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awfcspencer · 3 months

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Anniversary Night || leah williamson x reader

prompt: Leah wouldn’t forget your anniversary right?

warnings: angst

a/n: this spent so long in the drafts so I figured I'd post it

Every second that passed felt like an hour. The sun had been high in the sky when you began baking the chocolate cake for tonight, but now the sun had dipped below the horizon, and it was beginning to get late.

The extravagant dinner you had spent hours watching tutorials on and carefully following the recipe to its exact details had gone cold. It was Leah’s favorite dish her mother used to make during her childhood, and you enlisted Amanda’s help to properly prepare the dish for your third anniversary with the blonde tonight. She guided you through each step and even went alongside you to the market to get the ingredients. It sat untouched in the middle of the table that you decorated with tiny hearts and rose petals.

The candles you lit minutes before Leah was supposed to arrive had burnt out and the flowers you had set on the table were lacking water as the night grew on. The vinyl you had put on in the background had long ended and left your shared home silent. It was quiet and you were alone.

The time you had spent perfecting your makeup and slipping into a tight black dress that you had been hiding in the back of your shared closet just for tonight was now a waste. The time you had spent decorating the kitchen and bedroom was now all for nothing seeming as it was entering midnight, and it would no longer be the special day. The time you spent using the icing bag to carefully etch ‘Happy Anniversary’ into Leah’s favorite kind of cake was useless. You would never get that time back.

You had tried to ring Leah several times throughout the night, desperately wondering when she was due to return home from training after she did not walk through your shared home at the normal time. Each time you called her it went to voicemail. As each hour ticked by, your smile seemed to fade and your patience began to wither, but most importantly, your heart was shattered. What was initially supposed to be a romantic evening had ended up a big disappointment and the hope of spending time with Leah had disappeared. On the fourth time you tried to reach Leah and were met with her voicemail once again sent your phone crashing into the nearest wall.

You weren’t woken up exactly as the clock striked midnight and showered with kisses like the first anniversary.

You weren’t given breakfast in bed and spent the day in Leah’s warm embrace until the middle of the afternoon like the second anniversary.

Instead you woke up to a cold, empty bed. Not a single text or note from Leah. Not even a kiss goodbye and a promise to return home soon.

Something in your brain allowed you to brush it off though. That should have been your first red flag. Leah always made you feel the most special girl in the world, surely she couldn’t have forgotten such an important day.

Three years ago, Leah had asked you to be her girlfriend after several small dates and continuous messaging. You met the blonde in a low-key bar just on the outskirts of North London and she quickly captured your heart with her charming and compassionate personality. Today marked three years of loving Leah and three years of Leah loving you.

So instead of dwelling in the fact the morning hadn’t been exactly what you pictured, you were sure that Leah would make up for it in the night.

You knew that Leah had thrown herself into hours of rehabilitation and countless physio meetings to help her desperate bid to return to the pitch. Sitting out during Arsenal games and being dropped from the England squad had taken a great toll on the defender. You supported her every step of the way, even when it meant she did not return home until late and left before you awoke the next day. But you figured she would be home on time tonight. You figured she would be home on a special occasion like tonight. But unfortunately, you were incredibly wrong.

You quickly place the uneaten food and cake in the fridge to hopefully preserve them so you could possibly eat them tomorrow. You were met with the mini calendar that was located on the fridge to remind you and Leah of appointment, matches, or meetings. The single date had been outlined in a large red heart since entering the month. You wanted to rip the whole thing off the fridge and tear it in a million pieces, as a way to represent how your heart felt.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you struggled to make sense of it all. How could she have forgotten? How could she have let something so important slip through the cracks of her mind? Tears fell from your eyes non-stop, ruining the pretty mascara you had done as it ran down the sides of your cheeks. With just a few minutes until midnight, you couldn’t help prevent your heart from feeling hurt, especially when it was still radio silent from Leah.

You wanted the black dress off. You wanted to take the makeup off. You wanted to tear down every decoration you had put up and throw it in the trash. Instead settling with a quick shower that did not aid in your severed heart and clouded brain. When the time came to enter your shared bed, you couldn’t bring yourself to be suffocated with the defender’s magnetic scent and the thought that she was out somewhere on your anniversary instead of with you. You snatched the comforter off and a pillow and slept on the couch.

---

After another grueling day of rehabilitation followed by a team night out to celebrate the upcoming matches, Leah’s muscles and body ached with exhaustion. But as Leah stepped through the door of your shared home, her heart sank like a stone as she caught sight of the large ‘Happy Anniversary’ banner and the countless related decorations scattered around the house. The worst image of all was you sound asleep on the couch with red puffy eyes.

Today was supposed to be a special day and Leah had forgotten all about it. You heard her enter the home nearly a quarter till 2 A.M. Your anniversary was long over. She seemed tired, most likely from how hard she had been pushing herself in the gym and in training. All that work to get back onto the pitch, to get off the sidelines, not knowing she was sidelining something else, the relationship you thought she valued as much as you did.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” you finally spoke, your voice hardly above a whisper but filled with accusation. You couldn’t meet the defender’s eyes, the hurt in your heart didn’t allow it.

Leah’s head snapped up, guilt flashing across her features before she could mask it. Leah sighed heavily, running a hand through her hair, “I’ve been so busy with rehab and training… I guess it slipped my mind,” she admitted, her voice barely audible at the guilt she felt inside.

“Slipped your mind? Slipped. Your. Mind.” You couldn’t help but laugh.

A wave of hurt washed over you as you struggled to hold back tears. “I can’t believe you forgot our anniversary,” you whispered, feeling a lump form in your throat. You couldn’t shake the feeling of loneliness that gnawed at your heart.

Leah reached out tentatively, her hand hovering in the air before she pulled back, as if she was unsure whether she was welcome to touch you. “I’m sorry, I really am,” she said softly, her eyes pleading for forgiveness.

“It’s not just about today,” you choked out, your voice trembling with pent-up emotions. “It’s about feeling like I am not a priority in your life anymore.” She had been so focused on getting back on the pitch that she cut you so deeply in the process. How could she forget?

Leah’s shoulders slumped, her heart aching at the pain she had caused you. “You are a priority, you always have been,” she insisted, her voice think with emotion and guilt. “I’ve just been so focused on rehab. I didn’t realize how much it was affecting us.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at her, torn between wanting to forgive her and wanting her to understand just how much she had hurt you. “I miss us,” you admitted. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, but you couldn’t bring yourself to soften your face at the excuses she continued to usher out.

Leah’s heart clenched at your words, a pang of regret coursing through her. “I miss us too. I promise I’ll make it up to you, I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this.” Anger bubbled up inside you, fueled by the recent weeks of feeling neglected and ignored.

You nodded slowly, feeling a glimmer of hope flicker within in. “I want to believe you, really I do. But what about me? What about what I need?”

Leah’s gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet your eyes. “I’m trying, I really am. But it’s not easy.” The blonde’s expression crumbled, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and regret.

Your eyes stung as the tears feel freely, you heart aching with a pain that seemed to have no end. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

The words hung between you like a chasm, a stark reminder of the divide that had grown between you and the defender. As the silence stretched on, you knew something needed to change. Whether that change would bring you closer together or tear you apart.

#woso x reader #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso one shot #woso soccer #woso blurbs #leah williamson x you #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson #woso

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ladeathfaerie · 2 years

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tag dump.

ooc || flowers wither and die

ic || death approaches

hc || whispers among the roses

inbox || withering petals

aes || on a faerie’s wings

meme || words of old

self || the scrying mirror

undetermined || scattered petals

main || death follows silently

modern || weep for death

open || death welcomes thee

dash games || play a game with death

music || sing for death

#ooc || flowers wither and die #ic || death approaches #hc || whispers among the roses #inbox || withering petals #aes || on a faerie's wings #meme || words of old #self || the scrying mirror #undetermined || scattered petals #main || death follows silently #modern || weep for death #open || death welcomes thee #dash games || play a game with death #music || sing for death

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teyamsatan · 5 months

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say you'll remember me

➳ young!coriolanus snow x f!reader

➳ warnings: angst, mentions of lucy gray, some violent imagery, no happy ending, allusions to smut, snow should be a warning by himself honestly

➳ wc: >1000 words

➳ a/n: i'm back from the dead after ?? months ?? because much to my dismay, i have fallen prey to movie coriolanus snow's charms (tom blyth the man that you are). i need that man biblically. no i have not read the books, please don't come for me, i don't care how unhinged he is, in the movies he's pookie and i love him and i could change him i KNOW it. anyway please enjoy x

He's so tall and handsome as hell He's so bad, but he does it so well I can see the end as it begins My one condition is

Coriolanus Snow was a hard man. Barely a man, when you really stopped to think about it, but it didn’t look like it right now, as he was sitting in the empty auditorium of the university he just left behind, with the stature and poise of a titan… or a god. His time in district 12 changed him. It brought out a side to him very few people knew him capable of, least of all his beautiful, gentle cousin, Tigris. The boy you once knew, golden curly locks of hair inundating the space on his face his azure irises usually lit up, wit and ambition so clearly displayed in them, the boy who, despite it all, despite all that stood against him, still had the remnants of a gentle heart in an environment that thrived on beating such a needless thing out of you… that boy seemed gone, killed by the person who stood tall in front of you, who desperately fought to let bygones be bygones.

Coriolanus Snow was a hard man. He had to be, to get to where he wanted, to become who he knew he was always destined to be. He had to be, to forget - the war, the famine, the hurt and pain, the loss of love, the loss of hope, the loss of innocence. His blood-red coat was still and unmoving, the fabric as rigid as the persona he skilfully embodied, even as the wind blew past him and circled the room you were carefully eyeing, noticing every detail of it, of him, as you tried your hardest to gauge a mood, or hear a thought, through the unwieldy silence that met you like a careful, long-lost friend.

“So curious, aren’t we, little bird?”

It shouldn’t have, not when he was the one whose back was turned to you, whose head lost in rumination, but his words, soft and whimsical, took you by surprise. As it always happened, your heart jumped in your chest in quiet anticipation, yearning to catch a glimpse of the one only you were fortunate enough to see.

