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peakyblindersxx · 4 years ago

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May I request a john smut in which, despite being the cocky beast that he usually is, he manages to get all gentle and intense when, after years of mutual pining, he finally makes love to ada's best friend who's younger and totally inexperienced. Idk I just need this to be fucking intense, like John suffocating his desire for ages and now finally indulging in his worst temptation and showing her what lust is... please i'll burn in hellll

a/n: first of all let me say: this killed me. like, it’s literally all i can think about. god help me. but thank you so fucking much for requesting this bc i liked it sooo much that i decided to make a mini series out of it with the help of my babe @stxdyblr-2k who was sweet enough to offer to ghostwrite on the series 🥰 and to all my other angels who requested fics, don’t worry i will get them done! just wanna give you guys the best quality work i can. my 1st priority are some tommy requests i got, as well as some michael ones after :)

love, abi xxx

whiskey business - john shelby x reader (1 of ?)

warnings: nsfw! eventual smut, slow burn, john being sexy as all hell but also soft

John couldn’t tear his eyes off of you. From the moment you walked into the Garrison, arm loosely linked with Ada’s, clad in a black lace dress that hugged you just right, he couldn’t stop staring. Even Tommy and Arthur had noticed, cracking some joke about him being pussy whipped. The words floated right over his head, his mind on one thing only. The last time he had seen you, you were barely eighteen, cheeks pink as you waved goodbye out the train window to Ada as she sobbed. Ada had always had a flair for the dramatic, but the two of you had practically been attached at the hip your entire lives. So, he consoled her, reminding her that university wasn’t forever, that you would be back soon enough. And back, you were, red-stained lips sipping at a glass of something that Ada had practically shoved in your face. You weren’t a girl anymore, black heels crossed at the ankle as you sat across the room in a booth, laughing as Ada waved her arms, telling some sort of story.

“Just fuckin’ talk to ‘er, John-boy,” Arthur’s voice cut through John’s train of thought like a sharp knife, and he focused his eyes on his two brothers sitting at the booth across from him, clouds of smoke from Tommy’s incessant smoking heavy in the air around them.

“Fuck off,” John returned as he stood, earning a chuckle from Tommy.

“That’s right,” Arthur shouted as John made his way towards the bar, rolling his eyes at his older brothers. “Make sure you show her a real good time, eh?” Arthur’s voice was soon drowned out by the crowd around John, as they parted to let him walk through. He didn’t even see them, his eyes trained on your smile. Fuck, you were pretty.

***

“So, then I fucking kicked him in the balls.” Ada’s eyes sparkled triumphantly as she recalled the time she’d incited a riot, managing to cause great injury to a certain part of a policeman’s body. She did so casually, like it was no big deal. You couldn’t control your laughter as Ada grinned, pleased that she’d been able to make you laugh. “Fuckin’ missed you, Y/N,” she professed, shooting the rest of her gin and gesturing at the bartender to “leave the fuckin’ bottle, already.”

“Missed you too,” you smiled back at her, happy to be back in Birmingham in the company of an old friend. London was beautiful, but lonely. There was something inside you that missed the dirty streets, the crowded pubs bursting with familiar faces.

“Had to come over here myself to make sure it was you,” A deep voice interrupted your reverie and you looked up to see none other than Ada’s older brother John, looking even handsomer than the last time you’d seen him, in a grey-three piece suit, a cigar hanging from his lips. You’d had the hugest crush on him growing up, and the butterflies swimming around in your stomach seemed to confirm that you still found the tallest Shelby brother irresistible.

“Hi, John,” You offered him a shy smile and scooched over as he slid into the booth next to you, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. You couldn’t help but drink in the smell of his cologne, the various drinks that Ada had encouraged you to down making you press yourself closer to him.

“M’kay, if you’re going to fuck, at least wait until I’m gone.” Ada’s voice snapped you out of it and you looked away, a pink blush staining your cheeks.

“Says the one who managed to fuck three of my best mates before you left school,” John retorted, causing Ada to roll her eyes, shooting her whiskey and pouring the three of you another glass each.

“I feel like getting drunk, and I’m not doing it alone,” Ada announced, causing both you and John to crack a smile at her forcefulness.

“Good thing we took a cab here,” you returned, before shooting your whiskey. If you were going to have to stare at John all night, you thought, you might as well be drunk doing it. Wasn’t like he was going to be staring back.

***

Ada was shitfaced, dancing in the middle of the pub. Luckily, Isaiah had stepped in as her partner, making sure her stumbling didn’t cause her to trip and fall. Unluckily for you, this left a tipsy you and John alone tucked into a booth in the corner of the room, out of view. The conversation was friendly, and you were trying your best to keep your mind off the way you could see John’s forearms practically bulging out of his suit. It wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself, for him to walk around looking like that. Especially when you knew that he was probably fucking the latest movie star, or something. It was almost impossible for you to keep your head straight, yet you managed to keep it civil. However, you couldn’t help your gaze from drifting to his lips. God, they were so pink and looked so soft, it was unfair. You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining how they’d feel on your mouth, let alone other parts of your body. Jesus, you were fucked.

A third of a bottle of whiskey later, you couldn’t help but let yourself slide closer to him, heart beating fast in your chest as you sat tucked into his side, his arm around you as you laughed at a joke he’d made, something about the stick up Tommy’s ass. Your eyes shone as they met his blue ones, his arm sliding down until his fingers were brushing against your waist, radiating heat into your skin.

“Y’know, I’d tell you how fuckin’ pretty you look tonight, but I think you already know that,” John rumbled into your ear, lips just barely brushing against your neck. Your breath hitched, and he noticed, a small grin spreading across his lips.

“You’re something else, you know that?” You shot back, a small smile threatening to take over your lips.

“M’not just sayin’ that. Couldn’t take my eyes off ‘ya, since you walked in.” John wasn’t kidding. For a second you didn’t know how to reply, staring up at him with a slight look of disbelief. The whiskey, however, had other plans, and had decided to respond for you.

“Can't keep your hands off me now." You smirked, waiting for him to escalate the moment, anticipation and liquor silencing the blaring alarm in your mind. God, you shouldn't want him as badly as you do.

