#Bathroom Shop UK

[ukbathroomshoponline]

Buy close coupled toilets online at Bathroom Shop UK,  A popular choice in both modern and traditional bathrooms. Close Coupled Toilets are toilets where space has been saved by coupling the pan and cistern close together. Buy close coupled toilets on sale bathroom shop uk from best bathroom brands such as Duravit Toilets, Vitra Toilets, GSI toilets, and more!

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Discover the ultimate in bathing luxury with Carron Urban Acrylic Baths, available at Bathroom Supplies Online. Whether you seek a soothing sitbath, a versatile shower bath, or a stylish single-ended bath, our CARRON URBAN BATHS collection offers a perfect fit. Elevate your bathroom with these exquisite, British-made luxury bathtubs. Shop bathtubs online today and redefine relaxation in your UK home.

[tilesforever]

COMPLETE GUIDE TO CLEANING AND MAINTAINING PORCELAIN TILES.

Porcelain is one of the champion floors, wall, and countertop tiles that deliver amazing quality and style to homes and commercial workplaces. Buy the Best Porcelain Tiles Online in UK at Tiles For Ever, they have become amazingly popular for providing porcelain bathroom tiles in recent times for homes and commercial spaces due to their super-good quality as well as their durability, versatility, and quite trending aesthetic appeal. However, like every other tiles, or flooring material, porcelain tiles also require regular cleaning and maintenance to preserve their quality and beauty. This blog will work like a guide for you, giving you information on how to properly clean and maintain.

Frequent Sweeping and Dusting: Sweeping and dusting porcelain tiles prevent debris and dirt collection on tiles. It is crucial to sweep or dust the tiles regularly. For this, you must not use a hard bristle broom or brush instead a soft bristle brush or broom should be used or a vacuum cleaner with a small soft brush attachment to remove the loose dirt or dust particles. This is a simple way and important step to keep your porcelain tiles clean, which also safeguards them from any further damage.

Grout Cleaning: The grout lines between the porcelain tiles accumulate a lot of dirt and stains over a period of time. Regularly cleaning the grout lines using a mild grout cleaner and a soft-bristle brush or an old toothbrush, whichever is available to you. Scrub gently on the tiles and on the grout lines to avoid damaging the grout. You should consider sealing the grout once or twice a year as it provides an extra layer of protection against stains and moisture on the porcelain tiles.

Bothersome Stains: Due to its extremely low porosity, porcelain tiles are simple to clean and disinfect. Because of this, they are also stain resistant. They are simple to clean and keep hygienic, so you don’t have to bother about cleaning them. Because of this, they are especially more desirable for busy homes with kids and dogs. The best method for cleaning porcelain tiles is to mix some cleanser with water, then apply the mixture to the tiles with a mop or moist sponge. Rinse with warm water after that, and then dry with a dry cloth or mop.

Professional Assistance for stain removal: Sometimes there can happen some stains that are tough to remove at home, for those stains you should call for professional help and not do it on your own as it can cause damage to porcelain tiles. Professionals who have expertise in cleaning with advanced equipment will clean the porcelain tiles with no damage inflicted on them.

Routine cleaning: Cleaning porcelain tiles is essential, frequent cleaning of these prevents dust to stick to them in large quantities. Porcelain tiles have some unique characteristics like it is a dense and non-porous material, which makes it highly resistant to stains, moisture, and scratches.

Conclusion: Here we discussed all the ways to clean porcelain tiles, which are sweep, wash, solution, and lastly clean. Following these best processes mentioned above can keep your porcelain tiles looking beautiful and stunning for years to come. Seek professional assistance whenever you feel it needs extra care. We at Tiles For Ever introduce you to a beautiful range of tiles to suit every need of yours. In our tile warehouse, we have the ultimate collection of porcelain tiles, such as Stone Grey Porcelain Tile, Natural Ivory Concrete Effect Porcelain Tile, Smokey Grey Concrete Effect Porcelain Tile, and many more. We provide the best Porcelain Wall & Floor Tiles in the UK to meet the necessities needs of customers. For more, you can visit our website

[lqvesoph]

Puppy Love || LN4

lando norris x fem!reader

summary: Lando came home from his ‘best day at work’ and you take matters into your own hands to reunite the little puppy and your boyfriend

a/n: I couldn’t resist writing something about this bc that video has me in a chokehold

masterlist | taglist

"Baby, you won’t believe what just happened!!", your boyfriend exclaimed as he opened the door to your shared apartment.

You chuckled, moving out of the kitchen where you were making dinner to greet him in the hallway.

"Look! Oh my god!", he called, pulling out his phone and showing you a picture of him sitting on a chair, with an adorable little puppy in his arms. Your eyes widened. "Oh, Lan, that’s so cute!", you said, putting your hand in front of your mouth.

"I know right??", he spoke excitedly, swiping through his gallery to show you the other pictures. "Look! It just said down in my lap", he said, pressing play on a video.

"Lando, she’s adorable!", you muttered. "Yeah", he smiled. "Shame I can’t keep her." "She really did look incredibly comfortable on you", you agreed and looked up to find a sad smile on Lando’s face and put your hand on his cheek.

"Hey, cheer up", you whispered, pulling him in for a kiss.

"Soo, what’s for dinner?", Lando asked after pulling away, a slightly happier smile gracing his face now.

*~*~*

Later that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about that video Lando showed you. So, as quietly as you could you sat up in your shared bed and pulled out your laptop, searching for the shelter that he’d told you about.

You looked through the website and found the small dog. "Lia, three months old", you read as you clicked through the pictures.

Your fingered hovered over the blue button, hesitating for a second but one look at the sleeping boy beside you, gave you the reassurance you needed. As quietly as you could you closed the laptop and went back to sleep.

The next morning Lando was up before you, as usual. You found him in his sweaty training clothes in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water.

"Good morning", you greeted him, standing in the door and leaned against it. "Oh hey", he called, walking over and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. You scrunched your nose.

Lando rolled his eyes before giving you another peck. "I know, I’ll shower", he chuckled, walking past you towards the bathroom.

"Lan, I wanted to tell you that I’m flying to the UK for today", you called, making the boy stop in his tracks. "Why?", he questioned, turning around. You panicked for a second, not knowing what to tell him without revealing your surprise.

"Uhm, Mum wanted to go shopping together", you lied, slapping yourself internally. Lando frowned. "Uh, okay? I’m coming with you, when are we leaving?", he wanted to know.

"No no, you have your dinner with Zak and that businessman tonight and I’ll probably will sleep at my parents’", you quickly waved it off. Lando nodded, still eying you strangely. "Well, okay then. Let me shower and then I can drive you to the airport", he muttered, before turning around to enter the bathroom.

You let out a sigh, hating yourself for not telling Lando the whole truth but reminding yourself that his face tonight will he the greatest reward.

*~*~*

You touched down in Heathrow around 1pm, quickly texting Lando that you had arrived before rushing out of the airport to find a taxi that would take you to Battersea.

In front of the Dog’s and Cat’s home you stepped out, thanking and paying the driver before making your way to the door.

"Hi, I’m Y/n Y/l/n", you told the woman at the reception. "I made an online appointment yesterday to meet with a little puppy." The brunette smiled and nodded. "Let me check for a second. Ah, yes, just down the corridor and the second door to your left. Mia should be waiting for you there", she said, whereupon you thanked her and walked down to where she had described.

You knocked on the door and waited for Mia to call, but instead she opened the door, the same warm smile on her lips as the receptionist.

"Hi, you must be Miss Y/l/n, nice to meet you!", she greeted you, reaching a hand out for you to shake. "Nice to meet you too, and please call me Y/n", you replied, following her into the room.

"So, you are here for Lia, right?", she smiled as you walked closer to the play area of about five puppies. She then took one puppy with white and brown fur out of the area.

"Oh my god, she’s even more adorable in person", you muttered as the woman placed the puppy in your arms. "Heyy, little one", you whispered, softly petting her back.

"She really seems to like you", Mia noted and nodded towards the puppy who had closed her eyes and snuggled into your arms. "Can I keep her?", you asked softly. "We gotta go over some documents first but then, sure", Mia smiled and showed you to her office.

"Okay, first of all, do you live with anyone because if you do we need their permission as well", she stated and you looked up. "Yes, I do, I live with my boyfriend in Monaco. Actually, he met the little one yesterday at work", you chuckled.

Mia stopped writing and looked at her questioningly. "Excuse me?"

"Lando Norris, you recently signed a cooperation with McLaren and he came home yesterday telling me all about that little surprise you did for him and even showed me a few videos of Lia and I wanted to surprise him with this", you explained. First Mia looked at you rather skeptical, then she started typing on her computer.

"Okay, I guess you are telling the truth", she mumbled, turning around to show you pictures of Lando and you in the paddock, the search being ‘Lando Norris Girlfriend’. You tried to hide your chuckle but failed.

"I’m sorry but the possibility of you being a crazy fan is pretty high, I didn’t mean to insult you", she immediately apologized but you waved her off. "No, it’s fine. I understand", you chuckled as she blinked a few times.

"Okay, back to the questions. I guess you have the permission of your partner. Then Monaco you said?", she moved on. You nodded. "She’d have a little play buddy in Leo, a friend’s dog, and I’m sure Alex and Charles would be happy to help us with everything in the beginning", you explained.

You went over a few more details such as allergies and vet check ups. "Okay, last one is financial security but I guess that won’t be a problem", she chuckled and if you weren’t so focused on Lia you’d have been slightly offended at her judgmental tone.

She pushed the documents over the table for you to sign and watched as you scribble your name on the line.

"Then I am happy to tell you, you have just adopted a dog", she smiled and handed you her hand to shake.

You said goodbye to her, quickly asking where the next pet shop was to get the necessary things.

Then you made your way outside again, the small puppy in your arms. "Okay, little one, let’s go shopping and then we can go home and surprise your new daddy", you whispered, gently petting her head.

Your flight back home was scheduled to arrive at 8pm, from where you then took a taxi back to Monaco.

"Welcome home, Lia", you muttered, letting her down as you closed the front door. You could tell she was curious but careful at the same time, always keeping close to you.

You placed your bag with dog food, some bowls and toys on the kitchen counter and then went to sit down on the couch and Lia immediately jumped up to cuddle into your arms again, which made you chuckle.

About two hours later you heard a key in the door and Lando entering the apartment. You decided not to say anything and simply wait until he would come into the living room, although the lights of the TV still filled the room.

"Hello?", Lando asked. "Is anyone there?" Cautiously he entered the living room, placing a hand on his heart when he saw it was only you sitting there.

"Jesus, baby, I thought there was someone in our home!", he called. "I thought you said you’re only coming back tomorrow"

"Well…", you giggled and then lifted your arm to reveal the sleeping puppy on your arm. Lando’s eyes widened, scanning the little dog.

"Wha-", he muttered perplexed. "Meet little Lia. Again", you added giggling. "You- is- is that the puppy from Battersea?", he stuttered, sitting down next to you. You nodded with a smile.

"Wha- How- Did you fly to England just to-", he continued stammering, making you reach for his hand. "She loved you and you can’t fool me and tell me you didn’t feel the same. And about all the traveling, I can take care of her when I’m not coming to race weekends, Alex does the same. And she even has a little play buddy in Leo", you told him, interwinding your fingers.

"I love you so much, baby", he whispered and pulled you into a kiss. A small high pitched bark interrupted you and you pulled apart.

"Heyy, princess", Lando whispered, laying down so his head was level with the puppy in your arms. Lia got up and carefully sniffed Lando, probably recognizing his scent from just two days ago as she then cuddled up next to him.

You two laughed and petted her small body.

"She’s the cutest", you noted with a smile. "And you’re the best", Lando smirked up at you. "My two girls!"

yourinstagram

tagged: landonorris

liked by: landonorris, alexandrasaintmleux, oscarpiastri and 1.526.182 others

yourinstagram: Welcome home little Lia💞

comments:

landonorris: my girlssss

alexandrasaintmleux: Omg I can’t wait for playdates!!

yourinstagram: Yessss omggg, lets leave the boys at home then

landonorris: Hey!

alexandrasaintmleux: Ofc

charlesleclerc: Hey!

lilyzneimer: The cutest omg!!

mclaren: So excited to meet the little girl

fan: Omg how cute is that!!

fan: The dog on the wheel lmaooo

fan: Already coming for Lando’s seat

> liked by: yourinstagram

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landonorris

tagged: yourinstagram

liked by: yourinstagram, mclaren, oscarpiastri and 2.628.529 others

landonorris: Newest member of the fam

comments:

yourinstagram: girl dad🩷

landonorris: Yessss

charlesleclerc: Lets go play paddle when the girls leave us…

landonorris: GREAT idea

carlossainz: I wanna meet her asap!!

oscarpiastri: Why couldn’t you get a cat…

landonorris: bc dogs are superior, duh

mclaren: Newest member of Mclaren🧡

> liked by landonorris

fan: OMG is that the dog from that video??

fan: WAIT YOU ARE ONTO SOMETHING

fan: I think so, yes

> liked by yourinstagram

fan: GIRL DAD LANDO NORRIS

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[mobility2you]

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[vivwritesfics]

No Need To Ask

Chapter Seventeen - Alone Together

The Norris' were a notorious crime family in the UK. One of many. With Norris, the head of the family, running operations with his son, Lando, they work to keep Y/N Norris, Norris' daughter protected. Life in a crime family wasn't something they wanted for her.

But with tension with one of the Spanish crime families rise, Norris and his now deceased wife come up with only one plan, offer their daughter to the Sainz's or risk an all out war.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY! Smut! Blowjob! Breeding Kink!

2K words

Series Masterlist

For the first three days that they were in the cabin, Y/N cleaned obsessively. She cleaned the bathroom cleaned the kitchen and the bedroom, anything to take her mind off of just how terrified she was.