“Is it less intimidating… now that you’re done?”

He turned then, his bright eyes finding yours immediately, drawn like a moth to a flame, and he smirked knowingly, the facade slipping away little by little, chipping like the paint on old walls. It’s funny. Out of the pair of you, you’ve always thought that was you. The moth. Forever risking your life and wings, for the beauty of it all, for the fire that you knew would either consume you or breathe new life in you. It was always a gamble, being in his presence, a game of Russian roulette you were addicted to, because how could you not be? How could you not… when he approaches you, slowly and methodically, his eyes never leaving yours, hungry and needy, speaking all the words he refused to say out loud, allowing you to see it - the glimpses of the boy. The boy you loved, the boy who survived somewhere inside of him, begging to be let out in the presence of someone who wouldn’t hurt the frail, withering existence that still clung to life the best way it knew how.

“Who says it was ever intimidating, huh?”

Your smile was enough to thaw the ice, enough for his hand, cold and calloused, warm and calming, to find your face, his thumb caressing the supple skin of your jaw, tracing the soft lips he dreamt about in whispered nights and wildest dreams. He tasted like roses and desire, and he kissed you like you were the breath he’s been denied his whole life. It was easy to forget in those moments, who he was, who you were, all that stood against you, the ghost of the girl he was trying so hard to banish from his mind.

“Let’s go for a walk, just you and me.”

Long walks in the city that was still reeling after the war you could barely remember felt intimate and almost like for your eyes and ears only, for only your bodies to feel and touch, for only your minds to wonder about and wander through. Through them, you knew Coriolanus - his many strengths and few weaknesses, his outright dreams and closeted desires, the depths of his soul he felt reluctantly comfortable to bare to you… and in turn, he knew you, more and more each day, as he found breath in the drowning sea that was once Lucy Grey and was levitated to better and never-seen before heights, away from the pain that haunted him every moment of his life.

“I think I loved her.” He tells you one night, his fingers massaging your back, tracing patterns onto it only he could understand, patterns you could spend the rest of your life trying to decipher.

“I think you loved her, too.” You sigh, happy that his walls, tall and reinforced in layers of heavy, indestructible brick, were slowly chipping at the seams for you, but sad at the ghost that tormented his every breathing moment, and, as a result, yours, too.

“I think I love you.” His voice was dark, serious, plagued with a twinge of uncertainty and fear, for the feelings he wanted to bury but couldn’t, that he wanted to hide from you and from himself, but decided against. It was short and simple, the confession, barely a few words whispered in the dead of night, while his glistening body was trembling softly under your touch and under the weight of the confession. It was short and simple, but it was enough to knock the breath of your lungs and any semblance of thought from your mind.

“You wouldn’t… leave, right? You won’t leave.”

You smile in his chest, and it almost hurts, the need to feel him, closer still, to touch your lips to his and pour it all into a kiss and watch him do the same.

“Never.”

In these moments, he wasn’t Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem, the heir to the Plinth fortune. In these moments, he was your Corio, and you were his little bird. When you are done, the disjointed song of the city coming to life falls upon deaf ears as you hold each other, reluctant to let go and face the harsh realities of the world that surrounded you and seeped into every aspect of your being, no matter how unwelcome. You hoped you could stay like this forever, safe in his arms, in the arms that welcomed you, in the arms that held onto you and thus, onto the inherent goodness born into him that he was forever struggling to subjugate, that you hoped he never would.

But… Coriolanus Snow was a hard man. And when he inevitably left you one fateful night, you tried to forget the tears that stained his pillow, the last remnants of the boy who gave his dying breath in his soul, that cried and screamed for the life he could have had, a life that was taken from him, a life that the world and the man whose presence still inundated the now lonely, deserted room, conspired to end. And as you lay on the empty bed, your own tears mixing with his own as they drenched the fabric you knew you’ll never see again, you couldn’t help but wonder if the man he would become would remember you, and all you shared, or if to him, much like the boy you loved, you were already dead.

Say you'll remember me Standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe Red lips and rosy cheeks Say you'll see me again, even if it's just in your wildest dreams

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minecraftbookshelf · 1 year

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I totally am not considering Empires Season 1 AUs

Jimmy, pouting: “Why do I have to get married for the treaty.”

Lizzie, eating breakfast: “Because the Wither Rose Alliance refused anything less than a marriage and I figured you would rather marry one of their allies than one of them.”

Jimmy, sulking: “So obviously I should marry the one we know nothing about bc his brother keeps him home under lock and key.”

Lizzie, spreading jam on a fish filet: “Well if the worst comes to worst and he’s absolutely terrible, at least you can just outlive him. Elves only live like four or five hundred years anyway.”

Jimmy: *opens his mouth*

Jimmy: *closes his mouth*

Jimmy: “How did that plan work out for you, then?”

Seablings: *look at each other*

Seablings: *look at Joel*

Joel, a perfectly normal, garden variety human. Who has inexplicably been married to Lizzie for ~600 years now: “is there something on my face?”

Lizzie: “Point taken.”

Meanwhile, in Rivendell

Scott, who has been relying on his brother’s lava magic to keep him from freezing their whole kingdom over for a long time now: “Oh yes this is going to go so well. We’re going to end up going to war with the Ocean because I accidentally turn the swamp kingdom into an ice skating rink. Excellent diplomacy, brother. You should get a prize.”

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aloysiavirgata · 17 hours

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What do you think Scully and Mulder would disagree on as parents? A prompt, if you will.

Scully wanted schedules. Meal plans. Calendars. She wanted piano lessons on Thursdays, swim lessons on Mondays, and labeled bins for the Legos and Thomas train cars. She wanted whole grains and bento boxes and clothes from Boden and Hanna Andersson and Tea Collection. Vacations in the Galapagos and the Grand Canyon. She wanted - in her most secret heart - for him to be the star of the soccer or lacrosse teams. Or both.

Mulder wanted the gauche consumerism of Disney World every spring. He wanted drippy ice cream cones and a perpetually muddy dog and troops of sticky neighbor children marauding through the back door so he could say JESUS CHRIST WILLIAM I’M NOT PAYING TO AIR CONDITION THE WHOLE STREET. He imagined burnt pig-anus hot dogs over a campfire, a floor strewn with action figures, snow angels, Chef Boyardee. No chess coach, no deportment classes, those new-fangled sneakers that lit up. He imagined Welch’s grape juice stains on the couch.

***

Scully, luscious and fully fleshed again, with William suckling at her blue-veined breast. Scully like a Renaissance Madonna reimagined by Margaret Atwood.

“My mother sold her wedding dress to pay for Charlie’s football gear,” she says, touching William’s rose petal cheek. “My father made pretty good money for the Navy and all, but four kids so close together…we ate a lot of spaghetti. Lots of hand me downs. Missy shoplifted makeup a whole lot, if my mother ever knew…”

“Malnutrition why you’re so short?” he asks, because he knows she wasn’t actually malnourished.

She scowls. “It was never dirty, my mother would have died first. But just…you know. Heaps of rain boots at the door and school books on the table and hair ribbons and pencil stubs and recorder sheet music and half a cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwich withering on a plate because Bill and Missy were pinching each other…”

Scully trails off, switches the baby to her other breast. Remembers dinners of store-brand fish sticks and creamed corn because one of them had an unexpected pricey field trip.

William gurgles, clutches a fistful of his mother’s silky hair. Blows a raspberry beneath her Delft pottery gaze.

Mulder kisses William’s warm, fragrant head.

Mulder remembers his father, pleasantly loquacious on bourbon, teaching him about shoulder lines and top-stitching at 8. His mother and Samantha in matching ruffled Gunne Saxe dresses, the starched disapproval of the maid when he tracked footprints over the fresh vacuum lines in the carpet.

Chicken a la King, wedge salad, Steak Diane, swigs of his mother’s sidecar…

William hiccups, dribbling milk down his fat cheek. He begins to hiccup more, which makes him laugh at first, and which then makes him cry.

“It was just always loud and chaotic,” Scully says, propping the baby against her shoulder. “Someone was always hurt or in trouble or pulling hair or getting their hair pulled…it was impossible to think or relax. College was such a gift.” She remembers a study- fort she built in the San Diego coat closet.

William belches, then cheerfully vomits down her cleavage.

Scully groans.

Mulder mops her up with tender precision, watches William try to stuff his dinner-roll fist into his mouth.

“It’s been silent at my house for twenty-eight years,” Mulder says.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #my fic #prompt #william #family #inbox

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comfortless · 3 months

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syl you can not casually mention blacksmith König and leave it at that!

sighing… ok, yes, i will talk about blacksmith! König more..! ^^

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. violence, physical/emotional abuse, descriptions of injury, death, angst, marriage on the gallows au.

Before König, there was his father, his father’s father and so on. Hardened men who were left to rot on the outskirts of the little village: sharpen blades, birth something from slabs of iron and silver. The work was tedious, but never dull. Scrape, burn, turn and roll- over and over until the smoke rose from the pit to sting at his eyes. Birth by fire wasn’t only in myths of dragons and phoenixes; he witnessed it each time he held pure malice in his hands as his hammer struck. Nothing became something, deadly and cruel. Day and night his life and lungs were filled to brimming with hellfire.

Accidents happen, naturally. No matter how careful he’s been, there’s nothing to keep the flame from entirely taking back after giving so much.

König’s father lost a finger while mentoring him.

His blue eyes were fixed on the man’s callused hand as the freshly smithed blade sliced through the digit like it was little more than a dollop of honey, no blood. There had been nothing but the crack of bone carved cleanly through, then the wet sizzle of meat cooking as it fell into the pit.

His father had screeched like a starved demon then, a barrage of insults tossed his son’s way like little more than passing pleasantries: oaf, useless cur, bitch.

König hadn’t been concerned, he sat on the stone bench looking up at his father and told him so, that he was fine: it had been cauterized, cleansed by the fire.

