Hidden amongst the tall bookcases, you were sitting on the chair with your laptop propped on the table. Papers were strewn around the table, books haphazardly piled on top of each other. Sherlock smiled to himself when he heard the familiar curse under your breath, the stream of “fuck-this-shit-stupid-fucking-wanker-what-the-fuck-am-I-even-doing”.

He ducked his head in amongst the shelves, like he’s taking a peek at you, his familiar mop of curls making you smile a bit. When he saw you smile, he finally walked towards you and planted a kiss on the top of your head.

“How’s it going?” he asked as he settled himself on the seat across from you.

“Getting worse. My thesis mates decided to dump their work on me.” you sighed and removed your glasses.

“Cruel world, isn’t it?” he joked. Though appreciated, you couldn’t bring yourself to smile, you were really getting frustrated.

“It was a joke.” he mumbled under his breath and twisted the cube for the last time, finally solved.

“I know it is, I just, I couldn’t— I’m just very pissy right now.” you replied and buried your face in your hands.

“Yeah, I heard.” Sherlock replied and took off his bag from his shoulder, and leaned back on his chair. He started organizing some of the papers and turned your laptop to his, taking a look at your thesis paper.

“What else do you need to do? This looks done already.” he said.

“I still need to polish the literature part and the fifth chapter.” you sighed and grabbed one of the books as your reference.

“Give it to me, I’ll do it.” he said and offered his hand. You passed him the book, thanking the heavens for his existence.

“God, if I could marry you right now, I would.” You breathed dreamily, the words falling from your lips without any thought.

“Don’t say that.” he scoffed and raised his eyebrow at you. You rolled your eyes at him and ducked down.

“Why not? Because you wouldn’t want to marry me?” you challenged him.

“No, I’d do more than that. I’d marry you; I’ll build you a home, we’ll have lots of children and die together.” he said, his focus trained on your laptop screen.

Sherlock never failed to take your breath away with his responses. It’s not because he’s brutally honest, it’s because he’s a man of his words; he means it. He always means it.

“No, don’t say that.” you chuckled, echoing his words.

“Why not?” he asked, his eyes looking up at you. Cold blue irises glowing.

“Because I know you’re not the marrying type, Sherlock.” you replied, your voice almost a whisper.

“You’re right, I’m not the marrying type. But I’d marry you, only you. And we’ll do so much more than marrying each other.” he said. You absorbed his words, a rush of emotion flowing through you. Your eyes welled up, the tears threatening to spill.

It all feels surreal to hear such words from him. You weren’t sure if you should believe any of it. Because now, it all feels nothing; empty promises hanging in the air and fading in just seconds. But he’s Sherlock, the one you love and the one you promised to love forever. So how could your love for him be weaker than your overwhelming fear of goodbye? Your feelings for him; it's all irrational and scary. Exhilarating and breath-taking. It’s a never-ending adventure. And what you feared most; fear conquers love. The one thing you promised him, starting to crumble down.

Sherlock watched the tears run down your face, unsure of what to do. All of a sudden, you got up and grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. You started to walk away when he caught your hand in his, just like that night in October. His hand was warm and comforting and it made you cry more. Slowly, you turned to face him, he looked puzzled and worried.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s just—it’s all perfect, Sherlock.” you sniffed and looked down. His thumb started to draw circles on your hand, comforting you.

“Then what’s wrong?” he implored you, seeking answers in your teary eyes.

“I need some space.” you breathed out, your voice small and shaky.

“Is that what you want?” he asked.

“No, but it’s what I need.” you replied, brought his hand up to your lips and kissed his knuckle.

Unhurriedly, you dropped your linked hands. You hold on to the strap of your backpack as if it was a life raft, turned around and left a lost-looking Sherlock Holmes in between the aisle of History and Literature in the Cambridge University’s College library.

Sherlock watched you go, disappearing through the white doors of the library. As you stepped out of the campus, the rain started to pour. Students and professors seeking shelter under the awnings and buildings while you walked alone down the path that led to your dormitory. And the worst of all, you forgot your coat, hanging on the chair next to the one you sat on in the library. Mentally, you scolded yourself for forgetting something important but it didn’t matter now, you needed space as you said and you were going to stand your ground even if it meant getting sick.

After you left, Sherlock drowned himself into finishing your work. Only little needs to be done and he did what he could to make your paper flawless. It was almost six in the evening when he finished. He swiped open his phone to check if you left any message, only to find it empty. Worry doesn’t seem to describe what he’s feeling right now. No, he’s afraid. He’s terrified.

Of course he’s utterly aware that the two of you’ve got a week left to spend together before he finally leaves the campus. That’s when he realized that the two of you did not even talk about his impending goodbye. And now, he doubts it’s a good time to talk about it.

Then as a counter-thought, what even is the point of talking about it? Have you forgotten what he said? He thought. Have you forgotten the words that meant so much more than whatever you’re feeling right now? Have you forgotten that you are and you’ll always be his constant?

Treading on water, he decided to visit you but he didn’t want to push his luck, and so he left you texts. Texts that woke you up. Your phone kept vibrating and pinging, bringing you out of your uneasy sleep at around seven in the evening.

As your eyes scanned his last message, there was a loud knock on your door. You dragged yourself out of bed and padded towards the door. As you opened it, it revealed your Sherlock Holmes, still dressed in his uniform. His hair disheveled, probably because he ran his hands through it multiple times in frustration. He was carrying a paper bag in his hand, the other holding your coat and your laptop. Your heart skipped a beat as you met his gentle gaze.

“I’m sorry.” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“What for? There’s nothing to apologize for, Y/N.” as his sentence concluded, you wrapped your arms around him, burying your tear-stained face into the crook of his neck.

Your cries were heard throughout the hallway and Sherlock, with his hands full; unable to hug you back, just hummed and shushed you, whispering “It’s okay, it’s going to be alright.” in your ear. Nosy and curious as they are, your dormitory neighbors peeked their heads out to check the commotion, unsurprised to see a boy inside the building.

“I think we should get inside, love. Your neighbors are boring holes into my face.” he whispered in your ear, you nodded and disengaged yourself from him, stepping inside your room with him behind you. Once inside, Sherlock put down your belongings on the couch. He swiftly moved to your small kitchen, putting down your dinner on the small dining table. You walked towards him and hugged his back, wrapping your arms around his torso. In instinct, Sherlock leaned slightly into you. He looked up, sniffing, trying to stop himself from crying. He gently pulled you to him as he turned around, finally face-to-face, Sherlock could see your fear shine through your tears. Your anxiety of him leaving is evident in your face.

“It’s going to be okay, Y/N.” he said and clasped your hands into his.

“But I don’t want to be okay without you, Sherlock.” you replied.

“Me leaving you; it’s not permanent, it’s not going to be forever, Y/N.”

“Parting is such a sweet sorrow…”

“That I shall say good night til morrow.” he recited against your lips. Sherlock reciting Shakespeare was rare, and you treasured it dearly. A hint of smile graced your lips and the corner of lips turned upward.

“I only said that to make you smile but honestly, you need to stop reading Romeo and Juliet. We are far from them.” he playfully scolded you.

“No, we’re just the same as them. We’re both idiots in love.” you smirked, running your hand up to his arms, to his shoulder, up to his neck so you could play at the curls at the base of his neck.

“But we’re not stupid enough to die like that, Y/N.” he replied, his tone serious.

“But you said we’d die together…”

“I did say that, but not die like that, Y/N. We’re not going to take poison and die together at such a young age.”

“Because we’re both idiot enough to live long, grow in love and grow old, is that it?” you suggested and he smiled.

“Now you get my point.” he smirked.

“You’re leaving.” you exhaled, more like to yourself.

“And I haven’t even packed my bags, Y/N. You’ve got to stop worrying, honestly that’s what’s distracting you the most, isn’t it?” he asked. He stepped out of your intimate space and led you to the couch. He sat down and he urged you to lie down, your head on his lap.

“I must admit, yes…” you replied. You closed your eyes and sighed when you felt his fingers card through your hair. The same way you do it when his head is on your lap.

“I’m leaving, yes, but I’ll be waiting for you. I’d be a fool to not wait for you, Y/N.” his deep voice vibrated through his chest and you could almost feel it, and feel the warmth of his chest whenever he spoke.

“A year will go by quickly, next thing you know you’ll be in London, with me.” he continued and shifted a bit.

“Do you promise?” you asked, eyes still closed. Silence hung in the air but you could feel his touch drift from your hair, to your cheeks, down to your neck, until he was holding your right hand in his. He gently slipped on a ring on your ring finger and your eyes shot up in surprise as you felt the cold band around your finger.

“If I could marry you now Y/N, I would, but I couldn’t ‘cause we need a minister and a witness to do that. But the only thing I could do right now is promise. I promise you; I’ll wait for you. I promise you; I’ll be there on the last day of your university days, cheering and clapping for you like how you’d do the same for me. God, I’ll be there to spin you around and show everyone how I’m bloody proud of you. Because I am, I am so fucking proud of you.”

“And this, this is the proof of those promises. None of those are empty, I intend to fulfill every single promise I made tonight, Y/N.” he held up your hand, the metal shining as the low light of the room reflected through it. You watched as your fingers slowly fit through his, heart pounding to see the sight of your interlocked fingers. But what’s changed is that a ring was now resting on one of your fingers, and Sherlock could feel the cold band against the palm of his hand. His sentiment for you intensifies every second.

“And I’d be a fool to make you wait for so long, Sherlock. A year.” you said. A silent promise that only the two of you understood.

“A year.” he punctuated.

He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours, a gentle kiss to seal all the words that were said and not said, and promises made and yet to be fulfilled. He pulled away and he saw your pupils grow dark, maybe it was the lighting or maybe it was just pure emotion; swelling and overwhelming, uncontainable at times. He favored the latter. You pulled him to you, your hand snaking up to his chest to grasp his shirt and through his shirt, he could feel the firm ring, making his heart beat faster. He kissed you once more tasting the sweetness of your lips and your love. And you responded in the same vigor, your fears and anxieties fading, and your love for him; just like the sun, blazing.

READ THE PREVIOUS PART; HIS CONSTANT

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pricetagofficial · 3 years

Text

Pair of Aces -H.D. [18+]

Warnings: Language, I made Harvey too hot for words, NSFW smut, drinking, smoking, car sex, self sex, oral sex, sex sex, Harvey is a gift giver, I don’t make the rules, fluff, raunchy jokes and humor, sexy drink names

Paring: Harvey Dent x Reader

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Part One Part Three

Word Count: 5.6K

A/N: This is the official/unofficial part two to Baby Doll. You can find it in the link above! After writing the first one, I had so many ideas that I wanted to do so I made another and here we are folks. 5.6k words of complete self indulgence. Blame Elle, (who also made this fabulous banner for me, love you!)

Harvey had his arm draped over your shoulders, keeping you within reach. Sure, this was supposed to be a friendly poker game but that didn't mean he trusted these fuckers with being within ten feet of you.

It really didn't help that you dressed the way you did. The short leather skirt alone was enough to kill him. But when he saw the white sleeveless crop top with a golden chain laced across exposing your breasts, he swore his heart stopped.

Pressed close to Harvey's side, you shivered feeling the chain brush against your skin. You could feel several pairs of eyes trail over your body, only making Harvey tighten his hold on you.

The game was supposed to be between Harvey, Roman Sionis, and Oswald Cobblepott. Once a month, the three men put aside their differences for a couple of games of poker. No business was allowed, except potential info against a common enemy usually centered around a particular bat-obsessed freak.

The door at the end of the hall had several men standing guard, looking down at you and Harvey.

“There was nothing about bringing a guest,” one said.

“Didn’t want to leave her all alone, thought she could learn something tonight,” Harvey explained, tightening his grip on your waist. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, daring the guards to try and pry you away from him.

The larger one huffed and crossed his arms, a grin on his face. “We’ll have to pat you down before letting you in.”

Releasing his hold on you, Harvey stepped forward with his hands up as the guard patted down his chest and legs to make sure he isn’t hiding anything suspicious. Finding the gun in his coat, the guard gave Harvey a look before he raised a brow.

“Gotta protect my girl somehow,” he said, looking at him. “You never know the kind of creeps are out there.”

The guard shrugged and let him pass, putting a hand out to stop you from following him.

“Hey! You did your inspection, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The guard’s grin got wider, his eyes hiding something malicious in them. “I said I had to pat you down, both of you.”

“That’s a load of fucking bullshit,” he growled, stepping back to protect you. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you kissed his cheek.

“Relax baby, I’ll be alright,” you assured, stepping back and putting your hands in the air. You felt the guard’s hands start on your waist and make their way up your torso, moving to grab your breasts. Before he could, you lifted your foot and slammed the heel of your stiletto into his foot.

“Don’t you fucking think about it,” you frowned, listening to the guard hiss at the pain before finishing up and letting you through.

Harvey chuckled, watching you handle yourself before grabbing your hand and pulling you into his chest. Placing a kiss on your lips, he opened the door and led you in.

The room was filled with smoke from cigars and cigarettes galore, and there was a bad smell in the air that reminded you of the gym locker rooms. It smelled of sweat, meat, and something else you didn’t want to linger on.

Harvey’s eyes raked the room, eyeing Roman and Oswald already sitting in their chairs having what seemed to be a friendly chat. Walking further into the room, Harvey pulled out his chair and sat.

“Sorry it took so long boys, had some personal matters to attend to,” he said, unbuttoning his coat and pulling out a cigarette. He looked at you, an expectant look on his face.

Rolling your eyes, you leaned over his body the leather skirt riding up your ass. Reaching into his coat, you pulled out the lighter and lit the cig in his mouth. He knew you hated it when he smoked, but he couldn’t deny how unbelievably hot it was to watch you light them for him.

Taking a drag, he blew out the smoke, his eyes not leaving you. “Thanks, baby doll,” he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your lips. Glancing to the side, he didn’t miss the looks Roman and Oswald were giving you. Wanting to prove that you were untouchable, he reached forward toying with the golden chain of your top.

“Why don’t you go get daddy a drink?” he asked, brushing the skin of your breasts with his finger ever so lightly.

“Yes sir, Mr. Dent.” you winked, standing straight. As you turned to pour him a drink, Harvey grinned and slapped your ass, earning a light squeal from you.

Roman’s eyes narrowed in on the sway of your ass as you walked, what he wouldn’t give for an hour alone with you. Leaning on the arm of his chair, his gaze raked over your body lingering on your exposed breasts. He swore Dent brought you along just to brag, not that he would complain. The sweet image of you bent over the arm of the chair was enough to satiate his wants for the time being.

Harvey narrowed his eyes, “Something on your mind Sionis?”

You walked back over, Harvey’s scotch in your hand not ignoring the looks all the men in the room were giving you. Taking a sip of it yourself, you handed it to him, your lipstick staining the glass.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing with an ugly bastard like Harv?” Roman asked, a grin forming on his face.

“More than you could ever imagine,” Harvey responded, glaring him down.

Roman leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes watching you intently. Snapping his fingers to get your attention, he grinned. “How about a Kinky Blow Job, princess.”

Harvey looked as if he was about to explode, gripping the arms of the chair he was in. Roman caught his gaze, not missing your flustered state at his bold request. “I mean the drink, Dent. Your girl should know how to do a Kinky Blow Job right? Or were those personal matters over a Juicy Pussy?”

Not wanting to be rude, you walked over and made the drink Roman requested. If you weren’t so well versed in various drink names this would have been a very awkward position. Mixing the pink drink, you put a straw in it before making your way over to Roman.

His gaze alone was enough to give you shivers, Roman watched your movements like he was waiting for the right time to strike and make you his meal.

“Here you go, Mr. Sionis.”

Roman reached for the drink, his cold hand brushing yours ever so slightly sending shivers down your spine. “What’s the matter, princess, too cold? I know a way or two to warm my fingers up.” he winked.

Pulling your hand back, you could feel Harvey burning holes into Roman’s chest as he continued to openly flirt with you not bothering to turn his gaze away from your exposed chest.

“Will that be all, Mr. Sionis?” you asked, clasping your hands behind your back.

Deciding he had enough fun, he waved you away before looking at Harvey. “Such a polite little thing, how long did it take you to train her?” he asked, sipping his drink.

The second you were close enough, Harvey grabbed your waist and pulled you down to rest on his knee. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he threatened, placing a kiss to the back of your throat. Your hand came to rest on his knee, squeezing gently as he bit into the soft flesh of your shoulder enough to leave a mark.

“It’s a joke, Dent.” Roman chuckled, “Lighten up some,”

You felt his hand wrap around your middle, securing you against his chest resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Both of ya, shut the ‘ell up and play the fuckin’ game!” Oswald snapped, dueling out the cards. “Buch o’ bloody wankers.”

Picking up the cards dealt to him, Harvey kept you close. There was no way in hell he was letting anyone, especially Roman get their grubby hands on you. Looking at his cards, he reached into his coat and pulled out a wad of bills.

“Put half of that on the table for me baby doll,” he said, eyeing you as your body arched over to toss half the wad on the table. Handing it back to him, he took the bills, grinning as he stuffed them into your top. “Why don’t you keep that safe for me?”

“Yes, sir Mr. Dent.” you breathed, feeling his fingers lightly brush against your nipples through the top.

Content with your reaction, Harvey leaned back in his seat as you turned and draped your legs across his lap. Placing his hand on your knees, he pulled you close. Watching his hand, he glanced at the other two before setting his cards down.

“What’s with that look Dent, confident or scared you’ll lose?” Roman called, glancing up from his cards.

“What, worried you’ll lose to me?”

“I thought you liked to leave things to chance or was that all an act?”

Harvey didn’t like the fact Roman was trying to goad him into betting more money. Looking at his cards again, he still had a high chance to win. Turning to look at you, Harvey slid a finger into your top and pulled it back enough to pull out the bills and toss them onto the table.

You weren’t happy he fell for Roman’s obvious ploy at trying to rile him up. These poker games were meant to be simple fun between crime lords, but you knew how dangerous they could be. One second they were betting money, and the second someone’s ego got fluffed they gambled away their firstborn child.

Hours passed, and you watched as they played through three games already and dealt out the fourth and final round. Each man won a round each, and this one was to take home the cake to prove who was the best poker player. Roman had a dangerous glint in his eyes, and you didn’t like the results that could come of that.

Oswald was oddly the most generous of the three, offering you free champagne and even a platter of sandwiches that were prepared just for you.

Harvey however, refused to let you off his lap. He worried the second he let go, you would disappear. It said a lot when he didn’t trust his own men with you, but he trusted Roman and Oswald’s men even less.

“Final round boys, ‘ow ‘bout we up the stakes?” Oswald asked, tossing the final few cards.

Roman grinned, his teeth a shocking white against the dark of the room. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a folded piece of paper with his handwriting scrawled across it. “One free night with any girl of your choosing from my club.” Tossing the paper onto the table, his gaze turned to Oswald.

“Up that, you old bird.”

“Shut up!” Oswald thought long and hard, he didn’t have anything like that to bet. He didn’t dabble in sex clubs or prostitutes. He had more class than that, but he did have something a lot of people sought after.

Pulling a piece of paper out, he wrote his offer illegible from your distance. True to form, Oswald Cobblepott had chicken scratch handwriting.

“One free night, in the private secluded box in the Iceberg Lounge. Enough for you and two guests.”

Nodding appreciatively, Roman smiled and turned his gaze to you and Harvey. His smile didn’t waver one bit, as if he knew what was about to happen next. “What are you going to bet, Dent? It seems money isn’t an option, fuck knows we have plenty of it.”

“He could bet tha’ little ‘ore of ‘is?”

Harvey’s grip tightened on your waist, holding you protectively against him.

“What’s the matter Dent, I thought you were confident in your card skills?” Roman grinned, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

“No.” he growled. “She isn’t for sale.”

“Oh come on Dent, why don’ you let the coin decide?” Oswald chuckled, knowing full well what Harvey would do.

You watched as he reached into his pocket, toying with his coin between his fingers.

“Harvey, you can’t be serious?” you asked, muttering into his ear. “I thought you said I wasn’t for sale, remember?”

“Relax doll,” he said, turning his gaze to you. Harvey knew it was reckless, but he couldn’t refuse what the coin decides. “Have a little faith in me,”

You watched with wide eyes as he set the standard. Heads, it was a no. Tails, you were to be placed on the betting table. The deal was one night, equal to that of the others and you had more than monetary value to Harvey. Or so you hoped.

Flipping the coin, you held your breath watching as he caught it and flipped it onto the back of his hand to reveal the damaged side of his double-sided coin.

Your voice died in your throat, looking at him with a concerned look.

“You fucking asshole,” you snapped getting off his lap to stand behind him. There was no way you could watch this hand play out, not when your virtue was on the line.

“Now that the bets have been placed, let’s play some cards, boys.” Roman grinned and began the round, his eyes not leaving your figure once.

The next twenty minutes were some of the most agonizing twenty minutes of your life. You watched in worry as Harvey played the game. His hand was pretty good, but did that mean it was better than the others? At some point, you had to stop watching, the anxiety making it too much to bear knowing your fate rested in the cards. Biting your nail, you watched as they finally folded and waited for the results.

Oswald flipped his card, showing that he had a full house. Not bad, but there were higher hands to play that could win.

Roman chuckled, flipping his cards over to reveal a four of a kind all in diamonds. That was a pretty damn good hand, if Harvey didn’t have a better hand it seemed you would be going home with Roman Sionis spending your night filled with Kinky Blow Jobs and Juicy Pussies. You couldn’t deny the man oozed sex appeal, but you wanted it on your terms and not from a fucking poker game.

Clenching your fists, you watched as Harvey tsked and turned his cards to reveal a straight flush. “Sorry boys, but Y/N is going home with me tonight.”

You watched Roman clench his jaw, irritated at the fact he lost a night with you all to himself. Getting from his seat, he put a hand in his pocket and adjusted his cigar. “Well played Dent, next time maybe you won’t be so lucky.”

Both Oswald and Harvey got to their feet and shook hands. “Good game gentlemen, same time next month?”

Harvey put all of his stuff into a bag before walking over to you. He didn’t miss the glare you were giving him, nor did he miss the way Roman sauntered up to you taking your hand and pulling you closer.

“Such a shame to miss out on a night with you, princess. Maybe Dent will bring you along again next time and we’ll see what happens then.” He pulled your hand up to his lips, placing a kiss to your smooth skin.

Giving him a hard glare, you bit your cheek. “You may be nice on the eyes Mr. Sionis, but you might want to remember you can’t buy the best things in life.” you snapped, pulling your hand away. “And I don’t come cheap.”

Harvey bit his lip to hide his chuckle at the sight of Roman’s face. Walking over he wrapped an arm around your waist, planting a hand firmly on your ass. He knew you were pissed at him, it seemed he had a lot to make up for.

“Later boys,” he called walking out with you on his side. As a silent promise, his large hand gripped your ass roughly while you walked, the skirt riding up to expose the underside of your cheek and black thong.

“That fucker,” Roman growled, walking out himself.

***

Harvey led you back to the car, where your driver and security detail waited.

“You have a lot of groveling ahead of you Dent if you even think about sleeping in the same bed tonight.”

Leaning to press soft kisses to your throat, Harvey wrapped both arms around you as he kissed your collar. “How about I start right now,” he muttered against your skin. “I know how much you love being fucked in the backseat.”

Gripping his hair, you tipped your head back breathing heavily from his onslaught of kisses and public display. His hands wandered lower, toying with the bottom of your skirt as he pressed you against the car door.

“You’re lucky you’re hot.”

Harvey grinned against your skin, before looking at the driver. “You go ahead with security, I have some business to attend to.” he grabbed the keys and unlocked the door, pulling away long enough to watch you slide in and spread your legs for him to see your dripping cunt on full display to him and anyone else around. Sucking in a harsh breath, he dove in after you and shut the door, locking it behind him.

His lips were on yours in an instant, hips prying your legs further apart, the skirt bunched up to give him access. Harvey mumbled soft apologies against your skin as he left open-mouthed kisses across your collar. His hands danced across your thighs, as they made their way up to your pussy.

Letting out a sigh, you arched your back feeling him swipe through your folds moaning at the sudden contact. His fingers entered into you, quickly stretching your hole to accommodate his cock to impatient to take his time with you.

Gripping the leather of the seat, you moaned his name. “Harvey! Please!”

Hearing your cries, his hand continued to thrust in and out of your pussy before pulling back and undoing his belt. Quick to pull out his cock, he fisted it several times watching you writhe and drip onto the leather beneath you.

“Hold on baby doll,” he promised. “I’ll take care of you.” Gripping your hips, Harvey pushed your thong to the side and thrusted into you, bottoming out in two strokes.

Your body spasmed, trying to take in all you were feeling. Sinful moans left your lips feeling him stretch you perfectly as he picked up the pace. All you could hear over your ragged breath was Harvey’s hushed apologies as his hips rutted into yours followed by the sound of his balls slapping against your ass.

You could feel the car rock back and forth from the force of his thrusts, Harvey desperate to make you cum. Reaching down, his thumb played with your clit making you tip your head back and kick against the door.

“Oh fuck, Harvey!” you cried, gripping the back of his shirt. “I-I’m so close, baby. So close.”

Hearing you gasp for air, Harvey thrusted harder into you knocking the air back out of your lungs watching as silent moans left your perfect lips. Your jaw was slack and your eyes rolled back at the feeling of Harvey driving into you.

Swearing as your walls clench around him, Harvey moaned your name, continuing his pace. “You look so perfect,” he praised. “So fucking perfect as your pretty pussy takes my cock.”

Feeling the build-up, your thighs tensed around his waist while you clawed at his shirt.

“Fuck! Harvey, I’m gonna--” your words were cut off by a loud moan as you came on his cock, feeling it drip down your exposed ass.

Thrusting into you twice more, Harvey buried his cock inside you as he came, marking you as his as your mixed juices pooled beneath you. The smell of sex filled the car, as he continued to place kisses all over your body.