Carlos worked at the old laptop. There was an encrypted chat that the heads of families used to communicate. Every day Lando asked on the chat how Y/N was doing and Carlos always answered. On the outside she was fine, but he knew that wasn’t what lay beneath.

After three days, the two of them began to get antsy. Being cooped up in this tiny safehouse was incredibly uncomfortable. They both wanted to get outside, but it was far too risky.

After three days, Y/N and Carlos found themselves seeking comfort. Comfort that came from each other.

When Carlos wasn't at the old laptop he was in the kitchen, tapping his short nails against the wood of the table. He'd done it so much that he'd left marks in the wood, four little crescents carved out of it.

He was stressed, that much was clear.

There wasn't a lot to do in the cabin, not once Y/N had finished cleaning. She was bored, and she was running out of clothes.

"Do you think we'd be able to find a shop somewhere?" She asked as she walked into the kitchen. They didn't have a lot, and there was certainly no variety. Just tins of spaghetti.

Carlos shrugged his shoulders. "I'll have to when we began running out of food. Why, do you need something?" He asked as she leaned against the table.

She grabbed the hem of the shirt she was wearing. His shirt. But then she shook her head. Although no words had been said, Carlos understood completely.

He waited until she'd fallen asleep. Carlos had cooked them dinner and Y/N had showered. He then held her in bed as she fell into a fitful sleep.

Carlos grabbed a cap and sunglasses. The sun was beginning to set as he placed them on the bridge of his nose, but he had to be as inconspicuous as possible. The sweats and grey shirts were certainly helping.

Carlos walked out of the cabin, locking the door behind him. He peered through the window before he went, making sure Y/N was still asleep. When he confirmed that she was, he began walking, through the woods and towards the nearest little town.

Ever vigilant, Carlos listened to every little noise. He made sure he was completely alone as he walked through the trees, and then made sure he was aware of everyone around him once he was in the town.

Carlos was an incredibly recognisable man. But, at the edge of his territory, he was around people that were unaware of the power be had in their country.

He shopped, buying a range of things. From ingredients for dishes more exciting than spaghetti and clothes.

He didn't know Y/Ns size, having not been a very good husband thus far, but he still tried to shop for her. He bought her vest tops, cardigans, shorts and sweat. Everything she needed to be comfortable.

He went to one more shop, one that sold more recreational items. Carlos perused the shelves, but he didn't take too long, desperate to get back to the safety of the cabin.

***

Y/N woke up, cold and alone. Carlos wasn't in the bed beside her, he wasn't at the desk or in the bathroom. He certainly wasn't in the kitchen either.

"Carlos?" She called as she gripped the blankets.

The door clicked!, unlocking. Y/N could do nothing but watch, her heart beating, fists clenching the blanket as the door to the cabin opened.

A sigh escaped her lips as her husband stepped through the door, carrier bags on his arms. He dropped them and quickly turned to lock the door behind him.

Carlos pulled hid sunglasses from his face and his hat from his head. He looked at Y/N as he began rummaging through the first carrier bag. "Querida, you're awake," he said as he pulled out clothes.

Women's clothes. Woman's clothes for Y/N. She watched him as he put then away in the wardrobe, hanging them up alongside his own clothes. She had several thoughts swirling around in her head, unable to grasp onto a single one as she saw the garments.

Like, how his pet name for her had become almost sincere, no longer sarcastic. Like, how he'd noticed how much she wanted something of her own to wear and had put his life in danger to get it for her.

After the clothes were away, Carlos pulled two more things from the bag and presented them to Y/N.

Two books sat stacked in his hands. "I would have found you a chess set if I could have," he said as Y/N grabbed the first books.

The covers were beautiful, and she knew they couldn't have been cheap. One book, the one Y/N held in her hands, was in English, the other in Spanish.

There was no way Y/N would have been able to express her gratitude. She placed the book down and stood from the bed, throwing her arms around him. "Thank you," she whispered, her head against his chest.

Carlos hesitantly wrapped his arms around her. "I know I haven't been good to you," he said. "And I never expect you to forgive me for it."

She just continued to hold him. She couldn't deny it, couldn't think of words to comfort him, either. She squeeze and released, climbing back under the covers of the bed.

Y/N stayed up to begin the English book. Carlos stripped down to his underwear and climbed under the sheets. He wrapped one arm around her, pulling her in to rest against his shoulder as she read.

In their currently predicament, it was hard to find sleep. Bur Y/N and Carlos found themselves waking up at any odd hour of the night, hearts beating erratically as they looked around with panic.

They were rarely awake at the same time, one making sure the other was asleep. Sometimes she woke up to Carlos standing at the window, staring out at the world beyond the cabin.

On the fourth day, the two of them found themselves wanting each other. It was lonely and everything had changed. The only constant was each other.

Carlos sat at the kitchen table. He’d spent the morning trying to find the whereabouts of his mother and sister, as well as gathering as many of his men as he could. But it was hard. It was frustrating.

Dressed in her new clothes, Y/N approached him. She could see the frustration written on his face, and it probably would have been better to stay away, but she just couldn’t. She walked over and got onto her knees in front of him, hands settling on his thighs.

“What are you doing, Querida?” He asked as he stared down at her, subconsciously tensing his thighs under her touch.

Y/N let her fingers dancing across his sweats, dancing up towards his lap. But she didn’t let herself go that far. “I wanted to thank you,” she said. “You went out and bought me clothes and books, and I wanted to thank you.”

Carlos said nothing as she grabbed the drawstrings holding his sweats closed. She pulled on the strings, loosening them. From there it was easy enough to free him from his confines.

He was hard, painfully so. Y/N swiped her thumb across his tip, gathering the precum. She lifted her thumb to her mouth and licked it off.

Hissing, Carlos bucked his hips up.

When you've never done something like this before, it was easy to become anxious. She kept herself close to him as she moved her hand up and down, gripping him. She kept her eyes on him as she moved her lips closer and took him into her mouth.

Carlos set out a shuddering breath, head thrown back. "That's it," he breathed as she started moving. Slowly she moved herself up and down his shaft, trying her best to suck at the same time.

It wasn't the easiest thing to accomplish on her first try. It was easy to tell it was her first go of it, too. But Carlos was loving every second. He hesitantly moved his hand to her head, not pushing, just holding. "You're doing great," he reassured when she looked up at him.

That sight there was nearly enough to make him explode.

His grip on her hair tightened as he gently pulled her up. It stung, but Y/N endured it. No, not endured. Loved it. She loved it when he gripped her hair and pulled her to her feet. She loved the display of dominance he showed.

"Go to the bed, querida," he said as Y/N pulled up, dusting off her knees. He moved his hands from the top of her head, running his fingers along her jaw. "You're beautiful," he said as he pulled her closer.

She didn't see anything back, just kissed him. Although things had improved between her and Carlos, she wasn't quite there yet. But she was willing to give it a try.

Carlos pulled away, sitting back in his chair. He gave her one single look and she went to the bedroom, pulling off her top and laying on the bed. It was the way Carlos looked at her, a reminder of the power he had. But it didn't scare her. For the first time she found herself willing to obey him.

It didn't make her look weak, she realised as she laid on the bed. Listening to him didn't make her the weak, docile little wife that she maybe once was. Her listening to him wasn't an admittance of submission.

Carlos leaned against the doorframe as he looked at her, at the way she kept her hands laced together over her stomach. He smiled, but Y/N didn't see it. She was staring at the window, so Carlos stared out of the window, too.

There was nothing there. Thank god. He'd been ever vigilant since they'd arrived at the cabin, always keeping watching. Watching for anybody trying to kill him and watching his wife too. Since her safety was the most important thing.

Carlos strode over, stripping himself as he did so. His clothes littered the floor as he strode over to the bed and climbed on top of it, climbed on top of her. He grabbed her shorts and wiggled them down her lips, tongue between his teeth as he did so.

He settled over her, holding himself as he lined himself up. But, as he did, Carlos looked at her, looked into her eyes. "I want you to carry my son," he said suddenly, taking Y/N by surprise. "I want you to next boss of the Sainz family, after myself."

Y/N breathed deep and nodded her head almost desperately. She kept her eyes on him as he gently pushed forward, entering her.

It was a far cry from the first time they had ever had sex, from the night of their wedding. If she could have, she would have replaced that memory with one of these.

Carlos thrust into her, his jaw tensed as his hips snapped forward. He let out grunts and Y/N let out cries, but she couldn't stop thinking of their first time, and how much she wished this was it. Even though they were hiding away in the Sainz safehouse, it was still better than their first time together.

Although she was enjoying it, Y/N's mind was elsewhere. She let Carlos mindlessly hump her, finishing inside of her before too long. But that was fine, she could finish herself off when she was in a better frame of mind. The sex was still good, she just wasn't in the zone. But she still moaned and whined as Carlos pushed her towards the edge.

As soon as he was done, Carlos pulled out and grabbed his pillow from the top of the bed. He placed it under her hips and leaned forward to kiss her head.

Carlos walked out of the bedroom, heading back to the kitchen to start on dinner.

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[mamabearneeds-her-dietcoke]

BRO THE JOHNNIE ONE WAS SO GOOD CAN I GET SAM GOLBACH FLUFF PLEASEEE 🙈

OF COURSEEEE😈😈😈

thank you for the request 🤸🤸🙏

here we go luvas

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

Sam had been gone on a trip with Colby for a while, they were out on the UK to film videos. You were out shopping for some things around the house and didn't know Sam was back waiting for you at the apartment you shared with him. You walk in with your bags, setting the Starbucks drink down on the counter.

There was a camera hidden between some stuff on the far side of the counter near the fridge, filming as Sam creeped out of the bathroom. "Hey baby." You jump hearing a voice, expecting to be alone but you quickly turned around recognizing the voice. "Sam!" You quickly wrap your arms around him, happy to have him holding you again. He smiles as you press quick kisses to his lips, happy to see him.

"I missed you! how was your trip?" You ask, your arms still wrapped around his neck. "It was so much fun, we got so much evidence it was crazy." He smiles as he goes on to explain some things that happened. He stops mid sentence when he notices the loved look on your face.(I hope that made sense, it's kind of like the look when the person you like or your significant other is like talking about something they like and you're just like in awe.)

"What?" He says. "Nothing. I just love you so much." You kiss him again. "Jake, Corey and Colby want to come over later today is that ok?" Sam asks as you grab your bags. "Yeah of course. I need a nap first though." You say. "Yes I missed our naps together." Sam goes off to change from his jeans and sweater. After you put things away you walk into the bedroom and put on an xplr hoodie and shorts, changing out of the leggings and crop top you were originally in.

Sam was laying in bed already, scrolling through his phone. You snuggle up next to him, quickly falling asleep. He doesn't realize this at first but when he does he takes a quick picture of the two of you, captioning it,

long missed nap time❤️

before posting it to Instagram and dozing off with you. A couple hours go by, and the two of you missed the texts from the guys asking when to come over. Colby had a spare key so he said he'd check on the two of you. He quietly walked in, heading towards the bedroom. He pulled out his phone and filmed as he pushed open the door, revealing the two of you still sleeping, Sam's arm wrapped around your waist, your hands near your face and your hair sprawled everywhere. The video flips to show Colby rolling his eyes.

"Colby?" Your voice is small, having just woke up. "Came in to check on you two, you weren't answering your phones." You grab your phone and glance at it, looking at the notifications. "I'm sorry." You carefully move away from Sam. "Long time no see." You give him a quick hug. "Oo showing the merch." He laughs quietly as you show off. "You mind if I film?" He asks.

"No not at all. C'mere I got something to show you." You walk out of the room and to a closet as Colby turns on his camera, grabbing two bags. "I got you a sweater while i was out the other day." You pull out a black hoodie, with a design on the back, (idk just imagine something colby would like.) and you hand it to him as he sets the camera up on the counter.

"Oh my god thank you!" He takes the hoodie with smile, immediately throwing off the hoodie he already had on and put on the new one. "Thoughts?" He spins around. "It looks great." You laugh as he does a little run way walk. "Whatcha strutting for this time?" Sam comes out of the room rubbing his eyes.

"Y/n got me a sweater! Look at the back!" He turns around and back again with a big smile on his face. Sam makes his way over to you, he wrapping you in his arms and kissing you. "I got you a sweater too babe." With his arm still around your waist you grab the other sweater from the bag. At this same Jake and Corey come rushing in the front door.

"You didn't get anything for us?" Jake says with a playful tone. "I did actually." You smile reaching for the other bag. "Here." You hand them their hoodies and can't help but smile as they get all excited and put them on. "Look at the sleeves." You grab the camera and show them. You had embroidered small designs on the sleeves, with their names in their favorite color. "Oh my god this is so cool!" Corey laughs and looks to you.

"Thank you babe!" Sam gives you another kiss, both your smiles connecting. "I can't kiss you but i can give you a hug." You laugh as the other boys agree and wrap you up in a hug. "Who's hungry?" You ask. "Me!" they all respond at the same time. "I'll make dinner." You laugh lightly as you make your way to the fridge to grab ingredients while they celebrate, happy to have a meal made by you.

You finish dinner, and everyone eats. you all hangout for a little bit before others return to their own apartments. You're cleaning up some things when Sam plays some romantic music. He walks up to you with a goofy grin. "Can I help you?" You smile. "Dance with me?" he holds his hand out and pulls you closer once your hand is in his.

The two of you move smoothly together, spinning and smiling as the music plays. One sinc is over, and you pull him close. "I love you." Your arms around his neck, his hands on your waist. "I love you more." You playfully roll your eyes at his remark. Another song plays and the two of you are dancing with eachother again, moving in sync.