"Can you blame me?" He muttered, dragging his fingers across the lace of your dress, tracing the pattern's loops absentmindedly, watching your jaw tense and lips part to take a gasping breath, your jacket having long vanished into the chaos of the pub. Your arms wound themselves around his neck, fingers twisting into his short hair. "Fucking come 'ere lass."

His strong arms lifted you onto his knee, gripping a thigh to help you balance, the friction of his rough hand against the stiff fabric pushing your dress up slightly. The need for more and the desire to know him completely intoxicated you far more than anything from a bottle; you'd never felt as though you were on fire from your drunk hookups. His fingers found the zip of your dress, tugging it down desperately, gripping the flesh of your exposed shoulder blades. A small groan erupted from your lips as you felt him chuckle below you, pressing a thumb to your lips to quieten you.

"John," you whined, pouting playfully against his thumb.

"I'll sort you out, I swear," He muttered, slipping his thumb between your lips. Instinctively, you sucked, locking eyes with him, his hand straying from your back to roughly grab your jaw, holding your gaze. "But if you're going to scream your 'ead off, we'll get caught."

"You wish you could make me scream, John-lad."

"Come off it, I could ruin you, Y/N." He stated, lifting your jaw, as though memorising the construction of your face, tone brimming with a cocky confidence only John could make attractive. "You want that?"

"More than anything." The words tumbled out of your mouth thoughtlessly, watching how his jaw tightened in response as you attempted to read his expression. He studied you for what must've only been a few seconds, but the moment passed so slowly, you could barely remember what it felt like to not be examined by his dominating blue eyed stare.

His grip guided your face to his, fingers tilting your chin so John's lips could brush against yours, before pulling you into a heated almost aggressive kiss, the straps of your dress barely grazing your shoulders, the hem of your dress bunching around your waist as he reached down your back to grab your bum in a firm squeeze. Your mouth gaped open in a gasp of pleasure, John taking the moment to run his tongue against your lips, gaining access and deepening the kiss. You were so caught up in the thrill of John's seduction that you hadn't noticed his hand suddenly pull away after moving your skimpy underwear to one side. You had instinctively ground your hips against him, he'd broken the kiss to let out a string of curses, complimenting you through his quickening breaths (“Fuckin’ wet for me already, aye?”), gripping your thigh. But as soon as he had pulled the thin silk from your thighs, the atmosphere shifted, his lip curling in frustration as his hands left your skin as though your flesh was suddenly scalding.

"John?" You prompted, resting a hand on his shoulder, noticing the dark shadows under his eyes for the first time.

"It's getting late."

"What?" Your voice sounded high and whiny, you mentally scolded yourself for sounding so needy. It was embarrassing to be rejected by the man you've admired for many years, but even worse to be openly vulnerable and so pathetic in front of your best friend's brother.

Ada.

Oh fuck.

Realisation hit you, it was either that or the unholy quantity of alcohol you'd downed which turned your stomach. You had gone too far this time. It was one thing to flirt with John and desire him from a distance, it was an absolute betrayal to have sex with him, knowing Ada's insecurity about being used to get close to her gangster brothers- sex, power and politics. You had sworn during those tearful walks around the canal that you'd never hurt her. You couldn't do that to her.

Your sudden panic must've been obvious, you tried to stand up from John's lap, stumbling slightly, only regaining balance due to a sudden arm across your back, anchoring you upright.

"No one has to know. It's our secret yeah?" He muttered into your ear, his words comforting.

You nodded silently, the reality of the situation settling in. Your hands are shaking by your sides, John catches them, locking his fingers with yours.

"It's fine, now. Nothing happened yeah?" He stood up in front of you, his muscular physique looming before you, the creases across his torso reminding you that just a few minutes ago his body was under yours, he was breathless, needing your skin against his, desperate and vulnerable. "I'll zip you up. Turn around."

His hands dropped from yours to fumble clumsily with your zip, struggling in the gloom and fog of intoxication, he eventually succeeded, the lace clinging to the curve of your hips, waist, back and chest again. You wished it was him instead that was skimming your figure but you pushed the thought away with a simple, "Thanks."

"I'll walk you home yeah?" He offered, as he straightens your skirt and his tie, allowing you to fix his crumpled shirt collar and the row of shining buttons below his throat which you'd ripped open as he whispered dirty nonsense in your ear, smirking at how you arched your back and swore back at him through your moans.

"Isaiah already said he would, it'd be better for us both that way. You know how people around here talk." You replied, glancing at the mirror on the wall of the booth to quickly smooth your tousled hair. Despite only recently returning to Small Heath, you'd already encountered the rife gossiping and quickly realised your neighbour was incapable of minding his own business. "Nobody has to know, right?"

John nodded, disappointed but appreciating your rationale and quick thinking despite your state, "Right."

"Good night, John," You said politely, ignoring the tension in his tone and the sudden soft sadness of his eyes, turning your back and walking to the door. Back to the sticky dance floor, back to Ada, Isaiah, Finn, Tokyo, back to spilling drinks, ashing cigarettes, back to noise, safety and far from the man who made your morals vanish with the same lines he uses on probably every single one of his conquests. Fuck it. You were going to enjoy it, you sped up your pace in your heels, trying to ignore your shaking legs. You tried to ignore the guilty twang in your gut when Ada screamed your name across the pub and stumbled over, dragging some lad on her arm, pressing drunken kisses to your forehead and cheeks.

You couldn't help but look back to see his shadow sloping away into the darkness of the booths closer to the dance floor, being bullied mercilessly by his brothers you assumed. You watched him fake a smirk, take the knuckles to his brow from Arthur, snap an insult back to Thomas and settle into his rightful seat. You only shifted your gaze to Ada for a moment but when you looked back up, he was staring at you, jaw tense, icy stare burning into yours, arms folded on the table, the gold chains of his sleeve garters barely glinting in the dim light. He looked away but you could see his cheeks were flushed with blood even in the glow of the oil lamps.

Pretending nothing happened was going to be impossible.

***

to be continued!