Panting heavily, you pulled his head up to kiss him. “Oh fuck…” you muttered, resting back against the car seats. Harvey looked down at you, pressing kisses to your cheek.

“Let me take you home doll, really make it up to you.”

Barely hearing his words, you nodded and closed your eyes. Feeling him pull out of you, you whined at the loss of contact before feeling his lips on your neck. Letting out a hiss, you tilted your head to the side feeling him suck the skin between his teeth really marking you as his this time.

Tucking himself back into his pants, Harvey climbed into the front seat and started the car before driving off. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw you splayed across the back seat recovering from the orgasm he just gave you. He saw your lipstick smeared across his lips, chuckling at the thought of how fucked out he must look.

You could still feel the ache Harvey left between your legs, begging to be used again. Reaching down, you slipped two fingers into your pussy trying to convince yourself that it was Harvey. The ache resided some, but it wasn't enough.

“Harvey…” you whined, bucking your hips into your hand. “Please!”

Glancing at you in the mirror, Harvey swallowed hard as he watched your toy with yourself while begging for him. “I’m going doll, wait until we get home.” his voice strained, trying to keep himself from driving into traffic.

Sliding a hand up, you gripped your own breast and played with your nipple through the top, continuing to finger yourself. “I want to feel you, baby, please! It’s too much!”

Going faster than the speed limit, Harvey palmed his growing bulge as he listened to the squelching of your fingers pumping your mixed juices back into you. With every whine and moan, his pants got tighter until it was so painful he couldn’t focus.

Pulling into the garage, he all but jumped out of the car before walking over to the door and pulling it open to see you fucking yourself until you came. Loud moans left your lips, echoing across the garage as Harvey watched you pull your fingers out and lick them clean.

“Holy fucking shit doll,” he muttered, pulling you out of the car. Kicking the door shut, he helped you balance on your feet before leading you up to the bedroom, his hands not leaving your body once.

“When we get there, I’ll make it all up to you,” he promised, muttering against your shoulder. “I’ll worship every inch of you, give you a special gift and everything.” His hands roamed your body, reveling in the way you shivered under his touch. He’ll make you forget all about his stupid bet, and make you feel so good you won’t want to leave the bed.

Leaning into his touch, you walked with him as he opened the door. “You still have a lot of apologizing left to do, better get started.”

Harvey hummed into your shoulder, leading you towards the bedroom of your lavish apartment. Entering the room, he led you to the mirror and held you against his chest. You watched his hands as they traveled up your body before grabbing your breasts through your top and giving them a tight squeeze.

“You’ve been teasing me all night with this fucking top,” he grumbled, listening to your airy breaths as he played with your breasts. “Who the fuck thought it was legal to sell you this shirt?”

“The sales per-person,” you gasped, leaning into his touch. Feeling him pinch your nipples, you hissed pressing your ass into his crotch.

Keeping a hand on your breasts, the other slid down your body sending little bolts of electricity everywhere he touched you. “And this fucking skirt, so fucking tight around your little ass everyone was looking at what belongs to me.”

His lips trailed from your shoulder up to your cheek, not taking his eyes from your flustered form. You could see his eyes burning into yours as you turned your face to meet his lips in a passionate kiss.

You felt his hands slide the skirt off of you, the leather pooling at your feet. Trailing over the soft skin of your stomach, he pulled at the top trying to get it off you. You could tell Harvey was getting impatient, so you pulled away from the kiss and guided his hands into taking it off your body.

Standing in front of the mirror in nothing but your black thong and heels, you couldn’t help but admire Harvey’s hands as they traced over every inch of you he could reach. Slowly, you stepped out of your heels as Harvey’s fingers dipped into the straps and began to pull the thong down your hips.

Kneeling as he pulled it down, Harvey nipped lightly at your ass causing you to jump in surprise letting out a little squeal. Chuckling at your surprise, Harvey got back on his feet turning you to look at him.

“How about a present for the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen?” he asked, holding you against him.

Biting your lip, you gave him a nod as he led you over to the bed and made you sit.

“Stay put,” then he walked off and disappeared to get whatever it was he was going to give you.

It took a few minutes for him to come back, holding three boxes all wrapped in deep red bows. What could Harvey have gotten you this time? The last time he decided to give you something, it was the deed to a whole island that he named after you.

No one got to see this side of Harvey Dent, the side that truly loved you and strived to prove it with extravagant gifts, expensive trips, and more.

Giving him a playful look, You watched as he knelt before you and placed the boxes at your feet. Pressing a kiss to your knee, he handed you the first box. “Go ahead, open it.”

Taking the package from his hands, you lifted the top off and pushed back the tissue paper. Pulling the item out, you saw that it was a black and white lace lingerie set, complete with garter belts. Holding it up, you looked at Harvey to see his delight in you liking the first gift.

“Oh Harvey, it’s beautiful.” you praised holding it against the expanse of your body.

“I’d say try it on, but why don’t we save it for another night?” he chuckled, watching you move the box to the side only for him to place another on your lap.

Giving him a look, you could tell this one was heavier than the last and that probably meant it cost more. Pulling off the lid and unwrapping it, you saw that it was a beautiful necklace with several strands of pearls strung across.

You gasped, holding it up and looking at him. “Harvey, what did I say about expensive gifts?”

“That cost nowhere as much as the island.” he smiled. “I thought I could get some pearls for my favorite girl.” Leaning up, he took it from you and clasped it around your neck watching as they cascaded down your chest and over your breasts.

“Perfect,” he muttered, kissing your cheek.

Turning your head to meet his lips, you pulled him into a kiss running your fingers through his hair. The cold pearls sent shivers across your body as Harvey pressed himself against you. “Baby doll-- fuck.” he chuckled, feeling your hands trail over his chest trying to unbutton his shirt. “I still have one more present for you,”

“That can wait until you’re done apologizing,” you grinned, sliding his shirt off his shoulders.

Harvey gripped your waist, lifting you higher onto the bed as he crawled over you. “I was hoping you’d use it as an apology,” he groaned against your lips as you continued to undress him.

Your fingers danced along the waist of his pants as you unbuttoned them, sliding them down his legs. Raking your nails over his exposed skin, you helped him out of his pants and boxers moaning as you felt his mouth kiss everywhere he could reach.

Moving down your body, he kissed every inch until he got to your hips. Nuzzling your skin, he bit into you leaving teeth marks on your hip. Harvey loved to see you all marked up, further proving that you belonged to him and no one else.

Making his way further down, he propped your thighs over his shoulders and sucked on the supple skin enjoying the taste of your mixed juices and sweat. Leaving a trail of bruises up your thigh, Harvey licked between your folds holding your hips down as you cried out.

“Oh, Harvey!” Your hands flew to his hair, pulling him closer as he continued to lick you clean. Your hips continued to move against his face, as he brushed your clit with his nose.

Harvey’s tongue sent jolts all through your body, overwhelmed by the feeling of his ministrations through your folds. Your toes curled, feeling him enter a finger into you slowly pumping it in and out of you.

Moaning against your cunt, Harvey added a second finger pumping them in and out of you at a sensual pace wanting you to feel every bit of it.

“Please!” you gasped, pulling at his hair. “Please don’t stop,”

Hearing you beg made him chuckle, the vibrations against your clit sending you closer and closer to the edge. Between his warm tongue and cool fingers, Harvey had you dangling over the cliff as if he was daring you to let go.

You let out a scream feeling him brush the bundle of nerves with the pad of his fingers, massaging it until your throat was raw from your screaming. Glancing up at you, Harvey grinned seeing you so lost in the pleasure he was giving you.

“Fuck!” you tugged on his hair harshly, earning a soft moan from his lips sending more little shocks into you as he laid claim to your pussy. “Harvey! Baby-- oh! Don’t stop!” you pleaded, digging your heels into his back.

Curing his fingers again, he felt your walls spasm around him as you came coating his hand and face in your juices. Your voice echoed around the room from crying out his name, relaxing back into the bed.

Harvey’s face was still buried between your thighs, refusing to quit.

“Come on doll, cum on my face again.” he groaned, peeking up at you. You looked to see your cum smeared across his lips and chin, continuing to finger you trying to coax your body into another orgasm.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered, getting back to it. You couldn’t hear much over the ringing in your ears, but you swore you heard the words ‘favorite meal’ leave his lips as he licked you clean.

“H-Harv-- oh fuck! I-I can’t..” you whined, feeling yourself being brought up again.

“You can do it, I know you can baby doll.” he muttered against your body, “Give me another, and I’ll fuck you properly until you beg me to stop.”

His words made your head swim, the thought of his cock buried within you while feeling like this was enough to make you cum again, screaming his name.

Harvey lapped up every drop he could, making sure he licked your pussy clean only for him to defile it again. Unable to take anymore, you pulled his head up and over to kiss you. You could taste your arousal on his tongue as it mingled with yours in your mouth.

His hands placed themselves on your breasts, kneading them as the pearls rolled around his hands and towards your cleavage. Harvey enjoyed seeing you wear nothing but the pearls, as they bounced around your breasts while you moved.

Not wanting to waste another second, Harvey lifted his hips before thrusting into you again. Your tight cunt was enough to make his hips stutter, feeling your velvet walls wrapped around his cock.

“Fuck doll,” he muttered against your lips. “You feel so fuckin--” his breath caught in his throat feeling you pulse around his shaft, cutting off his words before picking up the pace. You were nothing more than a blissful fucked out mess as Harvey continued to drive his hips into yours.

Feeling the ecstasy build up, you dug your nails into his back leaving marks that would last for days.

“Harvey!”

Not able to get out anything but his name, your body succumbed to the intense feeling as another orgasm took over you leaving you gasping for air.

Burying his face in your shoulder, Harvey continued to thrust into you before cumming deep within you. Unable to take anymore, he let his body collapse against yours, melting together covered in sweat and cum.

Brushing your hair out of your eyes, he cupped your face and looked at you. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and Harvey would never understand what you saw in an asshole like him. Carefully, he lifted his hips and pulled out before lying next to you.

Turning your head, you gave him a soft smile and kissed his lips. Wrapping his arms around you, Harvey pulled you close enjoying the warmth of your body.

“Did I do good enough?” he asked, brushing his lips against yours.

“Apology accepted,”

Taglist: @catxsnow @niggxrette @subtleappreciation @littleredwing89 @offendedfishnoises @angstigone @batarella @alienstardust @illzarr @foenixphire

#Costly Affairs #harvey dent x reader #harvey dent #harvey dent x you #harvey dent imagine #harvey dent smut #two face #two face x reader #two face x you #two face imagine #two face x reader insert #two face smut

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storiesforallfandoms · 4 years

Text

just hold me ~ yungblud

word count: 2206

request?: yes!

“Could you write a fluffy yungblud fic? Like maybe the reader has been going through a tough mental health time, and he helps? 🖤”

description: after a week that is mentally trying, all she wants is for her boyfriend to hold her

pairing: yungblud x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist (one, two)

You know those weeks that just absolutely kick your ass? The ones that absolutely nothing is going right and it feels like nothing will ever go right?

Yeah, that was my week.

It started off by realizing that one of my assignments that I thought I had so much time to do was due that day, and I wasn’t even close to being finished. I tried to give my professor some bullshit reason to get an extension but she wouldn’t hear of it, and because I even tried to get an extension she told me she wouldn’t even take it late and marked the assignment as a zero. Then I got my schedule for work and found that they were starting to take shifts away from me. So many, in fact, that I’d be lucky if I was able to make rent and bills. Besides all of that, school was just kicking my ass in general. I was starting to fall behind in my classes but I was feeling so down about everything lately that I felt as though I couldn’t sit still to do any of my schoolwork.

I found myself hitting my breaking point after a particularly rough day at work. Customers were being more rude than usual and I had been run off my feet the entire day. I was clocking out for the day when my manager pulled me aside to talk to me.

“A customer complained about you,” she said, trying to keep her voice soft as she spoke. I knew my manager liked me enough, but she had this way of talking that always made her sound like she was angry.

“What?” I said. “When? For what?”

“Shortly before you clocked out. They were demanding to see the manager, so Julie came and got me and brought me to their table. They said you were being very rude to them and refused to serve them, and that you made Julie do it instead.”

I could not believe this.

I knew exactly what table my manager was talking about of course. It was a table of four - a man, a woman, and two teenaged looking kids. They were supposed to be my last table of the day before I was cut. I had only been there for maybe ten minutes before they started demanding a new server instead of me. They were asking me questions that I wasn’t too sure of about the food on the menu, and when I told them I could ask the kitchen so I could give them a proper answer, the man freaked at me and called me all sorts of awful names. He told me I was incompetent and he didn’t understand why the restaurant would hire someone who didn’t even know the “simplest of answers to simple questions”.

His poor kids looked so awkward over it. His wife basically ignored the whole situation and continued to look at her menu.

I had tried to remain as cool as I could but I could feel tears starting to well up in my eyes. I asked again if he wanted me to ask the kitchen about the questions he had, and he responded, “No, I want you to get me a server who can actually do their job.”

I got Julie, who had been working at the restaurant for roughly two years. I explained the situation to her and she told me I could get ready to clock out if I wanted to.

I guess between doing exactly what I was told by that rude table and finally getting the clock out, he had complained about me to Julie and to my manager and made up some stupid story to get me in trouble.

“Oh my God,” I sighed. “I swear to you, that is not the truth at all.”

“I know it’s not,” she assured me. “When Julie came to get me she explained the whole situation. Even if she didn’t, I’d know they were lying. You’re too nice and too kind to be rude to even an asshole table like them.” She sighed and gave me a sympathetic look. “But that gentleman was so furious that he demanded some kind of actions be taken. I told him nothing could be done besides maybe a note being put on your professional record.”

I didn’t understand what she was telling me at first, but when it dawned on me my heart fell to my stomach.

“No, no you can’t,” I said, trying to keep back the tears that starting to run down my face. “I wasn’t even rude to them, you can’t write me up for something I didn’t do.”

“And I’ll make a note of that in the write up,” she told me. “But for now it’s all I can do. You had a customer complain about you, it’s our company policy that we give employees write ups when we feel it’s the right thing to do.”

So she thinks it’s the right thing to to permanently stain your professional record, and to push you one step closer to being fired.

Before anything else could be said, I raced out of the doors into the parking lot. I covered my mouth to stifle my sobs until I got to my car. Once I was there, I placed my head against the steering wheel and began to sob.

I was there for at least 20 minutes because I didn’t trust myself to drive yet. I could barley calm myself down, but eventually I just wanted to leave. I didn’t want to risk seeing the asshole and his family leaving the restaurant, and frankly, I just didn’t want to be there anymore.

I started driving towards my apartment, but as my sobbing and shaking began again, I realized I didn’t want to be alone then. I came to a red light and quickly shot my boyfriend, Dom, a text asking him if it was alright if I went to his place instead.

His response came almost immediately. “Of course it’s alright baby! You don’t have to ask!”

I arrived shortly after and let myself in with the key he had given me. I threw my work stuff onto the floor, knowing I would feel guilty about it once I had completely calmed down. I made my way to Dom’s room where I knew he would be. As usual when he wasn’t recording or touring, he was sat on his bed watching Netflix. He turned to greet me with a smile, only for his smile to drop when he saw my face.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked, starting to get up from the bed.

I shook my head and held a hand out, stopping him from getting up. As he laid back down, I took off the hoodie I had been wearing and my work jeans, which were now basically stuck to me with sweat, leaving me in just my t-shirt and my underwear. I climbed onto Dom’s bed and rested my head on his chest.

“Just hold me,” I said. “Please.”

He wrapped his arms around me and held me close. I began to sob yet again, thinking over all the bad that had happened to me this week. I felt so tired, both mentally and physically, and I just wished there was a way to take a break from it all.