Eventually the night ends and your wrapped up in each other's arms once more, holding eachother as you drift off.

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

what up😛

hope you enjoyed 😖

don't be afraid to send in requests ‼️‼️

peace out luvas 🤸🤸

[fourmoony]

Friends or What?

James Potter x F!Reader

A coming of age story in which Potter's Corner Shop has a funny way of bringing people together. Falling in love is daunting when everyone is watching.

Ao3 Link - Series Masterlist - Fourmoony's Masterlist

Chapter Warnings for Chapter Two -

Language. Internalised homophobia. Mentions of physical and emotional abuse. Smoking. Use of the word 'fag', in context to a cigarette (UK Slang)

CHAPTER TWO (4K) -

JAMES

Sirius is quiet in the taxi home. He’s quiet when they shuck their shoes off in the entrance hall of the Potter Estate. He’s quiet as he footers around the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. He’s quiet while he and James stand side by side in their conjoined bathroom, brushing their teeth and washing their faces. He’s quiet, quiet, quiet, and James is starting to worry. The thing about Sirius is – is that he’s loud. In every possible way. Aged eleven, Sirius Black had come bounding into James Potter’s life with his boyish grin and loudmouth attitude, two middle fingers held up to the world and they’d been inseparable since.

James is loud like the sun. He’s funny and he’s charming in a warm, light, happy sort of way. He’s sturdy and reliable, he’s soft and he’s gentle. Sirius is loud like the laughter of a ten-thousand-man crowd. He’s abrasive and he’s obnoxious, he’s rough around the edges but he’s so fucking loyal that James never really stood a chance. He was destined to be Sirius Black’s brother, his best friend, his twin flame. Sirius is rebellious, he’s never been anything except what he wanted to be. He’s jagged and he’s loud and he’s James’ best mate in the entire world.

James knows Sirius like the back of his hand. So, he knows that quiet is not good. Sirius is complex. His past hasn’t been kind to him, and while he’s not the same sixteen-year-old boy that showed up on James’ doorstep seven years ago, battered and bruised, traumatised and a shell of himself, James still worries about him sometimes. Sirius talks about his family less and less as the years go on. James would like to think that, in a way, he’s healed from the trauma of Walburga and Orion Black. There are parts of Sirius that will never come back; his boyish innocence and the warmth he once exuded from his very soul, but James knows that Sirius is better. He doesn’t have nightmares anymore, he doesn’t hide himself away, he doesn’t stash bread and sweeties under his floorboards, he goes to therapy once a week and he’s making changes, for Christ’s sakes.

But James knows, he knows it deep into his fucking core, that the reason Sirius hasn’t told him about Remus, the reason he’s being so quiet, now, is because of his upbringing. It’s a subject he knows will have to be dealt with carefully, untwined with gentle fingers like plucking the thorns from a rose. One wrong word and James is scared Sirius will flee. He doesn’t like change, he doesn’t like lack of control, and if he’s kissing Remus Lupin for any other reason than to get under the poor bloke’s skin, then James is willing to bet Sirius is feeling an overwhelming amount of both.

So, he waits for Sirius to come to him. He sends him off to his own bed with a quiet ‘goodnight’ because he can wait. He will wait. Sirius isn’t ready and that’s okay. The two years James spent without Sirius were, by far, the hardest of his life. The Black’s decided this village was a bad influence, that it bred insubordination, was infecting Sirius’ mind with thoughts of growing up and doing anything but working in politics like the rest of his family. They moved to central London, in the borough of Islington, and that’s where things got really bad. Sirius doesn’t speak about London, much. Only to his therapist, which is fine with James. But he knows about all the stuff that happened when the Black’s lived in the village, he was there for it all; the broken bones, the bruises, the cuts, the scars, the rapid weight loss, he saw it happen, held Sirius through it, took the pieces of his own armour and filled in the gaps on Sirius’ because whilst Sirius is chaos, James is calm and he’s loyal, and he’s strong. And then Sirius left. And then Sirius came back to him. Then. Then, Sirius came home. So, James can wait. He can do it. Because James and Sirius tell each other everything, do everything together, but this is something that Sirius might just have to figure out on his own.

The house feels too quiet, the air around him too heavy, as James lies in bed. He tries to read, he fails, he polishes his rugby boots for training in the morning, and he fails. He can’t stop thinking about Sirius’ face; the frazzled, lost sort of look that plagued him when James had asked if he was okay, if he needed to talk about anything. James watched as Sirius fought and lost the battle of following Remus out of the Three Broomsticks and felt the pain heavy in his chest when he had to stop Sirius, himself.

“Not tonight. Let him cool off.” James had whispered, and Sirius didn’t have it in him to argue.

He tries to read, again, and he fails, again. He loves Sirius so much. He worries. He always worries. Because, sure, Sirius is a lot better, now, but he’s complex, he has trauma, and he’s visibly struggling. But James can’t help. Usually, he can always help Sirius. Sirius never shies away from asking for help. He’s on his own this time, scared and struggling and James can’t help him because he hasn’t asked and James refuses to push.

He tosses and he turns, and he sits up, he lies back down, he paces, he sits down, and eventually, he falls asleep, only to wake up when the bed dips beside him.

When his eyes open, he realises he’s fallen asleep with his glasses on because he can see the way the dawn breaks over the orchard outside his bedroom window. There’s frost on the grass and the sky is still a deep blue, getting lighter the further down he looks. Sirius is next to him. He doesn’t have to look over to know. James can tell by the pattern of his breaths, the smell of his shampoo, how far the bed dips. James Potter would know Sirius Black’s presence were he deaf and blind. He always will. He has a feeling Sirius, much like him, feels the weight that’s suffocating them.

He doesn’t look over, just waits for his best friend to say something. He can hear the cogs whirring behind Sirius’ pale blue eyes, the thumping of his heart against his ribcage. Sirius doesn’t speak for a long time.

“Do you –“ Sirius starts, but he falls short. He’s unsure, voice wavering, thick with anxiety. He swallows, coughs, tries again; “Do you think I’m a horrible person?”

It’s not what James is expecting Sirius to ask. As his best friend, his first instinct is to say, ‘Of course I don’t’, but James knows Sirius Black like the back of his hand, the insides of his eyelids, the warm glow that burns in his chest. He knows how Sirius can be. He knows how cruel his tongue is, how his first instinct when he’s threatened is to go for the throat. So, James deliberates.

“I think you’re a good person who horrible things have happened to. Sometimes, you allow those things to control the way you act. But no. I don’t think you’re a horrible person, Padfoot.” James answers honestly.

He watches the breeze blow through the orchard trees as the sun continues to creep up between the branches. Sirius breathes a sigh of relief, shuffles closer to James so he can feel the warmth of him. He finally looks down at Sirius, head rested on the same pillow as James, and he smiles softly. Sirius smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks tired, lost, scared. James wants to fix it all so bad. But he can’t. He has to let Sirius do it, himself.

When Sirius ran to him seven years ago, James made himself a promise. Nothing, and no one, would ever harm his best friend again. Not over James Potter’s cold, dead, body. But he can’t stop this, can he? He can’t wrap Sirius up and protect him from his own heart, his own mind. He doesn’t have that much power and it’s killing him.

“Remus thinks I’m a horrible person.” Sirius says, voice so quiet James thinks he believes it. Like Remus’ word is final.

He sighs, rubs the tiredness from his eyes, “Did he tell you this?”

“No,” Sirius answers, voice a moment from sleep, his eyes closed, and his face so sad and soft James feels his heart splinter, “I see it in the way he looks at me.”

“You could prove to him that you’re not.” James advises, voice soft.

Sirius makes a humming noise of acknowledgement, but ultimately, James knows the conversation is over. He’s dead to the world ten minutes later, and James follows suit not long after.

-----

SIRIUS

When Sirius was ten, he realised what it truly meant to be a member of the Black family.

It was more than fame, or politics, or even money. It was more than presenting themselves as a prestigious, well-educated family. For the Blacks it was about one thing: Power. They have an ability to play games with people that don’t even know they’re a part of them, closing in, moving pieces, counting cards until finally, they win. The Blacks always win. For as long as he can remember, every conversation Sirius Black has ever had with another member of his family has held some sort of purpose. Manipulation, information gathering, seed planting. The list goes on.

When you grow up in that environment, carefully wrapping your lips around poisoned words, watching your back with every move, the thing is – it becomes hard to trust. It gets hard to distinguish the difference between someone trying to get to know you, and someone trying to learn every dirty little secret you have so they can use it against you.

So, Sirius was ten when he learned the hard lesson of keeping his mouth shut, keeping his secrets close to his chest. Because the beating he took for telling Mary Riddle that his mother nicknamed her husband, Tom Riddle Sr., ‘The Snake’, was unpleasant at best. Secrets, or spilled secrets, never end well. He likes to keep his secrets close to his chest. Perhaps that has more to do with Walburga than he’d ever be willing to admit – because while the Black’s liked to know everyone else’s secrets, not a soul alive could tell you any of theirs.

It took Sirius one year to tell James how bad things really were. Even then, it’s not like he had an option. Too many black eyes, too many sprained wrists and unhealed cuts. James Potter is one of the smartest people Sirius knows. It was only a matter of time before he figured it out. By then, Sirius knew he could trust James, could feel it in his chest. What they have is special, unheard of. Their souls are made of the same things. Sirius knew that just as sure at age eleven as he does, now, age twenty-three.

Sirius doesn’t know why he hasn’t told James, yet.

Honestly, he doesn’t.

He’s tried. Gods, has Sirius tried. But the thing about James is – is that he’s so observant when it’s the big things, the big moments, the bad days, but the smaller, more minute things? Things like Sirius asking him to go for coffee, have a chat – it goes over his head completely. Every time Sirius builds himself up, James bulldozes over his confidence with an enthusiastic rant about rugby, the weather, the shop, and Sirius deflates like a burst balloon. He can’t get angry with James. Not really. Because Sirius has a sneaking suspicion that he’s subconsciously grateful for James ruining the moment over, and over. If he was truly confident in letting his secret spill, he’d just bulldoze James right back. That’s how they work.

But, instead, Sirius says nothing.

Always nothing.

It’s becoming a problem, he’s aware. Especially with the way Remus is staring at him, now, expectant, and impatient. He’s just – he’s not good at opening up to people, at letting them in. There’s something there, though, with Remus. He feels it in the static buzzing between his ribs, the sparks buzzing at his fingertips. He doesn’t know what to do with the energy, doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. A loss of control.

It’s been less than twenty four hours since their… fight. In the Three Broomsticks’ beer garden. Remus called Sirius a pretentious prick, Sirius called Christopher a wet wipe. Remus’ lips felt so angry against his, so frustrated and raw, so. Nice. They haven’t spoken since. Not really. Not in any way that matters. Nothing other than the short, jabbing quips that once, were fun, but now are exhausting. Sirius doesn’t hate Remus. Not really. But he’s not sure he likes him either.

He’s scared and he’s confused, and Remus is looking at him like he should have all the answers and he doesn’t know what to do.

So, he shrugs, “I told you. I don’t know.”

Remus nods, he looks like he’d been expecting that answer. “I’m not just someone you can fuck around with until you figure out whatever posh boy gay crisis it is you’re having.”

Sirius has the nerve to scoff. The thing about Remus is. He’s incredibly good at giving what he gets. Sirius knows he’s cutthroat when he’s been backed into a corner. He has this evil monster in his head, in his chest, in the blood that thrums through his veins – it’s a by-product of being born a Black. Or maybe it’s just him. Maybe he grew up in a house so rotted, with a family so monstrous, that he never had any hope of being more than. But Remus is just as short, just as rude. It’s maddening. It inspires Sirius to challenge him, if only to feel the scorch of his lips, the electricity of his touch.

“I can’t do this right now.”

Remus flicks his fag across the road, pushes himself off the wall, “You’ve been saying that for as long as I’ve known you.”

“You don’t know me.” Sirius feels the need to remind Remus.

Because really, he doesn’t.

Remus Lupin knows jack shit about Sirius Black. Other than what he tastes like. What he sounds like. That he’s rotted and spoiled and probably a horrible person.

So, he knows a little.

But he’s never shown any interest in getting to know the good parts of Sirius. The loyalty. The unwavering fucking loyalty that Sirius gives out like rare change, but when you have it, you have it, and it never falters. The laughter, the jokes, the careful way he cares for each and every person he loves. He’s loud and abrasive, but Remus will never know he can be that way and not be an arsehole about it.

 Sirius won’t force him to see past what he wants to see. He’s accepted that maybe the reason Remus thinks he’s a terrible person is simple. Because he is.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Remus doesn’t say good-bye when he turns, yanks open the door to the shop and steps inside. Sirius hears the faint ringing of the bell, your voice calling out Remus’ name. He gives himself a moment. A moment to look at the door and hope that Remus will come back out and explain very plainly what it is he wants from Sirius. Because Sirius is at a loss. He doesn’t remember much about the night that he met Remus. Just the feeling of pure adrenaline he got from whatever haughty words they exchanged in the smoking area, the half-hearted scoffs and awkward chit chat of getting to know someone you really shouldn’t have any interest in getting to know. Remus was charming. He was quiet and mysterious, and he was rather blunt. Sirius didn’t mind. He likes to talk, likes to push, likes to know everyone’s secrets.

Power. Games. He never really got away from that. Just them.

He doesn’t remember how it got so heated, how they ended up millimetres away from each other’s faces, their breaths mingling and the static electricity winding its way around Sirius’ ribcage. But they did. And Remus’ lips. They were so rough, so demanding. So lovely. He remembers the way it overpowered him, the kiss, shook him to his core and turned his entire fucking life upside down. The thing Sirius can’t shake, though. The thing that tears him up inside – which he refuses to look at too deeply – is the look on Remus’ face when Sirius broke the kiss, took two steps back, announced that he wasn’t gay, and essentially took off running.