#john shelby smut #john shelby x reader #john shelby imagine #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders imagine #john shelby masterlist #peaky blinders masterlist #john shelby fluff #john shelby x y/n

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acedormouse · 3 years ago

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Hair, even apart from death, was an important keepsake of Victorians. Parents would frame strands from their children’s first haircuts, friends exchanged locks like friendship bracelets, and others braided and framed strands alongside poems. It wasn’t always about death, even when it was in memorial to someone who died. It was about sentiment and emotion.

Featured above are another two from the collection of Arthur Kirkland.

Select here for Alfred and Matthew

The first is written, ‘In memory of my dearest daughter, Charlotte Evelyn Winifred Kirkland, 14 October 1848.’ The first epidemic of scarlet fever prevailed in Auckland, New Zealand in the year 1848 though worse breakouts would come in years later. Charlie was still a considerably small child at this time, their island home not having yet experienced any major economic booms or population growth (that wouldn’t be until the next decade with the discovery of gold). Children aged between five and fifteen were most likely to contract the disease and Charlie was most unfortunate to have been a victim. Needless to say, Arthur was patient and calming during this time (front wise), doing his best to comfort the frightened child who hadn’t any encounters with death personally at this point.

The locket featured here was one that Arthur kept personally though a second was created that combined both Charlie’s and Jack’s hair that they would wear as part of their everyday wardrobe in the form of a brooch. The design was more ornate, a combination of gold and onyx with each lock of their hair curling outwards from the other.

The second reads, ‘John “Jack” Irving Sylvester Kirkland, mourn’d but not without hope 29 June 1864.’ Jack was resilient, not unlike Arthur’s eldest. His home had its diseases, the child even contracting both smallpox and measles in 1789 and, later in 1866, respectively. He recovered and got back up, not wishing to worry his younger sibling. What he wasn’t immune to was sheets of metal. Clarke's Circus was being hosted in town that summer. As he and his family passed through the field it was held in, the force of the wind from a severe storm tore large, iron roofing sheets from the circus building and blew them across the road. Jack was struck on the head and knocked to the ground. He was suffering from two wounds to the head and a fractured skull, with brain matter protruding. Arthur knew sending him to the hospital would be a death sentence but their London home was even further away. He did what he could to patch up his son, just to hold on until he could get a doctor summoned. He wouldn’t dare allow his children inside the horrors of a medical clinic. Matthew carried him to their family carriage, all going as quick as could be. His thoughts never quieted the whole night. The sheets had been up rather high, if Matthew hadn’t bent over to pick up the hat that blew off his head, it would have been him that would have been the tallest there. It should have been him struck in the head.

Jack died around midnight that evening.

#hws new zealand #hws australia #hetalia #charlie kirkland #jack kirkland #my art uwu #dumb little headcanons #part 2 is finished!#i love making these uwu #uk siblings will probably be next

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hb-writes · 4 years ago

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For Old and Young Alike - Pt. 2

{Part 1}

Summary: 1913 in the Little Lady Blinder universe. Clara has saved up for the perfect Christmas gift for her family and it’s almost time to show it to them. She’s just got to fetch the gift and wake everyone for the Shelby family Christmas breakfast first.

Inspired by this anon request: What about a little blurb set around Christmas time when Clara is younger maybe just before the boys go off to war, she has been saving her pocket money for ages to buy all her siblings and polly a little gift and she’s so excited to give them to her family x

Featuring: Tommy Shelby, Ada Shelby, Finn Shelby, Polly Gray, John Shelby, Martha Shelby, Arthur Shelby, Charlie Strong, Clara Shelby

-----

When Clara rose from the bed she shared with Finn, it was still much too early, the sun not yet up and the house very much silent. She checked on her siblings and aunt, listening outside of Ada's and Tommy's and Polly's rooms for telltale signs of their slumber, deep even breaths heard through each of the closed doors.

She couldn't stop herself from admiring the tree as she came down the steps, the few gifts there under the lowest branches visible even in the rather dim light meaning Father Christmas had already been to number six. Clara didn't linger there on the steps long, far more focused on the gift she'd purchased for the others than any of the boxes sitting beneath the tree.

The gift had been wrapped and labeled and hidden with Freddie's help, stowed high and away from prying curious eyes. It hadn't crossed Clara or Freddie's minds that she'd need someone similarly tall in order to get the package down when the time came.

Clara was smart enough to know she'd not be able to get it on her own, not with the help of a stool and not by standing on the tips of her toes. She'd need the tallest person available and that person, her older brother Thomas, was peacefully asleep in his bed.

Tommy usually woke early on Christmas mornings. At one time it was him and Arthur doing the early rousing, then John and Ada when he'd become too old to show excitement over such things, and for the last few years, it had been the twins waking him, the babies synchronizing their pounces to cause the most surprise, taking precious care to knock the most wind out from their unsuspecting older siblings' chests.

He wasn't used to hushed whispers stirring him, warm breath surrounding his ear as a light pressure weighed on his right shoulder, and it confused him in his half-asleep state. Tommy snaked his arm around his sister, recognizing the presence of Clara even if he hadn't heard her little voice coaxing him along. Tommy shifted closer to the wall, pulling her under the covers, eyes still closed.

"It's alright, my girl," he said, vaguely stroking his hand through her hair. "Just a dream. Go back to sleep."

Clara didn't correct him settling under the warmth of the blanket for a cuddle even though she had her own agenda, waiting there long enough for Tommy's breath to even out, his chest heaving in a steady rhythm beneath her.

"Tommy?" she whispered once he'd begun to snore a bit.

Met with silence, Clara pushed his eyelid up with a single finger, the gesture gentle but intrusive all the same. "Wake up, Tommy."

"Clara," Tommy groaned, swatting her finger away and using the arm wrapped around her to hold Clara and her wandering arms against him. "It's not time," he mumbled. "Father Christmas hasn't—"

"But he already came, Tommy," Clara said, struggling against him. "And I—"

Tommy inhaled deeply, trying his best to hold his sister's belligerent little body still. Tommy knew Father Christmas had already come to the Shelby home. He'd come no more than a few hours earlier, just at the moment when Tommy had gotten home from the Christmas Eve dinner at Greta's, dropping the gifts under the tree after checking that the twins and Ada were asleep, or at least pretending to be asleep, in their beds. He was grateful that Polly had done the wrapping, stowing the handful of packages in the shop after they'd put the twins to sleep.