Dom ran his hands up and down my body, trying to soothe me into some form of calm. Eventually, my exhaustion got the best of me and I fell asleep in Dom’s arms.

~~~~~~

Some time later, I woke up alone under the covers of Dom’s bed. I rolled over to look for my phone to check the time, only to find that it was nowhere to be found. It was dark outside, which meant it was still nighttime, and yet Dom wasn’t asleep next to me.

I was still in my t-shirt and underwear from when I had arrived to Dom’s, so the day before, unfortunately, wasn’t a dream.

I heard some sounds coming from the bathroom and got up to see if that’s where Dom had gone. Sure enough, I found my boyfriend knelt next to the bathtub, filling it with water so hot that I could see the steam coming from it.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

He seemed startled when I spoke, and turned to look at me. “Oh no, I wanted to wake you when I had the bath ready for you.”

“Well, I’m glad I caught you, because that water looks way too hot,” I teased and reached around him to turn down the hot water and turn up the cold instead. “Why are you running me a bath at like...I don’t know, kinda late at night? And where’s my phone?”

“I have it with mine,” he responded. “Which is in a hidden spot, because you need to take a break from your phone.”

I couldn’t argue with him there. “What’s up with the bath then?”

“You always say that a hot bath helps you to relax after a hard day,” Dom explained. “And obviously today was a hard day, so I’m running you this bath and I have that gold bath bomb you like so much.”

“When did you get that? I haven’t left any bath bombs here in a while.”

“I bought it in case of emergencies.”

I smiled at Dom and sat on the toilet seat lid to watch as he finished filling the bathtub. He had me test the water before pulling me to a stand and helping to take off my clothes. Even though it wasn’t meant to be in a sexual manner, there was something extremely intimate about Dom pulling my shirt over my head and my panties down my legs.

I got into the water and sighed as my body sank down till the only thing not underwater was my neck. Dom got the gold bath bomb from under the sink and gave me the honors of dropping it into the water as that was my favorite part of bath bombs.

“Are you joining me?” I asked.

He smiled cheekily and began to undress. “That was my original plan, but I decided to wait and see if you wanted me to join.”

I sat forward, giving him room to slip into the tub behind me. Once he had settled himself, I leaned back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me and began kissing my neck and shoulders.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked as his lips continued to trail over whatever bare skin he could reach.

I sighed. “Not really, but I guess the only way to work past it is to talk about it.”

I told him everything; about school, about work, about the asshole customer that fucked me over. He listened for however long I talked without interrupting. Once it was clear that I had finished talking, he spoke.

“That guy is a fuckin wanker,” he said. “I can’t believe people like that exist. You were just trying to do your job and he fucked you over like that.”

“It happens,” I said. “Hasn’t happened to me before today, but all my co-workers have stories of assholes who will complain to the manager for the littlest of things. We had someone complain once because their food didn’t look like it did in the picture on the menu and they wanted it for free. That’s usually all people want - free food.”

“I can’t believe your manager is going along with that,” he said. “Even if she makes a note that you did nothing wrong, that’s still looking bad on you.”

“I think they want to fire me,” I admitted. “That’s the only reason they would be giving me less shifts. They want to slowly get rid of me before they straight up fire me.”

“I don’t think they’ll do that, babe.”

“I think they will. I’ve probably done one too many things wrong and now it’s my time to get the boot. It happens so often that whenever someone gets a few less shifts a week we panic.”

Dom squeezed me a moment before kissing me behind my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Well, if they want to fire you then we’ll look for a new job. You don’t have to stay there and take shit from assholes and let your managers treat you like dirt to keep the assholes happy. There’s hundreds of restaurants you could work at instead.”

For some reason, this thought hadn’t occurred to me.

“I’d like that,” I said. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay? I’m starting to relax, I don’t want to get worked up again.”

“Okay, baby.”

We were silent for a moment, just the sounds of the water shifting around us filling the room. I leaned my head back enough that I could look up at Dom. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For...for being you.”

He smiled at me and kissed my head. “Thank you for being you, too.”

I smiled and settled myself against him again, allowing myself to finally relax for the first time all week.

#yungblud #yungblud imagine #yungblud x reader #dom harrison #dom harrison imagine #dom harrison x reader #dominic harrison #dominic harrison x reader #dominic harrison imagine #imagine #request #one shot #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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embrassemoi · 4 years

Text

Surrounded by the Moon and Stars • 06

Pairings: Sirius Black x [F]Reader, Remus Lupin x [F]Reader Content: Language, possible errors, music snob!Remus, Author’s notes: song used: Come Together by The Beatles

BTW: I always try to use little to no physical descriptions for the reader insert but I did add that the reader has some sort of hair. I didn't mention hair texture or length (Sorry if ur bald). My taller readers, I only mentioned that you were shorter than Remus (no height was given)

Masterlist: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter 6: ABBA vs. The Beatles

❉───────•~❉•᯽•❉~•───────❉

“Merlin’s beard! Binns is a sadist; torturing students must be his only pastime,” James yawned, taking his glasses off to rub his eyes.

Nothing could ever compare to the History of Magic. Today, lessons were dreadful and muddy. Professor Binns’ monotone voice filtered throughout the class, rambling on and on about various dates in history. Hardly anyone paid attention before he started calling on students. Annoyed, Binns would continue to reiterate his inquiry until the student(s) got the correct answer, no matter how long it took.

A sadist indeed.

Although Binns wasn’t the sole reason why the class was pathetic, but rather the lack of any practical work was simply a joke. The class only reminded Y/N of her short time in public school. Geometry? Utterly useless for any daily life interactions. To make matters worse, Binns surprised the class with a pop-quiz and two chapters of reading. Luckily, he had an ounce of mercy in his ghostly body and dismissed the class early for lunch.

James continued, “I would rather fight a dragon than — Woah! Your hair! “

She glanced to look at herself through the reflection in James’ glasses. Her hair, which originally was emerald green, was now turning into a golden yellow. The different colours clashed together boldly.

“You look like the banner for the Holyhead Harpies,” Peter said, striding up to James’ side.

“The Holyhead Harpies,” James said dreamily, “They’re probably one of my favourite teams.

Remus, who had been trailing behind Peter jumps in, “You only like them because they’re all women, you wanker.” He turns to Peter, his hand shooting up to the side of his head, massaging small circles into his temples, “Why’d you get him going?”

James became insufferable whenever someone or something mentioned Quidditch. Not only would he boast about his abilities as a Chaser, but he seemingly was a never-ending encyclopedia about Quidditch. It only worsened as November neared, the start of the new Quidditch season was approaching.

One time Y/N found herself stuck listening to him babble about Ireland winning the world cup for about thirty minutes. She didn’t have the heart to stop him, though. Nobody listened to his rants and he could hardly contain his excitement. How could she tell him she wasn’t interested?

A monstrous smirk etched its way onto his face, “Caught me.”

“Be anymore of a predator would ya, Prongs?”

“Hey! That’s not the only reason why I like them. Did you forget their victory in 1953 against the Heidelberg Harriers? Their strategy was blood-fucking-brilliant. They’re legendary! My father was there to see it in person. Lucky bastard. He told me…”

His voice fades into the background as Y/N catches Remus’ eyes. A glint of mischief shined through them before he forced a fake pitiful smile. He mouthed a quick ‘sorry’ to her before looping his arm around Peter’s shoulder, discreetly leaving James’ side and out of the classroom.

That sly, slippery bastard.

"— and did I mention that their seeker was one of the most sought out —”

“Wait, James.”

He abruptly pauses, waiting patiently for her to continue. She leads them out into the corridor and towards the great hall. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cut you off like that, but when is my hair going back to normal?”

Y/N instantly regretted mentioning her hair. There was no trace of a smile on James. His shoulders slumped a bit and his walking even staggered. “Godric, I know, I know and I’m sorry. I thought it would have returned back to normal by now. I’ve been creating reversal spells — even started asking Moony to help.”

“Moony?”

“Remus.”

“Another one of your nicknames?”

“It’s not a nickname! It’s a brotherhood — a pack!”

“Oh, sorry Prongs,” she drawled, a sarcastic smile on her face, “If I didn’t know you I would assume you were an asshole.”

“What? How?!”

“You go around calling yourself a marauder, the king of Quidditch and now Prongs. Seems pretty assholely.”

James’ mouth opens before closing again, repeating the process several times.

“Plus, you pull silly pranks every day.”

He chuckles, “Oi! You helped us with that itching idea!”

Her eyebrows raised in acknowledgement, “Touché.”

To this, James shakes his head, directing the conversation back to the Holyhead Harpies. Inwardly, Y/N wanted to whack him with a broomstick.

They were among the first students to reach the Great Hall, aside from students who had a free or were excused early by Professor Binns. None of the girls were there yet. Unfortunately, Marlene was held back by Binns, so Y/N was left to sit beside James who sat opposite to Remus, Peter and Sirius.

She had been trying her best to avoid Sirius whenever she could. It was clear he didn’t like her. He never laughed whenever she made a joke, he hardly noticed her, he never praised her, even if she tried to compliment him. He was just rude for no apparent reason. The rest of the marauders and girls knew this, although they preferred not to comment about the obvious, strained relationship (which they didn’t even know the reason for. Granted, Y/N wasn't quite sure herself. Was it the rejection, he just didn't like her or is just an ass?).

Although, ignoring and avoiding him proved to be extremely challenging. Y/N was glued to Lily’s hip ever since the Sorting Ceremony. It also didn’t help that if you were with one marauder, another one was sure to follow. She and James started to spend more time with each other, and by extension, she was obligated to be around at least one other marauder. With the addition of study sessions with Remus, it was inevitable.

Surprisingly, Sirius hadn’t made any snarky remarks, excluding dirty looks, he was being… nice — nicer to her. The action was a stark contrast from his previous behaviour and she speculated a few reasons why:

Most likely, James or Lily, she assumed the former, said something to him. Since his little spat with James at breakfast a few weeks ago, Sirius was tight-lipped ever since.

Maybe he was done being a prick, deciding to stop by himself after realizing he was a prick.

Went through something personal, it stopped, and his behaviour improved.

Minutes after the bell rang, students began to trickle in for lunch. The comfortable chatter rose as Y/N finished eating an apple. Everyone seemed pleased when James’ Quidditch lecture was interrupted as hundreds of owls streamed in, packages and letters dropping into the laps of students. She hadn’t expected anything considering her owl, Celeste, didn’t drop anything off since the first week of October. However, today she fluttered down between the bread and fruit bowls, dropping off several letters and a small parcel onto Y/N’s plate, pecking at the bread crumbs on the table. She tore the letter open, inside it said:

Dear Y/N,

Are you still having a hard time with Charms? If so, perhaps I find some textbooks and send them over.

Don’t slack off this year. Send me a letter whenever you have the chance. (Make sure to tell Celeste to be quieter next time. You know I can, and never will get used to the owls.)

Mom

Her mother finally wrote to her. A sense of joy flooded her body as she placed the letter back down on the oak table. A part of her wondered if Celeste was dropping off her letters to the wrong house, the one back in Toronto as her mother never wrote back. She opened the next letter, immediately recognizing the messy scrawl:

October 19, 1975

Y/N! I thought you replaced me with one of your brits, but a false alarm, your letters just take a while to arrive. Must be tiring for Celeste to travel to and from Scotland then America and back. You know, whenever people see her fly in, they still recognize her.

Are you doing anything for Halloween? We’re throwing another dance. Going to be alone this year now that I can’t force you to come. I guess I’ll just watch half the school dry hump each other while I smuggle in firewhiskey.

How’s it going over there? I heard from a few students, even read in the papers about the war. It’s getting pretty crazy over here. Teachers have been meeting and trying to prevent students and parents from losing their shit. My mom has been worried too, writing to me like a lunatic and I’m not even in the UK. The MACUSA have been keeping quiet but they were caught having meetings with counsellors from the Ministry of Magic. Even heard that Jenkins is stepping down. If it keeps getting out of hand here, I can’t imagine what it must be like at Hogwarts. I truly thought the war was dying down, I was wrong. Keep your wand close. Surely, you’ll get away with a hex or two.

Until next time

Matthew G.

So engrossed in her new environment, her old life slipped to the back of her mind. There was a detachment from her reality compared to the one at home. A pang of guilt hit her, swallowing her up from the inside out until another pang hit, loneliness. If she easily forgot everyone, would anyone remember her? None of her old friends, apart from Matthew, had made a move to contact her since she left.

Often thinking about writing them first, she had to remind herself if they wanted to, they would. Especially with the knowledge that people still recognized Celeste.

Was she forgettable and if so, was it karma for forgetting too?

It put a mechanical vice grip on her heart, applying just enough pressure to be a constant reminder. With every beat, it tightened more and more.

Looking around the table, she saw her peers huddle in groups, familiar laughter ringing throughout. So noisy, so taunting. She may have been friends with Lily, Dorcas, James or even Marlene, but they had their own friends. Friendships that had years to develop before she came. She had only known them for less than two months.

Forgettable.

How hilarious, she thought.

“Hey,” a gentle voice cooed into her ear, “Are you okay?”

She hummed back absentmindedly.

James wore a concerned expression, his eyes knitted together, one raised higher than the other like it always does when he was worried. The look he shot her suggested he wasn’t convinced, although he didn’t press; instead opting to stir the conversation. “So, who wrote to you?”

“A friend and my mom —”

A snort so loud that it caused the rest of the marauders, random onlookers and even Lily (who had a look of pure disgust on her face) turned towards them. “What did you say?”

“I got a few letters?”

“No!” He bellowed, “Who sent you them?”

“My friend and my mom —”

Nearly choking on his sandwich, James clutched his stomach laughing. Laughing so hard he has to grip the table to prevent falling off the hall bench. "Haha! Mom?! MOM?” He mocked in a poor American accent, “What the fuck is mom? It’s MUM. Bollocks!”

“We say vitamin.”

“It’s VIT-A-MIN! Who says VIGHT-A-MIN?” Without a pause, James presses his entire body onto her shoulder, smushing her before grabbing the letter her mother sent her. His eyes scanned across the pages before hitting a certain word. “Back home? Maple trees? Where did you use to live exactly?”

“Canada.”

“Canada?! You don’t mean those snowy gits?” At this, Peter and Remus snort under their breaths. Even Lily had to force down a smile.

Staring deadpanned at him, in an unamused voice, “Really?”

“You are a bundle of surprises! I thought you lived… I’m not sure. I assumed somewhere like New Hork.”

“York,” Lily corrects.

“Tomato, tomato,” he jokes, playfully batting his eyes at Lily before biting into his sandwich, “You do live in London, right?”

“Right.”

James takes a moment, letting the conversation die down before he quickly glances at Y/N again. An undecipherable expression crosses his face before it’s promptly replaced with elation, “I take back anything negative I’ve said about Canada. They have an amazing Quidditch rooster. Have you gone to any of their games?”

A low grumble of sighs follows at the mention of Quidditch from James. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Remus shake his head and sighed dejectedly.

“Nah, I’m a New-Maj, remember? My mom — “

“Mum —”

“ — sorry, Mum — hardly understands the wizarding world, let alone what Quidditch is.”

His eyes were wide, whimsical, as a hand flew to his chest dramatically, “Rubbish! Bloody ridiculous! You’ve never seen a real Quidditch game? One day, I swear I’ll bring you to one! Or you can bring me to Canada one day and we can watch a home game!”

As James continued to rant, Y/N’s mind slowly drifted back to the bitterness in her chest. Trying to distract herself, she borrowed Lily’s quill and a few sheets of parchment, scribbling down letters in response.

Mom,

I’m fine with Charms, you don’t need to send anything. And don’t worry, I’ve been studying for my OWLs.

Love you, write soon.

The next letter was addressed to Matthew:

Matty Matt,

Of course, I didn’t replace you… yet.

Another dance? You would think the students’ protest last year would have influenced the professors this time. I guess it’s time for you to get wasted. I didn’t tell you last time but I think I’m going to a party. A friend of mine is throwing it and I know he’s going to force me to come no matter what. He briefly mentioned costumes and drinks. Plus, there’s going to be some kind of prank that I may or may have not been a part of? Sounds cool right?

Yeah, I’d say it’s been bad up here. I don’t know much about what's going on outside of school, though. The professors are hiding it well. I didn’t even hear about Jenkins stepping down. Keep me updated.

Until next time

She sealed the letters before sending Celeste off again, “Be quieter when you drop off the letters, yeah?”

❉───────•~❉•᯽•❉~•───────❉

It must be her lucky day.

The ringing of the bell went off, signalling the end of class. Professor Flitwick asked the students to stay behind so he could hand out quizzes the students completed on Monday in preparation for their upcoming test on Growth and Reductor charms the following Tuesday.

It was never a good sign when a professor flips your test over to prevent other students from seeing their mark. Flipping it over at a downwards angle, Flitwick handed Y/N her quiz.

Turning it over nervously, a tight coil formed in the pit of her stomach. A large P was plastered on the top right corner in bold red ink. She studied hard for this too. Angrily, she shoved her work into her bag and left the class. This was the third poor she'd gotten in a row. She should have told her mother she needed those Charm books.

“I swear I’m going mad! Her brother is a complete cow! He even — are you listening?”

She looks at the girl beside her, Marlene. Her glossed over, doe eyes must have served as an answer before the blonde shook her head.

“Sorry, distracted,” she mumbles, before forcing out a fake-happy tone, “Continue your story! I wanna hear!”

“Hey,” Marlene says in a softer voice, “If something’s bothering you, you can talk about it.”

“No, it’s okay,” she replies instinctively. She felt bad spacing out during Marlene’s story but her mind was running through and under hoops. The last thing any fifth year student needed was to fall behind in their classes, let alone feeling like nobody cared about them.

At that moment, she wished she was wrapped away in red and gold blankets to wallow in her self-pity party, away from prying eyes. She could feel the burning sensations of tears building up.

Dammit.

Y/N looked out the window to her left. The sky was melting with the warm hues of reds and yellows while the other half was being slowly engulfed into a cloak of twilight. Even from here, she could feel the cool air seeping in from the windows making her tug on the sleeves of her robes.

She continued, “I’m just tired — been a long day. I’m going to take a nap before dinner. See you.”

Judging by the look on Marlene and Lily’s face, guilt riddles her body. They both look sympathetic. The pity only made Y/N feel disgusting. In all honesty, Y/N will care later. Right now wasn’t the time and she desperately needed some shut-eye.

Before she left the room, she overheard them talking.

“What’s up with her?”

“Dunno.”

Great.

❉───────•~❉•᯽•❉~•───────❉

Sleep did little to ease her thoughts.

The same uneasiness she felt on the train ride to Hogwarts settled deep into her bones again. She thought she was past this. The worrying about friends, missing home, feeling alone, failing class, stressing about her future. The rational part of her brain knew it was just one silly quiz (and old shitty friends), but knowing herself, if she were to continue to have this mindset, she would only fail in the end.

Dinner ended and Y/N belligerently climbed up the stairs towards the library to attend today’s study session. The Charms quiz threw her into a loop and it was better not to dwell on it, opting to rather use her time for something useful.

Her marks improved significantly since she attended her first session two weeks ago. The last couple of assignments and quizzes she handed in that she worked on during the groups were some of her best work, ever. Additionally, her ability to retain information was improving at astonishing rates and she found herself participating in lessons more often. Unfortunately, she started to doubt her abilities again.

There weren’t as many students as usual. Perhaps it was because of the Quidditch meeting for all teams tonight, or because nobody wanted to spend their time in a library Friday night. She assumed it was the latter.

Although, the same student with black hair from Slytherin was there; tucked away in his usual corner. He was always there. Whether it was the study sessions, another OWL or NEWT student or he simply just enjoyed the library, Y/N could always rely on him sitting there in his little nook.

In the far back, surrounded by tall bookshelves sat Remus. Another student, a first or second year, judging by their height, seemed to be asking him a question, rapidly writing down something on a piece of parchment whilst they walked away. Remus leaned back in the brown chair, his right leg was folded over the other as he stretched.

She spent over twelve hours minimum with Remus directly since the first session, minus the time he was around James and the girls. Perhaps she only started to notice afterwards but she swore Remus wasn’t around this much before. Now, he was everywhere.

In the past couple of weeks she’d gotten to know him, she made a mental list in her head of him:

1. Remus loves sweaters. They weren’t flashy, seemingly preferring to wear ones with small designs, stripes or a solid colour. He wore green the most. He also wore cardigans. Two, in particular, he wore the most; one was white and the other was a muted brown. They were big and hung off his loose frame, the pockets were often stuffed with books, rumpled parchment and his wand.

2. He’s a coffee addict. He drank it in the morning, the afternoon, at the study session and sometimes with meals at dinner. He loved to dump pounds of sugar, so if he only drank black coffee, it usually meant he was in a bad mood. James even joked that he became Sirius whenever he drank black coffee, because haha! Get it? It’s BLACK coffee!

3. He frequented the library whenever he wasn’t with the rest of the marauders. He enjoyed poetry, wrote post-it notes after post-it notes to annotate his favourite parts. He even slept there from time to time, not without having to persuade Pince to not give him detention.

As if Remus magically sensed her, he took a large inhale before he stopped stretching, opening his eyes to look at her. A small smile was plastered on each other’s faces. He stuck up a few fingers to wave at her, motioning her to come over.

“Hi Y/N. I thought you didn’t come on Fridays?”

“I don’t but I have a test, Charms, Tuesday.”

“Oh, well I’m happy to help.”

“Thanks for the offer, Professor Lupin, but just being down here will help me focus.”

A scarlet blush settled on his face at the mention of his tutoring. “Well come sit with me then.”

Pushing the chair out of the way, she sat down beside him, pulling out her cassette player and earbuds along with her notes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Remus staring at the player curiously.

“Do you want to listen?”

“If you don't mind. I didn’t know you could use these here.” Picking it up, he turned the rectangular device.

“If record players work here, why not this?”

She hands him an earbud, alongside a small collection of other tapes she had on hand.

“Choose whatever you want to listen to.”

Without much thought, he pressed the play button. The upbeat tune of Waterloo by ABBA trickled into their ears. Y/N bobbed her head up and down before the song was suddenly stopped.

A sour grimace sat on Remus’ face before their eyes met, his nose upturned slightly.

“Why’d you stop it?”

“I hate ABBA.”

“What!?”

“I just don’t like their cheesy disco-pop-esk sound. They sound generic and random words are thrown in when they don’t add to the song.”

“Jeez— never met anyone who hated them that much.”

A ghost of a smile appeared before he flicked through her collection of tapes. He picked up Abbey Road by The Beatles. Opening the player up, he slid out Waterloo. With a click and the press of a button, Come Together played.

“So you hate ABBA but not The Beatles? Benny and Bjorn said they were influenced by them!”

“Keyword: Influenced; which is just another word for a shitty knock-off version.”

4. Remus Lupin is apparently a music snob.

“Well, I think both are good.”

“Respectfully, I disagree with you.”

“Whatever you say, professor.”

"I've been thinking a bit, why did you come to Hogwarts? Why not just stay at your old school?"

The sudden switch of topics threw her into a loop. “Wasn’t by choice. My mom’s a doctor and got a position here. It was too good to turn down. But it’s not bad. There’s less wizarding laws.”

He nods his head, "I'm assuming you have dual citizenship?"

"Mhm."

About a half an hour passed as she sighed for the umpteenth time before putting down her quill. Her chair scraped back noisily as Y/N’s hand balled up into a tight fist, feeling her fingernails bite into her palm. She’d been flicking through her notes, the words all blended.

At this rate, if History of Magic didn’t exist, Charms would surely be her least favourite class.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

She was at a loss, this was the third time Remus had offered to help and he was persistent. She felt horrible that she was taking up his time to help her on a stupid Charms test.

He continued, “If you think bothering me is an issue, it’s not. I run the sessions on Friday. It’s my job.”

“Fine, but there has to be something I can do in return.”

“Hmm,” Remus pondered for a second, “How about this, I tutor you in Charms and in return you give me your Potions notes? I'm dreadful at it.”

“Deal.”

“Great. Before we start, is there anything in particular that you have questions on?”

Silently tapping on the quiz she received today, Remus snatched it and quickly scanned over her answers and Professor Flitwick’s notes.

“I see what happened. You know, the curriculum taught at Ilvermorny is different. That’s probably why you can’t understand some of this shit.” He cleared his throat, “So as we know, the growth charm increases the size of your intended target…”

His voice, like a light switch, changed instantly. Instead of his softer deep, raspier voice, it became commanding and steady. He never stumbled over his words and articulated his points elegantly. She found herself enraptured by him, understanding why he was in charge of the study groups.

Eventually, Remus takes a pause, “Does that make sense?”

“Yes. You know, you’re really good at this. No matter how much I asked Flitwick or even Lily I could never get it.”

A large blush bloomed on the apples of his cheeks before he shyly rubbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes. “I’m not that good.”

“No time for modesty, Professor Lupin!”

“Okay, okay! So here, do you see what went wrong? There would be a reaction with those two spells if —”

A boy, small, most likely a second year, stood at the foot of the shared table holding a large red and gold book. His hair, dark ginger, similar to Lily’s, was cut short. He fiddled with his fingers as he continued to stare at the two.

“... Um, hi. You're Remus — right?”

“Yup. Did you need help with something?”

“Yes! I’m having trouble with the Transfiguration spell, beetle into button.”

A look of understanding passed through his face before Remus turns to look at her, “Duty calls. It’ll be quick.”

“Of course, take your time.”

It was not quick. Understandably, very few were successful at the ginger’s age to perform the spell, but thirty minutes passed and the second year still didn’t understand the basic concepts. No matter how many times Remus had reiterated his point differently, the boy couldn’t retain it.

“I just don’t get it.”

“You learned this last year, it's a quick revision. I’m not sure what part you’re talking about. Look, do not wiggle or twirl your wand left, direct it towards the right. You have to picture the spell in your head before saying the incantation.”

He guided the boy's hand steadily before performing the spell himself.

“I don’t understand!” The boy whined.

He sighed, “Then we keep trying —”

“It’s too hard. Why are they teaching this crap anyway?”

“Could you stop complaining?” He snapped, closing his eyes before he realized what he’d just done. “I’m sorry about that. I’m… just tired. I can’t help you anymore, though. You should ask someone else,” Remus said brusquely, his eyes unnerving as he stared at the child. As a result, he yelped out a ‘thank you,’ rushing off in the opposite direction.

The muscles in his jaw tensed under the soft glow of the table lamps. There was a pale red tint rimming his eyes and he looked visibly paler than normal. Irritated, he bounced his knee rapidly, up and down, before looking out the large window beside them. The sky was mostly cloudy. Only the peak of the silvery moon appeared. A sliver was missing before it was fully complete.

He closed his eyes, before breathing in. His posture once stiffened, completely relaxed before a flimsy smile reappeared on his face, returning his attention to Y/N.

“Let’s continue, shall we?”

“If you’re tired we can stop.”

“No, s’okay. I’m fine — really.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, adding to her list:

5. Remus was always so hard to read.

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muffindaddystyles · 4 years

Text

𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐃

Author note: Mention of drugs, sickness and blood (if you're not comfortable with it don't read it) . It mighty be heart warming fluffyyyyyy.

You're his kitten. No matter the consequences you're. Cause even in his anger sometimes (which's rare and it's on the silly go-to's) he still sticks to that pet name because he met you like that under the bus stop's shelter in a heavy rain offered you an umbrella (while you were huffing and puffing like a kitten annoyed with the weather), walked you home, had a tea with you and some chocolate chip cookies. Been bestfriends from that year and there isn't a red light to your guys wild adventures—but he's been having a rough time recently. Had a cruel heart shattering breakup from a relationship that he thought was a never ending dream (she brought him happiness in a weird way he couldn't put into words) indeed it tightened your chest but his happiness's most important to you. To overcome it he's been scribbling notebooks over notebooks with lyrics that screams he miss her and the sex for the most part of it. It breaks your heart.

He's usually the one to melt all over you, give you forehead kisses, cuddles you when your periods are the bitchiest, makes you brekkie if he stays a night, runs you a bath and sometimes brings you pomegranate berried candles (he lies that he got them as a gift, he's one hell of a liar). He takes care of you with so much gentleness and helps you with study after wiping your tears and reassuring you telling you how proud he's of you. It made you guilty sometimes 'cos if you'd be in camille's place. . .you'd never be able not to get jealous. She was cool with it. Fills you with another curiosity that maybe she treated it like a fling.

He was devastated. Knocking on your door feebly. Then the moment your small confused body was under his weary gaze, boom!! It crashed upon him like a pitch storm and he fell to his knees tucking his head in your armpit crying his heart out. At that moment you felt his pain radiating to you and twisting your own stomach with a dagger, it was insufferable. He gave out no-deep scrapes but not to freak your bones muttered that he lost her. Eventually his bottled up emotions seeped into hues infront of you by passing week and to your littlest of information you got to know that they didn't ended up well in some perspectives so their relationship turned out to be a downfall. So As, you do with your girlie best-friend when she have a breakup you did it with Harry too. It didn't included feral clubbing (you left that part to his mates) but watching sappy movies that could fill your ice-cream bucket once you eat it whole, doing homemade face masks, playing drunk uno and knocking on your neighbours door to run way at last, dragging his arse to museum and in all of this you ended up convincing him to adopt a kitty (she lives with you thou).

The roles have been reversed completely!

He's been living at your flat for five weeks now. It's fading his usual cheekiness and the itch to annoy you every second he gets. Instead, it's just eating, spending bits of hours with you, going out with his mates and coming back to crash at your couch padding in your room in the wee of night demanding a warm coddle from you and that his back hurts from the cruelty of that single spring popping from the leather, staying with him when he'd wrench his stomach out in the morning. He's sensitive. His heart's soft that's one of the reason he gets hurt real quick, you admire that about him and reminds him that it's one of his qualities you're totally in love with. You're gentle with him. Giving him space and time to recover. Going with him at his friend's birthday little get together not drinking at all knowing one would have to stay sober as he chugged red wine staining his hawain shirt and when he clumsily poked his pink tongue out lazily to reach for the cigarette in her hand you tugged him back into you before he'd burn his tongue with sparkles announcing it's time to head back home and he'd be a pain in arse (a beautiful one though because his antics makes you all mushy) when he pretended to steal sandwiches from the table hiding them under his shirt saying that "'m pregnant with twins and it's hard to carry them" while you dragged him outside making him wear his coat like a stubborn toddler. Making him cupcakes sometimes, playing with his fluff of curls while he reads the book she gave him. It hurts. But, it subsides down with his single amiable glance that tells you he needs you. He always had. He always will. You give him extra forehead kisses and pecks on cheek while leaving for UNI, because it's irresistible to give dust to his pouty sulk.

It's seven in the morning when he tumbled through your door (has a key, you even brought his clothes and toothbrush from his house—he even uses your strawberry scented shampoo and body wash) his nose tip blushed matching his cheeks, eyes pooling with haze and hair poking in every direction. You were studying for a class you've in an hour. When you saw his irirses blown out you arched your brow putting the cup down beside your thick book, to mingle his sadness he's experimenting different fun wild things (told you bout it and you even called Mitch to take care of him).

"How many am I, pet?" You asked walking towards him seeing him struggle to get out of his vans and your giggles echoed into coldness when he peers down at your crouched state with his gold fish-y eyes, "dunno. . . but ye'r seem like. .like a-a sunflower floatin' in me head." His lips molding around his each word agonisingly slow drawl and his voice hoarse and scratchy. "You need rest, bambi." You got him out of his jeans and socks knowing he despises to sleep with layers on. "I'll be back with you in some hours. Hmm? Then we'll snuggle into blankets, you me and. . .salsa the pussy cat." You have to control your laugh everytime you take the kitty's name (Harry's worst at giving names you were horrified when he once joked that he loves chelsea boots so much he could name his daughter Chelsea) He whines at that nodding his head but not loosening his grip from around your wrist while you tucked him under your baby green patch work quilt. It's like his brain and heart can't decide how to choose.

On your way back you got Jeff's call asking why Harry isn't picking his phone his own voice resembling that of Harry's and you know he'd be looking shit at the time. Harry was still snoring out like a bulb in bright day on his tummy and you shook him gently at first but when he didn't woke up you had to be a bit harsher. "Harry wake up pet. . . Jeff's been calling ye for since." But, not even a hum in response so you placed your finger under his nose checking if he's even alive. Gratefully he was just sleeping like a literal corpse (he argues that he isn't that bad of a sleeper but in fact he is. Everything around him would burn down and he wouldn't even change a side).

It was seven in the evening when you were preparing for dinner when he woke up grumpy. His nose scrunched up, lips quirked up as if he tasted something yucky and his gait jello. You eyed him quietly even when he came in kitchen to drink water.

"Jeff was callin'. . ." You quipped stirring the veggies before pouring soup into a bowl and sliding it his way on the counter, "I know bombarded me phone with calls—" He gruffed spooning a mouthful and you flinched when he tried to cool it inside his mouth with "hawahhoohaha" little sounds (he knew it was hot, he's just an impatient leech).

"Stop being a gremlin. He told me ye' aren't writing, leaving everything like a cliffhanger neither you're attending the meetings he calls you at. . . I think you're done with your mourning it's time to do what you actually love and is there for you. Your music." You frown seriously trying to put some senses into his forever high brain. He drops the spoon back and dips his brows frustratedly, pinching his eyes shut.

"Fuckin' hell. Stop being my mama!" It's not the first time you guys are arguing and you're not gonna take it to heart. You stood up towering him and jabbing your finger to his chest, "you better stop filling your system with drugs before eighteen year olds come to you thinking you're a drug dealer—" He snickers at that a total mocking one (you know he's doing nothing hard it's just shrooms in the safe environment otherwise you'd have never never allowed him) but still you had to bring him back to his line so it was necessary. "Piss off." He mutters still slurping on his soup and you left him there with a loud smack on his head, "Wanker."

You care about him. Always did. Always will. He's the love of your life. Even your love has nourishment of just water and lacks sunshine from your sun it's still there into existence, how could you see him like this? Wasting his precious time and energy. It's impossible.

All you heard before going to deep slumber was the tinsy creak of your main door after that it was silent and darkness until now your phone buzzed under your pillow resonating Niall's tired words. You were a wreck havoc fumbling for your coat and wallet, covering pathway to tube with shivering legs hallucinating that everyone's eyeing your fiddly self with judgemental stare even though there're few.

You rushed to Niall's doorsteps knocking like a maniac, "where's he? Is he okay? told ye—" You pushed him aside marching inside to look for him. "He looked fine, he's a strong guy y/n they took him to hospital." You snaps your neck raising your brows.

"What the fuck, d'ya mean hospital!?" Your heart hammering in her ribcage overthinking the worst scenarios. "Take me there. right. fuckin' now." You tell him firmly not caring even if he's high too. Niall leads you to his car heating it up in the first beat taking glances of your petite body leaning against the glass with lips sucked in, eyes watered and legs constantly on bounce so placed his hand atop your knee giving you reassuring squeeze and a genial smile.

Your pink cheeks warming up with the heat of hospital radiating your way and loud growl left your chest when your blurry vision cleared to the sight of dishelved Harry sitting on the bench outside of ER, his irirses weary, mouth stuffed with cotton and has few scratches of rashes on his elbows otherwise he's fine. With each step of yours towards him something kept breaking inside you like you're walking on the nails and it's ripping you raw. He raised his head timidly hearing footsteps and when his eyes fell over your worried state panic flashed over his features and his only gaze turned you a puddling emitting heavy sobs within you before reaching towards him. The reality of situation dawning upon you because from what Niall told you in the car that they were high trying to have some fun, drove around neighbour hood and Harry jumped out of the window and bit his tongue between his teeth resulting in heavy bleeding a deep gnash (the fuckin' dumbstick he is).

"I hate you. I hate you so fuckin' much! you bastard." You tried to shout at him but the voice that came out of your mouth was that of mice as you threw harsh blows at his chest, bottom lip jutting wet and salty tears tricking down. He wraps his hand around your wrists ushering you closer down to his chest speaking muffled, "'orry." causing you to grunt angrily into the crook of his neck.

"Sorry my ass!" When you tried to pull back he tightened his hold round your neck snuggling you warmly to him with a hum. Jeff came back with medicines and when he parted his lips to speak in his defence you ignored him wiping your tears with the heel of your palms muttering a, "I hate you guys." The drive back was silent and the walk to your flat too, you passed by him to lock yourself into your room (you wouldn't because of the fact you wouldn't be able to sleep if not sure he's okay few feets away from you). When Harry attempted to roll his tongue to make some words nothing came out but a hiss making you spin, "'s okay we'll speak in the mornin'." Saying this you headed to bed and when you were bout to turn the lamp off he was lurking at the foot of your bed with a pillow in his arms smushing his face into it and squeezing it close to his chest gesticulating you that he wants a cuddle.

"Only 'cos y're adorable." You muttered moving your bum to make space for him suppressing your cooe when he grinned showing nothing but snow cotton, fuckin' hell being this cute should be illegal! He snapped his finger to call Salsa and she instantly galloped to shrink into his side while you spooned him. You woke up to the running tap and the time you were stretching under your quilt with yawns he padded out looking healed than last night.

He got a little lisp as he spoke, "can we talk?" You nodded knuckling at your sticky eyes criss-crossing your legs. "'Forgive me kitten." He continues, "sorry fo' mistreatin' ye' last night." You shake your head not realizing tears are dropping down your collarbones.

"Please. . .I don't wanna be a party-pooper in your life. you can live your life to finest but not at the sake of your life Harry– and. . . and if you're trying to invade the feelin' of sadness with all of this I don't approve it. What bout me? dunno what'll do if somethin' will happen to you, pet. S'not fair to me. is it? Just. . . love y—" your confessions cameflouging with sobs.

"Oh baby. ." He immediately cradled you in his embrace trying to soothe you with 'sorrys' and 'I'll never do somethin' like that again, promise'. Smooching slobery kisses all over your face and when you gazed up at him attracting him closer to your clean warm features all he did was peck the corner of your lips tenderly pulling away to pat your hair with a sigh.

"So. . .ye' love me." He teased you and you rolled your eyes grabbing his chin with your fingers, "show me your tongue." biting down your laugh when he retorted misheviously, "hmm. Wanna kiss it better?" Blowing him off with a remark that he's an utter pervert hiding the fact it splashed crimson to your neck.

"Mind makin' me poor self some brekkie?" He pouts and you giggled pecking the corner of his burgundy lips getting a timid smile in return, "in trade of?" He hip-checked you straddling Salsa over his shoulder and grabbing her little paws to expertise her in some dancey-dance moves.

"Mind bloggin' orgasm–ique dinner." He cackled loudly at the end when you shook your head in fake disappointment at him and he clinged by your side helping you to make some breakfast.

Think so you guys will figure it out.

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britishboystm · 4 years

Text

Rainy Days | The Day We Met: A Fred Weasley Mini Series

Inspired by:

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, feelings of worthlessness, crying, rejection, broken heart

WC: 736ish

Chapter Summary: Y/N is going through a low point. Who better to cheer her up then a certain lanky red head?

Series Masterlist

***

September 26th 1993

It had been a difficult school year and it wasn’t even the end of the first month.

Dementors floated around the perimeter of the castle making it so no students could roam freely. It also didn’t help that Sirius Black, a Azkaban escapee was somewhere lurking nearby.

Everyone was trapped.

One gloomy afternoon, Y/N found herself looking out of a library window, watching the rain explode against the slightly fogged glass. She had been crying and her cheeks somewhat resembled the window.

Over the summer Y/N had developed a little, alright a massive crush on a fifth year Slytherin named Stefan Cultch. When school started back up, she had decided to take a chance and write him a letter, confessing her feelings. A day later she found that same letter ripped up and pushed aside in one of the hallways near the Slytherin common room. Ripped up like her tender teenaged heart.

Now she was here in the quiet Hogwarts library, thinking and stewing about why no one wanted to be with her and how she would never be able to find love.

Nearby Fred and George were meeting up with Lee to find some books for some fresh prank ideas. This happened to be one of the only times the twins found themselves in the library, most likely ever.

As they snickered and discussed amongst themselves, Fred couldn’t help but overhear soft sniffles coming from the other side of the bookshelf behind him. Lee and George were way too enthralled in conversation to notice.

It was beginning to get under Fred’s skin however so he stood up and turned the corner, only to come upon his best friend weeping at the window seal.

“Y/N?” He asked before walking over and taking a seat across from her. The girl quickly wiped her tears away and turned her face slightly so he couldn’t see it.

“What happened?” He instinctively took her hand into his which shocked her slightly.

“Just leave me alone Fred. I don’t want you to see me like this.” She retracted her hand away.

“Can you at least tell me what happened?”

Y/N let out a shaky sigh, looking down at her lap as she messed with a loose thread on her robes.

“It’s stupid. Doesn’t even matter anymore.” It did.

“Come on I bet it isn’t stupid. Tell me.” He really did care and he showed this as he settled in more to let her know he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I may or may not have written a love letter to a boy.” She squinted her eyes in embarrassment, lightly throwing her head back against the stone window frame, worried that Fred would laugh at her for taking such a stupid risk.

But nothing came.

She hesitantly opened her eyes to see Fred looking at her with an attentive look on his face, clearly listening and hoping she would air out her grievances to him.

Deep down he was actually in pain, his own heart breaking for reasons he himself didn’t understand yet.

“And?” He asked.

“And what? Why do you think I’m crying? I found my letter ripped up and on the floor.” Tears started to well up in her eyes again.

“Wanker.” He found it difficult to comprehend that anyone would say no to Y/N. She looked up from her lap and furrowed her eyebrows.

“You don’t think I’m an idiot for writing the letter?” She asked softly.

“Of course not! He’s the idiot for not seeing how amazing you are. What house is he anyways?”

“Slytherin.” Her voice was small, embarrassed and worried he would ridicule her for liking a Slytherin, of all houses.

“See, right there. Of course he’s a Slytherin.” He scoffed before noticing just how beat up she was about the whole thing. She let out a groan and placed her head into her pulled in knees.

He decided to take it back a notch and use a softer approach.

“I’m sorry Y/N. You deserve better than that.” She really did.

“It’s alright. I know I deserve better. Still hurts but I’ll get over it.” The quiet of the library became even more silent, if that was even possible.

“Right.” Fred finally replied while clearing his throat to rid the tension. He then made the choice to scooch in closer to give her a hug. A tight meaningful hug that she wasn’t used to getting from Fred.

“You’ll find someone better. I promise.” She melted into the comfort and closed her eyes, taking in his scent.

Yeah, someone better.

#Spotify #fanfiction #fanfic #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfiction

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imaginejamesandsirius · 3 years

Note

Hello! Could you do a fic where Sirius is eating a dessert and James makes a comment about him going to become chubby or something of the sort as a joke and Sirius gets scared that if he does become that way James won’t like him anymore. Mostly fluff, some hurt/comfort and maybe a backstory of Sirius being a bit chubby in his childhood and his parents not accepting that at all? Thanks! <3 Have a nice day!

Sirius had had an absolutely miserable day at work-- who would've thought that putting memos together could be so open to criticism from the boss?-- and was consoling himself by finishing off the rest of the cake that Moony had given them. And okay, maybe he should've saved some for James, but he didn't think that he'd mind. Sirius was the one with the sweet tooth, and James had never objected to him finishing off a dessert before.

He didn't think this time would be any different, and it wasn't, really. James didn't object to not getting any of it when he got home. He leaned down and kissed Sirius's cheek while he was still chewing. "I thought there were three pieces left."

Sirius nodded.

"You're going to get padding if you always eat like that," he teased, giving him a pat on his stomach and another kiss on his cheek. He walked away then to change out of his work robes to something more comfortable, missing the way Sirius stilled at his words.

He looked down at the rest of the cake in the container. There were only a couple bites left, so it wouldn't make sense to leave them there. He finished them off, thinking as he chewed. He had been eating a lot of desserts lately. He hadn't given it any thought because he simply didn't think about what he ate that much. Now that he was thinking about it though, he realised that it was too much. Not for his tastebuds obviously, but too much if he wanted to stay thin the way he'd managed to maintain since him and James started dating.

James had said it like a joke, but Sirius wasn't going to take any chances. If keeping James meant getting rid of the sweets in his life, then he'd do it.

Sirius slept on it, then decided that just giving up sweets probably wasn't enough. It would keep him from getting fat in a hurry, yes, but it didn't mean that he'd stay trim. He'd have to start exercising. Ugh. The things he did for love. He loved sitting around. He used to love being active, but in his old age-- the ripe age of twenty-three-- he liked to laze around. His Quidditch days were a thing of the past, and the occasional run as Padfoot was good, but he did a quick sprint and called it good instead of running for half the night like he used to.

This was going to be miserable in the beginning. He knew once he got back into the groove of it that it would be fine, and even feel good, but starting out would feel like rubbish. He set an alarm early for the next morning so he'd have time to exercise and shower before work. He thought about changing the rest of his diet to be more healthy but that would never last. And even if it did last, he wasn't sure hating it the entire time would be good for him. Exercise and laying off desserts would be plenty.

He woke up with the alarm and turned it off quickly so it wouldn't wake James. It didn't work, because he squirmed, half pushing himself up before Sirius gently pushed him back down. "Go back to sleep," he said lowly, "you've got time."

James took his word for it and buried his head in his pillow, eyes shutting.

Sirius hadn't been able to go for as long as he'd thought he'd be able to, and it took more breath from him than he'd been expecting. He'd have to pull back until he was actually used to it. He hated having to start small, no matter how much sense it made. This, in a word, sucked. He sipped at his water and tried to cool off as much as he could. If he jumped into the shower like this, he'd feel sick for half the day.

The good news, he supposed, was that he could get breakfast started before cleaning up, and it would be fine. He was grabbing eggs when James stumbled out of their room. He frowned when he saw Sirius standing there, though only he knew why.

"Morning," Sirius said. He felt sweaty and gross, but it's not like James hadn't seen him looking far worse than this.

"Morning," James muttered. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed at his eyes, then settled them on his nose again. He walked closer and slumped into a chair. "I thought you went in early. What were you doing?"

"Exercising, what's it look like?"

"It... does look like that," James agreed slowly. He sighed, looking even more tired than before. Which was quite a feat, because James was not a morning person. It took him a good two hours to wake up enough to be his usual cheerful self. "Is this what I said the other night when you were eating the rest of the cake?"

Sirius didn't mean to pause, but he did.

"Bugger. I knew it was stupid to say it while I was saying it, but when you didn't get mad at me, I thought it was nothing. You do know that it's nothing, right? I don't care what you eat. Eat the whole bloody city for all I care."

"I'll get right on devouring houses after breakfast," Sirius said, shooting him a smile that was returned.

James got home a little later than usual, but Sirius barely noticed until he saw a box in his boyfriend's hands when he arrived.

"What's that?" Sirius asked.

"Oh, erm, for you," James said, holding it out to him.

Sirius took it, then looked. Then he blinked. "These are chocolates."

"Well spotted," James said, then blew out a breath and brought a hand up to muss his hair. "I was feeling guilty for the cake thing, and I wanted to apologise."

"You already did that," Sirius said, setting the chocolates aside to pull James closer.

"I apologised for saying it, yes, but I wanted you to know that I really don't care. You could be twice the size you are now, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference in how much I love you."

He already had James's hands in his own, so instead of fiddling with his own fingers, he fiddled with James's. "You like how fit I am," he muttered.

"Once I've fallen in love with your looks, there is no going back, and I have long since fallen in love with how you look. You're hardly the same now as you were when we got together, and yet I still love you. How strange that must be to you," James teased. He laughed when Sirius shoved at him.

"You know what I mean."

"I do," James said, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to like you less if you eat as many sweets as you desire."

"Even if it changes how I look?"

Normally, James would make a joke here, but a poorly timed joke is what made Sirius feel bad to begin with, and he wasn't going to mock him now that he was asking a question he wanted a real answer to. "Even if it changes how you look. You wouldn't love me less if I started gaining weight, now would you?"

"Of course not," Sirius said, rolling his eyes, like the mere thought of their situations being reversed was absurd to him.

"See? Perfectly resolved. I love you, you love me, and we're happy despite my best attempts at being a right wanker."

"Oh, don't give yourself that much credit," Sirius said. He opened the box and shoved one in James's mouth. "If I'd thought about it, I would've realised I was being stupidly insecure."

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but you're insecure pretty often," James said while he was chewing. "You'd think you wouldn't be, with how great you are."

"Only you think I'm great, and you're bloody barmy," Sirius replied.

This time, James was the one to reach for a chocolate, and he none too kindly shoved it in Sirius's mouth.

He supposed that was fair, considering he'd done the same to James not thirty seconds ago.

"Make no mistake that I love you. You can think whatever you want about it, but it's true, and it's never going to change."

"Never?"

"Never."

"I feel the urge to make you regret saying that."

"I admit, it would be a spectacular rough patch if you decided to smash my broomstick for the hell of it, but I'd still love you."

"I would win in a popularity contest between me and your broomstick," Sirius said, eyes wide and sounding like he could hardly believe it. "You really are arse over kettle gone for me."

"I thought it was obvious."

"There are times when it gets more obvious than others," Sirius said, popping another chocolate in his mouth. "I'll have to remember this when I've finished off this box."

"I'll buy you more," James promised.

#fanfic #marauders #james potter #sirius black #prongsfoot #filled #no voldemort au #established relationship #post hogwarts #siriuslystarbucks

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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 4 years

Text

The Scent of Cigarette Smoke

Summary: Arrow House has been in Ally’s mother’s family for a hundred years. For the first time, she’s going to visit her uncle who lives there. While she’s spending her summer holiday there, she realizes quickly that Arrow House is haunted. And not just by anyone, but by her great-great grandfather, notorious Brummie gangster, Tommy Shelby.

//This was something meant for Halloween but kept being delayed. I hope you all enjoy it, I know it’s much different from my other fics but it was just something stuck in my mind for a while.

Ally’s uncle lived in a mansion. At least, that’s what her father said when he ranted about unequal wealth. It was true that Ally’s father came from a working-class family while her mother was a part of a family that came from old money.

“Got that whole fucking house all to himself. Fucking wanker. No one on this godforsaken Earth needs a house that big.”

Ally had never been there before but she’d seen pictures of the house. They called it Arrow House and it had been in the Shelby family for over a hundred years. There were little whispers about how the Shelbys acquired their wealth, way back when. But Ally figured they were all funny little stories.

Despite her father’s resentment, Ally accepted an invitation to stay at her uncle’s for the summer. He said if she helped with the horses, he would pay her as well as giving her free lodging. It was too sweet of a deal to pass up as a university student.

Arrow House was much more imposing in person than it was in pictures. When she pulled up the drive, her uncle came out to greet her.

“Ally!” He exclaimed, hugging her tight.

She enjoyed her uncle’s company. He was the youngest of her mother’s siblings so he wasn’t so stuffy and snobbish like most of that side of the family. She knew he was a good man with a good sense of humor. "Wow, Uncle Charlie, this place is incredible!" She remarked.

“Come in, I'll show you around the place,” He took her bags to lead her inside.