The thing is, Sirius isn’t gay.

At least, he’s ninety-nine percent sure he’s not.

He can’t be. He won’t be.

When Sirius is positive Remus isn’t coming back out, he leaves.

----

The bell dings above the shop door and Remus returns in a flash of fury. His jaw is set, eyes narrowed, and his lips twisted. It pulls at the scar on his cupids bow, makes it an angrier shade of red than it normally is. Usually, after a smoke break, Remus returns more relaxed, calm, a more pleasant version of the boy you’d originally sent outside to cool off after he kicked a box of freddos across the storeroom twenty minutes ago.

He stalks up to the till, doesn’t even check if there’s any customers present before he announces that, “Sirius Black is a fucking prick.”

You’re perched on the edge of the counter, flipping through a magazine. Sundays are generally slow days. All the week’s deliveries have arrived, the pull forwards have been done, the cleaning is done. All that’s really left to do is sit around and wait for customers to show up. Remus must not be expecting you to reply – probably because you never do when it comes to Sirius – because he huffs a breath before continuing through to the storeroom, likely to take his anger out on another unsuspecting box of chocolate. The door squeaks awfully behind him.

A head of Black hair flashes past the window, barely visibly above the promotion signs James is always tacking up. But it’s there. You see it. Sirius is stalking off in the direction of the Leaky. Remus’ frustration suddenly makes sense. Not saying anything to Remus about what you and James witnessed last night has been torture, especially when he’s been a moody sod all day. Sirius and Remus don’t make any logical sense. But then, you’ve never really given it much thought. Until last night, you were under the impression they’d sooner knock each other out before going at it like horny teenagers in the beer garden.

But you promised James you wouldn’t say anything. So, you don’t. You allow Remus to sulk and fume and take his frustration out on a box of freddos. Because that’s what friends do, you suppose.

Remus returns five minutes later looking cool, calm, and collected. He doesn’t offer an explanation nor an apology for his outburst. Instead, he travels around the counter to stand behind you and be ready to serve, should anyone come inside. You doubt they will, most of the village residents barely leave their homes on a Sunday, let alone past five in the afternoon. The silence is weighted. But then, you think, that’s probably because you know more than you should. Silence with Remus is usually comfortable. It sticks to your skin like humid air and makes you restless, unable to enjoy flicking through your magazine.

“What did he want?” You ask, eyes pointedly focussed on the article about this week’s fashion trends.

You’ve got one leg kicked up on the counter, balancing your magazine, and one dangling off the side, facing Remus, but you refuse to look up; terrified he’ll be able to see right through you.

He hums, “Who?”

“Sirius.”

Remus doesn’t respond for a minute. You imagine he’s trying to piece together how you know he was outside.

“Saw him stalking off towards the Leaky after you came in.” You offer.

“Right.”

“So?”

“So, what?” He asks.

You finally look up; Remus is already staring at you with nothing short of frustration written across his face. He purses his lips, shrugs a non-committal shrug, “The usual. To be a prick.”

“Right.”

“Why does it sound like you don’t believe that?” Remus asks, crossing his arms across his chest.

It’s your turn to shrug. You flip the page of your magazine, eyes downcast. “Just doesn’t seem like Sirius to go out of his way to be a prick.”

Remus scoffs but doesn’t say anything else.

The rest of the shift passes in silence.

James comes to lock up because you forgot your keys at home, this morning, and Monty offered to send James before he left earlier on. It feels like walking on eggshells when he shows up, asks how the day went, and Remus is still in his horrible, sulky mood. You avoid eye contact as you clear lottery tickets and scratch cards from behind the till, making polite conversation as James counts the money inside the tills. He knows you hate numbers – he does it without asking.

Remus doesn’t offer much of a goodbye when he leaves, just tells James he’ll see him on Wednesday and goes. You deflate when the door closes behind him, tension seeping out of your shoulders. James frowns after him, “What’s up with him?”

“Sirius stopped by, earlier.” You fiddle with the clipper display, moving the lighters around as though you have a particular order that you’d like them to be in.

“What did he want?” James asks, locking the till.

You shrug, “They were outside. Couldn’t hear. But Remus has been in a right mood since he left.”

James doesn’t say anything, just sighs and rubs his hands across his face.

Then, “I owe you an apology. For last night. I shouldn’t have been so forceful with you not telling them you know. Sometimes I forget Sirius is an adult who doesn’t need to have his feelings protected.”

He looks earnest, sincere. You hadn’t really thought any bad of James for cornering you the way he did. Honestly, you’d admired how much he cared about Sirius in that moment, how he didn’t think, just reacted in the best possible interest of his best friend.

“S’okay.” You nod, offering James a kind smile.

It’s weird, to have a normal conversation with no one watching, no flirting, no innuendos. It’s nice.

James shakes his head, his half-damp hair moving with him. He looks freshly showered, probably is, you know he had rugby practice today. He’s wearing his rugby hoodie and his gym shorts. He looks boyish and cute, and when he offers you a lopsided smile your heart stutters.

“It’s not. I felt the way you tensed when I grabbed your wrist, I shouldn’t have done that.”

You laugh a little breathily, “That-“ You try, stop, try again, “That wasn’t because I was scared or, or anything. It was just,” You trail off, hoping James accepts that as answer.

How incredibly embarrassing would it be to tell James that you’d been so tense because his touch felt like blazing fire against your skin, made your heart stop, your head spin, your stomach grow butterflies. Pathetic, really.

James looks lost but nods slowly anyway.

“Right, well. That’s us done, so you’re free to go. I’ve a few things to grab from the office and I’ll lock up on my way out.”

“Right, cheers. See you tomorrow, Jamie.”

James’ face brightens at the nickname, his smile wide and teasing, “Tomorrow.”

[ghostlywhiskey]

SIMON RILEY IS GIRL DAD CODED

your probably like no shot that man is a boy dad through and through. i beg to differ. he'd be a single dad to one daughter. and if he marries anyone? he's having another 2 girls before the 4th kid is a boy.

girl dad!simon ✿ will sit on the floor by the coffee table and hold a tiny teacup because she wants to have a tea party

girl dad!simon ✿ looking so out of place when shopping for clothes, holding up a variety of pink colored articles of clothing while other moms in the store watch him

girl dad!simon ✿ trying to brush her hair in the morning before school while she stands on the stool brushing her teeth in the bathroom and does the most off-center ponytail

girl dad!simon ✿ holding a pink blankey and stuffed animal in his hands when they go to the park so she can run around and not get them dirty

girl dad!simon ✿ he tries getting her to play soccer, but she refuses and wants to do ballet

girl dad!simon ✿ with that being said, he lets her do ballet and sits in the parents section of the studio, shifting uncomfortably in the seat as he waits...once again, all the moms are staring at him and whispering

girl dad!simon ✿ 100% owns the cheesy shirt that says girl dad on it because for his birthday she had her babysitter help her buy it

girl dad!simon ✿ gets absolutely embarrassed when she tries to set up her non-married teachers with him and they bring it up at parent teacher conferences

girl dad!simon ✿ has two photos tucked away in the pocket of his uniform when on missions - one of her on his lap & the both of them wearing princess themed birthday hats and the other a picture of her from her first day of 1st grade (year 2 in uk?? idk how it works)

girl dad!simon ✿ price, gaz and soap are honorary uncles and always ask about her, never make fun of him for being a girl dad and how serious he is about it because they know they'd be knocked out

girl dad!simon ✿ both of them falling asleep on the couch when he lets her stay up late when he's home, a disney princess movie playing quietly in the background

[ukbathroomshoponline]

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[thekidsfromyestergay]

It's so funny to see people in the notes of that post like "well actually I'm in the UK and I rarely ever experience transphobia". Good for you but I'm literally sitting in a coffee shop listening to someone talk about how they agree with the new bathroom laws to stop "men pretending to be women" from using them because "if they have to stay at home, they can't keep exposing kids to it" 👍

[tilesforever]

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[separatist-apologist]

Straight To My Head

I want to be where you are

Summary: All Nesta wants is to live outside of London in peace. She would like nothing more than days filled with books and quiet- a dream made impossible by the Scotsman determined to relive past battle glories on her front lawn

Big thanks to @dustjacketmusings who gave me the idea of LARP-ing Cassian, and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant once again.

Part 1/2: I Want To Be Where You Are | Read AO3

Six months before:

“Your Uncle Rupert has died.”

Nesta didn’t bother looking up from her book, despite how terribly rude it was to read at the dinner table. Beside her, Feyre was scrolling through her phone, a frown pinching her face. It left only Elain to set her spoon neatly against a folded napkin and ask, “Uncle Rupert?”

“He was your mothers uncle,” their father replied, drawing both Nesta and Feyre’s attention toward him. He looked absurd in his polo get up, an aging man trying desperately hard to fit in. He reminded her of the girls from school and their lack of personality outside of whatever the latest trend was. It was all terribly boring. 

And so was he. 

“Oh. How terribly tragic,” Elain, ever dutiful, waited to see if there was anything else expected of her. Nesta knew Elain well, and though she was far too polite to ever show it, she cared just as little as Feyre and Nesta did. 

“He’s left you girls an inheritance,” their father continued, drawing a soft sigh of annoyance from Feyre. 

“Oh?” Elain questioned, examining her immaculate nails that held the garishly ugly diamond Graysen had given her. Nesta was biding her time, certain her younger sister would realize was a dull, preening asshole he was and call it off…but just in case, Nesta also intended to throw Elain an intervention under the guise of a bachelorette party. 

She had time. At least a year.

Maybe more, depending on what this inheritance was.

“Castles. Three castles—one for each of you.”

“Why would he do that?” Feyre asked bluntly, echoing both Nesta and Elain’s thoughts. Their father only shrugged.

“Perhaps he was hoping to elevate the three of you.”

Nesta scoffed. Of course their father would think so. All he cared about was more. More money, more power—more than they could ever need, could ever use. Nesta wanted no part of it. 

“Where are these castles, exactly?” Nesta asked, finally setting her book down to look him dead in the face. 

“I think I’ll turn mine into a bed and breakfast,” Elain murmured, eyes shining as she mentally began planning.

“You don’t even know where it is,” Feyre interrupted. “What if it's crumbling? What if it’s in the middle of nowhere or what if it’s filled with ghosts. What if—”

“Feyre,” Elain interrupted, eyes wide. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure we weren’t given the crumbling wreckage of some haunted estate.”

Now:

Famous last words. 

Nesta often thought of Elain’s certainty. While Feyre and Elain began remodeling, Nesta hadn’t needed to. Of the three, hers was in the best condition, though it needed a heating source outside of fireplaces, and she’d used the money their uncle had also left for renovations to revamp the electric.

After that, Nesta had wasted all of the rest of that obscene allowance on furniture and art, furnishings for the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen—and the library. Nesta had poured so much time and attention into her library that some nights she fell asleep in the oversized white chair just beside the window. 

She’d never imagined herself anywhere but London.

Now she was certain she’d never go back. She’d fallen in love with the solitude, with the Scottish Highlands and the town that existed at the base of the hillside her castle had been built upon. It was as old as the stones themselves, and the people were far nicer than anyone in London on their best day. 

Nesta would often walk down the steep pathway where she’d have lunch in the little tavern and buy a book at the shop, which was well-stocked with romance, before making her way to the loch where she’d fall asleep on a blanket, reading the new book she’d purchased. 

It was exactly like one of her stories.

Save for him, of course.

All books needed a romantic hero. A man who was both handsome and interesting. Cassian MacDougall was certainly the first—at least six foot five and built like a warrior of old, with dark brown hair that hung against broad shoulders, and hazel eyes that were more brown than green. 

Not that Nesta was paying that much attention. Not of the closely trimmed beard against the sharp cut of his jaw. Certainly not of his tattooed arms and chest, which were often bare, his golden brown skin gleaming with sweat given he so often forewent a shirt. He did wear a kilt—a red and blue plaid that offered a rather nice view of his muscled knees.

The problem with Cassian was his personality. Before she’d moved in, Cassian had taken to staging loud battles on her front lawn—it was, apparently, the sight of a very famous Scottish victory in some long forgotten battle against the English. 

Nesta had merely asked him to stop doing it so close to her window. She wasn’t even unreasonable the first time. 

Could you move further down the hill? She’d asked him, intimidated by his largeness, by how obscenely handsome he was.

He’d shot her a grin, and then turned to his friends. “Did ye hear that, lads?! The Englishwoman wants us to clear out!”Everyone had laughed, and Nesta had been humiliated. 

Now it was a battle of the wills between them. The nearby town of Killin was swarmed with tourists during the Spring and Summer months, and Cassian made some of his money by taking tourists on a trip through Scottish history—or so Emerie, the woman who owned the local grocery store, had told Nesta. Spring had officially arrived just that morning, and Nesta was wholly unprepared for the sounds of violence wafting through the open windows. 

She was going to kill him. It wasn’t even eight in the morning. Rising from her chair in the empty dining room table, Nesta marched through the quiet halls of her castle. Had her uncle known about this when he’d given her this cursed place? Had she angered him once when she’d been a child?

Nesta didn’t know how to reconcile her love of her home with her hatred of Cassian. He was just as willful, just as stubborn, and perhaps worst of all, determined to push her out. 

She’d embarrass him right back. She swore she would. If he’d taken money from people and led them up here, she’d ruin his reputation on Yelp, too. She’d read them—just to know how best to ruin him—and everyone liked Cassian. 

Everyone but her.

He was there, in his kilt and a sword and, mercifully, a breezy white shirt. He’d brought all his friends with him, some dressed in the stuffy red and white uniforms that had once belonged to the English. They had bayonets attached to guns, none of it sharp enough to wound, and somehow, someone had managed to roll a replica cannon onto the immaculate grass. 