Really, Tommy shouldn't have been surprised his sister was awake this early being as they'd finished reading the final chapter of A Christmas Carol around seven, just before he'd been due to Greta's. He couldn't imagine Polly had let them stay up much beyond that.

"And if you don't go back to sleep, he'll come back and gather up anything he's left."

"No, he won't," Clara answered, "and he can't come back as I haven't been naughty."

"You're being naughty waking me up so early," Tommy mumbled, "and naughty little kids get coal for Christmas."

"I'm not naughty. I just need your help."

Tommy shushed her again, repositioning them both and pulling the blankets up as he held her to his chest. "Go back to sleep."

She ignored his words, pushing her arms up against his chest, trying to get out of his hold. "And not helping those in need is very naughty, Tommy, maybe even a sin."

Tommy snorted now, almost properly awake at his sister's words, a phrase he suspected to be transplanted from their aunt's mouth straight into Clara's. "I wouldn't want to be a sinner on Christmas, now would I?"

"I would expect not, Thomas. You'll get coal."

Tommy released Clara's arms, reaching for the pocket watch discarded on the nightstand. "And you need this help from me… right now?"

It was about half-past four in the morning and Tommy dropped the piece of metal to the bedside table as he wrapped his arm around her once again. If Tommy had his way, they'd both rest a bit longer and he'd help her with whatever it was she needed closer to six, or even better, at seven. He'd not sleep any later than that, even without the twins' traditional Christmas morning wake up call.

"Please, Tommy?"

Tommy shushed her again, wrapping the arm around her once more. "How about we get a bit more sleep and I—"

"But, it's Christmas. Please, Taaaa…mmy?" she said, drawing out the first syllable, pouting and wide-eyed though Tommy's head still tilted back against the pillow and he saw nothing but the inside of his eyelids.

That long opening syllable, the Taaaa he'd not heard with any regularity for a few years, his name usually so rushed as it came from her lips, the pieces of it mushed together as she uttered it only as a hasty introduction or conclusion to whatever she wished to tell him, the other content more significant than whatever sound she whirled at him to gain his attention.

The reappearance, whether she'd done it purposefully or not, pulled at something in him and Tommy released his sister, opening his eyes as he looked to her.

"You're a little devil, Clara Shelby."

"I am not!"

"You are and you don't even know it, which makes it all the worse."

-----

Tommy looked up to where Clara pointed, to the brown paper package on the very top of the cabinet, hidden just behind the decorative edge. It'd been there for weeks now but he hadn't noticed it.

"You pulled me out of bed for this?" he asked as he pulled it down. "What is it?"

"A surprise," Clara answered, pulling the box from his hands as it came within her reach and holding it to her chest.

"Alright," Tommy answered, rubbing his eyes. "We'll put it under the tree then, eh? Open it in a few hours? Give us all the gift of a bit more rest?"

Clara nodded as she took a step away from him, stopping suddenly at a lone creak on the stairs.

"Father Christmas come yet?"

Ada yawned, wrapped up in a robe, her hand clasped around Finn's as the pair tentatively traversed the stairs.

"Finn wants to know," Ada offered to Tommy's raised eyebrow. "I'd have liked that gift of a few more hours you've just mentioned."

"I imagine you would," Tommy said. "What time did you get in last night, Ada?"

"Not very late," she answered. She'd been back before Tommy, just barely, though. He'd seen light in her bedroom window from out on the lane. "Not that it's your business what time I get in."

"And where were you 'not very late' last night?"

"Molly's," Ada answered. "Though, again, not really your business."

Tommy sighed. He'd hoped to simply get his sister back to bed for a few more hours, or at the very least, he hoped she'd allow him a bit of rest on the couch. He'd planned to ask after Ada's whereabouts later, without quite so big and impressionable of an audience. He knew she hadn't spent the whole night with Molly Evans.

"So did he come, then, Tommy?" Finn asked.

"He did," Clara said to Finn, "and he left us presents and drank all the whiskey."

"Big surprise there," Ada said.

Tommy rubbed his face once again, willing his body to accept that sleep was something long behind him, willing his body to not punish him too much for drinking Father Christmas's glass of whiskey and then some.

"We best wake John and Arthur if we're doing this now."

"And Aunt Polly?" Clara asked, already on the second step.

Tommy lifted her into his arms. "Let Finn go wake Aunt Polly. You help me with our brothers. Ada can put the kettle on," Tommy said. "I'd tell you to start with breakfast, but we don't want to burn the place down, eh?"

Ada scoffed. "It was one bloody time, Tommy. It was just a bit of smoke."

He raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the twins, both of them starting to giggle.

"Well, go on, then. I don't need an audience to make tea, especially not if it's the three of you."

"Why's she so cross on Christmas morning?" Finn asked.

"Perhaps because someone woke her up before five."

"But you're not cross and I woke you up," Clara answered.

"Yeah, well, I imagine you were a bit gentler than Finn," Tommy said. "And we know how our Ada needs her beauty rest, makes her lovely inside and out."

"Shut it, Thomas," Ada answered. "And make sure to wrap yourselves up in something. It's chilly out."

Tommy pulled a blanket off the back of the couch, wrapping them both. "Good enough for your standards, Mother Ada?"

She stepped forward, wrapping the blanket a bit tighter around her sister, tucking the fabric under her chin. "If either of you catches your death of cold out there—"

"We won't, Mother Ada," Clara said, mimicking Tommy's overdone inflection as she spoke her sister's name. "We're just going down the lane."

Ada rolled her eyes, shouting at them. "Fine! Go off and catch your colds, then!"

"See, my girl, that's why you're coming with me. You won't wake up half the lane shouting like our sister."

"Shut up, Thomas!" Ada said as she stepped through to the kitchen.