~~~~~~~~~

After a grand tour of the estate that was in the middle of renovations, Ally’s uncle excused himself to talk to one of the people helping with the house. She made herself at home one of the guest bedrooms. Although everything was a little dated, it had a charm to it. She just couldn’t imagine living there all on her own.

As she unpacked, she suddenly got a very strong whiff of cigarette smoke passing by her. She frowned and looked around to see where such a scent would be coming from. The windows were closed, as was the door. She put down the shirt in her hand and walked around the room to investigate. But the smell disappeared as suddenly as it came and she couldn’t detect any sources of where it may have come from. But throughout the rest of the day, she kept getting fleeting whiffs of cigarettes all throughout the house.

That same night, Ally called her mother.

“Does Uncle Charlie smoke?”

“Smoke? No of course not. Our grandad smoked and it killed him. Charlie would never do the same.”

~~~~~~~~~

After a few days, it was driving Ally mad so she approached her uncle about it.

“I keep smelling cigarettes. Have you noticed that?” She asked as they were making dinner together in the massive kitchen.

He got an amused look on his face when she brought it up. “Oh, that’s just Tommy.”

“Who?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Did your mum really not tell you about the ghost that lives here?”

“Ghost?” It didn’t sound completely outlandish. The old estate would be a prime spot for ghosts, but it was still a shock. She’d never had an other-worldly encounter before. She wasn’t even sure she believed in ghosts.

“Keep going with this.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’ll be right back.” He said before heading upstairs to retrieve something.

Alone and now with the knowledge that she might be in the presence of a ghost, Ally felt a chill go down her spine. She looked over her shoulder and almost expected to see some shadowy figure standing in the corner, but there was no one there.

Charlie returned and set a big book on the counter. “Here we are.” He flipped to a page and showed her. “Your great-great-grandfather bought this house in the ’20s. His name was Thomas Shelby. He was a gangster who made his money as a bookie initially.” Charlie pointed to the family tree. “He had two children, my grandfather Charlie. Your great-grandfather.”

“Oh…” Ally wasn’t sure she knew the origin of her uncle’s name. And she certainly didn’t know about her great-great-grandfather.

“We’re having one of his portraits restored. But there’s still one of him on the stairs with his first wife Grace and Charlie.” He said. “Go take a look, I’ll finish up here.”

Curious, Ally left what she was doing and went to the foyer. There were many pictures and portraits but one of the largest ones was hard to ignore. A massive family portrait of a young woman with blonde hair holding a little boy in her lap. Beside them was a man who hardly looked like a gangster. Just a well-dressed man typical of the times. But there was something in his blue eyes that held a secret. Perhaps something he took to the grave.

As she stood on the stairs, she picked up the scent of cigarettes passing her. Then, she heard a loud sound from upstairs. Although gripped with fear, she went up to the room she was staying in. That’s where she found her suitcase had been knocked over. “What the hell…”

Grace.

The deep whisper was clear as day in her ear. So much so that, Ally let out a scream. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her out of the room and downstairs. She let out another shriek when she ran into a solid form.

“Whoa, whoa!” Her uncle steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. “What’s all the screaming about?”

“I heard someone! I swear to God I heard someone speak to me.”

“Did he have a real deep voice?” Charlie didn’t even bat an eye.

“Y-yeah.” She nodded; her eyes still wide with terror.

“That’s what I told ya, it’s Tommy. Maybe he’s taken a liking to you, took him years to say anything to me. What did he say to you?”

Ally’s eyes went up to the portrait on the stairs. A chill went up her spine. “He said, Grace.”

“Maybe he mistook you for her.”

“Uncle Charlie, are you hearing yourself?” She scoffed in an exasperated tone. “I mean, ghosts?”

He just shrugged. “Did you hear someone speaking to you or not?” He questioned.

Ally was certain she heard the voice. She knew what he said to her. She heard the Birmingham accent in his deep voice. It was clear as day. Yet, admitting that to her uncle and to herself would mean she was admitting ghosts were real. She wasn’t sure she was ready to accept such a wild idea.

“C’mon, dinner’s just about ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ally was terrified to go to bed that night. She considered asking if Charlie would stay up with her, but then she remembered she was a grown adult. She was perfectly capable of handling herself. Even if ghosts were real, what could they do to her? Aside from horror movies…

She shivered and pulled the comforter closer to her. The big house was so drafty, it wasn’t helping the eerie feeling she felt in her bones. In the darkness, she was starting to see things in the shadows.

Then, she smelled cigarette smoke pass by her again.

Grace.

Ally yelped and buried her head under the covers. “I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid. You’re not real.” She said over and over again. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep. For a good part of the night, Ally was awake, jumping at every little noise the old house-made. She realized she must’ve just passed out from exhaustion. Peeking out from under the covers, she found sunlight pouring in through the window. She sighed with relief. Ghosts weren’t scary during the daytime.

After checking her phone to see it was nearly noon, Ally got dressed for the day. Downstairs, she found her uncle having lunch.

“There you are, thought you were going to sleep the whole night away.” He commented with a smile. “I was about to check on you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She admitted.

“Did Tommy keep you up?”

Her shoulders fell. There was no denying it anymore. Her uncle’s house was haunted. “Yes.” She mumbled.

“Nothing to be afraid of.” He assured her. “Tommy’s a gentle ghost. Probably just wondering who you are. My advice, talk to him.”

She gave him a look. “Talk to myself, you mean?”

He chuckled. “Alright, I don’t want you going back to your mum telling her I’m crazy. She knows about Tommy too. She’s had her fair amount of experiences with him.”

“No one has ever told me about any of this!” She protested.

“Well, some people in the family don’t like talking about him. They don’t think his methods of business were very savory. But I know everyone’s had at least one encounter with him.” Charlie said with a shrug.

Ally ran a hand through her hair, still trying to let the idea of ghosts sink in. “I’m going to go to the stables.”

“Careful, Tommy wanders out there too,” Charlie called after her as she went to the back door.

“Of course, he does!” She shouted back.

~~~~~~~~

Ally didn’t have any run-ins with Tommy in the stables. She got to know the other grooms who worked there and they all told her tales. There was consistency with her experience. The smell of cigarette smoke and a deep voice whispering to them.

It got her thinking about why Tommy would be hanging around his old estate. Maybe there was something unfinished in his life, that’s why ghosts were stuck on Earth, right? She felt like she was making up a story in her head to try and explain it all away.

After dinner, Ally sat on her bed with her laptop. She did some research on ghosts, scoffing at some of the theories and furrowing her brow with puzzlement at others.

Around ten o’clock, she caught the scent of cigarettes coming into the room from the hallway. She was trembling as she put down her laptop and got off her bed.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She whispered to herself as she stepped out into the hallway where the smell was stronger. “He’s your great-great-grandfather, he won’t hurt you.” Her hands shook as she turned on her phone’s flashlight and held it up to see the end of the hallway.

Her heart stopped beating when she saw a misty form pass right through a door. Instinct told her to run, but bravery pushed her forward.

She continued down the hallway and stopped at the door where she saw the figure. She attempted to open it but it was locked. The scent of cigarettes eventually disappeared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Ally brought this up to her uncle. “There’s a locked door upstairs.”

“Mhm, that’s Grace’s room.” He answered.

“Grace, the woman in the portrait?” She recalled.

“Right. Tommy’s first wife was murdered. The room was left exactly how it was the day she died. I decided not to renovate it, just to let it be. Out of respect, you know? Sometimes, we’ll go in and clean a bit, just to make sure there are no damp or pests.”

“Can I see it?” Ally asked hesitantly.

“Sure. It’s quite the sight, everything left as it was from the ’20s. You finish eating, I’ll go get the key.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Upstairs, Charlie opened the door and let his niece inside. It smelled musty and old, but the appearance was almost like stepping through a time machine. Everything was pristinely kept as it was when Grace left it. As Ally explored, she found Grace’s dresses and makeup. There was a pair of heels left by the vanity, the pair that Grace decided not to wear to the gala the night she was killed.

It was overwhelming and Ally felt a deep sadness come over her. “He must have loved her very much.” She said quietly.

“People said he was never the same after she died,” Charlie remarked, swiping a bit of dust off the windowsill.

“Could you leave the room open, just for tonight? I want to try something.” Ally asked.

“Sure, just be mindful. Everything is very fragile because of how old it is.”

“I won’t mess anything up, I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, Ally made her way to Grace’s room. She continued to breathe deeply to keep her nerves under control.

She closed the door and turned on a flashlight that her uncle had lent her for the occasion. She sat down on the floor, not wanting to damage any of the furniture.

After a few more breaths, she began to speak out loud. “My name is Ally. I’m your great-great-granddaughter. I’m here to visit my Uncle Charlie. He was named after your son. I saw the portrait of you and your family by the stairs. Your wife, Grace, was beautiful. I’m sorry about what happened to her.”

Goosebumps formed on her arms when she caught the now familiar smell of cigarettes.

“I just wanted to know if there’s anything you wanted to do before you died? Unfinished business that maybe I could help you with.” She waited in the silence for a painful five minutes. Then the scent got stronger.

Jewelry box.

Ally could hear him perfectly. It drove a chill up her spine but she persisted. “A jewelry box?” She stood and panned the flashlight around the room until she found Grace’s vanity. On top was an ornate jewelry box. “Do you…do you want me to open it?” She was hesitant to break the untouched nature of the room. Plus, she wasn’t looking to anger any ghosts.

Inside.

Taking that as a yes, she carefully unlatched the box and peered inside. The only pieces of jewelry inside were two rings. One was a man’s gold wedding band; the other was a woman’s engagement ring. She picked up the band first and turned it over in her palm.

Inside, Ally found an inscription

So, it was Tommy’s ring. It was in good shape seeing as he and Grace weren’t married that long, so there was no weathering of the metal.

“I don’t understand, what do you want me to do with these?” She asked out loud.

There was another moment of silence, then a louder whisper spoke out. Bury.

“Oh.” She came to realize what his disembodied voice was trying to get her to understand. “You want me to bring these to your grave? To bury them there?”

But there was no answer. The room began to smell more like dust and mothballs again instead of cigarettes.

Ally placed the wedding band back in the jewelry box and left it there. She would tell her uncle about it the next day, then he could decide what to do. In the meantime, she took her flashlight and left to let Tommy be at peace for a bit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Huh.” Charlie looked a little confused. “You think that’s going to make him…disappear or move on?”

“I don’t know. At least it might make him happy.” Ally shrugged. “It’s worth a try. If it doesn’t do anything, we can always go get the rings back. I mean, they aren’t really doing anything just sitting up there.” She pointed out.

“I suppose you’re right.” Her uncle nodded. “No one’s really marked them as heirlooms. I think some people are under the impression that the rings are cursed.”

“Well, maybe this will make them uncursed or whatever. Where is Tommy buried?” She wondered.