König lost the same finger that day.

His mother had fallen ill sometime last winter. The last memory he had of her was the look of frailty on her face, how her skin felt so cold and yet she lie dampened with sweat.

The dogs and buzzards had gotten to her grave, but it wasn’t them he felt any of the fire’s malice for.

Just his father.

The villagers didn’t know what became of the blacksmith, but König could recall it every night; how even with his dying breath he had only thought to curse his only son.

So, he wears the hood of the last executioner now, and the people shy away. They don’t like the look of death unless they can participate in it as a divined audience.

The dogs are never hungry, there’s illness all throughout the valley, and sometimes it only shines through in shimmering eyes while the villagers stare and giggle at the next withering soul led to the gallows.

König knows he should be there; like mother and father, his bones should be shared between panting mouths and blood-stained beaks. Sometimes the boars come sniffing too, and he’s always hated them, maybe even more than the birds. They’re ugly and sturdy, squealing and snarling like his father.

The villagers looked at the boars, though, because they were useful. Their eyes were hungry and happy each night the men set out on a hunt, unaware that their sons and daughters lurked in the bellies of the very beasts they starved for.

It’s cold even during the summer months in his shack.

There are blankets, a kitchen, a hearth, but it’s empty. The winter makes its wastelands each coming year, envious of how he can accomplish such with fire instead of ice. He doesn’t need to clean. The ash blackens the wood, cleanses all. One day, maybe, it would scrub him too.

The fire is a womb, but it’s never birthed anything truly alive. Not until her. A wildfire swept the field where travelers had gathered. With their supplies reduced to the very cinders König had come to adore, the surviving members sweep right into this cursed place like it’s a holy temple.

And the fire gave her to him.

König doesn’t know where this woman came to settle from; she isn’t like the other villagers, not even the travelers with their items and skills for selling. There’s still life in her eyes. He watches her as she wanders down the street with a smile on her face, one that speaks of a kindness that not a single one of these people deserves.

She introduces herself to them too, without a title to her name, and all at once any interest fades as the ghosts wander away from her.

His mother used to force him into the church when she was still alive.

She would take him by the hand as he lumbered after her, sticking out amongst the crowd of parishioners who would sing their hymns and stare at him with contempt behind their eyes. He hated going, but he did it for his mother; father was much too busy to spend his time with her and her fantasies. But König learned of angels there, fragile feathered things, all eyes and wings that wouldn’t stand a chance against a blade.

He didn’t think delicate things could be holy until her sweet, gentle smile is cast upon him.

This lady walks right up to him, doesn’t bat an eye at his hood when her lips curl up as she introduces herself. She doesn’t mind the sack of weapons thrown over his shoulder to take to the marketplace— the swords, the daggers, none of it. Her eyes don’t even glance their way; she looks only to him.

Women like this don’t want their homes and beds covered in ash, cinder in place of incense, fire instead of honey. But still she smiles while he says nothing.

König isn’t the only man who’s heart she steals, either.

The village is all gray, smoke and rot except where she walks. Flowers spring up for the coming spring, the deer and foxes are calling out for mates, and it’s all because of her— everyone must know it.

The farmer’s son brings her fresh fruit and whispers into her ear while they pass by his shack on a stroll. The man’s arm curls around her waist so naturally that König can only be reminded of the way that dagger sank between his fathers fingers, tore off a bit of him to feed back to hungry flame. If there were any god above he knew right then that it wouldn’t want him to allow that to happen to her. Not to an angel.

When the rest of the men, dogs and seraphim sleep, König tears the farmer’s boy in two— split down chest to abdomen and left as food for the pigs, right there in the middle of the field.

He doesn’t pray, he hasn’t since the last time he knelt by his mother’s sickbed, but he closes his eyes and breathes out a wish when he leaves that bloodied dagger at her doorstep.

He doesn’t pray, but he weeps when he rallies the villagers to apprehend her. She cries and fusses, face puffy from sleep and hair a mess. There isn’t a speck of blood on her, but the vultures take her anyway. König didn’t want to see her hurt; when her eyes find his, he turns away.

The day of her execution arrives like a festival ceremony. It’s been some time since the last, the scavengers are hungry, so famished he thinks he can almost hear them lick their teeth. There would be no death today, it’s already been decided. In distant places, a single act of devotion is all it takes to save a life, one that the beasts didn’t have the right to take.

The hunger wasn’t always just for death, but for something… a turn and change like steel in fire.

When the angel is taken to her death, rope dangling from her neck like a lead meant for cattle, he steps forward, parting the crowd with an ease. He’s practiced this a time or two in the smoke already, a lonesome and loathing god in the fog. The others scurry from him, looking up at him with pinched brows and bared teeth as if to goad he take her life instead.

Instead, he only catches her eye, smiles and lowers himself on one knee.

#never in the entirety of my life did i think that i would be writing about a yandere blacksmith König but here we are

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toms-cherry-trees · 7 months

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Don't Hold My Hand (I'll Break Your Heart) || Tommy Shelby x Fem OC ~ Ch. 2

Summary: A doctor's visit changes Charlotte's perspective of things, and she begins to worry about her patient

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Talks of medical injury, talks of cuts and headwounds, talk of blood and medical procedures. No beta readig we die like John

Author's note: Once more sorry for the delay but I am writing so many WIPS at the same time things slip through the cracks, but I am really hyped for all the things I have planned

Requested taglist: @call-sign-shark @zablife

《 PREV PART - NEXT PART 》

Steam rose from the kettle’s spout, the high pitched whistle indicating the water had boiled. The teapot had been filled with fragrant tea leaves and two slices of lemon. Sugar and milk side by side in the tray, alongside a plate with homemade biscuits and a platter of elegant tea sandwiches. Two white teacups with golden rims and matching saucers, one of them prefilled with a shot of white rum. Linen napkins embroidered with an S, silverware from Italy and a touch of affection from the hands that prepared the tray.

Charlotte picked it up carefully, carrying it close to her body to bear the weight easier as she took it to Thomas’ rooms, where he currently sat with his main physician for his monthly evaluation. Doctor Foster rarely had anything new to say or any glimmer of hope to offer them; he only came the first week of every month to tell them what they already knew and collect his payment. One of the very few visitors whom Thomas didn’t welcome with a scowl, perhaps because he secretly harboured the hope of one day getting the words that he wanted from the old man.

The scent of fresh flowers accompanied Charlotte as she walked to the second floor. Ever since that conversation with Mrs. Gray, she had redoubled her efforts to brighten up Thomas’ life. Vases with freshly picked flowers decorated various surfaces of the rooms, the bouquets swapped as soon as the first petals began to wither and fall. Every morning she drew back the curtains and opened the windows, to allow sunlight and fresh air inside. She encouraged him to rise from bed at appropriate times, not allowing him to linger between the sheets for days on end. Books, board and card games and even a typewriter had been brought up, in hopes of encouraging him to find anything to keep his mind and day occupied. She hadn’t managed to do something about his hair and beard yet, but she would soon get there.

She pushed the double doors open with her shoulder, the teacups tinkling in their saucers and the tea sloshing slightly. When the doctor came around, he and Thomas met alone behind closed doors, not even his aunt allowed in, although she always received a briefing before handing in the money envelope. Whether the man spoke or not the truth of those sessions to her, one couldn’t know.

Lottie cleared her throat, barely enough of a sound to alert them of her presence as she placed the tea tray on a low table. She tried her hardest not to snoop, but curiosity can be a wild and untameable thing. She looked through her eyelashes towards the bed where Thomas lay, stripped down to his underwear. The doctor held Thomas’ foot in his hand and urged him to push against it as hard as he could. She noticed his hand fisted on the sheets, teeth gritted as he put all his efforts on heeding the simple command. As Thomas looked down at the doctor, his gaze crossed with Charlotte’s. The blue melted to pure ice, and he grabbed the closest thing he had at hand to toss towards her, which happened to be a harmless pillow.

“Out! Out of here! Now!”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Charlotte scurried out of the room and down to the foyer. Mrs. Gray already stood there, nervously drumming her fingers against her arm as she stared out the window. On a side table lay a closed envelope with the doctor’s name scribbled on elegant calligraphy. Charlotte noted it to be slightly thinner than the previous one she had seen, just a couple days after her arrival to Arrow House. Maybe the doctor had lowered his fees for them, or maybe Mrs. Gray had decided he got paid far too much to do nothing except bear bad news.

Both women waited side by side, submerged in their own thoughts each, the silence interrupted only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Three quarters of an hour had passed when Doctor Foster came down the stairs. He had bread crumbs on his shirt and moustache and a biscuit on hand. For some reason, that ticked Charlotte off.

“Well?” Mrs. Gray asked harshly, also noticing that the man had surely spent more time eating than being helpful to his patient.

The doctor had the decency at least to stuff the biscuit in his pocket and brush off the crumbs before speaking. He stood straight, arms behind his back, a nervous twitch of the lips making his moustache quiver. He appeared to be intimidated by Mrs. Gray, a feeling that Charlotte shared.

“It is all just the same. His legs are weaker than in my last visit and he has started to lose sensitivity in some areas of the soles and calves. I am afraid it’s just a matter of time before he can no longer leave the chair, not even with the cane”

The news settled in the bottom of Charlotte’s stomach like a chunk of ice. They knew, all of them, the severity of Thomas’ lesions, and the limited prospects he had of recovery. But they thought, his aunt most of all, that they had more time before the inevitable. A few more years before he became completely and irremediably wheelchair bound and maybe worse than that. Charlotte knew all too well what sort of future would await then; bed sores, loss of muscle, infections. A lifespan cut in half.

And if she had come to learn something about Thomas during her time working there, he wouldn’t stand to live needing assistance to take a piss.

Mrs. Gray’s lips tightened into a line, eyes narrowing just enough to seem darker than usual. She put her hand on Doctor Foster’s bicep,the wool of his sweater straining a bit under the strength of her grip. The man didn't show it in his face, but that surely hurt.