"Ada, you're not supposed—"

"Oh, come off it, Clara. Our brother deserves to be told to shut his mouth every now and then. Maybe if you said it, he'd listen."

"Now, Ada, don't go poisoning my Clara against—"

"Me? Me? You think I'm poisoning your Clara against you?"

"I won't give a second thought to poisoning the lot of you if you don't stop with all your shouting," Polly said as she came down the stairs, guiding Finn in front of her.

"I wasn't shouting," Finn said.

"I wasn't shouting either," Clara echoed.

"Yes, I know, my loves," Polly said, shifting her eyes from the twins to her other niece and nephew as she sharpened her tone. "You would never cause such trouble on Christmas morning."

Polly gave each of the twins a kiss on the cheek, offering them both a "Merry Christmas" and a smile before giving Tommy a peck on the cheek as well.

"Merry Christmas, Polly," Tommy said, beating her to the sentiment.

"Keep your sister under that blanket. Wouldn't want her to catch her death of—"

Clara and Finn both started giggling once again at Tommy's raised eyebrow, the three of them stopping suddenly as Polly cleared her throat.

"See." Ada threw her hands in the air. "Just as I've said. Tommy's always poisoning the twins against—"

"Calm down, Ada. Your brother's only doing it to rile you up. And you're only making it worse for yourself by letting him."

Ada huffed. "Unbelievable, the lot of you," she said, storming out of the room.

"Can we do breakfast first?" Finn asked, tugging on Polly's robe. "Then the presents?"

Polly opened her mouth to answer, cut off by the cursing and sound of crashing pots and pans one room over. This time Polly raised an eyebrow, smirking as the kids and Tommy chuckled.

"You alright in there, love?" Polly asked

"Fine, Polly," Ada answered. "And shut up, Tommy!"

"I didn't say anything, Ada."

"But you were thinking something or making a face or…just shut up and go get the boys."

-----

Clara snuggled against Tommy's chest, the two of them working together to hold the blanket up against the chilly air out on the lane.

Tommy directed them to John's house first, unsurprised when the door fell open with just a gentle push. They never locked up, Martha and John possessing something, perhaps an ill-placed bit of courage or comfort or stupidity that allowed them to feel protected within their four thin walls, only a barely competent door latch between them and the rest of Small Heath.

Clara released a small squeak as Tommy turned around to shut the door behind them, struggling to get out of his arms when she spotted Martha and the baby in a chair by the fire.

"Oh," Tommy said as he turned to them, allowing Clara out of his arms, her socked feet closing the distance to Martha and the baby in a few seconds. "Morning, Martha."

"I'd ask if you want to come in, but as you already have, maybe you'd still allow me to offer you a seat before you sit?"

Martha eyed Tommy for a moment before looking down at Clara, her little finger already clasped by the cooing baby.

"We didn't want to wake you," Tommy said. "Was planning to have Clara tiptoe in to steal John and the kids and let you sleep."

As little sleep as John got, they all knew Martha got even less, responding to most of the late-night and early morning calls of their babies before John even stirred.

"So you two decided to break in quietly, then?" Martha asked. "Sounds like a good way to get yourselves shot. You know he keeps a gun under his pillow."

"Where's Sarah?" Clara asked.

"Asleep with your brother. We can go wake the lazy lump if Uncle Tommy will take Joseph for a moment."

Tommy accepted the bundle of blankets into his arms, more adept and comfortable with an infant than most people would expect. He settled into the vacated chair as Martha took Clara's hand and led her up the stairs.

Martha stepped into the room first and pulled two things from the bed, the gun beneath John's pillow, which she stowed in the drawer of the nightstand, and then the sleeping toddler pulled from the spot between John and the wall. John stretched out the moment Sarah was pulled from the bed, subconsciously unraveling to occupy the space now vacated.

Martha gestured for Clara to have at it, the woman's smile further encouraging the excitement that had already budded in Clara on the way up the stairs.

Clara's words, her alarm bell greeting, shocked John's system, his hand going under the pillow in search of the missing gun before she'd even properly gotten the second syllable of 'merry' out from between her lips. Clara ran from across the room and landed with a grunt followed by bright giggles as she collided with his chest.

"Wake up, John. It's Christmas," she said between laughs.

John's heart was beating so fast and hard it took him a moment to recuperate, just lying there with his wife and sister giggling, his daughter waking to the noise, her laughter joining the chorus.

"Christmas, is it?" he said, glancing through the window to the dark street. "It's still Christmas Eve, I think."

"No, John, it's Christmas," Clara answered.

"Must be pretty fucking early, then."

Martha scolded him and John sat up, Clara sliding off his chest to sit in his lap.

"Tommy and I broke in to wake you up."

"Broke in?" John asked, glancing up to his wife for confirmation.

"Your brother," Martha said. "He never fucking knocks. Just lets himself in like he owns the place."

John raised an eyebrow at the language he'd just been corrected for and Martha rolled her eyes. "I suppose your sister has already learned it. Sarah, too. We'll try better with Joseph."

John smirked. "Clara learned it around Sarah's age. Imagine this sweet little thing sat right there at the breakfast table demanding more fucking eggs. Gave Aunt Pol quite a shock to the heart the first time she heard her say it, eh Clara?"

"I don't remember," Clara answered.

"I suppose you wouldn't," John said, depositing his sister on the covers as he pushed himself out of bed and began pulling on the rest of his clothes. "Has Pol started breakfast yet?"

-----

When their fourth set of knocks went unanswered, Tommy shifted Clara to his opposite hip and fished the key to number 57 Watery Lane out of his pocket.

The first floor was dark and silent, and Tommy kicked an empty whiskey bottle out of the way as he carried Clara towards the stairs. Clara wiggled out of the blanket and Tommy's arms and he set her down on the top step, Arthur's bedroom door angled open to reveal a heap of blankets on top of the bed.

Clara intended the same wake-up for Arthur as she'd given to John and prepared to launch herself on top of him, but Tommy caught her under the arms, pulling her back up to his hip as he spotted a delicately arched foot slip from under the mound of covers.