“At the village church, not too far from here. It’s where he and Grace got married. They’re buried next to each other. His second wife, Lizzie, is buried there too.”

“Would you come with me?”

“Sure, let’s go tomorrow after we finish taking care of the horses in the morning. We can take a ride out. It’s a nice trail, not too far.”

“Alright.” Ally smiled. She felt as if she was doing something good. Something that had been unfinished for a very long time. There was no telling what would happen, but she hoped maybe, she could help Tommy Shelby rest. She just didn’t know how monumental that was.

~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, Ally slipped back into Grace’s room. “Hello.” She called out shyly as she moved toward the vanity. “I talked to my uncle and he said it was alright if we did what you asked. Would you mind if I take the rings now? I’ll keep them safe until we get there.”

There was no answer and she couldn’t smell any cigarette smoke nearby. For a moment, she was worried that she had done something wrong. Could she have scared him off? Determined, Ally gathered the jewelry box with the rings and headed outside. Maybe she could find Tommy out in the stables as Charlie had said.

Almost like magic, she opened the stable doors and was hit with a whiff of cigarettes. “Hello?” She called out.

A few horses stuck their heads out of their stalls to see who was waking them up in the middle of the night.

Ally walked down the stable aisle, heading toward where the scent was strongest even amongst the smell of horses and hay. She stopped at the last stall on the left, one that had been empty ever since she arrived that summer.

The nameplate on the stall door was extremely weathered and looked as old as the rest of the stables were.

Dangerous

Ally hadn’t thought about the empty stall much. She figured it might be a horse that was out showing somewhere prestigious. Her uncle said that a lot of their horses came from good stock and were leased out by world-class riders to be shown across the country.

“So…I’m going to take the rings to the church tomorrow.” She said out loud, hoping Tommy was there. “My uncle said it was okay.” She lingered around the empty stall for a few moments before catching a chill. “I’ll be going tomorrow, good night.”

Good night, she had wished a ghost goodnight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

After feeding the horses and letting them out, Charlie and Ally tacked up two horses to take to the church. Ally hadn’t ridden a horse in a while so her uncle set her up with a calm mare who was perfect to take for a trail ride.

Ally was nervous, not about riding necessarily, but about the rings. She had secured the jewelry box safely in her backpack, treating them as if they were priceless treasures. In a way, they really were.

Charlie led the way down the old dirt road to the church. On the way, Ally asked about the empty stall.

“Sorry, I meant to tell you sooner. But we keep that stall empty. Every horse that’s in there goes nuts. It used to be the stall of Tommy’s favorite horse, Dangerous. There’s a picture of her in the office.

“Oh.” She nodded in understanding. “So, do you think it’ll be nice having things be a little quieter around the house?”

Her uncle chuckled. “Well, be a bit lonely, won’t it? But that’s alright. He’s given me a fright plenty of times before, now I’ll have some peace and quiet. He will too, I think that’s nice.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived at the small church with an old graveyard nearby. Charlie tied up the horses and followed Ally into the overgrown graveyard.

“Let’s see if I can remember where they are.” He thought out loud. “Think in the right corner, over there.”

Ally went ahead, reading the names on the tombstones as she passed. Finally, she came to names she was now familiar with.