“May we have a word, you and I?” Her tone sounded more like a demand than a petition, as she led the doctor towards her private studio. Charlotte waited until they disappeared from sight to release a shaky breath. She steadied herself for whatever hellstorm would rain upon her and headed upstairs slowly. But halfway up, a loud crash cut through the silence, accompanied by the sounds of broken glass and muffled words that could only be curses of the thickest calibre. She picked up her skirts and broke into a sprint.

“Thomas?!” She called out as soon as she crossed the doors.

Thomas laid on the floor amidst broken porcelain and bits of food. The tea table had been flipped over, as had the delicately prepared tea tray. His wheelchair remained by the bed several feet away, with his cane carefully propped against it. Judging by the way everything lay on the floor, Thomas had tried to leave the room alone and unaided.

“Christ in Heaven what happened here?”

Charlotte rushed to his side, her keen eye immediately noticing the myriad of minuscule wounds in his hand and face from the tiny shards, along a more concerning cut on his temple from the table corner. She tried to help him sit up, but Thomas only smacked her hand away

“Leave me, I can do it. I can do it!” He growled, fighting her off like a child refusing to put on a coat in winter, or rejecting having dirt wiped from his cheek. Groaning due to the effort he rolled onto his back, but he had not enough strength to sit up without laying his wounded hands on the floor.

She paid no heed to his stubbornness and instead hooked her arms under his armpits, putting all her strength into dragging him away from the dangerous mess before he could injure himself further. She grunted with every pull, managing to move him only a few inches at a time, her muscles straining against the dead weight.

“Do you think I am a sack of shit to be dragged around?” Thomas hissed, but at least he had stopped thrashing about like a fish out of water.

“For fuck’s sake you are as heavy as you are obtuse” She retorted back, clearly not caring about the properties of their caregiver-patient relationship in that moment. At least not enough to watch her language. She only cared about somehow putting him back on the wheelchair and assessing the damage.

It took her no small amount of physical strength and skill to get Thomas back onto his chair, even with him doing what little effort he could pushing with his legs against the floor. By the time she had managed to prop him back into place, a thin layer of sweat pearled her forehead, and she felt the dampness of her skin under the thick fabrics of her uniform. She hastily wiped her brow with her sleeve, all her attention focused on the bleeding wound on his temple. The crimson stained the left side of his face and neck and soaked the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat. Charlotte pulled off her white oversleeves to use them to stem the bleeding, but as expected he rose to battle the second she tried to touch him.

“I said don’t fucking touch me. Get away. Get away!” He barked the last words, his hands slapping hers away repeatedly. It would have been comical if it had not been so irritant. But Charlotte finally snapped, her never ending patience finally fading into naught as the blood continued to pour and her patient continued to fight. At last, she got hold of Thomas’ wrists and forced his hands to the sides, her grip firm but not painful. She leaned in, their faces closer than they had ever been before.

“I am going to take a look at those cuts whether you approve or not. So I suggest you make both of our lives easier and stop being so difficult” Her tone rose steadily with each word, surprising even herself. She had never spoken to another person, let alone a patient, that way. But Mr. Shelby had effectively exhausted all her reserves of compassion and in that very moment, with him wounded and pricked with glass, Charlotte couldn’t find it in herself to coddle him. In that moment he didn’t need her kindness, he needed the firmness and determination of a war nurse.

And Thomas seemed to know it too, deep down. For he fell silent the second her words rang through the air, eyes widened and lips parted, shocked to have someone speak to him that way. Slowly, like admitting defeat, he placed his hands on his lap, fingers digging tightly on the fabric of his trousers. He evaded Charlotte’s eyes as she took a seat by his side, having grabbed a small first aid kit she kept in hand.

It seemed that Thomas Shelby couldn’t stand up to a woman who spoke louder than him.

While he held the rolled up fabric to his knocked temple, she took hold of his left hand and held it up to the sunlight. With a pair of alcohol soaked tweezers she began the delicate process of pulling the tiny shards off. Every now and then he hissed in pain and tried to pull away, but it took only a sharp look and a tightening of her grip on him to put him back on track. The pieces of porcelain tinkled on the lid of the first aid kit balancing on her knees as she dropped them, one by one. When she finished she pressed an alcohol soaked rag to his hand, forcing his fingers to curl around it. Thomas’ jaw clenched, but he refused to display any sign of pain besides the flaring of his nostrils.

Charlotte inspected the cut on his head next, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she pushed aside the blood matted hair, her face so close to him her breath fanned over his face. That close she noticed even his hair smelled of cigarettes, since he refused every effort of her or anyone to help him wash.

"The cut is not deep enough to require stitching but I will have to bandage it"

Tommy snorted "I am not going to let you wrap me up like a fucking mummy"

Charlotte rolled her eyes "Mummies have their mouths wrapped shut. I cannot afford that luxury with you" She quipped, gently dabbing at the wound with a wet gauze, being as careful as she could to spare Thomas further discomfort. But that wouldn't save him from her stern words now that they had been allowed to emerge. Gentleness had proved ineffective against him, so now Charlotte had to retort to cockiness, a quality of hers she had kept buried for being ‘unbecoming’ but which now would prove useful to crack Thomas’ stone walls.

“Deep breath” She instructed, pressing the alcohol soaked cloth to his temple. Thomas bucked like a startled horse, nails digging on the armrest of the chair and teeth gritted, his head instinctively trying to escape the sharp burning, but forced to remain still by Charlotte’s firm hold. She held him against her body in an almost maternal gesture until the pain faded into a manageable sting and he relaxed his muscles and stopped huffing.

“Are you always this much of a brute with your patients?” He asked in between heavy breaths, although his tone had dropped some of the usual sharpness in favour of something akin to amusement. As if he saw something in Charlotte that sparked his interest.

“Only with those who deserve it” The diverted smirk made it to her lips without permission. A faint hint of pride rose upon her chest, for the very first time she had managed to make Thomas comply, even if it took a head wound and raising her voice to do so. The first step had been taken for him to finally see her as an aid and not a threat or a nuisance. And Charlotte couldn’t wait to take the next.

After she bandaged his head, having added in between a teasing comment of how things would have been much easier if he didn’t sport the haircut of a caveman, she set up to put the room back in order. The maid brought her the broom and dustpan, but Charlotte took it upon herself to clean up, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to having others in the room while he changed out of his blood soaked upper clothes. While she swept crumbs and pieces of porcelain, the little bug of curiosity nagged at the back of her mind.

“I take it the doctor didn’t bring the news you expected” She often spoke to him, perfectly aware he wouldn’t reply, but she did it nevertheless. She always talked to her patients back in the ward, even if they couldn’t hear her or talk back. Giving them the reassurance that they had someone at their side looking after them, even if they couldn’t see her.

Much to her surprise, however, this time the patient spoke back.

“He knows nothing, that man. I pay that man to heal me and all he does is come into me house, eat the fucking food and flirt with the maids” He pulled out a cigarette, rubbing it against his lips twice before lighting it with a black and golden lighter “He’s not coming here again”

Lottie refrained from rolling her eyes “He has been looking after you for years. Ever since you were injured during the war. He knows you better than anyone else Thomas. He is only trying to help you” As I do, she added in her mind.

“And what a great help he has been, eh?” He drummed his fingers against his thigh to emphasise his words, his piercing eyes following Charlotte’s every movement as she rolled the heavy and soiled carpet to put it aside and set the table back in place.

“I know this concept may seem foreign to you, but I beg you to show some basic kindness to the new doctor when he comes next week. I am sure Mrs. Gray had the best intentions when she asked him here and-”

He cut her words with a single statement that completely flipped her “Oh she didn’t call him here. I did”

Charlotte felt compelled to clean her ears and ask him to repeat himself in case she had heard wrong. He? Thomas himself had called a doctor to help him? It made no sense, for the man who rejected most fervently to be helped, to ask for help of his own free will.

He picked up the astonishment in her widened eyes and continued on without having to be pressed further.

“He’s been working with many veterans after the war. He seeks them to try on his new treatments. Treatments he devises himself” He snuffed his cigarette in one of her pretty vases before tossing the stub inside, letting it float around the fresh daisies Charlotte had brought that morning “He says he’s made them walk again”

A mixture of feelings flooded Charlotte, all at the same time and with such intensity she couldn’t focus on only one. Once more she had to fight back the pity, but it couldn’t be helped. How could she not feel sorry for that man who clung to the first ‘medical miracle’ that crossed his path in hopes of restoring what war had cruelly taken from him? She had seen it before, men who drank questionable syrups and tinctures, swallowed handfuls of nameless poisonous pills and subjected themselves to the most horrid types of torture medicine could invent in hopes of regaining some semblance of a past long lost.

Close second in her heart came suspicion. Thomas had mentioned that this man, this doctor whoever he was, sought the veterans himself. Which meant he utilised less than orthodox methods to retrieve confidential medical records from private practitioners and maybe even from the war offices. And those treatments created by himself? It screamed charlatan all over, a trickster who exploited desperate men and robbed them of all their life savings and more just to give them reused saline in clean vials and sugar pills in medicine bottles with handwritten labels.

Charlotte couldn’t comprehend how a man like him, so careful and methodical, a man whom everyone regarded as possessing an incomparable sharpness of mind and an overflowing resourcefulness; the man who had Birminghan quaking in their boots at the mention of his name, could be fooled by false promises of medical prowesses that smelled rotten from a mile away?

She swallowed, trying to find how to best bring up her concerns without making it sound like a direct attack on Thomas' judgement. Lottie sat on the edge of an armchair, her hands folded in her lap, fingers intertwined as she pondered her words.

“Thomas” She rubbed her thumb and index together, a nervous tic of hers that nothing had managed to suppress “Doctor Foster has been seeing you for years now, and he has not once changed his prognosis. Don’t you find it a bit suspicious that a new doctor just comes to you and offers you a miracle?” She watched him carefully, her head slightly tilted to the left, studying his expressions. He grabbed a new cigarette, gently tapping it against the box as he spoke.