She froze, heart hammering at the sheer scale of what was happening—it was fake, and yet her brain and body reacted as though it were real. Not far from her, an Englishman fell to the ground with a groan, clutching at this chest before going utterly silent. 

Nesta couldn’t take her eyes off him. Memories of her mothers death flooded through her, as vivid as the battle raging around her. No one else had been in the room when her mother took those last, rattling breaths but Nesta, who had been only eleven. Nesta had spent those six months caring for their mother while she fell victim to aggressive, incurable cancer. Back then, she hadn’t understood that it would take far more than her love and devotion to save her mother. 

Elain and Feyre had been too young to take on that burden, and their father too buried and work and grief. It left only Nesta to witness death, to be there in the final last moments. 

She’d refused to speak about it, and rarely allowed herself to even think about death. Something had solidified that day, had become hard and Nesta’s will was unbreakable.

And right then, in the early morning sun, she felt it fracture. Just a little, just enough to empty out her mind. Nesta forgot why she’d gone out in the first place, or what she was doing until warm, strong hands lifted her up in the air and began moving her.

A breath of fear wooshed out of her, palms slapping against a muscular back. Cassian—his shirt plastered to his sweat soaked skin—was carrying her across the grounds as he announced, “And we’d take any English lass for our own!” 

Revulsion flooded through her. 

“Put me down!” she ordered, afraid he was going to accidentally flash a crowd of tourists with her underwear. 

Cassian did as he was told, grinning ear to ear. “Everyone applaud for Lady Nesta. She’s a good sport, playing the part of stuffy English broad.”

Tourists in fanny packs, Hawaiian shirts, and thick socks to their knees, offered her a round of polite clapping. She’d come here to humiliate him, and as he so often did, it was Cassian who’d gained the upper hand. Nesta tried to turn, to leave him there, but his hand shot around her waist, holding her firmly against him. 

He rattled off battle facts for a solid ten minutes, fingers digging against the fabric of her blue maxi dress. It was only when he finished, and one of his friends began herding people toward the path that Cassian turned to face her.

Nesta’s heart raced. “What do ye think ye’re doing?” he demanded, dropping his hand as though she disgusted him. 

“Me?” she replied, adopting an imperiously cold tone in order to mask her own fear. “This is my home, Cassian.”

He scoffed. “For how long, Nes?”

She hated when he called her that. Hated the familiar, intimate nickname of the fact he’d given her one at all. No one had ever dared. 

“Excuse me?” she demanded.

He flinched as if she’d slapped him. “How long,” he repeated, enunciating his words with that faux British accent she hated. He was forever mocking her. “How long before you pack up and move out? Another couple months?”

“I’ll be here forever,” Nesta hissed, hoping he believed her. “I’ll be chasing your children off this lawn one day.”

Cassian’s laugh was humorless. “Oh, I believe ye will. I hope ye’re ready for that. I intend tae be prolific.”

“You’d have to find a willing woman, first,” she replied, holding his stare. “And from what I’ve seen, they don’t find you charming. I wonder why that is?”

“So concerned about my bedroom habits, are ye?”

She’d kill him. “What’s to be concerned about? A man in love with his hand is terribly common.”

Cassian took a step toward her, staring down his nose. He was terribly handsome, a brutal prince with that scar slashed over his thick eyebrow and those eyes that she swore saw right through her.

“If ye want to know what I’m like in bed, ye only have to ask.”

“I don’t fuck animals,” Nesta snapped, praying he couldn’t tell how quickly her heart was beating. She turned, not daring to continue this conversation. It was far too dangerous. 

Nesta made it all of two steps before his fingers curled around her wrist, turning her so roughly she stumbled into his chest. Nesta inhaled without thinking, drinking the scent of snow capped wind and cedar and the way the sun smelled against the salt of his skin.

She reached with her free hand and slapped him as hard as she could, right against his jaw. 

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she ordered. Cassian’s eyes widened, dropping her as he reached for the blooming mark of red against his skin. 

Nesta marched off, though it hardly felt like victory. She was certain she’d lost far more than just her side of that argument. Cassian’s booming laughter chased her back in doors, where Nesta remained even after he returned that afternoon. 

She couldn’t face him.

And she certainly couldn’t face herself—or her memories.

-*-

“I heard a rumor about ye,” Emerie called as Nesta browsed the shelves of her shop. 

“Oh?” Nesta replied, putting a bag of pasta in her little shopping basket.

“I heard Cassian made ye part of his reenactment last week.”

A groan slipped from Nesta before she could stifle it. “Bragging, is he?”

Emerie’s laugh was a pretty sound. “Of course. He’s tae stupid to realize the reason ye bother him so much is because he has a crush on ye. Like a schoolboy tugging on yer braids.”

“Gross,” Nesta responded. Though, Emerie had grown up with Cassian. Surely she could shed light on why he was so…so…Cassian? “Why is he single?”

Emerie’s brown eyes danced with delight. “Thinking about him, tae?”

“Nope. Just curious, that’s all.”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t be curious? Maybe ye should ask him. I’m sure he’d tell ye all about it…maybe over candlelight and—”

“Okay, that’s quite enough,” Nesta grumbled to more laughter. She collected the rest of her groceries while Emerie filled her in on gossip that didn’t center around Cassian, before bidding her a good day. Nesta had never had true friends, and wasn’t sure if Emerie could even be counted as one. She might have, if Nesta could muster the courage to ask her to do something—anything. 

But she couldn’t. So Nesta left knowing a little more about the people of Killin and the sense that some of her loneliness was self-imposed. She couldn’t even pretend it was her mothers death that had made her cold. Even as a child, no one had wanted to play with her. None of the other children liked her. 

“Ah, mo chridhe,” Cassian called, jogging up the path that led from the edge of the village toward the castle. “I’ve been looking for ye.”

“I can’t see why,” Nesta sniffed, even as Cassian pulled her heavy canvas bag filled with her groceries and slung it over his broad shoulder. “Do you intend to hold my groceries hostage, too?”

“I’ve come to talk with ye,” he replied, one hand thrown up in defense. “About business.”

“I have no business with you.”

“C’mon, Nes,” he pleaded, drawing her attention toward him. “I’ve been staging battles at Killin Castle for five years now.”

“There is land all around you, Cassian. Surely you can move it.”

“Aye, I could, but the castle adds a certain majesty. And it allows me tae charge more—hold on, don’t look at me like that. I’ll give ye a percentage for your trouble.”

“Fifty percent.”

“Take my fucking balls too,” he grumbled. “Thirty.”

“Thirty percent of your total profits just so you can pretend to kill the English on my lawn?” Nesta asked, arching a brow. 

“Forty if ye let me haul you off again.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Thirty it is, then. In exchange, ye’ll leave me be while I’m working—”

“And you’ll stay further away from the windows,” Nesta replied, pausing to both catch her breath and stare him down. Cassian didn’t seem winded at all, lovely beneath a waning sun.

“Fine.”

“And I want a schedule,” she said, hands on her hips.

“Anything else? My fucking cock and balls on a silver tray, tae?”

“You can keep those,” she sniffed, not wanting to think of either. Cassian didn’t protest, didn’t offer her a filthy remark. He was grinning, as if he’d gotten everything he wanted. Nesta hated to see him so happy.

“This is time limited, Cassian. Just until the summer is over. And then I want you gone. Out of my life.”

“It’s a small town, Nes,” he replied with mock solemnity. “I cannae leave.”

“You can avoid me.”

“What makes ye think I’d want that?”

Having reached the top of the hill, and the end of her patience, Nesta reached for her bag. Cassian pulled just out of reach, eyes searching her own. She didn’t like the look of contemplation on his face, or how serious he’d suddenly become. 

“What about what I want, Cassian? Which is peace, and a moment free of the chaos you drag with you.”

“Ye might like it, mo chridhe.”

Nesta glared. “We could have had an amicable relationship months ago. This is all we have now, Cassian. Give me my things.”

He handed her the bag with a rueful smile. “It’s a pleasure working with ye.”

“If only I could say the same, Cassian.”

He merely grinned, which annoyed her more. She took off, daring only once to glance over her shoulder. Cassian remained at the top of the hill, his dark hair blowing around his face while he watched her. He raised a hand in a wave, one Nesta did not return. She didn’t trust this new, helpful Cassian.

Whatever angle he was working would only hurt her if she chose to believe it.

Nesta had learned that lesson with Tomas not a year before.

Nesta wasn’t going to learn it again. 

-*- 

The thing about Cassian, Nesta learned, was that he woke early. He scheduled his mock battles every day at nine am like clockwork. Nesta was rarely up that early and no matter how she tried, could not fall back asleep. He’d taped his schedule to her front door rather than knock and wake her up, which detailed a seven day schedule in which he reenacted two battles monday through friday, and four on saturday and sunday. It seemed brutal, and yet when he came by, sweaty and grinning that Sunday night with a check, Nesta stopped complaining. 

If that was thirty percent, no wonder Cassian had been adamant about continuing. Nesta tucked it away, strangely uncomfortable with taking his money. All through spring, Cassian faithfully left money in the little mailbox, and from April to June, Nesta did her very best to avoid him entirely. 

She was avoiding everyone. Even herself. Most days, Nesta left her phone uncharged so she didn’t have to see the incoming messages from Elain. Elain, planning her wedding and somehow managing to deal with what seemed like an incredibly irritable tenant of the castle she’d been left, still checked in. Still asked after her—still wanted to know what had happened to chase Nesta out of London so abruptly.

The joke about becoming a bog witch had never meant to shape her reality. Sometimes she wondered if Elain hadn’t heard. If she didn’t know about Tomas, what he’d said.

What he’d tried to do. 

As the weather warmed, and more people flooded into the town, Nesta retreated further into the castle where no one could see her. The mere idea of going out filled Nesta with trembling fear. There was too much left to chance, too much chaos and in response, Nesta found herself practically eating in the library. It was the only place that felt safe anymore.

That. And somehow, Cassian, who’d begun knocking on the front door to offer her up money.

She made her way through the open grand hall, eyeing cobwebs clinging to the overhead chandelier. She needed to find someone who could do some cleaning for her.

Nesta pulled open the old, iron handle to find Cassian, his hair half pulled off his head in a messy bun. He was in his kilt, a stable given how often he played the battle warrior, though it was paired with a plain black t-shirt that showed off both his bulging biceps and his collarbone, teased by the little vee just in the front.

“For ye,” he said, holding out an envelope. As she reached for it, Cassian ducked around her, stepping onto the stone floor. He whistled with appreciation.

“I’ve always wondered what this place looked like.” “It looks like a castle,” Nesta replied, the door still open. “Get out.”

Cassian looked her over. “Are ye eating up here?”

“How is that any of your concern?” she asked, hating how her cheeks warmed under his appraisal.

“Emerie said ye aren’t coming down as often. She’s worried about ye, asked me tae check in. I’m checking, Nes. You look tired.”

“You wake me up early,” she replied, though they both knew that wasn’t it.

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen?”

“Nope. I’m perfectly fine. I’ll see Emerie—”

“Why not let me buy ye something tae eat?” he suggested. “At tae Ensnaring Snake. A pint and something else? Whatever ye want.”

“I don’t need your charity, Cassian. I can have a drink without your leering presence.”

“Ah, but what fun would it be without me?” he asked, a roguish grin on his face. “Come down. Even if ye ignore me the entire time.”

There was no way.

“Unless,” he added casually, unaware of how her heart thudded in her throat. “Ye’re scared.”

“I’m not scared!” Nesta snapped. “Now get out, Cassian!”

“Anything, mo chridhe,” he replied, all but sauntering out. She might have believed his swaggering, male bravado, had he not turned to look at her with those worried eyes. It prompted her, once the door was slammed shut in his face, to go up to the bathroom. She supposed she had gotten a little thinner…and the circles beneath her eyes had become far more pronounced. She was paler, too, though she could blame that on avoiding the sun. Nesta couldn’t remember the last time she’d drank any water.

Or eaten a vegetable.

She showered, braiding her hair in a crown around her head like she so often did. Her hands shook as she buttoned up a pale purple dress and laced up her shoes. She couldn’t bring herself to put on make-up, or do anything else that might draw attention to herself. 

You’re so fuckint hot, Nesta. You know it, don’t you, with those eyes—those tits—

Nesta wanted to scream. Hand frozen on the handle, she almost turned around. Tomas’s voice, the feel of him pressed against her, how he’d—no. She took a breath, cleared her throat, and marched out into the waning sunlight. There was no way Nesta would let Cassian think she was afraid of going outside.

Even if he was right.

It wasn’t the outdoors that made her nervous. It was all the people, it was the things she couldn’t control. 

By the time she made it down the hill and into the center of the village, Emerie had closed up for the day. A little handwritten note told Nesta exactly where she was. 

The Ensnaring Snake. 

It had Cassian written all over it. Still, despite how it made her palms sweat, Nesta very carefully made her way toward the tavern she’d once enjoyed eating in. Back when there was no one but familiar faces and the streets were mostly empty.

Now it was packed. Nesta pushed the door open just enough to see Cassian at the far end of he room, head thrown back with laughter at something someone at the table had said. His hair was loose, and he’d foregone the kilt for a pair of regular jeans. He looked so normal—and of course he had friends. She didn’t know why that surprised her. She didn’t know why the sight of a rather pretty blonde running her finger over his bare arm made Nesta back out of the doorway.

Why she suddenly felt so stupid. She hadn’t come for him. 

She didn’t care about him. 

“Hey!” 

Nesta ignored the male voices behind her—and the jarring, American accents that seemed so wildly out of place. Arms wrapped around her body, she meant to trudge back home and pretend none of this had happened. 