"Hey!" Clara attempted a whisper, but it still came out as a shout. "Put me—"

"Shush, love. It's still early," Arthur mumbled, assuming the noise came from the bed beside him. "Give me another hour of sleep and I'll give you—"

Tommy cleared his throat. "Merry Christmas, Arthur."

It startled him and the bed quickly became a mess of limbs and blankets as Arthur and the woman he'd brought home began to thrash about.

"Who's your friend, Arthur?" Tommy asked, nodding towards the woman hiding behind his shoulder.

Arthur stammered, reaching down to grab his shirt and pants off the floor and pulling them on beneath the covers.

"Ah, is that Eva?" Tommy asked. "Merry Christmas, Eva."

"Merry Christmas, Tommy," the young woman answered tentatively, pulling the covers closer around her as Arthur got off the bed.

Clara leaned forward in Tommy's arms, extending her hand. "Merry Christmas. I'm Clara Shelby."

Eva bit back a giggle, the embarrassment of the moment slipping away as the little girl looked at her expectantly, not a bit phased by finding a girl in her brother's bed. Eva pulled a hand out from beneath the covers and shook Clara's hand. "Merry Christmas, Clara."

"Are you coming to Christmas?" Clara asked, settling back against Tommy's chest.

"Oh, um…"

"Go on. Get yourself dressed," Arthur said, gathering up her things and tossing them onto the bed. "You're welcome at breakfast. The baby has spoken."

"No, no, that's alright. I've got my own family to get home to."

Arthur turned to his siblings. "Has Aunt Pol started breakfast yet?"

Tommy nodded. "C'mon, Eva. You haven't lived 'til you've had a Shelby family Christmas breakfast. If you thought Arthur could drink, you should see him eat."

"There's biscuits," Clara added. "Biscuits and candies for breakfast!"

"And everything else you could imagine," Arthur added.

"No, it's really alright. My sister's expecting me," Eva said.

"Tillie's expecting you at five in the morning?" Tommy asked.

Tommy knew the sisters. He couldn't imagine Tillie was home yet either.

"Well, I might sleep a bit more and then go over," she answered.

"Suit yourself," Arthur answered, kissing the girl before turning. "Lock up for me when you leave, alright, sweetheart?"

"Sure, Arthur."

Arthur pulled Clara from Tommy's arms, kissing her cheek as they stepped out of his room. "Merry Christmas, love. A bit early this year, eh?"

"It's Finn's fault," Clara said. "He woke Ada."

"Yeah, and you woke me thirty minutes before that," Tommy added, the three of them making their way out onto the lane.

"But we were gonna wait."

Tommy nodded. "I suppose you and Finn'll be taking naps this afternoon, being up so early."

"No naps, Tommy! It's Christmas." Clara turned in Arthur's arms twisting both ways to meet each of the boys' eyes. "Tell him, Arthur!"

Arthur laughed. "I may be taking a nap, myself, love. You two wake John yet?"

Tommy gestured ahead of them to where Martha, John, and the babies were making their way down the street towards number six.

"Let's wake Charlie, too, eh?" Arthur asked, stepping over and banging hard on Charlie's door until the upstairs window opened.

"Christ, Arthur. It's five in the fucking morning. People are sleeping."

"Merry Christmas, Charlie," Arthur said.

"It's time for Christmas, Uncle Charlie!" Clara said, smiling up at him.

Charlie sighed, rolling his eyes. "Did your aunt start breakfast, then?"

The boys and Clara nodded and Charlie shut the window without another word, appearing moments later beside them on the sidewalk. There was nothing quite like the Shelby family Christmas Breakfast.

-----

Tags

@babylooneytoonz @captivatedbycillianmurphy @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @evelyn-4034 @ms-dont-care @owenniasstars @shikin83 @lauren-raines-x @cactisjuice

#thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x y/n #peaky blinder fanfic #Peaky Blinders #thomas shelby

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sailorgreywolf-legacy · 4 years ago

Text

First Meetings

My entry for the second day of @historical-hetalia-week . This one is aimed more at giving the sweet backstory to one of my favorite ships.

Plot: Scotland accompanies his mother to Francia to negotiate trade. He is expecting to prove his maturity, but ends up distracted by a handsome stranger.

Characters: Scotland, Britannia (Albion), Francia (Gaul), France

Ships: ScotFra (The Auld Alliance)

Word Count: 2K

No Content Warnings

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

Scotland was overjoyed to be at sea on the way to somewhere new and exciting. It was the first time that his mother had decided that he was old enough to leave their islands. Albion had told him that if he was a good boy this might even be a usual occurrence, since he was the heir and needed to learn the ways of trade and alliances.

He was determined to be good and make his mother proud. He knew that one day she would trust him with more responsibility and trust him to look after his brothers.

It was even more important than ever now that he had an infant brother who would need him. Arthur, Little Wessex, was so young and he would need protection and guidance from his eldest brother.

At the age of fifteen Scotland knew that he needed to prove himself to her as a boy on the verge of adulthood. During the voyage, she explained the whole reason for this visit. She had trade ties with the Franks on the Northern coast of the continent, and made these trips to keep the bonds strong. It was easier to go herself than to trust a messenger to carry her words, and she wanted her son to see the process.

The only reservation that Scotland had was about the Danes. There was a possibility that their sails could emerge from the fog at any moment, as they often had in recent years.

The short passage from the Anglo-Saxon land to the kingdom of the Franks was not completely safe. He had asked his mother what they would do about the Danes, but she had given him a mysterious smile and said that she had found a way to deal with them. Scotland wouldn’t dare ask what she meant, but he took comfort in her certainty.

The first sight he had of the continent was the white sand of the beeches. Behind it there were impressive cliffs that seemed to be lush and green. How beautiful it was.

Scotland was certain from the first look that he would quite like this new place. Albion turned to him and asked, “What do you think of it?" He responded in a hushed voice, like he was afraid he would scare away the beauty, “It’s lovely.”

Scotland followed dutifully as his mother walked into the courtyard, where a tall blonde woman was waiting for them. There was a scar on her cheek that spoke of battles fought long ago. It was easy to guess who had given her that scar, since the stories of Cesar in Gaul were legendary.