Thomas Michael Shelby

Grace Burgess Shelby

Elizabeth Stark Shelby

Ally called her uncle over and knelt down in front of Tommy’s grave so she could bury the rings. “I hope this lets you rest.” She said quietly.

~~~~~~~~~~

That night, the house was silent. There was no smell of cigarettes anywhere. No deep whispers. The sadness that hung over the atmosphere felt lifted. Finally, it seemed, Tommy Shelby could be at peace.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @biba3434 @kimmietea @karmezii @enrapturedbythemoon @vampgirl1997 @tarafaithe @evelynshelby

PB Masterlist

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby x grace burgess #lizzie stark #oc #ofc #ocs #fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders #noncanon #ghost #cillianmurphy #cillian murphy #cillian murphy character #cillian murphy fanfiction

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joezworld · 4 years

Text

Fools in Love (9/10)

Gordon, the spectacularly unobservant

June 17, 1985

Like most mornings, Gordon was unceremoniously ripped from his beauty sleep by the sounds of squabbling.

"I will and you can't stop me!"

"Fuck around and find out my dear!"

How unusual. It was usually James and Delta or Duck and/or Donald/Douglas. Henry and Bear were usually too friendly for even mock-fighting, let alone the legitimate anger that seemed to be colouring their tones.

"Why," he asked groggily. “Am I being woken up by you two? I thought that you’d moved beyond mere words.”

Henry and Bear, who usually communicated through a series of significant glances, looked at Gordon as though they hadn’t realized he was there.

“It’s nothing, Gordon.” Bear said after a moment of wild-eyed pause. “Just some... irritating people on the platform, is all."

Must be some irritation, Gordon thought to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time that he'd seen Bear's dander up that high.

No more words were said as his crew readied him for departure, and he could almost feel Henry and Bear's eyes on him as he left.

The arguing began anew as soon as he left the shed.

Now Gordon was concerned.

Arriving at the station brought even more worry - James had snorted out of platform two like he was auditioning to be a thundercloud, leaving a choking miasma of smoke and soot in his wake.

A crowd of people were holding signs and chanting slogans near the station Café as he backed onto his train. The Fat Controller was standing nearby, looking deeply upset, while station security tried to usher the people out. Considering the soot all over their clothes and signs, Gordon's first thought was that these people had been upset by James' departure, before he realized that these people had likely been the reason for James' upset in the first place.

Any lingering sympathy he might have had vanished as the leader of the group stood up on a box and started ranting about how the Fat Controller wanted to drive them out of the station, and they had a permit to demonstrate.

Permit they may have had, but their language was filthy. It was no wonder that his friends were upset.

Gordon decided that these people needed to leave.

The guard blew his whistle, waved his flag, and Gordon didn’t move.

The guard blew his whistle and waved his flag again, and Gordon still didn’t move.

“Is something wrong, Gordon?” Asked the Fat Controller as he noticed Gordon’s uncharacteristically slow start.

“No sir, but I wouldn’t stand there if I were you.”

The Fat Controller looked behind him. The crowd of people were about ten feet back and few feet behind him, slowly being shoved backwards towards the exits by the station staff.

He looked in front of him. Gordon’s blowdown pipe was slowly dripping with water.

“I can’t recommend that, Gordon.”

“Please move, sir.”

There must have been a look in Gordon’s eye, because the Fat Controller actually did move, waving off the station staff as he did so. The group of angry people relaxed slightly, not realizing that they were now alone on a section of empty platform.

The guard, who saw the Fat Controller move away, waved his flag and blew his whistle a third time.

Gordon didn’t move, but his fireman jumped when he saw the pressure in Gordon’s boiler skyrocket.

“Cripes!” He shouted, and pulled on the lever to blow off steam.

Chaos ensued as steam roared out of Gordon’s boiler and into the station. Inside the enclosed building, it was so loud and so steamy that not even Gordon could hear or see anything, and men outside the station started running towards it, thinking that something had gone dreadfully wrong!

Eventually, the thunderous noise died down, and Gordon was able to see again.

The Fat Controller, who had jumped into his cab as steam filled the building, poked his head out into the open air. His suit was soaked from the residual humidity, and his hat was ruined.

The wall directly opposite Gordon now had a circular spot about a meter wide that was noticeably cleaner than the rest of the wall from where it had been effectively steam-cleaned.

The angry people were angry no more - now they were frightened, soggy, and deaf. None of them were seriously hurt, but they still beat a hasty retreat from the station, leaving many of their signs behind.

Speaking of which... now that the steam had cleared away James’ soot, Gordon could now see what their signs said.

What an odd cause, He thought to himself. Why would they be against happy people?

----------------------------

February 14, 1987

They were at it again.

Bear was being even more unusual than normal. He’d woken up at the crack of dawn, raced out of the shed at maximum speed, and seemed intent on setting a land speed record for pick-up goods.

Delta had seemed to be her usual overbearing self, but as the day had gone on she’d become more and more anxious. In the interest of being a good friend, Gordon had asked her what was wrong, only for her to tell him that she was "just excited, nothing to worry about and no offense but I don’t think that you’d understand.”

Gordon would have said that something had gotten into the diesel fuel, but BoCo had been similarly puzzled when they spoke at the junction. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them - it’s like they’ve got a hot date or something.”

“A date? With whom?”

“Search me. But half of my passengers are acting the same way - it is Valentine’s Day after all.”

"But that’s a human holiday. Why would they care?"

That also didn’t explain James, whose obsessing over his paintwork had reached new heights of neurotic.

"You will polish my tender until you can see your face in it! Understand?!" He shouted at the workmen.

That night, the sheds were tense, even if there wasn’t any reason for it.

Delta had come back on Bear's evening train - the Hymek himself was nowhere to be seen. Gordon considered it a good thing that Henry was in Barrow that night - he had a tendency to get lonely when Bear was somewhere else, and Delta and James were decidedly on edge all evening.

Without either of the big green engines, the sheds were somewhat emptier than usual, a sensation that grew more and more pronounced as engine after engine left for late-night trains.

Edward left for his late night local around 9, and was followed by BoCo half an hour later.

Percy, who had been sleeping in the sheds most of the day, was practically shooed out by a strangely apologetic James, and huffily left for Elsbridge with a goods train.

A visiting diesel was going home to London, and had been rostered to take the night express all the way to the capitol. When the Class 50 left a few minutes after Percy, Gordon became suddenly aware that the shed was empty aside from himself, Delta, and James.

"How strange," he remarked. "Normally we're all here by this point in the evening."

"I agree," Delta said quickly. "Especially considering that you have to go take something soon as well. I can’t remember the last time the big shed's been this empty."

"What train?" Gordon raised an eyebrow. "I have no trains tonight."

"What." James didn't phrase it as a question.

"Was there something I missed?"

"I thought that you'd have a train tonight." James said, looking panicked.

"I don't do night runs if I can help it James, are you two feeling alright?" Both red engines were looking increasingly alarmed.

"What about the Flying Kipper?"

"I assumed that Henry would take it."

"Henry's in Barrow!"

"Hmm. Why don't one of you take it?"

"Can't." | "We're busy." They said simultaneously.

"Doing what?"

"Not that." James said quickly.

Gordon was about to argue further when James’ crew wandered into the shed.

“Alright boyo! Time for the night mail! Let’s get rolling!” His driver said with way too much joviality for the late hour.

James looked horrified. “Night mail? I can’t take the night mail! I’m not in steam!”

A small wisp of smoke curled out of his funnel as he said that. His crew stared at it.

“Gordon will take it!” James pressed on in desperation. “He likes running at night!”

Gordon, who did not like running at night, and was enjoying the pleasant sensation of his fire slowly burning out, was appalled. “I most certainly will not!” he said indignantly.

-----

“Mate, you need to work on your negotiating skills.” James’ fireman said to Gordon as the blue engine was coupled to the mail train.

“I didn’t hear you jump to my defense.” Gordon muttered darkly as he shivered in the cold February air.

“‘Course not!” The fireman said. “You think I want to spend all night in James’ little phonebox of a cab? I’ve got so much more room in here!” He swung his shovel around for emphasis, causing a massive CLANG as he accidentally smacked it against the cab wall.

“Good for you...” Gordon grit his teeth and waited for the signal to drop. The sooner this was over the better.

-----

Two hours later

Fortunately for Gordon, the midnight run was more or less flawless - he had a green signal the entire way across the Island, and aside from having to slow down for track workers outside of Maron station, he made good time into Barrow.

Passing his train off to the yard shunter, Gordon eagerly awaited his berth in the shed. Perhaps he could get some answers out of Henry as to why -

“Sorry mate - not going in ‘ere tonight.” Groused a diesel multiple unit that was sitting astride the points leading to the shed.

“I beg your pardon?” Gordon was not amused.

“Beg all ye like - teh basterds in ‘ere told me to sod off.” The Pacer was no happier than Gordon as he explained. “Said the shed was closed and made me sit outside in the freezin’ cold. Wankers...”

“Who told you that?” Gordon was unaware of any engine who would willingly block the shed - except Duck.

“Some Green bloke.”

“Henry?”

“No, not the kettle! Some other berk - a ‘eritage diesel or some shite like that.” The railcar shivered. “Big, Green, looked ancient, told me to keep out and make sure nobody else came in.”

“And you did what he said?” Gordon was rapidly losing patience with the railbus.

“I wasn’t gonna, but...” The Pacer trailed off guiltily and looked down at his buffers. Gordon followed his gaze and saw that the little multiple unit had derailed on the points.

“I see.” Gordon sighed. He wanted to blame the Pacer, but clearly there was some sort of preserved diesel who was truly to blame.

“At least it isn’t bad outside other than tha cold.” The railcar said, trying to be cheerful.

Gordon stared murderously at the sheds. It had snowed six inches overnight.

To make matters worse, he was now being roped into the morning express - a duty he usually cherished, but would prevent him from knowing the identity of the blasted diesel that had kept him from his warm shed.

Gordon had not been gone more than ten minutes when the shed doors opened and a diesel rolled out of it.

“Oh look Henry, it snowed last night!” Bear called back into the sheds.

“SHOVE IT UP YER INTAKES!” Yelled the Pacer from underneath his snowbank.

#ttte gordon #sodor #ttte #OC: Delta #ttte Bear #ttte James #ttte henry #valentines day #snow #sodor shenangians #fools in love #gordon doesn't notice anything #fic

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theawkwardterrier · 4 years

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my whole trajectory's toward you, and it's not losing momentum (call it anything we want)

Summary: Anthony had expected a certain amount of trouble when he took over managing the Danbury campaign. He didn’t imagine this amount. He didn’t imagine that it might at some point become something other than trouble.

There was mention of rival political campaign managers Kate and Anthony and even though I couldn’t quite get there - or make a scene happen which directly featured Newton 😔 - I did manage rivals and political campaigning. So here’s something to serve as incentive, congratulation, or brief respite depending on how far @thesokovianaccords has gotten in her grad school application process. Sorry if it’s a bit OOC, Livia - maybe it’s just the right degree to make sense in a modern AU? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Read on AO3

A week into running Dr. Danbury’s campaign, Anthony realizes that he has made a grave error in allowing himself to give in when his mother requested “a bit of a favor.”

At the time she’d asked, he had just gotten the news that his previous candidate was dropping out of his own race for health reasons, and of course, Dr. Danbury has been a fixture for his entire life so he might well have stepped up merely because she needed help (despite knowing that the reason she needed the help was that she’d fired her entire previous campaign team). Besides that, he has rarely been able to deny his mother anything, and that’s even before she brings up the number of hours she spent in labor with him (twenty-two, as he well knows by now) but still...he damn well should have ignored all that this time.

For his money, the most annoying part of not being listened to by the candidate is that her instincts have mostly served her well. Three days after he started, she ignored the common wisdom of maintaining decorum and not insulting the opposition which he had reminded her of before she went on camera, and had only benefited from it; apparently the majority of the constituency agreed that the particular candidate she had been asked about was indeed a “first class wanker who should pray nightly for the brains God gave a goose.” At least she had heeded Anthony’s advice to refer to the man as “my opponent” rather than using his name and giving him free advertising in the soundbite as it was played on nearly every news broadcast for the next several days.

“Well, we seem to have come out of this one all right,” she says, sipping her coffee and looking just the slightest bit smug - he doesn’t lie to candidates, so he had been obliged to report that the latest polling numbers actually went up after the incident. “Anything else, Bridgerton?”

Swallowing the speech he wants to give about how easily things could shift during a campaign, not to mention the difference between what people told a pollster and how they actually cast their votes, he says, “Perhaps we might look to hire a policy director, ma’am? To help...guide the campaign a bit more?”

“If we did, I should wonder what I had hired you for.” She looks at him over the tops of her glasses as if she can tell he is dreaming of responding that ah, well, it seems he is unnecessary, and perhaps he will just excuse himself from the position now. He makes sure his expression remains neutral and finally she waves a hand. “Well, let me see some names and CVs after the weekend, and I shall decide then.”

“Very good.” He extremely purposefully does not sigh until he is out of her office and striding along the corridor of their campaign headquarters. There are plenty of people who will take a call from him on short notice and who will back him with the candidate. Yes, if he can’t quit altogether (and he can’t if he wants his regular seat at Christmas dinner) then having someone in his corner is just the ticket.

He arrives for work on Monday even earlier than his traditional first thing in the morning, wondering to himself whether it will be better to simply present his top applicants or if he should throw in a decoy or two to make his choices shine even brighter - although perhaps that’s just the sort of ploy that the candidate would sniff out in a heartbeat after a career of wrangling university students. Still debating, he turns the corner toward his office, only to find Dr. Danbury in the hall outside, speaking with someone. Anthony doesn’t recognize the person from the back, can only see a fall of shiny, dark hair, so he guesses it is one of the volunteers, perhaps someone new who has arrived early for orientation. He hopes that Dr. Danbury isn’t being too intimidating.

“Ah, Bridgerton,” the lady in question calls down the hallway, and something about her tone makes Anthony’s spine go straight. “Good morning.”

Still, he clings to his good mood as he greets her. “Let me put my things down, and then we can go over your schedule for the day. And I have those CVs you had requested as well.”

“Nevermind those,” she says, and the little smile on her lips makes every one of his nerves stand on end. “Did you know that your mother and I went out for a drink on Friday evening? Oh, yes, we had a wonderful time, and your brother Colin came around to escort us home. Such a lovely boy, had some delightful stories about his trip to Greece - and so interested in the campaign. In fact, he had a brilliant thought when I mentioned your idea for bringing on someone new to help shape things alongside the two of us.”

Whatever virtues his brother Colin might possess, interest in the campaign is absolutely not among them. Skin humming all over, Anthony manages a casual, “Oh?”

“Indeed, and luckily I was able to organize it all over the weekend so you wouldn’t have to do a thing.” She gestures toward her companion, and with a sick swoop in his stomach, Anthony knows who he is going to see before she shifts around.

“I believe you two have met before?” Dr. Danbury says, voice fading just a bit beneath the static in Anthony’s ears as Kate Sheffield turns to face him.

They have not actually met before, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t know of each other.

The first time Anthony heard her name, it was her sister saying it - about twenty times in a row, if he’s being honest. He met Edie Sheffield two years back at one of his mother’s galas. Edie ran a different prestigious kids charity than the one Mum was fundraising for, so he’d wondered if inviting her was somehow inviting the enemy or maybe bragging. But Edie was sweet, and passionate about her job, and looked absolutely gorgeous in sapphire satin, and he settled into a night of getting her drinks and chatting her up, despite the fact that she didn’t seem as interested in speaking with him as she did in mentioning that he really must talk with her sister.

He’d stayed the night in the hotel where the gala had been held (alone, in one of the rooms which had been set aside for guests from the event; he’d put Edie in a car at about 11) and was planning on taking his mother to breakfast after she came down from her own room. When he went to check out, however, the desk attendant handed him a message which had been taken down for him on hotel stationary.

Dickheads like you shouldn’t try to get with my sister. Don’t do it again.

“Is there anything else that I can assist you with?” asked the attendant, holding onto her poker face remarkably. Perhaps they taught that in hospitality programs.

He’d crushed the note in his hand before smoothing his own face placidly and handing over his credit card. His mother was all smiles and chatter during breakfast, but his mind was still on the note, which seemed to have burned itself behind his eyelids.

Dickheads like you - oh, so only other types of dickheads need apply? And get with? Were they twelve years old and couldn’t use grownup words? Not to mention the signature, such as it was. Trying to play mafia boss, expecting that he’d know who had sent it. He did, but it took a lot of bloody gall to assume that he would.

Not as much gall as Don’t do it again. He couldn’t even think of that part, the demeaning certainty of it, without a certain vein beginning to throb in his forehead.

In the two years since, he found himself falling back into analysis of the note - it was barely more than a dozen words, so how could there still be so much to parse? - whenever her name came up, which became more and more frequent as she moved from nothing campaigns in the most forgotten corners of the country to deputy deputy whatever on somewhat more consequential ones. She was gaining a reputation among his peers. They said she was smart and canny, that she had a knack for looking at the bigger picture and acting on her instincts.

(Someone who’d once worked with her had also mentioned that it helped that she didn’t have a high opinion of her looks, didn’t flaunt herself the way some women did around the office - she certainly didn’t have a reason to do so, but sometimes that didn’t stop them.

“Oh, be fair,” said the other man. “She does have quite a nice—”

They’d shut up when he’d walked into the room - everyone knew better than to talk that way around him, and it wasn’t just because of “all those sisters” the way some people said. Eloise had been interning with the campaign that summer, and for the rest of the day while he’d talked with human resources, he’d let her make mistakes on all of their lunch and coffee orders and give them the wrong data for their reports when they’d made her look it up instead of doing it themselves. When he’d fired them, he spread the word on why, but left the particulars out of it.)

The note returns to his mind whenever someone new has their one experience of suggesting Kate Sheffield as a potential hire, or when he thinks he’s seen her in the background of some press conference or event for another candidate, or if he runs into Edie at another charity function, where he absolutely does not flirt with her just that extra bit harder while part of his mind thinks Your move directly toward her sister who he has never actually met in person.

Until now.

“We’re acquainted,” he tells Dr. Danbury, managing to remain polite by avoiding Kate’s gaze. He leaves it at that.

They’re the first two in the conference room for the all-staff the next morning, and somehow he’s not surprised.

“Good morning,” he says as he comes in to find her over by the coffee. She’s doctoring it significantly, clearly already familiar with the quality to be found in a campaign office. He always buys his own; he can’t stand the amount of milk and sugar and oddly flavored creamers required to make the other stuff palatable (and don’t even get him started on the alleged tea).

Tone cool, she replies, “Mr. Bridgerton,” and takes a sip from her mug.

It isn’t as if the staff goes around calling him “Tony” or “boss,” and only the most knock-kneed newcomers call him “sir.” He’s Anthony to most. He has no inclination to correct her.

He works to keep his tone casual and courteous as usual when he introduces her to everyone (“And this is Kate Sheffield, who will be doing some consulting for us”) but something about it must catch Dr. Danbury’s attention, because she raises an eyebrow at him from her end of the table and rests both hands atop her stick.

The fact that the candidate is aware that something is going on between the two of them makes it all the more exasperating when two days later she signs off on Kate’s media and advertising plan over his own. He shows up for dinner with Daphne and Simon that evening as planned, knowing that Daphne would be completely willing to pull the pregnancy card if he tried to get out of it, but she sends him home before the waiter has brought the dessert menus because he keeps muttering about how more people travel by tube and railways and for longer distances but are more likely to take more individual rides on buses and what that means for posting print ads.

(The numbers are seared into his mind, considering she’d included a full breakdown with three kinds of graphs and bloody footnotes in her presentation.)

Getting released from the restaurant early gives him extra time to go back to the office for a bit and put together a preliminary get out the vote strategy. He calls in several favors as a part of it, including one from an old friend of his father’s who asks incredulously, “Really? For this?” clearly wondering whether Anthony’s reputation is deserved if he’s pulling out all the stops for something so routine.

It’s well worth it, however, when Dr. Danbury raises an eyebrow as she looks over the document he’d put together, and tells him, “Well done, Bridgerton, very well done indeed. I think this shall do nicely.”

He does not even glance toward Kate; there really isn’t any need to gloat.

Well, one tiny peek won’t hurt.

Her jaw is set and her eyes are flinty, but she gives him just the slightest nod, as if to say that he might have won this round, but she’d like to see him try the next one.

Just before three in the morning, he wakes himself, panting, from a dream that makes him think he might have to report himself for workplace sexual harassment.

“I would have hoped you’d have better self-preservation instincts,” he says aloud to his body. “Or at least better taste.”

Collapsing back against the pillows, he pushes his mind toward images of ex-girlfriends and celebrities, but no, there is Kate, strong and challenging and gorgeous above him, a vivid afterimage that refuses to go away, and he sighs and gives into it, trying to set himself to rights so he can get past this and find at least a bit more sleep.

Anthony has never been the sort of boss who shouts at people in the office - he has always tended toward cold anger and “you know what you’ve done, now fix it” stares, and doesn’t intend to act differently now. But as he stalks over to Kate’s desk, he finds a fiercer anger taking over, just a bit.

“You changed my media statement,” he says, voice silken with it as he leans his palms down on her desktop and rests his weight on them. He is speaking low, the words just for her, although his eyes roam over the others moving busily around the main space of the office.

She turns her chair slightly, so that he feels the brush of her hair on his forearms where his sleeves are rolled up; it shifts his attention fully in her direction. Her hair tie had snapped earlier, and the thick topknot she tried twisting for herself has collapsed, leaving it free around her shoulders. He snaps himself back from examining the shining curls as she says, “Yes, I did.”

Part of him admires her straightforwardness, that she takes responsibility without even trying to deny it. The other part...well, the anger hasn’t exactly disappeared.

In a level tone which would have his siblings looking over in alarm, he says. “I had worked that statement out with the entire communications department.”

“The entire communications department does what you tell them to do. It’s what you pay them for.”

“And what, exactly, do I pay you for?”

They are facing each other now, their bodies a bit too close for it. She is looking directly at him, voice sharp and clear as glass. “I was hired by the candidate, to help run the campaign that she wants. Your statement was just a polite walkback of her words.”

He has the sudden thought that the brown of her eyes could be warm, that her gaze probably is warm when she’s looking at her sister or the dog whose photo she has framed on her desk (a plump, panting little corgi wearing a bright blue bow tie, absurd), but he’s never seen her that way. He’s only ever gotten this, annoyance and disdain and perhaps disappointment.

Still, he responds, “Her words need to be walked back if she wants to someday be more than the candidate. In this constituency, colonial reparations aren’t a popular enough issue to increase turnout for those who weren’t already interested, and it’s exactly the sort of thing which will put off those who were on the fence. We’re trying to flip a seat by reminding people of what their current MP is doing wrong; we have to stay on message, not muddy things with topics too few understand. Sending out a statement moderating the comment is the right move.”

“But that statement isn’t what the candidate believes, and her future constituents should know what her actual position is - they likely aren’t as stupid as you seem to think. And besides that, she has the right stance in the first place.”

In the weeks since she arrived, he’s found that the things people said of her were true: she is smart, perhaps too smart for the good of either of them, and decisive, easily seeing what’s been done and what needs to be and acting on it, the exact sort of person you would want at your side as you plot a course forward. But he hadn’t realized that she was a believer.

There are fewer idealists in politics than one might think, or at least who have risen to her level. He always finds them a bit off-putting, and it startles him even more with her - he had thought he recognized in her a sharpness and pragmatism which reminded him of his own.

“Don’t do anything like this again,” he says, trying to temper his own abruptness even as he is somewhat unsettled by the conviction in her. “Or I’ll fire you, and I don’t care what the candidate says about it.”

“I think she would have quite a lot to say in that circumstance,” Kate tells him, but she turns back to her keyboard and doesn’t argue anymore.

At least until the next day, when they end up nearly nose to nose in his office as Anthony maintains that they can’t get anyone’s hopes up with a promise of immediate action on climate change, especially considering the priorities in the party platform and the likely makeup of the next parliament, and Kate practically shouts that they’re showing people where their convictions lie and that Dr. Danbury will fight for them if she gets the chance.

When Anthony dreams of her again that night, they are not talking about policy at all. But when he wakes up, edgy and aching as he is, he finds himself hoping one day to see her smile at him the way he did in his sleep; he wants to know if her eyes really are as warm as he imagined.

On Saturday, there’s such persistent nagging in the older sibling groupchat that Anthony finally gives in and agrees to leave the office for a night out. Forcing him into some allegedly relaxing activity is a time-honored tradition when they’re coming into the final stretch of a campaign; he’s certain the others have been discussing tactics in one of the numerous other chats that are always going on. (The last he’d glimpsed, the sibling group which didn’t include Gregory, Hyacinth, or himself - but did, irritatingly, include Simon - was named “Anthony’s Scary Forehead Vein.”)

“Please tell me that we aren’t going to paint ceramics again,” Anthony says as he walks, hands in his pockets, beside Benedict. Their group is too large to all move together on the sidewalk, which is a bit of a relief. “I don’t think I could put up with another night of Eloise reminding me that there are stencils if I need them.”

Benedict very narrowly and very obviously avoids laughing at him. Now that Anthony thinks about it, actually, his brother had spent that particular outing using a dozen colors to intricately decorate a mug, spending so long on it that they had nearly closed the place around him. Their mother drinks her tea from it frequently, however. “Thankfully there won’t be any pottery or painting tonight.”

“And it’s not—”

“Not a club,” Benedict assures him, then grins. “Can you imagine Simon trying to make certain no one came within a foot radius of Daph on the dance floor?”

Anthony shakes his head, looking ahead of them to where his sister and brother-in-law are walking together, not holding hands, but so close that they might as well be. He still feels a bit strange about the two of them together, especially after all the drama on the way, but he can see that they’re in love each other, even if he can’t really imagine why anyone would want to be, and they’re extremely obviously happy, so he’s trying to grow accustomed to it. He can also absolutely see Simon working himself into knots playing mosh pit bodyguard.

“So where are we going, then?” he asks, but before Benedict can answer, Eloise, broken away from her friend Penelope, tosses her arms over their shoulders and wriggles her face between them.

“You’ll just have to see,” she says, and Anthony doesn’t have to look at her to know that she is twitching her eyebrows at them. He probably could get it out of her if he tried, but he actually is finding himself feeling a little lighter being out with everyone, so he just waits and ten minutes later, they’re entering an already fairly crowded pub. Colin and Eloise go over to register them as a trivia team - or more likely to bicker over what name their team should have. As if realizing the same, Daphne squeezes Simon’s hand once and pushes over to join them.

(Her stomach is still flat, even for someone looking, but Anthony notices that she places a protective hand over it as she walks through the crush anyway.)

The rest of them go to claim a table and start putting together an order for drinks and appetizers. Anthony is leaning across, shouting a promise that if Penelope doesn’t finish her chili loaded potato wedges, they’ll certainly be taken care of, when someone behind him asks, “Excuse me, can we borrow this chair?”

“Sorry, there are more of us coming,” he says politely, turning to face the woman. She’s thirtyish and tall, but that’s all he takes in before he spots, over her shoulder, the rest of her group. They’re all chatting with each other, wearing matching T-shirts in a variety of bold colors which declare them the Quizzie Bennets, and in the center, her hair up in a ponytail and definite warmth in her eyes, is Kate. Edie stands beside her, picture perfect nose crinkled in a teasing way, but all Anthony can notice is that he’s never seen Kate in jeans like this, that the odd, bright purple of her shirt looks electric instead of ugly against the dark of her hair, and all he can think is that he never imagined her as relaxed as she is, weapons laid down.

She seems to detect his gaze then, and as she meets it he expects the weapons to be picked right back up. There’s certainly surprise, a guardedness to her eyes as they meet his, but then she narrows them in his direction, as if saying game on.

So that’s how she wants to play it, he thinks, then turns to the others and says, “No alcohol.”

Benedict blinks. “What do you mean by that?”

“In solidarity with Daphne,” Anthony offers.

“Daph does know that it’s pub trivia,” Simon says. “And she’s not—”

“Fine,” Anthony interrupts before the compliment train can get rolling. He sets his jaw. “I mean that we need to keep clear heads if we’re going to absolutely trounce everyone here.”

Penelope looks a bit alarmed by the vehemence in his tone and Simon quirks a brow, but the others are game enough - Bridgertons have always had a competitive streak, and apparently the rest of them actually chose this particular trivia night because it’s done aloud, infinite bounce style, instead of on paper.

“We play with live ammo around here,” Eloise declares gleefully once she’s returned and been updated on what she missed.

“Damn right we do,” Anthony mutters to himself, glad that he is seated with his back to Kate so he can resist the temptation to see how irritated she looks just now, or how face might be a little flushed and her ponytail loosened from the heat of everyone packed together inside…

“Who exactly do you keep looking for?” asks Colin, who’d plopped himself into the chair Kate’s teammate had asked about. He cranes obviously around, and Anthony turns firmly back to the table before his brother can follow his line of vision.

For all that they didn’t pick their team in order to be serious contenders, they do cover the bases fairly well. Anthony has politics and current events, obviously, along with history. Penelope plays backup there as well, and covers literature alongside Colin, who handily takes on geography too. (Anthony has always inwardly wondered how reasonable it was to build a career around wanderlust and Instagram and freelancing for travel magazines, but if it brings them victory tonight, he will never question again.) Benedict apparently took in more about nature than any of the rest of them who grew up in the Kentish countryside, and knows quite a bit more about art and art history than Anthony had expected. Daphne, unpredictably, knows a lot about sports - she claims that it’s what happens when you spend your life being rambled at as “another one of the boys” - and, more predictably, music.

Anthony hadn’t expected Simon’s skill with numbers to be particularly helpful, but now he’ll have to buy him a drink at some point, both for doubting and for pulling them out of a sticky situation involving Bernstein's constant. He wishes that Francesca wasn’t too young to have come out with them - there are several instances where they could have used her chiming in with quiet calm about anything related to economics or science, but they instead have to all give questionable contributions in that regard. They all chip in for pop culture, too, although Eloise is clearly the master - she actually yawns as she announces that of course the country where Monica’s boyfriend Pete Becker took her on their first date was Italy, and Anthony has never been more grateful that he lets everyone sponge off his Netflix login (although would it really kill them to not be using all the screens on the rare occasions he actually has the time and inclination to watch something?).

The trouble is that there are plenty of other teams who are clearly regulars, and they were put together in order to be serious contenders. The questions and answers are flying through the air, the quizmaster, a skinny older man with big hair shouting “Correct! For ten points,” more often than not, and most importantly, the Quizzie Bennets are availing themselves nicely. (He should have guessed as soon as he saw the matching T-shirts.)

Questions his team can’t answer correctly bounce to them next, and he can’t help but toss Kate an incredulous look after she not only answers that Angela Merkel was voted chancellor of November rather than October 2005, but also rattles off the margin for and against. Her eyes meet his as if she was expecting his glance, but she just shrugs before wrapping her lips around her straw and taking a dainty sip of her drink. He has to look away then.

Still, Team Quizerton (apparently the name that both Colin and Eloise had hated enough for Daphne to negotiate them to agreement) has done well enough that Anthony feels confident as they move into the final round.

“And what will the twist be tonight?” the excitable quizmaster asks, although he then just presses a button on his phone rather than spinning some kind of enormous wheel. His face lights up as he announces grandly, “Ah, the ladder!”

He quickly outlines the rules: each team will have five questions selected for them in ascending order of difficulty, with point values from ten to fifty. For each correct answer, they will receive the corresponding points and the option of requesting a related bonus question for half the initial question’s value. Wrong answers mean a point deduction, double for bonus questions, and the end of play for that team. You can also pass, choosing another team to answer and forfeiting further questions for yours but freezing your points where they stand.

It’s more like a game show than any trivia night that Anthony is familiar with, but he actually appreciates the strategy element; he can understand why this would be Kate’s preferred contest.

He considers giving a pep talk to the table, but all of them - except for Simon, who’s looking somewhere between vaguely amused and bored - are dialed in, ready to claim victory, so he settles back and readies himself for it too.

It happens in the final round. Anthony is just allowing himself to feel the slightest bit smug at having earned them another 75 points by not only correctly responding that Sri Lanka was the first country to have a female prime minister, but answering the bonus of her name (Sirimavo Bandaranaike) and year of election (1960) as well. The quizmaster nods, turns, and reads off the next question: “This famous playwright’s last words were reportedly ‘I knew it! I knew it! Born in a hotel room and, goddamn it, dying in a hotel room.’”

There’s a strange, deep silence, then a buzz of whispering among the Quizzie Bennets, and Anthony is struck by the realization that they don’t know the answer. He certainly doesn’t either, and a glance around at his group tells him that they would have been screwed had they gotten the question, but it doesn’t matter. Excitement licks up his throat, victory so close he can taste it…

And then Kate’s head comes up from the huddle, and her eyes meet his, and he knows exactly what she is going to do before she does it.

“Ten seconds!” says the quizmaster.

“Trust me,” Kate mouths to her teammates, and then says aloud, “We’d like to pass, and give the Know It Ales a chance to answer.”

Anthony’s mouth goes dry. Stupid team name aside, they’ve been confidently answering questions all night, and this time is no different. Their leader is nearly bored as he immediately says, “Eugene O’Neill.” And Anthony can barely hear the room around him over the blood rushing in his ears as they answer the follow-up too.

When the quizmaster declares the Know It Ales the champions for the evening, Kate slings her arms around her teammates and cheers as if he’s announced her name instead. The other Quizzie Bennets look puzzled, but when she stares defiantly at Anthony, chin raised, beaming, glowing not like she’s in the spotlight but like she’s the light itself, he somewhat suspects that she’s the winner indeed.

“Isn’t that—” Colin starts somewhere close to Anthony’s ear.