“Doctor Foster is old and behind the times. Did you know he was the last man in Birmingham to have electricity in his house?” He sighed and scratched his brow with his thumb, pushing the edge of the bandage out of the way “He thought the toxic fumes would poison him in his sleep”

Lottie snorted. She failed to understand how a man scared of electricity gave credit to this new physician. “Okay, I understand it. Doctor Foster is afraid of progress, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t good at what he does” Charlotte wondered if her reasoning would find home in his brain or if she just wasted saliva talking to the walls “But this man? Thomas, don’t you find it at least a bit suspicious? Did you even question him on where he got your medical file from?” Nothing made sense, that after they checked her background before even summoning her for a mere interview, they didn’t hold the same standard to the man who would be juggling Thomas’ health in his hands.

He didn’t acknowledge her concerns, obviously. In fact, he seemed to not have heard them at all. He turned his wheelchair towards the double doors, the sunrays warming his skin as he closed his eyes, dried up blood still glued to the side of his face and clinging to his beard. He brought up the cigarette to his mouth but never made it quite there, hovering just an inch away from his lips as he stared out towards the vast woods.

“The doctors make progress every day. They create new medicines, new treatments, they heal more and more people every day. If one doesn’t help you go to another, and another, and another until one does what others can’t” As Charlotte approached him slowly, she noticed he had a sort of dreamy look in his eyes, and for a moment she worried he had gone too hard on his nighttime visit to the morphine bottle. But the dazed gaze didn’t come from opioids. It came from hope. Endless, boundless, foolish hope.

And it worried her to no end.

Charlotte crouched next to Thomas slowly, her hand coming to rest in the crook of his elbow. Surprisingly, he didn’t shake her away; perhaps he didn’t even notice her at all, lost for a moment in a daydream of miracles and a bright future.

“Thomas” Soft words, pleading even, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt “Think this through, think carefully. If something sounds too good to be true, then it is too good to be true. If this physician is such an eminence, then why is he not sharing his discoveries in the Medical Society of London, or being named director of a large hospital? Why is he not speaking before the King and being put in the list of honours of the year? Why is he seeking his patients instead of them flocking to him?” She shook his arm, hoping to shake his senses too “This is a scam, Thomas. He is a liar. I am sorry, but you will not get better, and you know it Thomas”

Those last words hit the sensible fibre in him. He shook Charlotte off with such roughness she lost her balance and toppled back, landing on her ass on the floor. The dreaminess had cleared from his eyes, swapped back to his usual coldness and the everlasting hint of anger, anger at the world and destiny and everything and everyone that had led him to that state.

Thomas pushed open the double glass doors with his fingers and rolled his wheelchair forward. The sun framed him, making him seem like a shadow stepped out of golden light. He lit the cigarette at last, puffing out the smoke in rings. He leaned back his head, as if relaxing to take a nap, but his eyes remained open, focused on the clear skies. He spoke the next words softly, but they resounded loud and clear for Charlotte.

“I will walk again. I know I will” A long drag of the cigarette “And if I don’t, then there is nothing left for me in this life”

#marsie writes #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x fem oc #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby series #tommy shelby one shot #charlotte tindall #female oc #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #don't hold my hand (i'll break your heart)

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rocknroll7575 · 8 months

Note

Mk intro Ranger Jaune vs Weathered Rose Ruby, Ice Empress Weiss, Panther Queen Blake, Barbarian Yang.

(you can put how many you can)

R!Jaune: *Walks on stage in a hood with a sword and Knife* Yikes, what happened to you?

WR!Ruby: *Twirls crescent Rose and holds it next to her* Ever been trapped in a different world?

R!Jaune: You have no idea lady

XXX

IE!Weiss: *Uses Glyphs to skate onto the stage* You're not the Jaune I know

R!Jaune: *Appears out of the forest like a ghost* I've been getting that a lot lately

IE!Weiss: Ugh... different universes are a pain

XXX

R!Jaune: *Walks on stage in a hood with a sword and Knife* Blake? Borthers you got old!

PQ!Blake: *Duel wields Gambol Shroud* You try being trapped here for years!

R!Jaune: Fair Point

XXX

DB!Yang: *Lands on stage with her semblance active* Whoa! That you VB?

R!Jaune: *Appears out of the forest like a ghost* Different Jaune, blondie

DB!Yang: And I thought I've seen everything in the Ever-After

#rwby #jaune arc #rwby meme #rwby x mk #mk intros #ranger jaune arc #dragon barbarian yang #panther queen blake #ice empress weiss #withered rose #withered rose ruby

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xxwitherrosexx · 1 year

Text

#the withered rose [ic post]

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lastbluetardis · 8 months

Text

Sacred New Beginnings (19/?)

Summary: James Noble thought he traded away his chance at love and a happy-ever-after when he signed a contract with a record label that turned him into an international celebrity. But a chance meeting in a dive bar may prove him wrong. Ten x Rose AU This Chapter: Explicit, ~5000 words AO3 || Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14 | Ch15 | Ch16 | Ch17 | Ch18 |

James can hardly hear past the roar of his pulse in his ears as he is the sole focus of Jackie Tyler’s—(Jackie Peters’s? He’ll have to ask Rose what last name her mum has)—ire. Gone is the cheerful grin he’d seen in the photos Rose had sent of herself and her mother on holiday in Barcelona; now that joy is replaced with the sort of rage only a mother is capable of.

He throws a desperate glance at the other adult in the room, but Tyler Peters is stunned into silence, his eyes locked on James as though he’d never seen a human being before.

Absurdly, this is what unfreezes James, and he throws out a stupid little, “Hello. I’m James Noble. Pleasure.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showin’ up here,” Jackie spits, stalking ever-closer. James regrets that he didn’t use the last two seconds to free himself from his position of being backed against the countertop. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Mummy! Daddy!”

Jackie whirls around to face the corridor at the sound of a tiny voice and pitter-patter of feet. She automatically crouches, and Tony gallops headlong into his mother’s waiting arms. She scoops him up and peppers kisses across his fair skin.

“Did you have a good night with sissy?” Jacke coos, stroking his hair away from his face. “She didn’t feed you any ice cream, did she?”

“Yeah! An’ made hotdogs and cheesy ‘tatoes, then we played Jus’ Dance, an’ James was there!”

“Oh?” Jackie asks, flashing James a withering glare. “When did he get here?”

“Yeah, he’s so fun!” Tony squeals, pivoting in his mother’s arms to beam at James. “He’s my fav’rite.”

Rose finally emerges from down the hall, her cheeks stained scarlet as she squeaks, “Hi, Mum. I expected you to text when you got here.”

“Oh, so you could hide this one somewhere?” Jackie scowls, gesturing to James.

“I… I wanted… I was gonna tell you…”

“What, that you let ‘im come weaslin’ back into your life? Did he come up with a sob story? Made it real convincin’, did he?”

“Jacks,” Tyler says quietly, inclining his head slightly towards Tony, who is still ensconced in his mother’s arms and watching the exchange curiously. “Let’s save it, eh?

Jackie purses her lips, then presses them to her son’s temple before handing the child to his father. “Take him outside, yeah? Meet you downstairs.”

“Five minutes,” Tyler warns. “This one needs to get to bed.” To his son, he chirps, “Say bye to sissy!”

“Bye-bye sissy! Gimme hugs and kisses!”

Rose tiptoes around her mother, not sparing her a glance as she scoops her little brother into her arms and gives him a couple of big twirls around the room.

“Spinny hug, spinny hug!” Tony screeches, clinging to Rose for dear life.

The sight makes something hollow ache in the pit of James’s gut. The siblings clearly adore each other, and Rose is so good with him.

“Bye-bye James!” Small hands tap his legs, and he realizes Tony is gesturing for a hug. He hesitates for only a fraction, but he can’t say no to those big brown eyes.

“G’night Tony,” he whispers, kneeling for a brief embrace. “Thanks for playing with me tonight.”

“All right, little man, wanna see who can race down the stairs fastest?” Tyler asks his son, ruffling Tony’s fair blond hair.

“Yeah! Onetwothreego!”

Tony bolts out of the flat, giggling madly, leaving his father to leisurely stroll behind him. Before Tyler closes the door behind him, he spins and says, “Good night, Rosie.”

“Night,” she mumbles, looking increasingly uncomfortable at the prospect of being left alone with her mother.

James nearly fumbles out an excuse to leave, but realizes that would be the most cowardly thing he’d ever done, and Rose deserves better than that. So he pulls on his big boy pants and turns to face the music.

Before he can speak, Jackie turns on Rose and throws her arms up into the air. “What are you thinking?! Have you gone mental?!”

“Mum, please just…”

“Whatever happened to “I deserve better than bein’ the latest in a long line”? I thought you were over bein’ a good time for someone who would drop you in a heartbeat for someone younger and smarter and prettier?”

Rose flinches from her mother, and James takes an automatic step towards her, reaching across the space between them.

“It’s not… it’s not like that,” Rose says weakly. “I got it wrong.”

“Oh, did you? ‘Cos from where I’m sittin’, it’s bloody obvious what’s going on here. Mister Handsome Rich Rockstar has swindled you again, tellin’ you whatever it is you want to hear so he can keep you ‘til he’s done with you.”

“Er, I’m not technically a rockstar,” James blurts, and he can hardly believe what has just come out of his mouth. But he can’t stop. It’s like his brain has ceased all higher function and his mouth has taken over. “More folk-pop. Indy, maybe? Soft pop?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jackie snaps, turning to him with fire in her eyes.

He clacks his teeth together and nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets in an attempt to make himself seem as small as possible, which is quite the impossible feat, considering his height.

“You! You need to get the hell away from my daughter if you know what’s good for you. You men, you’re all the same, taking what you want, thinkin’ you’re entitled to get your way, lyin’ through your bleedin’ teeth to get what you want. Well I won’t stand for it! My Rose deserves better. She isn’t a girl you can shag and drop the moment someone else comes along.”

“I… I know,” James stammers, his mouth impossibly dry and his stomach roiling in discomfort.