He knew that she had once been called Gaul, and was now known as Francia. It was not so strange that one would cast off the name that Rome had called them, as his own mother had by refusing to be known as Britannia.

The two greeted each other warmly while Scotland tried to decide if he was supposed to introduce himself or not. His mother and Francia were old friends and it explained their familiar greeting.

Scotland mulled over what he was supposed to do. In his father’s absence, he was the man of the family. But he also knew that he was there on his mother’s permission, and he would never speak over her.

To his relief, she solved the conundrum by saying, “This is my eldest, Alasdair.”

Scotland took this as a cue for him to bow, to show due respect. Francia gave him a smile and said, “You are such a strapping boy. I think you’re almost a man.”

He felt a glow of pride at that, and nodded enthusiastically. He so wanted to be the kind of man who his mother would be proud of. Albion responded, putting her hand on his shoulder, “I’m very proud of him. I hope he won’t have to be a man too soon.”

Francia said, “I have also brought my eldest. Francois, greet our guests.”

A young man forward, and Scotland realized that he had not noticed him behind Francia’s cloak. He had been too busy thinking about how to impress his mother’s friend and it had not even occurred to him to look.

He drew in a breath as he realized how beautiful the young man was. There was sunlight glinting off of his golden waves, and it made him look ethereal.

Scotland felt his own cheeks growing hot, and he hoped that it was only the warmth of the sun on his face.

The boy said, “I am very glad to meet you.” He smiled, and it felt like he was radiating warmth and light.

Scotland could feel his heart beating quickly, like he was nervous. But he could not think of a reason, since he had not felt this way before. His mother said, “Shall we go inside and talk?” Francia nodded.

Scotland could not focus at all; his mind was fixed on the blonde boy across the table from him. The more he looked, the more he was convinced that he had never seen a person so beautiful and so elegant.

He was trying not to stare, since he was sure that it was rude. He kept glancing at his mother, hoping that reminding himself of his duty would get his mind back on the reason he was present.

However, it was not working. He was watching the other boy’s slender hands as they fidgeted with the corner of a piece of parchment. It seemed like he was bored of the discussion. Even in his boredom he looked incredibly elegant.

Scotland glanced back up at his face, hoping to steal another look. To his surprise, he met the other’s blue eyes directly. It had not crossed his mind that France might be looking at him too. The eye contact made him feel like something fluttering in his stomach.

He quickly glanced away, and tried to calm his heart. It was such a strange and disconcerting feeling, but was not at all unpleasant. He had never felt this with anyone before, and he could not put a word to what the feeling was.

Francia noticed that her son was fidgeting, and threatening to tear the edge of whatever the document was. She said, “Francois, you should take Alasdair for a tour of the grounds. You’ll be less bored that way.”

Scotland looked up at his mother, trying to make it clear that he wasn’t bored. He said, “I can stay if you want me to.” Albion shook her head and said, “Go make a friend. I don’t mind.”

He glanced back at France, and couldn’t think of another good excuse to avoid time together He wanted to spend time with the boy, but he was also not certain what they would do once they were alone.

The very thought made him feel flustered and hot. His heart felt like it was pounding against his rib cage as he stood up to follow the blonde outside.

France pointed to one of the towers and said, “And that is the tallest one. It’s where my mother built the nursery.”

Scotland hardly heard a word he said, and he hardly looked up at the castle. He was too busy looking at the delicate curve of the other’s neck. He was not certain what was wrong with him, and he was sure that he had never felt that way before. He supposed he should pretend at interest, but it was hard to drag his attention away.

France stopped and said with a charming smile, “But you don’t really care, do you?”

Scotland was taken aback by the bluntness and the smile that it was delivered with. He scrambled to find an answer, but only managed to say, “Why do you say that.”

France turned completely to face him, his golden hair swinging around his face as he turned. He answered, “You’ve been looking at me since you got here.”

He stepped closer, and Scotland could see all the shades of blue in his eyes. They were like a mountain lake, clear and very expressive. He responded, “You’ve been looking too.”

He didn’t know what he expected, but the other responded without the slightest bit of guilt. He said, “You’re handsome, and I enjoy looking at you.”

He leaned in and Scotland thought for a fleeting moment that he was trying to make him blush. If he was, it was a success. But then France clarified his intention by saying, “I was thinking about what you would look like with a beard. You’d be so handsome.”

He paused and looked at Scotland with the most unfathomable expression, like he was measuring how far he would go. Then, he tilted his head to the side and said, “Can you grow one yet?”

Scotland was certain that he did not want to back away or tell France to stop looking at him. He felt strangely comfortable once his nerves started to fade. He chuckled and answered, “Only a little bit. My father says to give it a year.”

The blonde said proudly, “I can already grow some.” Scotland said, without thinking to hold his tongue, “Really? I don’t see anything.”

He squinted to see if there was light stubble on the boy’s cheek. Blonde hair could be so difficult to see in this kind of sunlight. He still wasn’t sure if there was anything there. France said, “Do you want to feel it?”

Without thinking about his response, Scotland said, “Yes, I do.”

He put his palm to the other’s cheek, and was amazed to feel that there was light stubble against his hand. The position that they were standing in didn’t occur to him until France leaned into his hand and nuzzled it slightly.

He knew that if he was not blushing at first, he was certainly blushing scarlet after that little gesture. His heart was pounding so hard that he could hear it in his ears.

He said, sounding slightly panicked, “What are you doing?”

France leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. Then he said, “I like you.”

Scotland’s mind felt like it was free falling as he stared into the other’s deep blue eyes. He was thinking of all sorts of things that he was not supposed to know about. Things his mother told him he did not need to know about until he was old enough to have children. Things that people did at Beltane.

It was just a kiss, and it could still be chaste, but his mind was running several steps ahead. He followed his instinct and put his hands on the blonde’s waist.

He didn’t realize how rich the fabric that France was wearing was until he touched it. Then he felt distinctly that he was holding something beautiful and delicate.

He replied, trying to keep a distance that he had already conceded with his actions, “We’ve just met.” The blonde nodded and replied, “And yet I like you. I feel like we are meant to be.”