“No, it is not,” Anthony tells him firmly, and wrestles him off to pay their tab.

Later that night, after he’s somewhat successfully distracted himself with work and somewhat less successfully distracted himself with looking for something to watch (why isn’t everyone asleep, and even if they are up, could they really not leave him one available screen?) he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed with his work phone in one hand and his personal one in the other. And even though he knows exactly how bad an idea it is, he very carefully references the campaign contact group and keys one number into a new text message in his personal phone.

Sorry that this didn’t seem to be your night. Best of luck to your team next time.

He shoves out a breath and stands as soon as he’s sent it, forces himself to start getting ready for bed; she’s probably asleep now, or she might read it as rude or sarcastic and choose not to respond, and the text is just going to sit there, awkward and interminable…

There are plenty of ways to be lucky, thanks very much, and I think we found one - although I look forward to reclaiming my rightful title someday soon. See you on Monday, Bridgerton.

Regardless of what he tells himself, he can’t quite get the stupid grin off his face as he shuts off the light. He’s under no illusions about who his dreams will feature tonight.

Monday night before the election, Anthony leaves the office past eleven. He rubs his eyes as he walks past dark cubicles and conference rooms - unsurprisingly, he’s the last one around - and decides that what he needs more than sleep is something to eat, and not whatever cup noodles or single egg he might come up with at home. No, he needs comfort food, something generous and hot and greasy as Benedict’s face the year he was thirteen (not that his at fifteen was much better).

His favorite hole in the wall is open until midnight, so he stumbles over there and buys the biggest order of chips he can, the enormous burger nearly an afterthought. The place is tiny and not the sort of spot that has ever even heard of ambiance, but he’s tired and the idea of waiting to get back to his flat and eating in its emptiness isn’t particularly appealing. He turns with his food in hand and finds Kate looking up at him, startled, from one of the three tables.

He could take one of the others, leave them to eat in awkward peace, or he could pretend he had always intended to have his food to go. Instead he comes over and asks, “Can I join you?”

Her capable hands moving just a note too slowly, as though giving him time to reconsider, she collects the documents from the opposite side of the table, tapping them into order as he waits patiently. She folds her fingers atop the neat stack in front of her once she’s finished, watching as he dives into his meal; he should probably be embarrassed about it, but he doesn’t really have the energy.

They talk about inconsequential things - how the weather forecast might cause trouble with voter turnout, the unfortunate office incident with Johnson and the speakerphone last week, mutual political acquaintances - and Anthony realizes that it’s the first time they’ve ever done this, just made small talk without disagreeing. Kate doesn’t lose her sharp tongue simply because they are in casual conversation, but it’s different when her remarks aren’t directed at him; hearing her pert analyses of other candidates and campaign staffers actually makes him laugh.

She’s left half a piece of cold fish and polished off more than a few of his chips (completely unthinkingly, he’s sure) when they’re informed that closing time’s come and they have to clear the table. It would be completely natural for them to part ways and see each other in the morning for another round of sparring, but he finds himself saying, “I think I might go get a drink,” and finds her answering, “I think I might join you.”

He regrets it just a bit when he’s balanced on the bar stool (he really is exhausted; this is the earliest he’s been out of the office in days) but then Kate raises her wineglass and says, “To the homestretch,” and smiles just a bit as he touches his glass to hers. The light falls cozy and dim around them and he can still see exactly how long and competent her fingers are, wrapped around the stem, the places where strands of hair have escaped their pins, trailing down to rest against her exposed throat.

Right, he thinks inanely to himself. Right, excellent, this was a good choice, and belts back his scotch before signaling for another.

“Those were your siblings?” she asks, taking a sip of her own drink. “At trivia the other night?”

“Some of them were...are…” He shakes his head, trying to straighten out his own meaning. “It was some of my siblings, the oldest four, and my brother-in-law, and my sister’s best friend.” Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, “I saw your sister was there as well.”

“Hmm,” she says, taking another sip of her cabernet, and he can see her spine stiffening, armor reasserting itself.

For the first time, he realizes that she could easily hate Edie, her younger sister - her younger half-sister, even - who is sweet and accomplished and more apparently pretty, the one people’s eyes turn to when the Sheffield girls are around, but what Kate displays is no begrudging love.

It would probably be better for him to change the topic, get them back on safer ground, but though he might be smart, he’s not necessarily wise, so he tosses back his second scotch and asks, “Why did you warn me off her the first time? You didn’t even know me.”

“Yes, but I knew of you,” she says. As always, she faces the comment head on, doesn’t even pretend not to remember exactly what he’s talking about. “I was starting in the industry, I needed to have an ear to the ground and at least a general sense of the players, and I didn’t like the sense I got about you. It didn't make me think you were the kind of person to trust with my sister.”

“I’ve never—I would never—I don’t think I’ve—” he says, stumbling, slightly stricken. He knows that there are whisper networks about the people - the men - in their field, knows exactly who some of the whispers are about and has done his best to be the type of person who helps make those whispers into shouts. It would kill him a bit to find out that he’s done something that would make someone feel the need to speak about him that way.

“Not necessarily on a personal level,” she says, suddenly gentle, then circles her finger around the rim of her glass and amends, “Well, not that way. People actually said you were very smart and a good employer, but when I learned more about your history, the jobs you’d worked on in the past, it didn’t feel like there was any principle to your choices. As if you were just willing to sell yourself to whoever asked, or at least whoever looked good on a resume. Edwina deserves more than that.”

She is looking at him extremely frankly, as if she hasn’t just shrugged away the idea of the career he’s built, but with the way she says her sister’s name, the softness of it, how she somehow makes the full, old-fashioned version more personal than the nickname - he understands that sort of devotion. Hearing it from her steals the irritation beginning to build even as she continues. “I could never even entirely figure out why you went into politics rather than something else. You’re reasonably intelligent, you could have done any number of things if you weren’t particularly invested in the issues.”

Somehow, instead of the protest he was expecting, that he was intending, what comes out is simply, “It’s the family business.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Bridgerton Group. My father started it.” By her expression, she doesn’t think that two generations exactly makes a family legacy, but for once she holds her tongue, and his, loose with drink and exhaustion, can’t hold back.

“I grew up playing under the table at a dozen campaign offices across London and having poster mock-ups as my placemats. When I was a bit older, I was allowed to volunteer, and I loved seeing him there, in his element, listening to proposals and then telling everyone, ‘Well, here’s what we’re going to do.’” He swallows. “He—My father died, just after my first year at university, and I wasn’t old or experienced enough to take his place. The staff went off to work for other people, and all I could think about was how disappointed he would have been, to see this thing he’d built, this thing he loved, fall apart so easily. The entire time until I graduated, while I was getting experience with other consulting firms and working on other campaigns, I was just waiting until I could do justice to what he left behind for me.

“He nearly called it ABC Consulting, but my mother told him that it sounded too juvenile. My parents had me and my brothers fairly young - he was still a student when Benedict and I were born - and he wanted to name it after us.”

He realizes as soon as he’s said it that he’s only ever admitted that once before, to Simon on a similarly drunken night during their final year at school, forgetting the way that Simon and his father were, or weren’t, with each other; his friend’s face had closed up as soon as the words had left Anthony’s mouth, and they’d never talked about it again. But Kate’s face is open, listening, more than he thinks he’s ever seen from her, in such a way that he thinks he could reveal anything to her.

He could tell her about the trouble he and his brothers got up to as children, or how he likes watching baking shows to relax even though he’s not worth a damn in the kitchen, or that he can’t stop himself from adding another mile to his morning run each time he finds a gray hair. He could start talking about how complicated his feelings have grown regarding the man who was once his best friend, or about the way his entire chest had burned as his mother placed a squalling Hyacinth into his nineteen-year-old hands before closing her eyes and about how he never wants either of them to know that he’d tried to force himself not to tremble and had trembled anyway. But this isn’t the time for any of that, so he continues.

“I wanted to put it back together for him. There were candidates I took on in the early days who were stepping stones, necessary to building a reputation but who I wouldn’t work with again now that I have the reputation and the choices that come with it. And I have my own opinions on the issues - some of which might match yours more closely than you’d expect - but I’m there to make sure that the candidates who hire me succeed in getting where they want to be. I’m good at that, and I’m committed to it, and I’ve never run a campaign I wasn’t proud of. Sometimes, though, being around you, I wonder if you're going to eventually talk me into a different philosophy.”

His glass is full again though he isn’t sure when that happened, and a group of middle-aged men with ties undone and suitcases beneath their eyes fumbles past the bar behind them toward a booth, but the only thing he is paying attention to is Kate’s considering gaze on him as she absently swirls the wine remaining in her glass.

“I have the feeling,” she finally says, “that when you say a different philosophy, you consider it a more naïve one. And I’m not certain that our opinions on the issues would really match up considering that you grew up with family money.” Her voice is not arch or insulting, though, and he would certainly know.

“We were...comfortable,” he admits. She raises a waspish eyebrow in response.

“No one who’s actually middle class would ever put it like that,” she informs him. “You most definitely have a trust fund.” But she actually smiles at him, and for once he knows what it’s like to have Kate Sheffield look at him with warmth in her eyes.

He’d quite like to have that again.

“Do you think—?”

“That we should dignify the remarks with a response? No, I absolutely do not.”

Anthony glares down at the article he has pulled up on his phone, then looks over at Kate, striding down the hall beside him, eating slices of peach out of a reusable container. For a moment he’s distracted from the rumormongering on behalf of one of their opposing campaigns; he thinks of Kate’s hands carefully working the knife around the fruit, of the way her tongue flicks over to catch the juice when she takes a bite…

“I could reach out,” he says, too loudly, before he walks into a wall. “I know the head of the campaign over there, I can remind him about the spirit of fair play and all that, especially this close to the finish line.”

She looks over at him incredulously, snapping the top onto her empty Tupperware. “I don’t care if you were the best man at his wedding, he’ll laugh you off the phone. I’ve had at least three listicles of our candidate’s best insults toward her opponents forwarded to me just this morning.”

“I had the feeling that wouldn’t work.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Just three days left, for better or worse. “Fine, so we say nothing and hope that it passes out of the media cycle quickly and doesn’t do too much damage to the absentee votes.”

“As I said from the beginning.”

“You are far too determined never to let me have the last word,” he says, just the slightest bit amused, as they circle around the desks of the main office, edging their way over to hers.

She snags the toe of her ballet flat on a computer charger trailing across the floor, stumbles, but he catches her hand just in time and sets her upright again. She continues walking as if it hadn’t even happened, raising her voice enough to be heard over the chatter and buzz of phone calls as she teases, “What would be the fun in that?”

Aghast, he says, “We aren’t here to have fun, Sheffield.”

“Oh, did you actually want to win?” She tosses the empty container onto her desk as she drops into her chair, then looks up at him, swiveling slightly from side to side and shaking her head. “You really are a cliché.”

“Yeah, well, here’s another one: get to work.”

“I’m not sure that’s technically a cliché, but I suppose I could do that,” she says, with a shrug and a grin, turning toward her computer. He watches her for another few seconds, and then takes himself off to his office before he becomes too much of a cliché himself.

Despite the phone call he had earlier with his mother promising her that he wouldn’t, he falls asleep on his desk the night before the election, startling himself awake hours later.

“Too bloody old for this,” he mutters to himself, grimacing as seemingly every joint and muscle in his body quite firmly announces itself when he stands. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he gathers his things and makes his way through the darkened office.

Except it isn’t as dark as he’d expected. He scans the desks to try to figure out who left their lamp on, and finds Kate with her head resting on her arms, essentially imitating him from ten minutes prior.

Briefly, he stands there, not entirely sure what to do, but then he walks over, hand hovering by her shoulder before he gives her a light shake.

“Kate,” he says softly, crouching so he’s closer to her level. Her loose ponytail drapes over the burgundy of her blouse, quite close to his hand. He had not realized that he would recognize the scent of her, clean and straightforward with a subtly delicate edge; he should have known - he’s been smelling it in his dreams for weeks. He swallows and shakes her once more. “Kate, you should go home.”

“That was meant to be my line,” she says, far more lucidly than he would have expected. He shifts back as she stirs and sits up, massaging her fingers over her eyes. “I had the feeling that you weren’t going to leave at a sensible time, so I was planning on reminding you before I went home, only apparently I can’t leave at a sensible time either.”

“No, I suspect that sensible times to leave the office don’t involve the letters A or M,” he agrees. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

As she readies herself to leave, he tries to remember that the way she stretches out her back or takes down her hair, how she swings her bag over her shoulder, the quick, assessing way her eyes cover the room to make certain everything is in its place: all of that should be unremarkable. But there’s a moment, just the tiniest sliver of time, when she’s flicked off her desk lamp and they begin to walk out together in the glow of the emergency exit signs and the dim light of windows from other office buildings - she glances over at him, his hair rumpled, tie and briefcase dangling from one hand, and he thinks that he sees her swallow in a way that he recognizes all too well.

And then the moment is gone, and they’re out on the sidewalk, about to go their separate ways, the car he’d called for her already waiting.

“Big day tomorrow,” he says over the top of the door, holding it open as she climbs in. “Are you ready for it?”

“I’m always ready.”

He laughs, soft as the night around them. “Yes, I suppose you are. Good night, then.”

She looks at him one last time in the yellow beam of the streetlight, still a bit sleepy-eyed but no less aware for it. “Good night, Bridgerton,” she tells him, and drives away, and he can’t help but wonder about what if she hadn’t, what if he’d said something or she had made a choice, what if she didn’t drive away from him again.

The day of the election is always the worst for him - all the work behind him, nothing really to be done but let the people vote. He’s in the office earlier than usual anyway, early enough that he isn't certain it was worthwhile going home, but this, at least, he can control. He manages to keep himself busy throughout the day, but it’s all just a countdown to that night.

Somehow, despite - or perhaps because of - the sleeplessness and planning and stress, it isn’t one those contests that drag on. Dr. Danbury is brought on stage at about a quarter to one alongside the other candidates; the results, when the returning officer announces them, are decisive.

She’d brushed away his offers to help or choose a staffer or hire someone to work on her speech with her; instead she’s written it herself, and although brief, it’s as firm and irreverent as she is. He suspects that no one will ever pack as much sarcasm into referring to certain colleagues as “the right honorable.”

He makes some calls and receives congratulations from his mother and siblings, who have long since ceased to find these sorts of things interesting enough to attend but who make certain to keep up from home. As Dr. Danbury frees from handshaking and small talking, he makes his way over to her.

“Congratulations, ma’am.” He holds out his hand, which she eyes with a lifted brow.

“Anthony Bridgerton, I’ve known you since you were charming people from your mother’s arms, and considering that - not to mention all we’ve been through together over these last months - I think you can stand to give me more than just a handshake.”

He hugs her, which feels odd and tells him more than anything that the campaign is over. When he pulls away from her, she pats his cheek. “Now, go celebrate. You’ve earned it. I’m certainly going to.” And she winks.

The campaign staff is making plans for drinks and dancing and even just going home to raise a glass with loved ones. He wades into the group, patting backs and shaking hands, speaking briefly to some of them, smiling all the while.

And then he sees Kate, toward the edge of the crowd, chatting with one of the young guys from finance. Edwina is beside them, likely not as inured to the excitement of the night as the Bridgertons.

Kate, the taller of the two, spots him, leaning over to say something to her sister before weaving her way over. He tips his head toward a quieter little hallway, and they go over together, leaning against parallel walls.

“Congratulations,” they say to each other at the same time, and then immediately after, “I only wanted to say—”

He nods at her to go first. It’s only polite. But there’s an unusual sort of trepidation about her face, a pause that he doesn’t expect, that makes him wonder if she wishes that he’d taken the initiative. Still, she’s Kate, so she takes a breath and comes out with, “Edwina is here tonight, and if you still wanted—Clearly I misjudged you, and so if you were still interested in her, I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Oh,” he says, and that is all he can manage for the moment, standing frozen and watching Kate force her shoulders back and her gaze to his.

He does not know precisely how to communicate the depths to which he has realized that he does not want to date Edie Sheffield, that he never wanted to date her, that his interest lies entirely elsewhere. What he says instead is, “I had wanted to ask you to stay on with the Group. Permanently. You’re very, very good at what you do, and I think that...You know, your perspective and your clarity during the campaign was extremely helpful, extremely valuable, to me.”

He can picture it plainly, has been picturing it already: Kate taking him to task about every little issue, forcing him to remember the things outside of the campaign itself, the bigger things. Kate, with her hair swept up and her eyes bright and furious, challenging him to be the best version of himself, or at least to want to try.

But then she looks up at him and says, “I’ve actually had another job offer recently. The candidate—I’m sorry, the MP-elect wants me to be her new chief of staff, and I was already inclined to accept.”

“You’re going to be incredible at that,” he says immediately, blank shock quickly giving way to sincerity then laughter. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. Maybe I just didn’t think that Parliament was ready for it.”

“That’s probably for the best, though. Element of surprise and all.”

Her voice doesn’t trail away but as his laughter does, so does her smile, her animation; the air seems to fall thin and still. He doesn’t know that there’s ever been a beat of awkwardness between them like this, not even when they have been at their most prickly with each other, but it’s there now, in her eyes as she looks across at him, in his gut as he wonders what to say next.

“I’m glad you got another job offer,” is what comes out, and there is her unamused, interrogative eyebrow, hovering upward.

“So you weren’t serious with yours?”

“No, of course I was, it’s only that...Well, I’ve been your boss up until now, regardless of how much you might believe it should be the other way around.” That even gets him a slight returning smile, enough for him to ignore the dryness in his mouth and the franticness of his chest to say, “And if you had taken the job with me, I would have continued to be your boss. Which would have made it rather unacceptable for me to ask you out.”

In the space of that breath, with the silence heavy between them even as they stand right beside a crowded room, even as Dr. Danbury’s voice crows easily above the others, still practiced from projecting through the university lecture hall, he wonders if she is going to leave him like this, cards on the table, only the fall below him.

“Well,” she finally says, slow as anything. She is looking up at him, considering and careful, but he knows that her mind must be working at triple its already remarkable speed. “If I’m going to be around the city, and there’s no conflict of interest…”

He doesn’t entirely like the way it is turning into something neat and logical in front of him when he’s never felt anything close to that around her. He doesn’t like the way she looks tentative, pushing back against the edge of something more than caution - fear, perhaps, as if this might be a trick, as if the idea of allowing herself to crack open is unbearably terrifying, and it looks wrong on her face, so bold and familiar, he never wants to see that expression there again. He reaches out across the space, and when she reaches back, he takes her hand.

“Kate,” he says. “You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever known and possibly the smartest, you are wildly, overly principled and somehow make me want to be the same, you never let me have a moment’s peace, I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’d like to go on a date with you.”

“Well, that does sum things up nicely, Anthony,” she tells him, and despite herself, he can see a little snatch of a smile just there, the warmth growing in her eyes as they look right into him, the fear working its way from her. Still, she tries for nonchalance as she says, “My contract with the campaign doesn’t end until Friday. We can do Saturday night, if you’re up for it.”

He’s up for it. He takes her out Saturday night for dinner, hides a smile as she pokes fun at his shoes, gets into an argument with her about education funding, and goes to bed more distracted by a half hour of pressing her against her front door (and then onto her sofa for another twenty minutes) than he has any right to be considering he isn’t fourteen. He spends Sunday night with her too, and on Monday they go to see a movie they both hate but can’t stop talking about, and he is fairly certain he is going to spend essentially every night with her for the rest of his life.

It isn’t peaceful - and only likely to get busier once they both really get back to work - and her dog is a nuisance and Colin tries to take credit for the whole thing, and they’re so happy that neither of them cares.

#Bridgerton #Bridgerton fic #Anthony Bridgerton #Kate Sheffield #kathony #(is that what we're calling them?)#Kate/Anthony

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takerfoxx · 3 years

Text

Blood Island, Chapter Eight

Friend or Foe?

Peeling off her shirt, Nuriel held it up to regard with a critical eye.

It was a total loss. The back, shoulders, and sleeves had all been ripped to ribbons, and the front had a few large holes where the crocomonster’s teeth had gone through. Most of it was now brown with bloodstains. Shit, she must have been gushing.

Perhaps it could be repaired? But with what, though? Nuriel had no thread or needle, and while she knew her way around both due to the many voyages in which she was made to mend rips and tears in the clothing of whatever crew she happened to be sailing with, this was far beyond her modest skill.

Wrinkling her nose, Nuriel looked up at the towering cliff face and the rest of the island beyond. She didn’t care for the idea of walking around while being so…exposed. Not necessarily for modesty’s sake, as who would see her? But because she hated the thought of leaving herself vulnerable like that.

To whom?

Well, to no one, actually. Save perhaps for her mysterious, red-eyed friend. But even so! It was the principle that mattered!

Why?

Well, it just did!

Why?

Because they did! Because she shouldn’t allow herself to get complacent! Because she had to remain vigilant and not let anything slip, despite being all alone on an unknown island filled with monsters and spirits, and-

Then with a sigh, Nuriel balled the shredded shirt up and tossed it into the open hatch to the cargo hold. Oh, what did it matter? She wasn’t eking out a living in a crowded metropolis or shrouding her identity on a ship, she was marooned on a fantastical island full of monsters and mysteries. The rules were different now.

That decided, Nuriel turned her attention to the Carmilla’s Fancy itself. It didn’t seem to have taken much damage during the rain, if any at all. Which made sense, as it had probably weathered rainstorms before.

She walked around the deck, inspecting each and every hole, crack, and knot. If she had some sort of binding agent, something to plug them up with, she could probably fix those. It would mean she could store stuff in the cargo hold and not worry about it being ruined when it next rained.

Then she glanced over to the captain’s quarters. She probably ought to focus on fixing that up first. It was the place best suited for her to live, after all.

Thinking of settling in?

Nuriel winced. Though it existed only in the back of her mind, Father’s voice was quite loud.

Ought you not be planning how to escape? Or have you resigned yourself to being a prisoner of this island?

No of course not! she replied inside of her head. But finding a means of escape might take some time, and until then I need a home base, so until then…

The thought trailed off. Her face screwing up, Nuriel turned to stare out over the network of canals and tiny islands, out to sea.

Even if she were to escape, where would she go? She didn’t have a home, didn’t have a family, didn’t have any sort of trade beyond thieving, didn’t have anything. She didn’t even have any friends worth speaking of. Her life was one of a constant struggle to survive, fighting to keep herself fed and out of jail. And yes, it was fine, but how much longer would that last? She had been caught more than once, and this last time had nearly cost Nuriel her life. It was pure happenstance that she wasn’t a rotting skeleton at the bottom of the sea, her bones picked clean by fish.

Then Nuriel turned around, facing toward the island itself. Yes, it was in many ways just as dangerous as her previous life had been, perhaps even moreso. An angry man could be outrun, guards could be evaded, but these monsters were like nothing she had to face back in the world of people. She had nearly been torn to pieces by the birds alone. The birds!

No, wait, scratch that. there was no “nearly” about it. The birds had torn her to pieces, and it was only by the grace of her new red-eyed friend that she was even alive.

Then Nuriel frowned. She lifted her right arm and ran the fingers of her left hand up and down its length. Then she reached up over her shoulders to probe her upper back. Come to think of it, how exactly did the red-eyed one heal her? Did it have some strange demon medicine it had given her? Did it invoke hellish magics? She had never heard of the power of Hell being used to heal someone. Usually the stories had it going in the opposite direction.

Furthermore, she was reasonably certain that the green-eyed sea-creature was also involved. Did the two know each other? Were they friends?

Just the thought made Nuriel feel strange. Troubled, but in a way that was unfamiliar. Monsters…with friends? Could that even be a thing?

And here you are, said Papa’s voice. Wanting to make friends with them as well.

Gritting her teeth, Nuriel responded with, I do what I must to survive. What else would you have me do?

To this, there was no answer.

Nuriel shook her head and turned her attention back to the ship. Well, if it was to be her home for the time being, the first thing she ought to do is give it a careful inspection to see what needed fixing and judge what she even could fix. At the very least, it would keep her busy.

…

All told, the condition of the Carmilla’s Fancy was…not good. It definitely would never be seaworthy again. And yet, it wasn’t that bad either.

The worst was the deck. Apparently the birds had tried and fortunately failed to claw through to get in even before Nuriel had taken up residence. It was solid for the most part, but there were still several cracks and holes to deal with.

As for the hull itself, it also was in a state of disrepair, including one particularly large cracked area where it had struck the trunk of one of the trees. But it didn’t look to be in danger of falling apart anytime soon.

But her main attention was with the captain’s cabin, which she wished to turn into her living quarters. For some reason the overpowering stench of bird had faded considerably, perhaps due to the red-eyed monster having cleaned out all trace of its nest, but also perhaps due to the heavy rain.

She walked around the empty space, kicking at the floor with the heels of her boots at times and rapping her knuckles against the wall at others. The beams seemed to be good. A little creaky in places, but they felt like they would hold. Whoever had constructed this ship had known what they were doing. Given the ornate trappings on the hull, it had been someone with money, so the materials were probably of very high quality. It did seem to be some rich wanker’s pleasure craft, but not the flimsy sort never intended to leave the sight of land. This craft had been built for the open sea.

Interesting.

Then she turned her attention to the window, which was smashed and crusted with gunk and mold. The glass was a loss, so she probably should smash out the rest of the way and cover the hole with something a little more substantial, something to keep the creatures out. She wasn’t sure what, but there had to be something on hand.

In the meantime, the interior could be dressed up a bit. The cot could be made more comfortable with grasses and tree fronds, and she supposed she could even make some furniture. Out of what, she still didn’t know, but she could learn. She was good at learning.

Nuriel looked around one more time and then put her hands on her hips with a satisfied nod. Yes, this should do nicely.

…

Now that she had an idea of what she wanted to do with the ship, it was time for Nuriel to assess the area surrounding it.

The Carmilla’s Fancy sat in a small grove of trees on a tiny island that was part of a network chain. To its back was a hill of solid rock topped with moss. And behind that, just across a small channel that wound around her island, was the main island itself, with a beach bordering the channel and the sheer cliff walls rising up beyond that.

Nuriel surveyed the area, doing calculations in her head. Okay, she could probably set up some kind of barrier to seal off the beach right in front of the grove on both ends. A fence, perhaps. Maybe even a wall, one with swinging doors.

As for the hill, its top wasn’t exactly flat. Still, if she could get some kind of platform up on there, it would be an ideal place for a watchtower.

A platform? A watchtower? Made from what? And made from with what labor?

Mine, came the response. It’s not like I don’t have the time.

And when have you ever built anything?

Nuriel shrugged. Good time to start.

The island that the Carmilla’s Fancy sat upon, which she was now thinking of as her island, lay nestled near the back of a large gulf, with the cliffs curving around it like a pincer. The other tiny islands and the canals that split them filled the rest of the space, with the last ones spread out just beyond the shore.

Nuriel looked out over the archipelago. She hadn’t encountered many of the local monsters out on the islands, chirpers aside. Still, she couldn’t afford to not be sure.

Nuriel looked out at the network chain, memorizing its layout the best she could. She ought to ask her new friend for some blank pieces of parchment. A map would be invaluable.

When she was sure that she had a fairly good idea, she climbed down from the ship to the beach. And she started to walk.

Exploring the archipelago turned up little of any value. Few things had made their nest in the islands themselves. Here and there were a few gulls pecking about, she found some pretty big crabs, as well as a few free-standing pools that many spiny and squishy bits of sealife had made their home, but little she could use.

Still, there was also little that could threaten her as well. That was good as well.

There were a few things of note, though. One island was large enough to have a few plants take root, which included a trio of coconut trees! That was good to know. And if there were a few out there, there were probably others.

In fact, now that she thought of it, if her new friend had been able to gather so many kinds of fruit, there was probably plenty of edible plants nearby. Another thing to ask about.

The gulf was large, and there were many islands sitting within, but not so many that Nuriel wasn’t about to get through all of them in under a couple hours, and before long, she was standing on the shore, again looking out to sea.

The surf was calmer during the day, and the tide lower. It sure seemed peaceful enough, and if Nuriel were anyplace else, she would think it a good place to lay down in the sand and take a nap. As it was, she just wanted to take stock of her surroundings.

There didn’t seem to be much out there immediately beyond the island, no seafaring monsters or anything of the sort. But further out there was something.

Nuriel pulled out her spyglass and took a look.

It was as she had thought. Several sharp and jagged spikes of rock were protruding just out of the water’s surface. There were quite a lot of them too, and from where she was, it seemed that they stretched far in either direction.

Nuriel shivered. They probably surrounded the whole island. No wonder it seemed that nobody had visited in a long time. If the tide were higher, the spikes would be hidden from the naked eye, and yet would still rip the hulls out of any approaching vessel, something to keep in mind should the opportunity to escape ever present itself.

Then Nuriel looked down the coast to her left, where she had fled. Her new friend had said that the birds hunted at night, but she wasn’t really interested in pushing her luck just yet.

Then she looked to her right.

Nuriel paused.

There was something there, further down the beach. Actually, there was a lot of somethings. And Nuriel had a pretty good idea what they were.

Swallowing, she cautiously made her way down the coast, keeping her eyes on the objects as they came nearer and nearer. It did not take long to confirm what she had thought upon her first look.

She had come across a graveyard for ships.

Littered all over the shoals and reefs were the decaying carcasses of watercraft, from brigs like her own to smaller schooners. They had been broken and smashed to pieces, some partially intact but clearly never to take sail again, while others had been shattered so thoroughly that it was impossible to tell what kind of boat they once had been. Splintered masts rose into the air like the headstones of an abandoned cemetery, noting to all that might come across them that this was where the dead were kept.

But most impressive was the devastated remains of a Navy frigate, or half of one anyway. It was thrust partially up on the beach itself, one entire side ripped off, exposing what remained of the crew quarters.

Nuriel felt a strange shiver looking out on the skeletal remains of all those ships. At least the Carmilla’s Fancy had been mostly intact. But it was harder to look deader than these things.

Or more haunted.

The smart thing to do would to be to turn around and head right back to her island. She had enough troubles with monsters and spirits of the night to risk disturbing the sleep of the dead. There had to be dozens, if not hundreds of corpses of sailors out in those shoals, their bones picked clean by gulls and sea creatures. That would make one restless enough without some foolish girl poking about their graves.

And yet…

She did have at least one creature of the night on her side, and her new friend had not warned her away from any wrecked ships. It was sort of odd that she would find that comforting.

Besides, with so many wrecks to choose from, there had to be plenty of useful items she could salvage.

Taking a deep breath, Nuriel started to walk toward the remains of the beached frigate. But as she rounded a splintered mast complete with a crow’s nest that was jutting out of the sand, she saw something that made her stop in her tracks.

There was something reclining across the beach, the tip of its tail dangling in the surf. Something alive.

All the stories Nuriel had heard of merfolk had painted them as ethereally beautiful creatures with the bodies and faces of human women and the tails of massive fish where their legs ought to be. They would swim around seafaring vessels or recline sensuously upon reefs and rocks, tempting sailors to their watery deaths with the sound of their songs and their enchanting beauty. Those tales had served as a warning, to not allow one’s heart to be beguiled no matter how lonely you might be, but Nuriel had often come away from those stories not fearful of the sirens of the deep, but envious of them. How much better her life would be if she had the tail of a great fish and could swim wherever she pleased! Hell, there were a few sailors of her acquaintance that she wouldn’t mind leading to their deaths.

But now that she saw one in the flesh, she realized how wrong those descriptions had been, and yet how right.

The mermaid did in fact have a tail that she obviously used for swimming, but it was not the scaled tail of a cold-blooded fish, but a the long and sinuous tail, one that was finned, yes, but not with a split flipper at the end. Instead, it was more like the tail of a great serpent…no, not a serpent, as it had no scales. More like a giant eel, one with greenish-blue skin and stripes of a blue so dark that they were almost black.

As for the mermaid’s body, it was human…ish, and definitely feminine, but no one would mistake it for that of a human. The skin was the same greenish-blue as the tail, with no clear divide between the two parts like mermaids had been described having. Aside from the coloring, her torso was…mostly human in shape, trimmer in the middle and flaring out a bit where her hips extended down to her trail. She even had a navel, so she probably had not hatched from an egg. Her breasts were small, with two tiny, dark-blue nipples. Her arms, which were laid in the sand at her side, were long and slender, and her fingers, six of them on each hand, were likewise longer and more delicate-looking than they had any right to be, with a thin membrane stretching between her fingers. Short black claws protruded from the ends of her fingers.

The mermaid’s face was perhaps the most human-looking, with two eyes, a nose, and mouth all were it ought to be. Long, silky hair of a blue so dark that it was almost black flowed down her back as well. But the teeth in her mouth were obviously sharp and predatory, her eyes glowing a faint green even in the afternoon sun, and the lobe of each ear was a large, fin-like membrane, one that reminded Nuriel of the wings of a bat. Three horizontal black strips slashed their way across her nose.