“Oh, do you?” Jackie remarks, false surprise lifting her face. “You had no problem tellin’ the entire bloody world you were just havin’ a bit of fun. ‘Cos that’s all you really want, isn’t it? Fun and a place to wet your cock…”

“Mum! Enough!” Rose shouts, red-faced and near-tears. “I was wrong. We’d both misunderstood each other. But we’re together now. Properly.”

“That’s what he told you, didn’t he? Bet he sounded real sorry too. Bet he said all the right words, didn’t he?”

James’s heart falls when he sees Rose flinch and drop her gaze to her feet.

“That’s enough,” he says quietly. “Say whatever you want about me, but Rose is smart enough to make her own decisions about her life, no matter what you believe. Yes, when Rose and I first started seeing each other, we each thought it was something casual. And I was an idiot for what I told the reporters. But things are different now. I want what’s best for her.”

Jackie grunts dismissively. “You say that now, but the moment she gives you a bit of bad press, you’re going to spin whatever little tale you need to tell to get the public on your side, and my Rose is gonna be the one who gets smeared through the muck.”

“I wouldn’t…”

“Mum, please,” Rose whispers. “I know I have an awful track record with boyfriends, but those are my mistakes to make. Maybe James will be a mistake, maybe he won’t be, but you have to let me live my life the way I choose to. And right now, I choose him.”

Jackie softens a fraction as she turns to her daughter. It’s as though with him out of sight, the gentle mother returns. She reaches to Rose and cradles her jaw, stroking her cheeks as she says, “My Rose. I will always want the best for you. It killed me to see you in such a state on holiday. I don’t want to see you be taken advantage of. Is it money? Sweetheart, you know me and your dad will help you out, you don’t need to stay with him for that.”

James is slightly offended that Jackie thinks he’s paying Rose to hang out with him or paying her for sex, but before he can think of a response, Rose covers her mother’s hands and leans into the touch.

“It’s not money,” she assures. “He’s not paying for anything of mine.”

“He bloody well should—he’s rich! You better not be payin’ for your dates!”

Rose lets out a sniffly giggle and throws her arms around her mother, who holds her tightly and rocks her from side to side. James wonders if he should sneak out while they’re distracted, but he finds he’s rooted to the spot, trying to wrap his head around the last few minutes.

“Please be safe, sweetheart,” Jackie whispers. “Please.”

“I am safe, Mum. And I wish you’d believe me when I say I’m happy. Really happy.”

“I believe that you believe it,” Jackie says, pulling back just far enough to kiss Rose’s forehead. “Remember that I’m here for you the moment you need me. Don’t you ever think you can’t come home to your old mum.”

Rose nods wordlessly.

The fight seems to have left Jackie, but she turns to him and says, “Don’t you dare hurt her, or mess her over.”

“I– I won’t,” he vows.

Jackie narrows her eyes, scanning him up and down, but doesn’t say anything else. She turns away from him and back to Rose. “I gotta go. It’s way past Tony’s bedtime. Thanks for watchin’ him.”

“Of course. I love spending time with him,” Rose says, guiding her mother to the door.

“I love you. More than anything.”

“Love you too. Drive safe.”

Jackie kisses both of Rose’s cheeks and doesn’t even look James’s way as she sweeps out of the flat.

oOoOo

Downstairs in the foyer, Tyler Peters is desperately trying to occupy his definitely-tired-but-pretending-he’s-not-tired four-year-old, and it’s going about as well as one could hope. Tony is racing laps around the room, skillfully dodging the amused (and mercifully tolerant) tenants of the building who are simply trying to enter or exit the building.

“Watch it, mate,” he calls when Tony nearly barrels into the little old lady who has lived in this building for decades. She is one of the few residents who already leased a flat here before Tyler became the owner of the building. “So sorry Mrs. Donovan.”

“Oh, my grandsons have just as much energy,” the old woman says cheerfully, smiling down at Tony. “These bones may be old, but they’re sturdier than they look.”

“Hi!” Tony chirps, flashing a toothy smile. “Bye!”

And so the laps continue.

And continue…

Tyler sighs and checks his watch. He should’ve known Jackie couldn’t keep it to five minutes. It’s nearing on fifteen, and he’s about to corral his son so they can go fetch her when the lift dings and Jackie steps out, her eyes sparking and her jaw locked.

“Mummy!” Tony sprints over and takes her hand. “Time to go!”

Tyler joins his family and takes his wife’s free hand, rubbing his thumb along the back of hers.

“Chat go all right?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know what the hell she’s thinking,” Jackie grumbles. “I mean… James bloody Noble?! It was bad enough to hear my daughter was havin’ a lark with that… that… scoundrel in the first place. But now she’s taken him back? Stupid. Irresponsible.”

Tyler bites back a smirk and knocks his elbow into her ribs. “Put yourself in her shoes, eh? When you were her age, you can’t tell me that you wouldn’t have bedded Bono if he’d shown the slightest bit of interest in you?”

“It’s not the same!” she complains. “Bono never would’ve…”

“And Rose likely thought James Noble never would’ve,” he says simply. “You know I love her dearly and that I want the best for her, but Rose seems happy right now. Will it last? Probably not. But let her have this, eh? How many people can say they dated a famous singer in their youth? It’ll be a story for the grandkids and great-grandkids.”

His wife huffs out another impatient breath, but doesn’t argue further. “Yeah. Maybe. But still. James bloody Noble. I just hope Rose knows what she’s doing, datin’ that man…”

Tyler wraps his arm around her waist and gives her a squeeze, but doesn’t say more. Together, they walk out of the foyer of the building, all while being watched by two young women leaning on the wall beside the lifts.

The women exchange stunned, disbelieving looks.

“James Noble? The James Noble?” one of them asks.

“With Rose Tyler?” the other asks. “The girl up in flat 10-2?”

No fucking way…

oOoOo

James stares at the front door for several long seconds after Jackie’s marvelous exit. Rose shifts away from his side to step forward, twisting the lock and fastening the deadbolt chain before she clunks her forehead into the door. She doesn’t move from her position, so he goes to her.

Carefully, he slips his arms around her waist and presses a whisper-soft kiss to the side of her neck. Though she feels limp, she manages to spin in his grasp to instead plonk her head into his chest rather than her front door. She simply stands there, unmoving, as he rubs her back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice muffled. “I didn’t think… I thought she’d… I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, nestling his stubbly cheek into her hair and breathing her in. Never before has a parental introduction gone so poorly. Usually his partners are as famous as him, so the parents are accepting and gracious or simply indifferent. Occasionally they’ll fawn over him.

But the outright hostility and venom that Jackie just spat at him…

“I didn’t realize you’d told your mum about me,” he finally says, matching the volume of his voice with hers.

She groans and says, “During our holiday. I’d been out of sorts, thinkin’ you didn’t care about us at all. Mum caught on to my mood. I didn’t mean to tell her, but I was quite upset, and it all just sorta… came out. And when I saw your red-carpet interview that confirmed I was just a bit of fun for you… I lost it, and she saw my reaction, and it wasn’t good.”

James wishes he could go back in time and wallop his past self across the head for his thoughtless comments. He wishes he’d had the courage to tell the interviewer how he felt about Rose, to tell the world that he was riding the high of falling in love, and that he wanted to keep it private. But he hadn’t. He’d been a prick and a twat, and he’d broken Rose’s heart from five and a half thousand miles away.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve forgiven you for it all. But I just… I guess I’d forgotten how much I’d told Mum about you. And I’d forgotten how upset she was on my behalf. I was stupid for thinking that telling her on the spot that you and I were properly together would be enough for her to accept you. I shouldn’t have done it this way… I should have talked to her first, then introduced you. I’m so stupid.”

His stomach churns as he squeezes her tightly, as though that could rid them both of the shock they’re in.

“Should I… should I go?” he asks, mentally pleading with her to say no. The thought of spending his night in his empty house makes him ache with loneliness.

To his relief, she shakes his head. “I don’t want you to, but I don’t feel like I deserve to have you with me tonight. My mum just… verbally eviscerated you. You must be so angry.”

“Not at all,” he insists. “Well… I’m a bit chastened. And a bit embarrassed that I made such a poor first impression, and that you’d been so upset about my behavior that you told your mum how awful I am. But I still want to be here. With you. If that’s all right.”

In response, Rose finally lifts her face from where it had been pressed into his shirt. Her eyes are a little red but completely dry, though he barely registers that fact before she threads her fingers through his hair, presses up onto her toes, and brushes her mouth to his. His eyes flutter shut at the glorious pressure of her kiss. He melts into her, splaying his palm across her back to hold her close.

“Stay,” she murmurs when she breaks away, though she catches his lips in another kiss a moment later. “Please stay with me.”

“For as long as you wish,” he says, because there is nothing on this planet that could make him leave.

Apart from her kiss of greeting at the door, this is the first that James has had Rose’s hands and lips on him in over a week. He tries to keep it chaste and slow, still unsure whether it’s appropriate for him to stay, while hoping to convey comfort and support through his body. He really shouldn’t let them get carried away; Rose is obviously upset, but he just can’t help it. He’s drawing as much strength from her as she hopefully is from him.

He has the presence of mind to keep his hands in safe places, primarily across the expanse of her back. He grabs onto the fabric to anchor himself as he basks in the heady intoxication of her mouth.

They each know exactly where this kiss is headed but pretend not to, and instead they explore each other’s mouths in lazy, indolent strokes of lips and tongue. James quickly becomes far too hot, his skin flushed and tingling with anticipation of things to come. He tentatively dips his fingers beneath her jumper, shuddering to touch her bare skin. She sighs into his mouth and presses her front flush with his.

He’s steadily getting hard in his jeans, each beat of his heart sending his blood rushing down, down, down, helped along by the rocking of Rose’s hips. He drops a hand to her arse, caressing and squeezing and pulling her more tightly into him. With his other hand, he tangles his fingers into her hair and guides her head back a bit to get better access to her neck. She grips his hips with near-bruising force as he plants row after row of searing kisses to the sensitive patch of skin beneath her ear. That familiar whining moan rushes out of her as she shudders in his arms, holding him close to urge him on. Not that he needs the encouragement.