“Hey,” that voice called, dragging the sound of heavy steps over cobblestone with it. A moment later, a hand was on Nesta’s shoulder. She jumped nearly out of her skin, twisting to look at three unfamiliar faces. Each of them reeked of whiskey, and were likely looking for more fun than the village had to offer. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t touch me,” she ordered, earning snickering laughs. 

“Or what?” the first, a bleach blonde with a pair of sunglasses clipped to his t-shirt, asked. “We’re just being nice.”

“Oh? Is this considered polite, where you’re from?”

More laughter. Nesta’s heart raced even as she told herself nothing was going to happen. They were having a laugh at her expense but they’d slink off when they realized they were getting nowhere.

“We could be much more polite,” that first step, lunging forward. Nesta stumbled back, falling to the ground and bashing her elbow against the rough cobblestone. Pain ricocheted through her while her eyes smarted. More humiliation, brought low by men she hated. 

Nesta scrambled back to her feet, turning without looking at any of them.

“Aw, sweetheart, come back,” they called, laughing loudly. Nesta started to turn for the castle, thinking she’d race up the hill and lock herself up until morning came. 

But they were still behind her, trailing after her while whistling and making other little sounds with their tongues and teeth. Cassian could crest that hill without breaking a sweat, but Nesta was slow—they’d catch her.

She sped up, trying to think of where she could go. Panic was making her clumsy, was making her stupid. She should have turned around and gone back into the tavern where anyone could see. Emerie was in there, she would have helped. 

Instead, Nesta picked up her steps, hoping they’d get tired of following her when they realized she was heading out of the village. And when they didn’t—when they tried to get closer—Nesta took off running. 

They followed, their shadows jumping ahead even as the sun vanished over the hillside. Nesta could only hear her pounding feet and her nervous heart. She was heading for the loch, the absolute worst place to be given there was unlikely to be anywhere out there. Just her, a body of water, and three very drunk tourists looking to have fun at her expense. 

Nesta slowed, trying to figure out her next move.

“Tired, babe?” One of them called.

“I can think of something else that’ll tire her out,” another replied. Nesta was inching closer and closer to the dock, wondering if she could swim far enough out that they’d finally leave. Or if that was stupid, and they’d just jump in after her where she’d be well and truly fucked. 

She couldn’t go past them. Glancing over her shoulder saw the three of them walking in a solid line. They’d catch her. 

“Please stop,” one of them called, jogging after her. Nesta surged forward, her feet touching the dock before she felt those fingers on her arm again. “Why are you running?”

She wanted to die. “You’re chasing me.”

“You don’t have to run. We don’t want to hurt you,” he lied, his eyes absolutely betraying him. She’d seen that look before, had watched another man’s gaze dip below her chin, taking in her body, wondering what it would feel like to just have her, regardless of her own feelings on the matter.

“Take your hands off me.”

The other two laughed and laughed. “Or what?”

“Or—”

“Or I’ll kill ye,” came another, familiar voice. Nesta could have sobbed at the sound, had never been happier than she was just then to see Cassian strolling up, deceptively casual. He cocked his head, dark hair spilling around him as he waited.

That first man looked from Cassian to Nesta and then, with a smile that clearly said he thought Cassian was outmatched, replied, “Oh? She’s yours?”

Cassian didn’t smile. “Find out.”

Nesta was so busy watching Cassian  that she’d stopped watching the others. She didn’t see that hand shove toward her, didn’t realize he’d decided to call Cassian’s bluff until she stumbled backwards. 

She hit the water with a choked scream. She flailed for a moment, twisting around before pushing upward. The water was dark, was colder than she’d expected, though not so cold she couldn’t still think straight. 

She broke the surface a moment before she heard a splash, and then felt him, arms around her.

“Don’t hit me,” Cassian warned breathlessly.

“Where did they go?” Nesta demanded, letting Cassian drag her back to the dock. He hoisted her up effortlessly before joining her. Water sluiced off him, though he hardly seemed to notice. His eyes burned, and when he reached for her, she saw his knuckles were bloody and had begun to swell and bruise.

“They’re gone,” he said tightly. He swallowed some unnamed emotion, looking her over.

“Unharmed,” she said, resisting the urge to draw her knees up to her chest. Instead, Nesta gingerly rose to her feet, weighed down by the heavy fabric of her dress and her wounded pride. 

“I saw ye,” he said, following her up. “In the tavern. I saw ye come in and I—”

He’d followed her. Nesta might have asked him why another night. Might have berated him for thinking she’d want his attention. Instead, Nesta forced herself to take a breath.

“Will you walk me home?”

Cassian swallowed again. “Yeah. I—is this my fault, Nes?”

“No, Cassian,” she said, suddenly exhausted. 

“I was trying to rile ye up. Get ye out of that castle. I feel like…”

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated. 

It’s mine, she nearly added, though she kept it behind her teeth.

“Why didnae ye run home, mo chridhe? Why’d ye come out here?”

“The hill,” she whispered, trying so hard not to let him see how rattled she was. Cassian looked down, eyebrows raised with surprise. 

“Can I show ye something?”

And right then, Nesta would have let Cassian do anything he liked so long as he didn’t leave her.

“Sure.”

“Cassian,” Nesta began when he opened the door to the Ensnaring Snake.

“Trust me,” he replied, placing a careful hand on her bruised elbow. Inside, music and laughter flooded Nesta’s senses, and for a moment she expected him to lead her back to his table. She almost wanted him to, though she was in no mood to make conversation. It might have been nice to hear him introduce her to his friends, to sit her down and buy her that pint like he’d promised.

He wove in and out of the tables, nodding when people called his name. His touch was light—careful. Like he knew better than to do any more.

Like he knew what she didn’t like about it. 

There was no way to explain to him that his touch had never bothered her. She’d have to tell him that she noticed his eyes, how they stayed on her face. How even when he’d been surveying her that morning, he’d been looking with concern—not desire. Not lewd appreciation. And how even when Cassian was manhandling her, his hands never went anywhere inappropriate, though it would have been all too easy for him to cop a feel and play it off like an accident.

She wondered if he even realized it. 

Cassian took her around the back of the bar, pulling open an old, wooden door that clearly led to a cellar.

“Cassian,” Nesta tried again.

“Trust me,” he repeated. Nesta opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t trust him at all. But she could see his swollen knuckles from the corner of her eye, and thought of how quick he must have been to hit them hard enough to hurt himself and jump into the water after her. He hadn’t had to do either. He could have left her. Could have walked away.

So Nesta followed him down into the musty dark, wishing she could grab his arm. 

“I used tae come here when I was wee,” Cassian explained, leading her around packing boxes and crates toward another, sturdier door. “You’ll still have to go uphill, but it takes ye right to the castle.”

Nesta was still sopping wet, exhausted and wrung out. She looked up at him, wanting him to go with her. She couldn’t ask.

“Thank you,” she said instead, turning toward that dark.

“I’ll see ye up,” Cassian said gruffly.

And together, they plunged into that darkness. 

-*-

“What do you mean, married?” Nesta demanded, phone to her ear as she stomped out of the bookshop. “How can she marry a fictional man?” “He’s not fictional,” came Elain’s patient voice. “I looked him up. Rhysand Campbell is a Duke. I guess that’s why she kept such a tight lid on him back home.”“A Duke? For Feyre?!” Nesta spluttered, trying to imagine wild, carefree Feyre marrying into ancient, outdated royalty. She’d always expected that of Elain, if anyone. 

“I’m going to meet him next week, so I’ll let you know. But he seems very accomplished, and he’s quite handsome.”

“Is she sure?” Nesta asked, not thinking about her path until she was already on it. “Marriage is just so…”

She trailed off, remembering that Elain was engaged. Hell. She hadn’t meant to insult her, though the tense, following silence made Nesta think she had. “How er…how is that going?”

“I called it off,” Elain finally said, her voice strange and small. “Just yesterday.”

“Did he do something?” Nesta demanded, readjusting the blanket she was caring beneath her arm. “Because I’ll kill him—”

“It’s all handled,” Elain assured her quickly. “I don’t expect him to give me any trouble.”

“What does that mean? Handled how?” Nesta demanded. Elain was so nice it practically made her a doormat. Nesta didn’t believe for a single second that Elain had truly handled anything, and wondered if the engagement had been called off for infidelity. Graysen wouldn’t give her trouble because he’d already moved on.

“Drop it, Nesta,” Elain replied firmly. 

“Fine. But if you need help—”

“I don’t. Everything here is fine. How are you doing? Did you ever get rid of that guy role playing on your lawn?”

Nesta started to say that she and Cassian had reached a truce of sorts, which wasn’t quite the truth and not exactly a lie, either. Instead, Nesta said, “Erm…let me call you back.” Because there, in the middle of the glittering water, stood a very shirtless, possibly naked Cassian. Gleaming in the sunlight, his head tipped back so the rays might warm his face. He didn’t look real and Nesta didn’t know what to do. 

He wasn’t alone. Along the shore, children splashed and kicked up water while others floated around him, oblivious to what Nesta was seeing. She wondered what the whorling, inked tattoos on his shoulders and chest meant.

And as she wondered, her eyes drifted down the packed muscles against his ribs, toward the carved vee of his hips. Nesta could scarcely breathe, had forgotten what she was supposed to be doing until her eyes came back to his face.

He was looking at her, too. Shit eating grin etched over his handsome face, one hand raised upward to beckon her to join him.

Hell.

Nesta turned, embarrassed she’d been caught ogling him. She would not submit to any of his humiliating taunts or those burning eyes that promised far more than Nesta thought she wanted. Of course, Cassian couldn’t bask in his victory, of knowing some diseased part of her was attracted to him, despite their strange push-pull between animosity and friendship. He was behind her in a pair of bright red swim trunks and nothing else, jogging up the path while Nesta tried desperately to escape him. 

“Why are ye leaving?” he asked, running a hand through his still wet hair. “Come swim.”

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I just remembered—”

“Oh, bullshit, mo chridhe,” he replied. “There is nothing to do but sit up at that miserable stack of rocks. Swim with me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay, then do something else with me,” he replied.

“Why would I do that?” she asked, rounding on him. That was a mistake. Cassian was far closer than she thought, and when she stopped, he kept going. He kept her from tumbling backward, wrapping a slick around her and pressing her into his chest.

She hated how good it felt to touch him. To feel him hold her, to keep her close for a moment before he let her go.

“Why not?” he asked, strangely breathless. “Ye’ve been here half a year—don’t ye want friends?”

“Is that what we are?” she asked, distracted by how close he was, by how nearly naked he was. It took no effort to try and picture what the rest of him might be like…and it would have been a lie to say she wasn’t curious if all of him was large. 

“Yes?” he asked, clearly frustrated. “I thought so.”

“I don’t want to swim,” she repeated, though in truth, Nesta didn’t want to do anything with him right now. It was too risky to be alone with him. She’d touch him, she’d get on her knees and do any number of terrible, filthy things to him. Nesta couldn’t breathe. She needed to escape him. 

“Something else?” he asked, not moving an inch. His eyes were glazed over, staring right through her. Nesta blinked.

“I er…another day, Cass.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I should—” he turned abruptly. Had she upset him? Nesta watched him for a moment before she turned, too, unwilling to get caught staring at him again. Nesta didn’t allow herself to think of him at all. For the rest of the day, every time the image of him standing in the water, Nesta banished it quickly and busied herself in some other task.

Right up until night fell, and she could crawl into bed.

Only then did Nesta allow herself to think about Cassian. 

-*-

“Rhysand is missing,” Elain whispered to Nesta. Nesta, still guarding the door where Feyre was speaking with a Duke, turned to look at her sister, eyes wide.

“I’ll kill him,” Nesta hissed, biting her bottom lip.

“His friends are here,” Elain said, running through a mental list of guests. “I’ll see if they know where he is. Don’t move,” Elain added, finger in the air.

“This whole thing is a disaster,” Nesta grumbled, hating the pitying look Elain threw her. Nesta knew, realistically, that Elain had done her best with the guest list and she was terrible at telling their father no. And Elain had called ahead of time to warn Nesta that the Mandray’s had secured an invitation.

Everyone wanted to see Feyre Archeron marry a Duke. Social parasites and other hanger-oners had flooded into the lovely castle all day, marveling over the architecture and hoping to rub elbows with real royalty.

Nesta didn’t think Elain had managed to get anyone but Duke Campbell, just as she didn’t think Feyre was aware her wedding had turned into the event of the year. Nesta was desperate to avoid the majority of London, and planned to catch a ride back with Elain in the morning. Just to the train station—she’d make the rest of the way back on her own, even if she had to walk. 

There was no way she was spending a weekend with Tomas Mandray.

Elain returned, accompanied by a familiar, grinning face. “Well, well, well,” Cassian said, running his hand down a buttoned down, black shirt. He wore that red and blue kilt and black socks that came up over his knees, a sporran around his hips.

“Do you two know each other?” Elain asked.

“This is the gentleman roleplaying on my lawn,” Nesta said. The man beside him, dressed identically, though his kilt was primarily blue plaid. 

“Role-playing, Cass?” he asked.

“This is Cassian?” Elain replied, eyebrows raised to the sky.

“Have ye been talking about me?” Cassian asked Nesta with a lopsided smile. “What else does she say?”

“That you’re exceptionally obnoxious,” Elain replied, earning a laugh from the other man.

“All true,” he murmured, before adding, “Azriel.”

They were given no more time for pleasantries before Feyre emerged, flushed and practically glowing. She didn’t seem concerned that her fiancé was missing—only annoyed. Elain ordered them to split up, which Azriel did without complaint—but Cassian did not.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said just as soon as Elain and Azriel were out of earshot. “I didnae know Feyre was yer sister. I should have guessed, I supposed, given what a hard time she’s given my brother.”