There was no doubt about it. This was the green-eyed sea monster that Nuriel had seen on her first night on the island.

The mermaid was propped up on her elbows and looking out upon the wreckage all around her, the tip of her tail lazily flicking at the surf. And as Nuriel stared at her, she found herself realizing that while the mermaid clearly did not look like the fishy women from the sailors’ tales, she was still quite beautiful, and Nuriel could understand well the desire to leap in after her after a long and lonely voyage.

Though Nuriel didn’t make a sound, the mermaid must have sensed her anyway, as it suddenly jerked her head to one side and then flipped around onto her belly, hands splayed in the sand, eyes wide and watching warily. Nuriel stiffened.

Then the mermaid saw her. She blinked her green eyes once, head tilted in a manner that reminded Nuriel of that of a curious dog.

Or a wolf.

Then the mermaid seemed to relax. She rolled onto one side, propped up on her arm, and smiled warmly at Nuriel.

Then she raised one webbed hand and waved.

Nuriel was unsure of how to respond. She had spent her whole life fearing the unknown and the inhuman. She had shivered at tales of creatures that looked human but…weren’t, that preyed upon children, that drank blood and devoured souls. And ever since arriving on the island, she had been running from two monsters in particular, one with glowing red eyes that stalked the jungle and one with glowing green eyes that prowled the depths. She had been convinced that if either got their hands or claws on her, it would be all over for her.

But now one was leaving her notes and gifts while the other was waving to her in a friendly manner.

That was odd.

Nuriel waved back. What else could she do?

Satisfied with her response, the mermaid then beckoned at her, indicating for her to come closer.

Now this presented a conundrum. Did she acquiesce and trust that the inhuman creature of the deep, of which many terrifying tales had been told, truly did mean her no harm, or did she play it safe and keep her distance?

Seeing her hesitation, the mermaid sighed in exasperation and beckoned at her again, more insistently this time.

Well, if the mermaid did truly mean her harm, she could have done whatever she wanted to her after plucking her from the crocomonster’s grasp. And Nuriel truly could not see what the mermaid could possibly do now that they were on land.

Nuriel approached, walking through the sand until she was only a few feet away. Then she sat down on her haunches. There, that ought to be close enough.

The mermaid glanced her over, and as she did, Nuriel found herself staring fascinated at her face. Everything about the girl from the sea seemed more monster than woman, from the color of her eyes and skin to the length of her arms. And yet there definitely was a humanlike quality to her, not just because the shape of her body had a resemblance to a woman, but in how she moved, how she looked at Nuriel. As otherworldly as she was, there was a calm intelligence in her eyes, one that didn’t seem alien at all.

Then the mermaid’s brow furrowed. She lifted one webbed hand to her wing-like ear and let out a strange clicking sound.

Confused, Nuriel lifted a hand to her own ear, and found her fingers touching the ragged flesh of her lobe.

The mermaid made that clicking sound again, made a point of looking to the jungle, and then lunged her head forward, her sharp-teethed jaws biting at the air. Nuriel jumped a little, but it wasn’t a threat, it was a question.

What happened to your ear?

Right. Of course a maiden of the deep wouldn’t speak any human language. Actually, a speech made up of clicks and other similar vocalizations made perfect sense, given the environment. It was just bloody useless for Nuriel.

A girl who can’t speak and a girl who can only click, Nuriel thought despondently. This is going to make for a very trying conversation.

Still, at least the mermaid was making an effort to communicate. Nuriel touched her ear again, and then mimed biting onto something with her teeth, her neck twisting as she tore off an imaginary piece of flesh.

The mermaid blinked twice. And by that, it wasn’t that she shuttered her eyelids two times in a row, but that a thin, transparent membrane passed sideways over her eyes before her eyelids closed normally before opening again, with the membrane opening a second later.

And then her face contorted in anger.

The mermaid looked to the jungle again and pointed. She made another clicking sound, this one harsher sounding.

Nuriel stared blankly.

Hissing, the mermaid leaned over and rubbed her palm over a section of the sand, smoothing out an area. She lifted one hand, her index-finger extended.

The black claw at the end suddenly shot out, revealing itself to be long and needlelike.

Nuriel jerked a little. Oh. Retractable claws. Swell.

But the mermaid still didn’t mean her harm. Hunching over, she starting drawing in the sand with her claw.

Still apprehensive but now very curious, Nuriel leaned in to see what the mermaid was drawing. It was a very rough stick-figure of a long-haired woman wearing a dress. The jagged line that the mermaid used for the woman’s mouth indicated sharp teeth.

The mermaid again made a biting motion and indicated the jungle.

Then Nuriel understood. The mermaid wanted to know if the red-eyed monster had been the one to rip part of her ear off, and was angry about the possibility.

Interesting. So, the two did know each other, or at least of each other, but it seemed that they might not be on friendly terms.

Nuriel empathetically shook her head. Then she thought. All right, how could she explain this?

She entwined her thumbs and spread her fingers to imitated the wingspan of a bird. Then she fluttered it around before making her hand-bird dive at her own ear. Then she imitated the mermaid’s biting motion.

The anger cooled on the mermaid’s face, but she still looked horrified. She then pointed to the shoals, where a group of gulls were resting on a piece of railing.

Nuriel couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought. Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if gulls turned out to be that vicious on this island.

She shook her head again and did her best to use her rarely-employed voice imitate the hoarse, cackling cries of the deadly birds that had twice almost ended her life.

The mermaid’s brow rose in understanding. Her shoulder slumped and the gills in her neck fluttered in a manner that Nuriel took for a sigh.

Nuriel was struck then at the strangeness of it all. Here were two girls from completely different worlds and even completely different species, both incapable of human speech for their own reasons, still managing to have a conversation. Still, she couldn’t say that the experience was unpleasant.

The mermaid wiped away the sketch of the red-eyed monster from the sand. Then she began drawing again.

First she drew a wavy line. Then beneath it she drew another stick-figure, this one of a person falling backwards, limbs flailing. She pointed at the falling person, and then at Nuriel.

That part was easy enough to understand. It was a picture of Nuriel herself, after she had been thrown overboard into the sea.

Then the mermaid sketched out a person with a long tail instead of legs, clearly herself. She drew a line between herself and the depiction of Nuriel, and then drew a hump on top of the wavy line. This she connected to the sketches of herself and Nuriel with an arrow.

Nuriel slowly nodded in understanding. The mermaid was the reason she was still alive. She had found Nuriel drowning in the sea and brought her to the island. If so, then when she had first appeared to Nuriel on the beach, she had probably just been coming by to check up on her, which was much more

Then she nodded again and held her hands to her chest, as if clutching her heart. Thank you, she mouthed. She didn’t know if the mermaid could read lips or even understand English, but hopefully the sentiment would be conveyed.

The mermaid smiled, so at least some things were universal. And then her expression turned dour.

She wiped away the sketches in the sand. Then she drew the figure of the red-eyed monster again and jabbed a finger at it while shaking her head.

Nuriel frowned. What was the mermaid trying to communicate?

The mermaid again jabbed a claw at the stick-figure. Then she tilted her head to one side, exposing her neck. She tapped the side of her neck, pointed at the stick-figure, and made that biting motion again.

Nuriel still stared blankly at her. Did the mermaid want to eat the red-eyed monster? She really hoped that wasn’t the case. The last thing she needed was to be stuck in the middle of some kind-

And then she got it. The mermaid wasn’t saying that she wanted to eat the red-eyed monster, she was saying that the red-eyed monster had tried to eat her!

Seeing the look on Nuriel’s face, the mermaid nodded once, clicked her teeth together again, and pointed to the sketch of the red-eyed monster with an empathic shake of her head.

Nuriel cast a wary eye over to the jungle, where the red-eyed monster dwelled. Being stalked by inhuman creatures had been bad enough. She had not expected to be caught in the middle of a feud between two of them.

Then the mermaid suddenly stiffened. She looked up at the island, eyes flitting this way and that. Nuriel tilted her head and frowned, silently asking her what was wrong.

The mermaid glanced back at Nuriel, unease in her eyes. She pointed at the marooned girl and let out a low, repeating click. Though the gesture didn’t come with an illustration, Nuriel felt that she had caught the gist.

Be careful.

Moving with the smooth grace of a slithering snake, the mermaid turned herself around and slid back into the sea, her long tail swaying in the sand. A moment later she had disappeared among the flotsam and jetsam.

Nuriel stared after her, out over the partially sunken wreckage. All this time she had assumed that the monster that prowled the night and the monster that prowled the deep had been in cahoots, that there had been some kind of alliance between them. But now, just as she was starting to perhaps trust them both, she learned that such was not the case.

But they had both saved her life! Nuriel would be dead at least three times over if it weren’t for them. And they had both ample opportunity to do her harm had they wanted to.

There was something else going on.

…

The next morning, Nuriel found that her new “friend” had once again returned.

The note Nuriel had written thanking it was gone, and in its place was yet another long letter. There was also yet another basket of fruit and a basket of fish, along with a jug of clean water.

Nuriel ate cautiously, wishing that she could taste the food, if for no other reason than to tell if it had been tampered with. But when it failed to kill her, she turned her attention to her other gifts.

In addition to the note, several sheets of blank parchment had also been left. So her new friend intended to keep communicating from afar as well.

As for the note, Nuriel again had to work to decipher it, but it was shorter this time.

I am so glad! Now, I know this must be very (st…string…strange!) strange to you, so I shall keep my (dictan? No, distance!) distance for now. However, should you need or want anything, do not (oh damn, there was no way she was going to get this one. It started with a “He,” but the next was a jumble of letters) to ask.

And again she had signed her name. And again, Nuriel couldn’t read it.

Once she was done, Nuriel sat back to contemplate what she ought to do.

The red-eyed monster had basically told her to ask for anything, and Nuriel had no doubt that she could provide. But what she really wanted was information.

But should she ask it? Would doing so anger her new benefactor?

Well, only one way to find out.

Nuriel knelt down over a piece parchment, charcoal stick in one hand, the note that the red-eyed monster had left for her in the other.

Writing was not her strong suit. She read well enough to get by, and she could write a little bit, but mostly short phrases she had memorized in order to get by. Complex questions such as the one she wanted took some work.

Fortunately, while hurried, the red-eyed monster’s penmanship was neat and readable, so Nuriel was about to use it as something of a cross-reference to get the words right. Unfortunately, the two words she needed to use weren’t anywhere to be found. Damn it.

Then she sighed. Oh, who cared about spelling? The point would be made regardless.

Sticking the charcoal against the parchment, she carefully etched out the words, HU IS MURMAD?

Hopefully the red-eyed monster would glean her meaning, but just to be sure, Nuriel also took a page from the mermaid’s book and sketched out a person with a fish’s tail beneath her question.

That done, she picked up the hammer and nailed her question to the mast. Now all she had to do was wait. And pray.

#original writing #my wriitng #blood island #vampires #dinosaurs #pirates #mermaids #happy mermay everybody!

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terreisa · 4 years

Text

Love Down the Line: Epilogue

The last thing Indie musician Emma Swan needs is a gigantic wrench thrown in the workings of her biggest tour to date weeks before its launch. When her backing guitarist that caused the problem says she has the perfect solution Emma is skeptical but left with little choice but to accept. Unfortunately she isn’t really prepared for said solution to be former Rock Star and leading man of Emma’s teenage fantasies, Killian Jones. With no other options and a month of performing across the country ahead of her Emma just hopes she doesn’t come to regret letting Killian onto her stage and into her life.

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, AO3

~*CS*~

Los Angeles, Three Years Later

“You know, the last time I was here they only gave me those itty bitty bottles of water.”

Killian laughed to himself but kept his eyes trained to his phone. He knew if he looked up the love of his life would be scowling at the unnecessarily large bottles of expensive water lined up along the counter of the green room they were waiting in. Emma Swan was prone to many wonderful things but graciously giving up on a grudge was not one of them.

“The last time you were here you hadn’t won five Grammys in one fell swoop. When I was doing the first interviews with Realm of Jewels we were lucky to get cups of tap water. We thought a slice of lemon was the height of luxury.”

“Yeah, well that was what? Three hundred years ago?” She teased, moving across the room to flop down beside him on the couch with a huff, “They should at least have a water cooler or something. Reusable bottles are the way of the future.”

“First you complain about the water they’re providing and now you’re complaining about the one their not? Can they do nothing to please you?”

He looked over at her with a raised brow and she gave him a smirk.

“They fired Walsh so that’s a step in the right direction.”

“Thank bloody fuck,” he growled, turning back to his phone with a scowl.

Emma had eventually told him the full extent of what had happened the day of her interview with Walsh Hoakley. Not only had the wanker reported gossip as though it were truth, which caused the brief falling out between him and Emma that had made them both miserable, but the berk had hit on her not ten minutes after. When she finally had told him, only a few days after they had reconciled, it had taken an hour for him to calm down and at least a week for her to convince him not to fight her battles for her. The news of Hoakley’s firing less than a year later had been celebrated with a sparkling cider toast.

“So-” Emma peered over his shoulder and he felt some of his tension melt away, “What’s got you paying more attention to your phone than the expensive goodies they’re trying to get on our good side with?”

With a snort he tilted his phone towards her, “Just going over the contract one last time.”

“We have a fancy lawyer for that don’t we?” She asked crossing her arms as she sat back, “And Ruby wouldn’t try to scam you. I mean, look what’s happened since she decided to become my manager instead of staying in my backing band.”

“Well, aside from those five Grammys I mentioned-”

“What?!” Emma’s brows shot up and her mouth dropped open in clearly feigned shock, “I won five Grammys? I had no idea!”

“Hush, love, you deserved them and I’m honored to brag on your behalf,” he chided though he gave her a wink, “Although, I don’t rightly think we can give Ruby the credit for that.”

She scoffed and burrowed further into the couch, “If she hadn’t forced me to let you audition then we wouldn’t have met. Then we wouldn’t have had our grand romance that in turn inspired In the Middlemist and I wouldn’t have won those Grammys.”

“I believe that we would have met eventually, love. If not through our careers then we would have certainly been invited to Ruby’s wedding where I would have been immediately smitten with the blonde in the crimson bridesmaid dress,” he said lowly, pleased to see her cheeks flush.

“And I probably would have freaked out even more meeting you for the first time there than at the studio. You know how much I like seeing you in a suit-” she said huskily, leaning up to press a soft kiss under his jaw. Then she sat back and smiled wide, “Even then Ruby would still be the reason we met. That’s why I dedicated it to her and not you.”

“Is that why? I thought it was because you were still upset with me over the tiny misunderstanding over your choice in vehicle.”

He gave her a knowing look and she glared right back at him. When he raised his brow in challenge she rolled her eyes at him.

“Fine, that was part of it,” she conceded, “But I did mention you in every acceptance speech.”

“Which was wonderful aside from the camera they kept shoving in my face to capture my every proud tear in HD,” he grumbled, remembering the repeated messages from Will that were just the GIF of him crying after Emma had said she loved him onstage holding her third award of the night. He blew out a breath, “As I was saying: aside from all that I will admit that your career has flourished under Ruby’s care. She has become quite the adversary of Regina, stealing her best clients away.”

“Regina’s over it now,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand, “Ever since you reintroduced her to Robin in a non-business setting and then moved to that corner office things have been great.”

Just as he was about to make a somewhat lewd comment as to exactly why both those things would put Regina in a good mood there was a knock on the door. It was opened a moment later by the intern that had initially led them there.

“They’re ready for you, if you’d like to follow me.”

He let Emma proceed him as he stowed his phone in his pocket. She was right, of course, Ruby wouldn’t dream of sneaking in last minute changes to the contract making her his new manager. If anything she would have been fine with a verbal agreement and the promise of making her the godmother of whatever child he and Emma might have. Unfortunately all of their fancy, and expensive, lawyers required things in writing and in triplicate.

The intern led them to a broadcasting studio that looked like every other one he’d ever been interviewed in. One glaring difference, however, was the radio host who squealed when she saw them and practically skipped towards them with open arms.

“Finally, you guys! I’ve been waiting all week for this!”

Emma laughed and accepted the hug easily, “Us too, Tink. Killian’s had it marked in all of our calendars the second Ruby booked it.”

Tink pulled back from Emma and gave him a wide smile, “I’d heard she finally got you to make it official. There’s no stopping her now.”

“As though there was a chance before,” he chuckled. “Lovely to see you again, TInk.”

“If you guys lived here I’d see you more,” she chided gently before stepping forward to wrap her arms around him, “Everyone’s still on for dinner tomorrow, right?”

“Of course, Will wouldn’t let us hear the end of it if we didn’t,” he scoffed, giving her a light squeeze before letting go.

“Great! I still can’t believe he ditched Emma to be in your band,” She said with a laugh, grinning broadly at Emma’s frown. Something over his shoulder caught her eye and she nodded before focusing back on them, “Alright, my producer’s about to throw a fit if we waste any more time. Go ahead and get settled while I do my thing.”

As he and Emma moved to the seats awaiting them Tink bounced over to her chair and donned her headphones. With a bit of awe and intimidation he watched Tink easily slip into performance mode, softening her accent and dialing up her enthusiasm as she introduced herself and the start of her broadcast block. She hadn’t been a DJ for long but he could clearly see she had found her calling. When she teased their interview she gave them an overexaggerated wink that had him stifling a laugh.

After two songs and a small promo of Enchanted’s other stations Tink gave them a thumbs up as her producer let them know that their mics were live.

“That was the latest from The Killers and I don’t know about you but I’m more than ready for their new album to be released. I’m Tink and this is Rock Alt, home to all the alternative rock hits here on Enchanted XM. Today is a very exciting day because in the studio with me, right this very moment, are two people that you should be very familiar with: five time Grammy winner and indie darling Emma Swan and two time Grammy winner and alt rock god Killian Jones. Once upon a time I toured with Emma as part of her backing band and on one of those more memorable tours Killian decided to join us. Welcome, welcome!”

“I can truthfully say we’re excited to be here,” Emma chimed in brightly, her grin wide and happy.

“Yes, thanks for having us, love,” Killian said warmly. “Though I feel it’s only right to mention that those two Grammys were won with Realm of Jewels.”

“Aw, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll be joined by plenty of others, especially with this new album-” Tink waggled her eyebrows and he had a feeling she wasn’t going to go easy on them just because she was their friend. “There’s no question that you two are more than just friendly collaborators, with a couple of writing credits on each other’s albums and a duet on Killian’s acoustic cover album of Realm of Jewels’ greatest hits. We’ve also seen the red carpet photos and Instagram glimpses of your romance.”

He looked over at Emma and received an eye roll in return. When they’d first truly started dating they’d kept it hidden from anyone that wasn’t close friends or family. They had both felt that they wanted to start their relationship without the hounding from the press and scrutiny from the gossip mongers. It wasn’t until nearly a year and a half later, when Emma had clearly been his date to American Music Awards, that they’d gone public. Even then they had both agreed that they’d keep their personal lives as private as possible and continued to do so. Including the fact that they’d been married for two years.

“But now you’ve released a surprise album as a duo,” Tink continued, “going by the name Charles & Leia, which also happens to be the title of the album. It’s amazing by the way and if any of you out there haven’t listened to it yet I suggest you do so, but only after this interview is over, of course. So, how did this come about and why Charles & Leia?”

Emma gave him a shrug and a nod and he leaned closer to his mic, “As you mentioned earlier we’ve been playing together for some time now. After that tour I was a part of we were both starting on our next albums and would often work through arrangements or fine tune lyrics, using the other as a sounding board. This has, as evidenced, continued through the years until one day we thought we might try our hands at creating a whole album together.”

“We didn’t want it to be an album of my songs featuring him or vice versa though,” Emma chimed in. “Then it would have just been the same thing we’d already been doing which would have been fun but kinda boring at the same time. We wanted to challenge ourselves to create something new together from the beginning. Luckily our label was open to the idea and let us run with it.”

“And the name?” Tink prodded.

“A bit of an inside joke, really,” he said with a chuckle, reaching over to clasp Emma’s hand in his, “Whenever we made reservations or had to give a name for whatever reason I used Charles and Emma used Leia. I don’t even remember why-”

Emma snorted, “When he made the reservations for our first date and they asked for a name he panicked. We’d been watching The Crown and he blurted out the name Charles. At least he didn’t completely lose his shit and say Elizabeth.”

Emma’s eyes widened at the curse and clapped her hands over her mouth. Tink waved her hand in dismissal. Not a moment later the producer let them know through their headphones that cursing was fine but to keep it to a minimum if possible.

“Anyway,” Emma said evenly, though her cheeks were pink, “When it was my turn to make reservations I kept it going. Princess Leia was my hero when I was a kid. Still is actually.”

“As she is for us all,” Killian jumped in, “Of course we no longer use those as our aliases but when we were trying to decide how we wanted to present ourselves for this album this seemed appropriate.”

“We also figured it would give people the chance to listen to the songs without already having an idea of what they thought it should sound like because they knew it was us,” Emma explained, “I mean, it’s not like we’re trying to deceive anyone or anything but a lot of times people don’t try something out because they think they know exactly what it’s going to be. I know I’m totally guilty of it sometimes.”

“I’ve been listening to the album non-stop since it came out last week and you’re absolutely right, if I hadn’t already known that it was you two I wouldn’t have even been able to guess. Now, I’ve played alongside both of you and have been a fan of each of your music since both of your beginnings and I have to say, Charles & Leia is nothing like the music you’ve released before. What would you say were the biggest influences on how you approached the creation of this album?”

Killian took a moment to consider Tink’s question. He immediately dismissed sharing the long convoluted answer that began with innocent questions about one another’s past that led to a months long search into the mystery of Emma’s beginnings that came up empty while he nearly spiralled out of control once more over the unhealed pain of his borderline abusive and neglectful father. They were still working through some of those issues in therapy and even with the personal nature of the songs they’d written he didn’t feel it was necessary to elaborate on what the lyrics already implied.

“I can’t speak for Emma but for me it’s a look to the past and what influence it has on the present and the future. Take the title track for instance, my mother was Irish so I looked to the old Celtic folk songs and the instruments used, mimicking the flow of the music before playing around with more modern sounds. The result was entirely unique but still felt familiar, like an auditory deja vu, if you will.”

Tink was nodding furiously while Emma rolled her eyes at him, “I definitely won’t be that eloquent but yeah, we both have things in our past that sometimes takes a toll on who we are today. Our music was already pretty personal. I mean, I’ve written songs about growing up in foster care or when I was in jail but this was something else. Every day when we finished recording whatever song we were working on I felt like I’d been turned inside out and then wrung out but in a good way? It makes no sense but I’ve also never been this proud of one of my albums.”

“Well you should both be damn proud! I may be the tad bit biased but I think this may be the best album to come out this year and we’re only halfway through,” Tink effused.

“Thank you lass,” he mumbled as he scratched behind his ear at the compliment.

He caught Emma’s eye and she gave him an indulgent smile. She was well aware that sincere praise always tended to discomfit him, as he felt he was undeserving of it, especially when it came from someone he knew well. It was something he was working on getting better at accepting, with her help of course.

“Since the album was a surprise release there hasn’t been any confirmation of a tour yet. Any chance we’ll be seeing you two taking this act on the road?”

“We’re doing a kind of a mini tour on the east coast and then a couple of dates out here,” Emma explained, her eyes sparkling, “We didn’t want to get too ahead of ourselves and book a bunch of dates and then not have anyone show up.”

“I doubt that will be a problem,” Tink dismissed with a bright laugh, “From what I’ve been told nearly every show is sold out. So if any of you listeners out there want to see Emma and Killian perform songs from this brilliant new album I’d say don’t wait to buy your tickets. I already have mine.

“Now, I know this album is only weeks old and you both have flourishing solo careers but I have to ask: can we expect even bigger things from you two in the future?”

With a smile he had no hope of quelling he gave Emma a wink, though he was reasonably sure that it was nowhere near subtle. It didn’t matter though, as no one had a clue what it could mean since she had only shown him the positive pregnancy test earlier that morning. Emma gave him a beaming grin of her own and he kept his eyes on her as he spoke into his mic.

“I think you can, Tink. In fact, I’m quite certain that this is merely the happy beginning of grand things to come.”

#captain swan #cs fan fic #cs fanfic #cs ff #captain swan ff #captain swan fan fic #captain swan fanfic #captain swan fan fiction #ouat ff #my writing

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halothenthehorns · 3 years

Text

All in the Family

Chapter 80: The Unexpected Task

Lily's landing was actually not uncomfortable for once. She floundered in place upon her back, but it was soft material ruffling behind her whatever it was. Worry spiking if this was some sort of trap to compel her to get comfortable, she sat up abruptly, bunching the silk blanket in her hand suspiciously. She found herself in a luxury room fit for a princess.

The canopy bed was baby blue with pink lace, the pillow looked scandalously shaped perfectly for her head, there was even a thin film draping's that were almost see-through and felt cool as rain to the touch, but were blocking out almost all the light. The moment she pushed them aside, they glided away without a second thought, and she could see a window, leading out onto the Hogwarts grounds. She stood at it for a long time, seeing Hagrid's cabin in the distance, and got a strange guess of where she was, but wanted further proof. She got it almost immediately when she passed the trunk at the end of the bed wide open with Beauxbatons uniforms neatly folded inside, and The Book resting on top. They must be inside their carriage then, possibly with Fleur making a larger appearance in the coming chapter.

Inspecting the area just a bit more, she found a private bathroom that resembled a spa more than anything, and would have believed it if someone told her she spent a weeks worth of time just enjoying being by herself and not thinking of anything but how warm the water was, even if she couldn't read any of the french labels. Once she got out she swayed on her feet for a few moments with comfortable exhaustion, for once, deciding that as she'd landed in here and nobody had come to call yet, another good rest was in order. They'd all stopped plenty of times in the past with mutual sleep at hand. It took nothing else to convince her to crawl back into the strange bed and the slightest of tugs had the curtains back around her before she was out.

Frank dithered uncomfortably in the hallway. He'd grudgingly passed several open and inviting beds in the long, candelabra lit hallway just to find Alice, to assure she was alright and this wasn't some weird trap for Harry's next task, but he'd found her peacefully asleep. She'd even found a room with some muggle invention that had music playing from a big black disk she'd figured out how to work, it sounded like a nice string quartet in the whole room. However, he didn't want to assume just because they'd shared a bed together once she'd be okay with it again, especially in even more, ah, private quarters as all of these rooms seemed set for individuals. He'd just turned away and decided to just sleep in the room across, honestly the floor looked comfortable enough to nap on at this rate, when a giggle behind him made him twirl around to see she'd rolled over and was laughing herself silly at him before beckoning him to get in while wiggling to the far side of the bed.

"But Moony!" Sirius whined, managing to sound like an irritable six year old despite being ten years plus that. "Why not just take the opportunity while we can to not have to sleep in the same place as those two wankers, I quite enjoyed it last time."

"Because last time, we hardly slept a wink," he didn't need to elaborate, and was glad they hadn't found the other two yet as he couldn't quite suppress a blush. "We're finding them first you dolt."

They'd already passed several rooms containing their other quest members asleep, and Remus was just beginning to wonder if he'd passed them accidentally somehow when he came across a room with stripped bedding, and now sure at least they were thinking the same as him, he kept his hold on Sirius and dragged him along until he found what must be the equivalent of a living room in a mansion inside this pumpkin carriage. Peter was already curled up on the queen sized sofa, fidgeting with his school tie despite the fact it was loose enough to come off. James was upside down in a squashy armchair Maxime herself could stretch out in, his glasses placed carefully on top but eyes wide awake.

There hadn't been this much awkward silence between the four of them since their first year, those first few months before they'd even decided if they liked each other, let alone would become the best friends they were supposed to be. Both of them still grinned when they entered, and Sirius couldn't stop a small, albeit grudging smile as he shook his head at the lot of them, calling them sentimental fools as he snatched some covers from the floor and padded down in yet another available couch next to the purple lit fireplace that had wine goblets only half empty he'd save for breakfast. Remus barely had time to smile before he too passed out amongst the synchronized snoring, letting his feet tangle together with Sirius' but resting on the opposite arm of the couch.

Regulus stretched languidly as he awoke, still as disoriented as ever to find the light outside was exactly where it had been when he'd gone to sleep, but the comfortable bed had rivaled his own and who evers room he'd borrowed had good taste. There were posters of all of the French National Quidditch Team doing their signature move, the Blitzen Ballet, across several posters, which had been what had drawn him into the room in the first place.

He pulled some individually wrapped macaroons out of his pocket and began eating those as he went through the rest of this persons belongings, finding several textbooks all in French he couldn't follow, but not the book they needed. He didn't really fancy going through every room to find it, but he also didn't want to start until he knew everyone was awake- "The Unexpected Task." He crumpled a purple one up in his hand in surprise all over the blokes belongings. Well, clearly Evans didn't have those same reserves.

James startled awake with a yelp, flopping right out of the chair and confused for several long moments. Whoever would have thought waking up to the sound of Evans' voice would give him heart failure? The others were stirring with only slightly more dignity, he couldn't even blame Sirius when the first thing he did was reach up and snag those wine glasses to finish them off as her voice echoed around them before they'd even had morning tea.

"Evans does an impression of McGonagall telling off Harry too well," Peter groaned, trying to shove the blanket through his skull.

Remus looked like he was trying to burrow into the couch for more rest without comment, and James and Sirius woke up too hungry to really be paying much attention as their head of house held up Ron and Harry after class for something as silly as not paying attention. The two of them were busy trading a basket of fried fish back and forth and lamenting how fast it was vanishing when they simultaneously choked on the cold batter upon hearing no detention was being served, but quite the unexpected task indeed.

"Harry has to wha-?" Remus actually jerked his head free from his cocoon.

"Get a date, and dance her?" Peter repeated, inspecting the sleep he'd rubbed from his eyes as if expecting to find something else contaminating him.

"Or him," Sirius corrected with a suddenly wicked smile, "maybe he'll ask Ron, you don't know Wormy." The snide remark had slide easily from his tongue as he envisioned the fun of Hogwarts hosting something like a dance, it wasn't until he looked over to see his mate blush and stammer at the idea that he really, fully woke up. He wouldn't have believed it five seconds ago himself.

Peter was smiling to himself despite not able to look over at Sirius, and James swooped in to save the awkward silence. "Listen to this poor kid telling McGonagall he isn't going to do it! A books not good enough anymore, I'd pay money to see this in action!"

For just a moment, they all got a good laugh out of that.

They weren't the only ones, Frank and Alice were having their own fits of laughter still curled up in bed. Frank could at least sympathize with Harry though as he struggled to even conceptualize asking Cho out, he'd had a crush on Alice for months before he'd over heard her struggling with Charms and offering to tutor her. Asking her out, outright and to a dance, would have been insanity at that point. They both listened intently for any hint of what Neville would be up to during all of this. As much as they sympathized with Harry not being able to go alone because of his public dancing, they very much hoped Neville would at least be mentioned going with some friends rather than not at all.

Lily was giving herself a very hearty pat on the back for deciding to read this one alone. She was sure it wasn't just her imagination hearing the obnoxious laughter of the Marauders over this adorable idea, barely a teenager Regulus' pompous expression and possibly boasting he'd been trained to waltz before he could walk, and worst of all Frank and Alice's adoring looks at each other. She liked the both of them, more and more as they talked honestly, but her own life right now didn't leave her in a good position to be happy the only two people she could possibly count as friends during all this were dating and she felt like she was a third wheel half the time around them.

It was even more than that, if she were being honest with herself. While the idea of getting to dress up like that for the evening sounded nice in theory, she had about as much chance of going with anyone as Harry did Cho. Her heart sank for the poor lad as his crush admitted she was going with Cedric. Her prospects were even less endearing. Potter would ask her, of course, and anyone who proceeded to afterwords would likely end up in the hospital wing for one various reason or another until the offers stopped for a time again. And Sev...

She flipped the page hurriedly, it would be too obvious now if she stopped to stew over this, someone may come and see where she was and she wanted to actually enjoy this alone chance while she had it.

Regulus listened with the most absent of attention to these teenagers getting turned down left and right, the Marauders laughter echoing out into the hallway as he went exploring the rest of the carriage. Was he the only one who still remembered someone had put Harry in this tournament for more than embarrassing him? Nobody had even bothered to speculate on a suspect in ages, Regulus didn't really buy it was Karkaroff himself. It wasn't improving his mood he'd had no one to talk to in a while now, of course now that Peter had made up with his friends and they were all chummy again he'd go right back to being ignored. He should have known nothing about his life would ever really change no matter how much he heard.

He startled in surprise upon opening the next door as an orange cat came tottering out of the room, immediately twirling around his legs and purring in affection. Shaking his head in disbelief someone would bring their pet on this trip, he bent down regardless and gave a friendly scratch on the felines rump as he looked around once more, finding something new to wonder on. Why was it the pets were usually present? Magical animals as well, he reminded himself with a shiver of disgust at the basilisk. The paintings had all been present to, but he'd have never considered them as people. What was the criteria then for what was left behind as they were thrown around this place? It was something to ponder on at hand anyways, as he found himself sprawled on the floor, covered in cream colored fur while Hermione Granger dropped the surprise she'd gotten a date but wasn't telling who.

The chapter was finally coming to an end with everyone successfully getting dates, and Regulus snorted in disgust, was he the only one not obsessing with romance around here?

#Harry Potter #fanfiction #reading the books #GoF #Marauders #Wolfstar #Jilly #Regulus Black #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #James Potter #Peter Pettigrew #Lily Evans #Frank Longbottom #Alice Smith

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