Without breaking the kiss or the press of their bodies, James slowly guides them down the hall and to Rose’s bedroom. It takes ages, as he keeps getting distracted with the taste of her skin and the sound of her quiet gasps. They move even more slowly when Rose remembers that she has hands, then proceeds to use them to cup him and stroke him through his jeans.

“Christ,” he chokes out as a spark of pleasure zips up his spine.

“Rose,” she counters, giving him a playful squeeze that sends a full-body shudder through him.

“Smart-arse. Fuck, do that again.”

A laugh hums up her throat, vibrating against his now-still lips as she grips him tightly and rubs. He’s going to fucking lose it, right here in the doorway of her bedroom, but Christ this feels so good and he never, ever wants her to stop.

The intensity recedes a moment later, and he regains his senses enough to tug her hand away from him to instead guide her all the way into her room. There’s a pile of laundry on her bed that Rose haphazardly shoves to the floor.

“Clothes off,” she orders as she fumbles with the hem of her jumper, tugging until she pulls it over her head.

He doesn’t need telling twice.

Neither of them bothers with trying to sexily disrobe the other. Rather, they go for speed and efficiency, and soon enough, they’re both wonderfully naked. She’s as beautiful as he remembers, even more so, and he drags her down to the mattress with him. They move together until Rose is on her back, her legs open for him, and he’s atop her, his hips cradled in hers. She reaches between them for his cock, and strokes him a few times as she guides him inside of her.

He presses in, slowly, inch by inch, shivering at the sensations rushing through him. He groans through clenched teeth as he’s fully seated, forcing himself to wait, to give Rose a moment to adjust. She’s panting beneath him, chest rising and falling as her nails bite into the fleshy part of his back.

“Okay,” she whispers, arching her hips up and pulling him close for a rough, sloppy kiss that conveys everything she wants and needs from him.

His skin sings, tingling at the sensation of so much of her body pressed to his. His blood turns molten, burning him from within as he begins to move.

“Feels so good,” he chokes out, pulling back and plunging forward in a steady, measured manner. The slick glide of her all around him is as addictive as ever, and he trembles with the pleasure slowly mounting in him.

“Uh huh.” Her agreement dies on a moan as he thrusts in with a little more force this time. “James.”

He catches her bottom lip between his before releasing it to kiss her again. He teases his tongue into her mouth, flicking at the roof of her mouth just behind her front teeth, then going back to simpler kisses. Rose clings to him, kissing him back in equal measure as her nails rake down his spine to cup his arse, guiding his quickening rhythm. The sting of her nails coils a raging, aching heat low in his spine, building higher and higher until he knows it won’t be much longer until he’s lost.

“I missed you,” he grunts as her muscles begin to tighten around him. Thank fuck; she’s as close as he is. He redoubles his effort, wanting to push her over the edge first. “So much.”

“Me too,” she gasps. “Fuck. Please…”

He speeds up his rhythm, giving up on kissing her lips and instead tucking his face into the side of her neck. He breathes her in then plants his mouth to that patch of skin beneath her ear that is always her undoing. He grins to himself as she shudders and curses and moans, and when he dips a hand between them to rub her, she breaks.

She cries out and writhes into the mattress, arching her hips up and up and up, closer to him, closer to the sensations he is wringing out of her. She’s perfect, and fucking hell, he’s right on her heels. The perfect pressure within him pulls tighter, making him lose all sense as he chases his high. He thrusts with abandon, clenching his teeth as the flames fan hotter, drowning him, consuming him…

He lets out a wrenching moan and thrusts deeply into her, releasing helplessly, shaking and cursing and burying his face into her. Sensation sparks through him, channeling relief and pleasure through his entire body, curling his toes and stealing his breath. She’s everywhere, all around him and holding him through this maelstrom that has never felt so fucking good.

Rose… he thinks he gasps her name, but the rushing in his ears deafens him to anything except his erratic heartbeat.

He returns to awareness by Rose lazily stroking his back and kissing the top of his shoulder. His body is too heavy to move, but he manages to pull out and flop indelicately beside her, keeping an arm and leg slung over her. She laughs quietly at his antics, and he grins into the pillow. He cracks open an eye to look at her, and the sight of her smile and sex-mussed hair and flushed cheeks ignites a joy and love so deep that he begins to giggle. His body is thrumming with hormones that make him feel boneless and content, and through it all, he laughs and folds himself closer to Rose.

She’s laughing with him and turns to face him fully. He mirrors her position so they’re both on their sides, their legs tangled lazily together. He reaches out and brushes a few rogue strands of hair away from her face, then leans in to kiss her softly.

“That was great,” he whispers into the sacred silence of her bedroom.

“Mhm. Very great.”

“The most great,” he says, beaming as she rolls her eyes.

“Did you have a nice trip?” she asks.

He hums in wordless assent, and briefly tells her all about the week he’d spent in east Asia, meeting fans and doing photoshoots while promoting Catalysis.

“How was your week? Are you feeling better?” While her voice is still raspy from the illness she’d contracted, she looks and sounds much better than she had during their video chat on his last night in Japan.

“Much better. Teaching classes while feeling like death is always frustrating, but it’s easier than arranging for a substitute,” she says with a shrug.

He frowns, but they already had this discussion about how shittily schools treat their teachers, so he lets it go.

“I’ve got an upcoming holiday concert at the O2, weekend after next,” he murmurs, remembering the monthly schedule Donna had sent him that morning. “I’d… I’d really like you to come. If you want. It’s not just me. I think Ed Sheeran is on the list too. And Astrid Peth. She’s a good mate of mine. You can bring a few friends with you. There’s a private suite for my guests, so you could stay hidden, mostly, as long as cameras aren’t wandering around. And my mum’ll be there too. I think. Well. I should invite her, shouldn’t I…?”

Rose interrupts his nervous rambling with a soft kiss. He melts into her, but she breaks it far too soon for his liking.

“I’d love to,” she says, cupping his cheek before scraping her nails through his hair.

His eyes flutter shut at the echoes of pleasure that ripple through him, and he grins at her acceptance of his invitation. He’s giddy at the thought of being on stage and looking into his private suite to see Rose. His favorite pieces of his life will be in the same place, melding together perfectly.

He leans forward to kiss her again, and she willingly reciprocates.

oOoOo

They sleep, eventually. Between (and during) bouts of sex, they talk about everything and nothing. It’s like nothing bad can happen to them here, not when they’re twined so intimately, not when they’re making each other laugh so freely.

Wrung out in that perfect post-marathon-sex way, James buries himself beneath Rose’s blankets and lets blissful unconsciousness claim him. His dreams are vague and foggy, and he doesn’t remember them when he awakes later that morning to sunlight peeking through Rose’s curtains.

His eyes are gritty and heavy as he leans over to check the time. It’s barely 8am, but he feels refreshed, even though the drowsiness of lingering sleep tugs at him again. His shuffling has disturbed Rose, who curls close to him and mutters something unintelligible. He kisses her forehead and closes his eyes once more.

He drifts in and out for many long minutes before the gurgling of his stomach is too distracting. Even Rose hears it, and she pokes his belly, mumbling, “Shush.”

“Can’t exactly help it. Mind if I order a breakfast and coffee delivery?”

“Go for it,” Rose says through a yawn.

“Then can I borrow your shower?” he asks, sitting up and letting the sheets pool around his naked waist.

“Go for it,” she repeats, tucking an arm beneath her pillow to glance up at him. Her gaze falls to the morning erection that is somehow poking at the blankets despite their multiple rounds of very satisfying sex the night before. “Well, hello.”

She gently prods it, giggling when it bobs a bit. “Bouncy.”

James stifles a snort. “You’re adorable when you’re sleepy.”

“Pfft.”

He lets her mindlessly poke his cock as he scrolls to a food delivery app and orders a selection of bagels and croissants for them, as well as his favorite coffee and her favorite tea. His chest balloons with warmth when he adds Rose’s address to his list of favorites, then places their breakfast order.

“Should be here in half an hour,” he says, resting his phone on the nightstand, ignoring the handful of missed notifications. It’s the bloody weekend, for God’s sake. It can wait. For good measure, he completely silences everything, not wanting his morning with Rose to be disturbed.

“Hmmm, how can we pass the time?” Rose muses, blinking up at him through her lashes and grinning wickedly.

She shows him just how entertaining thirty minutes can be.

He doesn’t have time for a shower before there’s a knock at the door that has them scrambling for clothes. He tugs on his pants and t-shirt while Rose simply dons a robe overtop her knickers, cinching it tight at the waist to keep her modesty. They emerge from the bedroom, with James going to the kitchen for plates while Rose heads to the door.

There’s an odd commotion in the hallway, but James doesn’t really think much of it, not as he absently wonders what he and Rose could do today. Maybe they can sneak out somewhere and visit a museum or something. Maybe he could take her to the studio—it should be fairly empty on a Saturday morning. Maybe they can take an impromptu road trip to somewhere Rose has never been. Pack their bags and drive to the first place they can think of. Book a hotel and order in a bunch of fancy food and rent some films to watch and get drunk on expensive wine and kiss until their lips are bruised. God, that sounds like a perfect weekend, and he hopes Rose will be agreeable.

But all of those plans, those hopes, are dashed the moment Rose opens her front door to reveal a stunned delivery person and over a dozen paparazzi photographers, armed and ready with flashing cameras.

#ficandchips #dwfic #doctor who #ten x rose #sacred new beginnings #ten x rose au #james x rose #my fic #romance #angst #it's heeeeere!!!#enjoy 😘💜

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yorprincess · 1 year

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If this is the closest I - a sinner with too much blood on my hands - can get to Heaven... To true happiness, to feel needed, wanted, cherished, and desired... I want this memory to be sealed away in my mind forever. If there is only one memory, one moment I can take with me when I inevitably pass into the abyss, I want it to be this.

To know and remember that, even for a moment, someone wanted me. Not just what I could give them, but in spite of that.