“Good for her,” Nesta replied before adding, “Brother?”

“Not in tae biblical sense. Rhys and I met when he was at a posh boarding school and trying to buy whiskey on the weekend.”

“Let me guess—you sold him the whiskey.”

“Ye know me so well, mo chridhe,” he said with a grin. “Been inseparable ever since.”

“Then why is he missing?” she demanded. Cassian pulled open a closet door, revealing a mop that fell to the floor with a loud clatter. 

There was no humor on Cassian’s face as he knelt to pick it up. “He doesn’t think he’s worthy.”

Nesta didn’t know how to take that, how to possibly respond. She didn’t know any man that had ever put a woman above himself. The idea that Rhysand would have left because he thought her sister could do? better was an anomaly. Unheard of. 

“I’ll bet they’re outside,” Nesta said after a moment. Cassian caught her by the arm, holding her still.

“Maybe they don’t want tae be found just yet,” he murmured, that burning back in his eyes.

“Cass—”

“Nesta?”

She wanted to die at the sound of that voice. Those brown eyes, that sharp, sneering face and that lean body pressed into an elegant suit. Cassian turned, looking Tomas up and down with such keen awareness on his face. She could read his every expression, the oh, I understand now. 

But he didn’t.

Nesta started to inch closer to Cassian, who, of course, immediately noticed. He took her hand in his, raising it to his lips, and ghosted a kiss against her knuckles. It was so obviously a claiming and a threat, all at once.

“Hi, Tomas.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“For my sister's wedding?” she asked archly. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

Cassian raised his brows.

“Of course I am,” he replied, staring her down with those dead, soulless eyes. “Your father said I was the son he never had.”

Cassian started to take a step forward, stopped only by Nesta’s vicious squeeze of his hand. 

“He’s still so terribly disappointed by how things happened. What, exactly, did you tell him?”

Nesta wanted to die. “Nothing,” she managed, her heart pounding in her throat. Cassian watched this power struggle—did he understand what was happening? 

“We should get together the next time you’re in London,” Tomas said, eyes flicking to Cassian with distaste. As if Cassian couldn’t have broken him clean in two. As if Cassian was someone beneath him. “Carter.”

Cassian offered an edged smile. “Hackit.”

Nesta snorted, pressing her hand against her lips. Tomas narrowed his eyes, but kept moving without insulting her. Nesta imagined he, too, realized the danger Cassian presented. Even without those swollen, bloodied knuckles, Cassian looked like a man who could fight. 

“Want tae tell me what that was about?” Cassian asked the second Tomas slipped down the hall.

“Of course not,” she snapped, wrenching her hand from his. “Don’t kiss me again.”

“No? Are ye sure about that? Because I saw ye at the loch—”

“You didn’t see anything,” Nesta insisted, heart hammering. Her two worlds were colliding unforgivably. Cassian and Tomas were not supposed to exist together, and seeing Cassian, in his kilt, call Tomas ugly in his suit, had managed to tie Nesta up in knots.

“Don’t go out there,” Cassian complained when Nesta stepped onto the lawn, still rain soaked from a recent storm. “Yer gonna ruin yer dress!”

“FEYRE!” she yelled, mostly to convince Cassian to stop talking. 

“Ye cannae end every conversation ye don’t like by running off. I’m not going anywhere, mo chridhe come back—”

Cassian hauled Nesta up over his shoulder before she could take another step.

“Cassian! Put me down!”

“No,” he replied easily, walking her back to the house. “They’ll return when they’re ready.”

“Cassian,” she pleaded. He set her back to her feet, catching that note of desperation in her voice before she had to beg, though his body blocked her path further into the castle. 

“What did he do to ye, Nes?” he asked, his fingers curling to fists at his side.

“Why do you care?” she demanded, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“Of course I care!” Cassian hissed, stepping closer, until Nesta was pressed against the stone wall. 

“I don’t understand you,” Nesta breathed, swallowing hard as he drew nearer. 

“Trust me, I don’t either,” he whispered. “Will ye tell me what he did to ye?”

“Why? So you can hit him, too?”

“Oh, mo chridhe, I will do far, far worse,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth. Nesta had lost control of the situation, of this man who she didn’t even like. Who would go back to reenacting battles on her lawn, who was beloved by the town and the son of a Duke and—

“If ye won’t tell me that, tell me something else.”

Nesta’s eyes went back to his. More brown than green. “What?” 

“Tell me the truth, Nesta Archeron. Tell me ye want me just as much as I want ye.”

“I—” he caught her lips before the lie could tumble out of them, kissing her softly. One hand cupped her cheek while the other braced the wall she was pressed against. His eyes fluttered shut but Nesta kept hers open, drinking him in. He looked so wrecked, like he’d been thinking about this for a long, long time and was finally realizing it was nothing like he imagined. 

And so she kissed him back, hands at her sides while she waited for the inevitable disappointment. The realization that whatever he’d imagined didn’t live up to reality. One kiss became two, became a third and yet Cassian didn’t pull back like they so often did. He didn’t sharpen. If anything, he became softer, more desperate with each passing kiss between them. The softness of his closely trimmed beard brushed over her jaw while his thumb rubbed a soft circle over her cheek.

Give in, she swore she heard him say. Nesta wanted to—oh, she wanted to take everything he was offering so badly it made her legs shake. If he didn’t know now, he’d figure it out soon enough. Nesta was not the kind of woman men fell in love with. She’d never been that woman, and never would be. No matter how badly she wanted to be, no matter how much she wanted to believe Cassian could push through walls made of iron and find the trembling softness beneath, he was still a man.

And at some point, she’d become a game for him. Something to conquer, regardless of the tactics it took. It was that thought that convinced Nesta to finally pull back, hands planted on his chest as she shoved. 

“That’s enough,” she said, another lie he immediately caught. 

Cassian pressed a kiss to her cheek. “It’s not,” he rumbled, reaching for the back of her neck. “Ye want me to think yer made of ice, but I know better.”

“Oh? And what am I made of, Cassian?” she demanded in that hard, imperious tone. The sort that pissed men off, that sent them running.

His eyes flashes.

“Fire.”

When he kissed her again, Nesta’s eyes slammed shut before she even realized what she was doing. This time, Nesta’s fingers raked through his neat hair, pulling him closer. She wasn’t gentle, thinking it would push him off her. She misjudged him—Nesta pulled at the strands and Cassian groaned, pressing his body hard against her. He liked this. 

Which was a fucking tragedy, because she did, too. Cassian moaned again, loud enough anyone with ears in the vicinity knew what was happening in the back hall, and Nesta, for just this once, did not care.

Her tongue swept into his mouth, tasting him like she’d wanted to the day at the loch. He tasted like whiskey and warmth and like she needed to get him out of his clothes as fast as she could, before she changed her mind. 

“Slow down, slow down,” he breathed, catching her wrist when she trailed down his chest. “Have ye done this before?”

“Does it matter?” she replied, certain it didn’t.

He huffed out a soft breath. “Of course it fucking matters.”

“I—” He was going to ruin her. He was already making a mess of things. Nesta needed the upper hand, needed a way to get what she wanted without getting hurt. If that was even possible.

There was no way to have him and remain unscathed. The smart thing to do was walk away. “This can’t mean anything, Cassian.”

His brows furrowed. “Ye don’t mean that.”

“You don’t know me–”

“Because ye make it impossible!” he replied, raking his fingers through his hair. “People care about ye, and it’s like…”

“Like what?” she asked, her throat rough and dry. She never should have stopped kissing him. She shouldn’t have said anything at all. Cassian looked down the hall, sighing a breath.

“Like ye expect us all tae leave ye, so ye leave first.”

“You don’t like me,” she said. It was a question. 

No one likes me. Why should you?

“At first,” he admitted. “I thought ye’d be like yer uncle. Stuffy…arrogant…and ye were, ye know ye were. I thought ye’d leave—hoped, I suppose. Until I started liking the sight of ye, storming out with yer braid and yer book. Fuming mad and all of it directed at me. I wanted to get tae know ye and I’ve been trying. And not just me. Emerie, tae. She thinks the world of ye. Yer sisters, tae, and probably everyone else if ye let them.”

Nesta shook her head, swallowing the wave of emotion rising. “This is all wrong. You hate me–”

“Hate,” he said, pressing both palms against the wall, caging her between his body, “is the last thing I feel for ye.”

“I wish you did,” she said.

“If all ye want is something unserious,” he began, eyes searching her own. She swore he could read her every word for the truth, that he didn’t need to hear her speak to know all the things wrong. All the secrets she held. “Then I’ll take what yer offering. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck ye in the hall.”

“Cassian—”

“Ye said, ‘I don’t fuck animals,’” he began mimicking an absurd British accent. “And I believe ye. At least, for now.” 

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, certain she was going to be picking her shattered heart up off the floor by the time they were done. Cassian brushed his lips over her own.

“When it comes tae ye, mo chridhe, I have no defenses.”

[thirdtidemouse]

as i gaze upon your blog i wonder, “what the hell is taskmaster?” i’d journey the lands of safari but its much better to hear the words of insight from the enjoyer. quite interested in the au tho, tempted to watch this thingamabob because of it. i like hearing your ramblings about your fave doodabs and whatchamajigits. i am determined to return to you with the holy gift of a singular hilda but finals are kicking my ass and i’m learning a new art program. while i wait i’d love to be graced by your words :3

HI ANON!! first of all good luck with finals and your new art program i hope everything turns out BEAUTIFULLY for you don't forget to have fun!!

i'm so glad you asked! taskmaster is a ridiculously entertaining gameshow that originated here in the uk with other versions in other countries. it's super fun to make aus/character studies around the tasks because they're so telling of personality!

the format of the show is - 5 comedians per season are set tasks by host greg davies (6'8" ex-schoolteacher, and it shows) and creator/cohost alex horne (the brains behind it, but onscreen is very weaselly/neeky and generally picked-on).

each episode begins with a prize task, in which contestants must bring in prizes to be won by the winner each day - the most high-octane item, the thing that makes the best noise, the most difficult thing to take home. prizes range from body parts to furnished bathroom sets. these, along with every other task, are scored in the studio from 1-5 points. the rest of the tasks are filmed beforehand mostly in one house, individually and sometimes in teams, and are incredibly arbitrary, silly, confusing or difficult:

eat as much watermelon in 60 seconds. eat an egg the fastest (it starts raw). interview, then write and perform a song about this stranger. conceal an entire pineapple on your person. take three huge exercise balls to the top of this large hill. make the biggest mess, then clean it up. get this object as far away from here as possible. go the longest time without blinking.

sarah kendall purposefully, blindfoldedly, throws her own house and car keys into the trees in front of the building. james acaster gets taken aside onstage to be told off by greg like a schoolboy. respected academic richard osman throws a shopping trolley into a river in a fit of rage (it is retrieved). nish kumar and mark watson write a genuinely beautiful song together. bob mortimer makes a floor-size chart documenting the amount of piss produced across britain.

the episodes end with a live task in the studio in front of the audience. the show allows the contestants to genuinely go off the rails with comedic creativity and problem solving, and it's SO fun to impose characters onto this template. person gets presented with task -> completes task as they see fit -> is judged on their actions -> reacts to the judgement. like if you want to develop an oc. look no further!! put them on taskmaster in your brain.

every contestant, whether it be famous comedians, up-and-coming stand-ups, or actors & presenters, really shine in taskmaster. people who i don't really find funny become entertaining and i root for them simply because of the genius format of the show.

it gets gross, argumentative, tense, earnest, and never ever loses the clownish spirit and light-heartedness of the meaningless and hilarious program it sets out to be. greg davies is ruthlessly harsh with points, alex horne is endlessly nitpicky and often bullied, and they frequently bring up fanfiction written about the two of them for some fucking reason. they embody such perfectly fine-tuned characters, only to break them constantly to laugh at the show.

if anyone (no one) wants to know a few of my fav contestants rn they are:

sam campbell, lucy beaumont, sarah kendall, bob mortimer, nish kumar, james acaster, and the ENTIRE freakish family team dynamic of frankie boyle, ivo graham, jenny eclaire, kiell smith-bynoe, and mae martin

thank you anon :-) i'm sorry this was so long i hope you didnt mind reading it all and it told u what u wanted to know!!

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (chapter 8)

[Can also be read on AO3]

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 2.8 K

Warnings: Minors DNI - no major warnings except for some references to sexual activities in the past and major fuck me eyes, also a few angsty lore drops for Rory (family death, divorce)

*Just a short chapter to stoke the ship flames

Summary: Rory prepares to go undercover, getting ready to enter the club and catch Zorokov. It's the obligatory "guy sees the girl he likes in a fancy dress and falls in love" scene

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis

October 20, 2017 18:40 - Safehouse

“You are going to play nice, yeah? This won’t turn into some pissing contest?”

Price stood off in the corner of the room, smoke trailing from the end of his burning cigar as his arms stayed folded over his chest, his hardened stare burning a hole through the hotel room door as smoke wafted in front of his face. Rory couldn’t help but scoff at his reaction as she moved to unlock it, sliding the chain across as three steady knocks beat against the door. She shot him a look over her shoulder, her brows lifting, expecting an answer. He grumbled, his lip curling after exhaling. “I told you, you can trust him.”

“That remains to be seen,” he rasped.

“Fucking hell,” muttering under her breath, she swung the door open after checking the peephole. 

On the other side, standing in the hall, Andrew offered her a charming smile, bright blue eyes gleaming. She smirked at the neatly coiffed hair and the business casual clothes he had decided on. 

“Well, look at you James Bond.”