To know that my existence mattered to someone besides my dearest brother.

To remember that to Anya and to Loid, my brute strength was a source of comfort rather than fear.

To remember that in a moment when I could have been replaced, I wasn't.

To remember that I didn't want to leave them, that they matter too much for me to just let them go... though it maybe something I would need to do in the future.

But for now, in the basking light of the streetlight and sitting on a bench besides Loid, I'll keep soaking in this memory. Basking in it, memorizing it.

So when things inevitably come crashing down...

~~~~~~~~🥀~~~~~~~~

The lights of the cottage are dimmed, almost the same shade of color as that street lamp. Yor was curled on the cot, left shoulder aching as she tried to wrap her arms around her knees, her face pressed against her legs, tears streaming down her face.

She can't go home.

She can never go home.

Not after what happened to Garden. Her cover blown to smithereens, though Loid and Anya were safe as long as she stayed away.

I'll remember and understand.

What it means to love and lost...

And dare to hope that my family will forgive me.

#ic - missing #verse : withered rose

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bun-lapin · 5 months

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The Gingerbread Gauntlet (part 1)

Summary: The housewardens have a gingerbread house competition

A/N: I meant to have this ready for before Christmas but of course, life had other plans lol The good news though is that I have a whole bunch of new writing ideas and I'm hoping to bust out of my little creative slump once the holiday chaos dies down a bit <3 The overall fic is a bit long so I decided to break it into smaller parts for readability. I'll be posting one part per day and will add links for the other parts after they post <3

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4/END - AO3 (whole fic)

Word Count: 1.6k CW: crack, silly, shouting, insults, mild swearing, candy/gingerbread

Winter at Night Raven College was a time even more magical than usual. Although the cafeteria was mostly empty, the sight of festive winter garlands draped elegantly along the walls, combined with the soft sounds of crackling flames in the grand fireplace, brought a cozy sense of winter cheer to the room. The alluring scents of sugary treats and winter spices wafted through the warm air from the kitchen nearby and from a long, solitary table set up by the doors to the kitchen. Already covered with an assortment of candies and plates of oddly shaped gingerbread cookies, the table was the very picture of a sweet and festive feast. Around the table, seven striking figures were seated an equal distance from each other and, as the snow softly began to fall from the sky outside, they quietly worked with the bounty of sugary confections before them.

“I swear on the Noble Rulebook of the Queen of Hearts, if I find out someone has been hoarding all of the rose-shaped peppermints, it’s off with everyone’s heads!”

Leona drowsily raises an eyebrow at Riddle and smirks, “What’s the matter, housewarden? We just started. You losing your temper already?”

Riddle scoffs and wrinkles his nose at Leona’s slouching posture, “I’m not losing my temper! I’m trying to make sure there is an equitable distribution of candy decorations for everyone present to construct their gingerbread houses!” He picks up a paper that looks like an architectural blueprint and angrily jabs a finger at a particular section of the diagram. “I am building a gingerbread model of the Heartslabyul rose maze–to scale, I might add–and I require exactly 68 rose-shaped peppermints to construct it.”

Leona slowly blinks at the intricately detailed design in Riddle’s hands and then shakes his head with a soft chuckle. Reaching under his seat, he pulls out a large, glass bowl of rose-shaped candies and passes it to the Heartslabyul housewarden. Ignoring the death glare from Riddle, he turns to the other housewardens seated around the table and asks, ”Can someone remind me again why we’re doing this stupid gingerbread house competition? This seriously feels like a waste of my precious free time.”

Vil looks up from his gingerbread construction with an expression of withering scorn on his face, “We just went over everything not even a moment ago. Did you actually forget or were you just not paying attention in the first place?”

Kalim lets out a bright and hearty laugh from his seat at the table, “I think this is going to be a really fun activity!” He holds up a small gingerbread cookie decorated with dark colored icing and licorice in the image of Dire Crowley, “Plus, we have to do this because the headmaster asked us to!” Waving the Crowley cookie in the air, he speaks in a surprisingly accurate impression of the headmaster, “I’ll be damned if I let those fools at RSA take home the trophy for the Isle of Sage’s gingerbread house competition another year in a row!”

Leona shakes his head with a slightly aggravated sigh, “I’m still failing to see why I, or any of us for that matter, should care about this useless endeavor.”

With a piping bag of white icing in one hand, Azul laughs softly and adjusts his glasses with the other hand, “There’s also the fact that whoever makes the best gingerbread house here today will receive a free PE class credit.”

Leona’s eyebrows rise in mild surprise and then he smirks. “Is that so? Well I suppose that explains why that guy over there is actually here in person for once,” he says as he points down towards the other end of the table.

Idia peers up from his work, the expression on his face equal parts gloomy and irritated, “Listen, I will do anything if it means I can miss any amount of PE.” Turning back to his geometric gingerbread design with a pout, he mutters under his breath, “Although, the main reason I’m actually here is because Ortho literally shot down my gingerbread construction drone.”

With a softly amused smile on his face, Malleus turns in his seat next to the Ignihyde housewarden and says, “Do try to cheer up, Idia. I’ve always felt that festive occasions such as these should be attended in person. A contraption built for the sole purpose of constructing with gingerbread could never replace someone special like you.”

“Oh-! Uh-! Th-thanks Malleus-shi! Th-that’s really nice of you to say,” Idia replies with a nervous grin. While keeping his gaze pinned to his work on the table, he then smoothly reaches into his pocket and rapid-fire taps out a message into his smartphone: AAGGGHH!!! WHYYY IS THE HEIR APPARENT OF BRIAR VALLEY SITTING NEXT TO ME?? SO DISTRACTING (╥﹏╥)

A message notification chimes out from the phone in Azul’s front jacket pocket. After checking to make sure his hands are clean of icing, he takes out his phone and reads the message. With a playful smirk on his face, he taps out his reply: Honestly, I’m more surprised by the fact that Crowley actually remembered to invite Malleus this time. What a rare event!

Idia’s phone buzzes quietly in his pocket and he looks down to swiftly check the message. He glares over at Azul with a small frown and quickly types: yo speaking of rare events! are you wearing the glasses i made for you?? the ones with the built-in camera and mic?? because i deffo remember you saying that they were useless and not your style (¬､¬)

The sound of the cafeteria door loudly creaking open suddenly cuts off Idia and Azul’s silent conversation. All of the assembled housewardens turn to see two fluffy ears atop a head of messy, sandy-brown hair enter the room. With a mischievous grin and a hissing-kind of chuckle, Ruggie waves to the group, “Heya, everyone! I’m here for the gingerbread house competition.”

Riddle frowns at Ruggie while balancing two pieces of messily frosted gingerbread in his hands, “No, you certainly are not! This competition is for housewardens only!”

Leona lets out a loud yawn as he waves Ruggie over to the table. Turning to the rest of the group he explains, “It’s alright, I’m the one who called him here.” Handing Ruggie a piping bag of icing, Leona adds, “He’s gonna build my gingerbread house for me while I take a nap under the table.” Cries of outrage erupt from around the table and Leona’s ears twitch angrily as he raises his eyebrows at the grumbling housewardens.

While carefully setting down a slanted piece of gingerbread atop his elegantly constructed house, Vil states bluntly, “Ruggie is not allowed to build your house for you, Leona. Crowley explicitly instructed us to build these gingerbread houses without any magic or outside assistance.” Raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow, he smirks and adds, “If you want this free class credit, you’re going to have to put in some amount of work for once in your life.”

Leona directs a questioning look towards Ruggie who, in turn, raises his shoulders and shakes his head in resignation. Leona waves a hand dismissively at Ruggie, effectively shooing him out of the room, and clicks his tongue with annoyance, “Fine, fine. I got it. You don’t have to be such a bitch about it, though.” Grabbing a handful of candies and pieces of gingerbread, he then quickly and expertly begins assembling them together.

Without looking up from his work, Vil smoothly pipes extra icing on the corners of his house and replies in an even tone, “Call me by that word again and I’ll shave off all of your hair to weave into a throw rug for the Pomefiore common room.”

“Hey Vil,” Leona chirps out a soft whistle to catch the Pomefiore housewarden’s attention.

Letting out a short, aggravated sigh, Vil rolls his eyes and then looks over at Leona. “What,” he flatly asks.

With a heavy thud, Leona sets the end result of his hard work for the last few minutes on the table in front of him. Made from rounded pieces of gingerbread and decorated with brightly colored candies, is a large replica of a hand with a raised middle finger. Standing up from his seat, Leona flashes everyone a triumphant little smirk and then saunters out of the room without another word.

The remaining housewardens silently watch him leave and, as the cafeteria door creaks shut, they return to their work with a softly murmured chorus of disapproval. An uncharacteristic silence settles over the group as everyone focuses on their individual gingerbread designs for the next few minutes.

Kalim finally breaks into the quiet with a bright laugh, “It's too bad Leona decided to leave early! I just finished making his cookie counterpart!” He holds up a Leona-shaped gingerbread cookie decorated with chocolate candies and a tiny feline scowl drawn in icing.

Looking up from his work, Vil studies the little cookie with an irritated glare. Wordlessly, he reaches across the table to pluck the Leona cookie from Kalim’s hand and then snaps the head off of the gingerbread figure. Handing the beheaded cookie back to Kalim, Vil flatly states, “My apologies.”

After carefully laying the broken pieces of Leona on a plate, Kalim holds up two additional gingerbread figures. One is decorated with marshmallow pieces and little wolf ears. The other is decorated with fluffy peanut butter frosting and hyena ears. Waving the wolf-eared cookie through the air, Kalim yells in a low, gruff voice, “Oh no! Housewarden Leona! I'll find out who did this to you and avenge the honor of our dorm!” Wiggling the hyena-eared cookie, Kalim says in a smoother, teasing voice, “Shyeheehee! Does this mean I get the rest of the day off?”

-continued in part 2-

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst imagines #twst fanfic #twst housewardens #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil shoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia #crack fic #bun lapin écrit

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