“Yeah, you think?” Clearly teasing her, he continued to smirk as she moved aside and he crossed the threshold into the hotel room, his eyes traveling over each crevice of the sparse room, carrying a vellum bag draped over his arm and several shopping bags. A shit-eating grin spread further across his lips as he held it out towards Rory, unable to hold in the chuckle. “Flew all the way from London for this, got it straight from Harrods.”

Rory looked down at the bag in his arms and furrowed her brow, her eyes going wide. “ Harrods ? Christ, Andy, MI6 give you a gold card or something?”

“Only the best for you, Sinclair.” He was laying it on thick with the wink, a glint in his eyes as he spied Price glaring at him from over her shoulder. 

Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes. “Bloody prat,” muttering under her breath while taking the bag with her towards the bathroom to change, she stopped and used her free arm to direct the MI6 officer’s attention towards the grizzly bear of a man in the corner who continued to puff on his cigar. “Officer Andrew Owen, allow me to introduce you to Captain John Price.”

Giving a quick tip of his head and a flick of a grin to the Captain, Andrew held his hands to his hips. Price returned the same motion, flexing his shoulders to broaden them further as he bounced on his heels, thrusting his pelvis. The clear showing of two men locked in a natural battle for dominance, neither backing down.  

She could only sigh as she walked past Price, his gaze tracking her with a lowered head and a lifted brow. Her sideways glance met him as he took a deep breath and shifted his weight. It didn’t take a genius to tell he wasn’t looking forward to having to socialize with the stranger, acting like she was his only lifeline, and she couldn’t help but bite her lip to keep herself from grinning. “ Be nice ,” she mouthed to him. A soft batting of her lashes was all that it took to get him to sigh again and nod his head in the direction of the bathroom with a quick scrunch of his nose.

With Rory out of the room, it was now just the two men left to square off. If there was room for it they would have been circling each other like stags about to clash antlers.

“So, SAS, huh?” Andrew did his best to break the awkward tension first. 

Responding to the man’s question with a grunt, Price’s brow knit together. “How d’you know Rory?”

The officer’s brows lifted slightly at the first name drop. “We served together. I was her Lieutenant in Iraq.”

“Right.” The steely gaze of the soldier dug into the other man, sizing him up. 

Under the direct scrutinization of the captain, the smirk grew a little more on Andy’s face.  “She’s a good soldier, Price. Keep an eye out for her, eh? Would hate to lose an asset like her.”

Price bristled, straightening up to stand a little taller as his eyes narrowed behind the amber glow of his cigar, blowing smoke out his nostrils as they flared. 

Eventually, after several awkward moments of staring one another down, the door to the bathroom finally opened and she stepped out dressed in a silky, deep plum colored short cocktail dress. The delicate material gently draped over her, clinging to her graceful curves. Instantly hit with the sensation of burning ears, she knew there were two sets of eyes currently set on her, but only one of them had any real intent – that cold, hardened glare hidden behind the curtain of smoke.

Rory didn’t often get the chance to dress up, her only excuse was usually at a Christmas party or New Year’s Eve bash, so to be there wearing something so sophisticated all in an attempt to take down the enemy was a breath of fresh air – or at the very least a nice escape from tactical gear, granny panties, and wet wipes in the field. Fixing the strap that had slipped down her shoulder, her fingertips grazed against the soft skin and her gaze roamed over to Price seemingly against her will, noticing his brow shoot up as he let out a sharp inhale, clearing his throat once he made eye contact. Caught in the act of having his eyes roam over her once more, over every bit of exposed toned muscle in her arms, legs and back, a cocky grin spread across his lips and her cheeks grew warm, a rosy blush climbing up them as her eyes fell and she was inclined to smile as well. 

Fluffing up her hair, standing barefoot, her toes curling into the rough fibers of the carpet, she looked over at Andrew who much more innocently took stock of her. “Who’d ever think you’re a soldier,” he teased as his head tilted to the side, inspecting her. “Well, the bruises might be a bit of a giveaway, but we’ll get those covered soon enough.” The MI6 officer passed her a small paper bag next. “I had one of the cosmetics counter girls figure it out for me.”

“I bet you did. Did you also get her number for later?”

“What kind of man do you take me for?” He feigned innocence for his audience as he pressed his hand to his chest. 

“One I know all too well.”

Noticing her friend’s eyes look up and then dart away again as a quiet growl emanated from the corner of the room, Rory glanced over at the looming presence beside her who had finished the stub of his cigar and had returned to staring with a darkened look at her, his focus put entirely on her shoulder still covered in bruises that had begun to turn green with time. 

“You’re sure you want to go in there, Sinclair?”

Looking into Price’s eyes was like staring at an unreadable wall again, only the little tics of his features giving her any sort of glimpse into what he was really thinking at any one time. Those weren’t the same youthful hungry eyes that had taken her in while he had her pressed up against a wall, his hands gripping at her thighs while her dress was rolled up around her hips, they were like stone even as they drank her in. She had to shake the image of the Lieutenant he had been from her head as her throat ran dry, the twinkle that had been in his eye that night since becoming a rare sight, but when it was there it made her heart race in a flurry of rapid beats.

“We can figure something else out, you can back out now before having to slap the makeup on.”

He knew she could fight – he had seen it – and still he was trying to offer her the easy way out. Whether it was sentimentality, a newfound sense of protectiveness for her, or a natural sort of chivalry, he didn’t seem to want to put her in harm’s way, rather he wanted to keep her out of it despite her ten years of military service already under her belt. 

“I can do this.” 

She would swear it up and down if she had to. This was her opportunity, her chance to really prove herself, even if it was mildly degrading. As she had said before, she knew her skills, her assets, and just as it had always been, her femininity was part of that. She was willing to use that to prove a point. 

Staring up at him, her face serious but without the hard bite it had when she was in a fight, he looked right back at her with his jaw clenched under the scruff, the muscle there twitching, a forced smirk hiding something else. 

Was he really worried about her?

Price nodded, biting his lip, no longer putting up a fight. He had to put his trust in her eventually. Now, apparently , was as good a time as any. Giving him a reassuring little tight-lipped smile, she squeezed the bag in her grip as if it were her weapon. “Right, well, guess I better get all dolled up, eh?”

After he flinched out another smirk in her direction, she returned to the confines of the bathroom to complete her transformation. 

----

It was hardly the best lighting, but she made do, being careful with every sweep and stroke of her brushes along the contours and curves of her face. Lines kept straight; layers blended. She was never one to go overboard on her makeup anyway, it was there to enhance, not cover or obscure. Closing the lid to her tube of lipstick, she blotted the full pout of her mouth and looked up into the mirror, and for a moment it was like seeing that twenty-three-year-old girl who was a little too quick to act staring back at her – the only thing missing was the ponytail, but she’d long since sworn off growing her hair out long. Her last step was the spritz of perfume. Something for Zorokov to remember her by as he was being hauled away for questioning. A warm scent of vanilla and amber that would linger on her skin…perhaps she’d even wear it again while interrogating the wanker later, just for good measure. 

It felt odd looking back at that face across from her, it was the look of the girl she used to be. The one who had yet to have her eyes opened to the world and how it really turned. The girl who thought the worst thing in the world that could have happened to her was losing her mother to cancer or watching her parents' divorce as a child, her father returning to England while she stayed behind in Canada to be raised by her mother. But in the grand scheme that was just a drop in the bucket, a pain that countless others had faced as well. She had yet to learn just how bad things could really get, how the nightmares could last and the tremors could lock her joints, the flashbacks giving her cold sweats. She was innocent, wide-eyed and pure, and she had offered all that on a silver platter for the ones in power to take from her. But she didn’t regret it, not by a long shot. Every scar, every bruise – every fight – it had built her into the woman that stood at the sink not trapped in a memory, the one who could still smile even as hell broke loose. 

Taking another deep breath, she slipped into her stiletto heels, holding her shoulders back with pride and strutted out into the room. Price could do nothing but stare, his mouth left agape. If she saw that young woman she once was in the mirror, he had to have seen it as well, and every waning memory they had of that night together came crashing back. Every steamy kiss, every lingering desire-filled gaze, every near bruising touch of his hands on her hot flesh all hung heavy in the air between them. Professionalism had gone right out the window in the moment, and neither of them seemed to care. He swallowed heavily, licking his lips as his eyes trailed over her, making absolutely no attempt to hide it whatsoever and she didn’t want him to. 

Andrew circled around behind her, his hand brushing against her shoulder as he gave it a brief squeeze and smiled at her. “A goddamn heartbreaker right there.” Standing behind her, he unzipped the back of the dress just enough to tape on the mic pack and the wire. The only place Rory had left to look was at Price, who stared right back at her with his brow furrowed, jaw clenching tighter and tighter, the tendons close to snapping. His gaze intensified as he watched the MI6 officer nimbly attach the wire to her with tape, getting to touch the soft hidden recesses of her flesh that he hadn’t been able to in years.

Jealousy? Is that what this was?  

A strap fell loosely down her shoulder and Andrew caught it, pulling it back up her arm, his fingers brushing against her, and Price reared up like a guard dog, the little nerves in his face twitching, his lip curling the way it did just before he attacked an enemy.

“Sorry,” Andrew murmured.

Rory looked down at her shoulder as he replaced the strap, giving a small friendly smile. “Quite alright.”

The buzz of the zipper pulled up her back brought Price’s eyes back to hers, and she swore she could hear the creak of his jaw above it as his molars crushed together. His paws gripped at his thighs as though he was mauling himself to keep control. Days they had been trapped in this room together, forced to pretend like they weren’t constantly watching the other, that they could just focus on the work together, that the persistent feelings that were surely just lust could be ignored. They were trained to push aside those things, trained not to fall prey to emotions and their senses, using their minds over their bodies, but it seemed as though even that held little sway over what was happening between them…what had already happened. SAS survival training had had them both have to strip down in a room full of people and sit in the freezing cold, and yet this – being so close and not being able to act on it – was a far worse form of torture. There was almost a desperation in the way he looked at her, like some part of him wanted to be put out of his misery, and yet, with the way he scowled she knew he was biting it down. He was a captain, her CO for this mission, a superior officer…it could never happen. It was forbidden.

The perfervid yearning that clung in the space between them as much as the smell of smoke did within the room was cut through the moment Andrew spoke, breaking the spell that kept the two of them entwined. “Oh, and one more thing.” He slipped out a pair of brass knuckles from his jacket pocket. “Can’t have you going in there without a way of defending yourself.”

Her eyes dragged away from Price and a quiet chuckle bubbled up from inside her as she took the melee weapon in her hand. “You shouldn’t have, Andy. You really do think of everything.”

He smiled and kissed her cheek, giving her a pat on the shoulder. “Give ‘im hell, Lamb.”

She grabbed the clutch purse from the same bag her shoes had been in, filling it with the fake ID, rubles, and the knuckles Andrew had provided her. 

Price seemed to have broken free of his own fixation that held him and he hoarsely provided the lay of the land for the start of the mission. “We’ll drive you down a few blocks from the club and park there, so we aren’t spotted. You’ll make the rest of the way on foot. We’ll have you on comms the whole time, hearing every word that’s said.”

Rory nodded and gave him a cheeky grin. “So I won’t have to shout if I get in trouble then?”

“No, I’ll be there in a heartbeat,” Price rumbled with a quiet chuckle.

His trademark smirk returned along with the twinkle in his eyes, and she was enraptured for just a moment before taking a calming breath and grabbing the rather elegant and sleek long coat Andrew hadn’t failed to add to the ensemble. “Right, shall we be on our way then? I’d hate to keep our man waiting.”

“Ready when you are, Sergeant.”

[moonwalker94writes]

Studded

“We’re going to be late!” Remus yelled at the closed bathroom door for the umpteenth time that evening.

Sirius paused his blaring rendition of Anarchy In The UK to shout back, “no one cares if we’re late!” before continuing the song at the top of his lungs.

Remus sighed, muttering something about never going shopping with Evans again, and picked up his book, settling against the headboard of their bed. He didn’t really see the appeal of the Sex Pistols himself, but it was Sirius’ new obsession these days, and honestly, he didn’t sound half bad, a bit similar to Johnny Rotten even.

“How do I look?”

The door to the bathroom had finally swung open and Sirius was grinning at him from where he was nonchalantly leaning against the door frame.

He was wearing grey-washed drainpipe jeans that were ripped at the knees. The jeans hung low on his hips, studded belt in place, and black Doc Martens on his feet. Underneath his trademark leather jacket, he had donned a t-shirt that said ‘fall in love, not in line’ with a large circle-A in the middle. The neck of the shirt was torn as well, held together with safety pins. A thick, red lock of hair peeped out from the sea of black and sparkling grey eyes were heavily rimmed with black kohl. Remus’ gaze then travelled back to the jeans and how they clung to Sirius’ thighs in a way that had his blood pooling somewhere down south.

Fuck.

Remus swallowed thickly. “Very punk rock,” he hummed, his voice hoarse as he stepped closer and pulled Sirius in by the front of his jacket. He twirled the lock of red hair around his finger and dipped his head to whisper into Sirius’ ear. “Very hot.” Sirius gasped as Remus left a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his neck and jaw, tipping his head back to give Remus more room. Remus let his hands wander, dipping his fingers beneath Sirius’ waistband and pressing the evidence of his arousal against him. Sirius pressed back before suddenly pulling away, smirking at him mischievously as Remus all but whimpered at the sudden loss.

“Shall we go?” Sirius asked, completely composed and with an air of casualness that made Remus want to do things to him. “We don’t want to be late, Moony.” He patted him on the cheek, then turned around, strutting out of the room as if there weren’t any very pressing matters at hand. Remus gaped at the empty space, struck dumb, before shaking himself from his daze.

“Oi!” he whined, tearing after Sirius as fast as he could without tripping over his own feet. “What happened to ‘no one cares if we’re late’?!”

Written for @wolfstarmicrofic.