Scotland was not going to disagree with him, because he also felt certain that he was attracted to the young man. He said, “I like you too.”

France smiled in a way that looked almost shy. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Scotland’s very softly. It felt like he was hesitant, even scared.

Scotland felt like he had to reciprocate to tell him that it was acceptable. He deepened the kiss, and pulled France against him. It all felt clumsy, and he was not certain if he was doing anything right.

He had never kissed anyone before, and he felt so flushed and hot. He was not even certain that he was kissing well, but it felt good.

France broke the kiss and laid his head against Scotland’s shoulder. He couldn’t see it, but Scotland had a feeling that the blonde was smiling.

France hugged him and said, “You smell like a rainstorm. It’s nice.” He nuzzled into the Scot’s neck, and said, “I’ve never done that before with anyone.”

Scotland asked, genuinely shocked because the other seemed to be so confident in himself. He replied, “Am I really your first?” France said, his voice slightly muffled as he spoke into his shoulder, “I told you. You feel right to me, like we’re meant to be.”

Scotland found the sentiment incredibly touching and he said, “You’re so sweet. I want to get to know you better.”

France took took one of Scotland’s hands in his own and entwined their fingers. It felt like their hands fit together well.

France asked, “How long are you staying here? I can come to your room.” Scotland pet his blonde hair and said, “A week at least.”

He planted one more soft kiss on the other’s forehead. He had a feeling that his mother would be very surprised when she found out about this.

#historicalhetaliaweek #hhw day 2 #hws scotland #hws france #scotfra #hws gaul #hws britannia

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ithebookhoarder · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 10: Four Years Later. (The Gangster’s Daughter)

Masterlist:

Also available on AO3:

Warnings: Original Character(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Period Typical Attitudes, Parent Tommy Shelby, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent.

1919

-------

Time had never gone by so slowly. Ever. Of that, Evie was sure.

Never before, had a second felt so much like a minute, nor a minute felt so much like an hour. It was driving her insane as she sat at the kitchen table, eyes fixed firmly on the clock hanging by the door. The peeler in her hand had long since stopped, as had the two black hands dangling teasingly on the clock face.

“Come on,” Evie whispered. Somehow, she hoped willing it would be enough to hurry time up. To push the hands further round and towards the hour. The hour she’d been waiting so long for. Hell, even Finn and Ada sat beside her, completing their chores in an attempt to distract themselves.

Waiting was not a Shelby strong suit.

Ada yawned, visibly uninterested in the task at hand. She had also given up on her task of de-podding peas. Then again, it wasn’t just impatience to blame for her lack of productivity. The exhaustion was all too clear in Ada’s eyes. She probably had only got back a few hours ago from Freddie’s. Since he’d returned from the war a couple weeks ago they’d been all over each other.

Before the war, they’d been bad enough, beginning to scurry about the streets together on secret dalliances. However, separated by the sea, Ada had been writing him, slipping him letters in the wedge she delivered to the post office on behalf of all of them. Polly, Finn, Evie, Martha and Ada had all written to their family, telling them tales of life in Birmingham without them.

It had felt like a world away from Small Heath. The closest they’d got were the letters frequently dropped to and from France, detailing and describing the carnage and chaos abroad. True, Ada had passionately decided to become a nurse only a few months into the war, to travel and join the fighting in France. However, less than one lesson later, the plan had disintegrated.

It was unfair. Or so Evie had griped. Why couldn’t she train as a nurse even if Ada didn’t want to? Why couldn’t she drop out of school and go help her father and uncles? What use was arithmetic anyway at a time like this?

“You’re still a child,” Polly had explained, trying and failing to pacify her. “War is no place for children.”

“Tell that to the boys my age enlisting, pretending they’re older!”

Polly had sighed, wiping her hands on her apron and lighting another cigarette. “If I could, I would. I’d like to shake some sense into every bloody man who wants to join this blood soaked shit show. However, I swore I’d look after you and this family until the others come home. You are my responsibility and I will not allow anyone else from this house to risk their lives!”

And that had been that. Evie hadn’t dared raise it again, and luckily for Polly, this whole mess had ended just shy of her being legally old enough to volunteer herself. Otherwise, there would have been a whole other war raging, this time in Small Heath.

However, Polly’s best intentions hadn’t been enough to keep everyone in Small Heath safe until the others returned.

It had only been a matter of months after John had left that Martha had gone into labour with their latest child. He’d been excited by the prospect before he’d gone off to war, boasting about the stories he’d have to tell their child when he returned - and soon, considering the way the government said things were going. It’d be over by Christmas. That was what they said.

In a way it had been; the life they’d all known before had ended and all too abruptly.

It had been less than twenty four hours after giving birth to a beautiful baby boy that Martha began to feel unwell. What had at first been a minor fever and headache had quickly turned into something far more sinister.

In a matter of a week she had succumbed to what was later realised to be a sudden wave of fever in the city, leaving her three children parentless and in the care of the remaining Shelbys. Of course, John was informed via letter and the funeral held swiftly.

Evie didn’t know what to think. It had been enough to rattle them all. So much so, there had been an uneasy truce in the house ever since. No one upset the others, knowing that they only had each other to care for them. They had to stick together. Not just then but always. Who knew if the others were coming back, after all.

All they could count on were the people in that house on Watery Lane and the community that flocked around them in their time of need. For example, Evie lost track of the people who offered to watch her cousins or brought them food they’d made. Most of them had been women who’d come to take their husband’s place at the betting shop.

Together, they had muddled through, their own little community.

Years had passed since then and life had carried on. Until a mere month ago, when the announcement had been made. The war was over. The boys would be coming home.

Now the day was finally here and Evie felt like she could explode with anxiety and anticipation. It was why, as soon as the clock hit the designated hour she was gone.

She didn’t look back, despite hearing the sound her name bellowing behind her as she burst out the door and into the street. Ada, Finn and Polly could stay and prepare lunch if they wanted, but Evie couldn’t wait a damn second more as she sprinted through the street like a wild stallion.

Her eyes remained fixed firmly on the horizon, aiming for the giant brickwork building ahead. The rising plumes of steam and roar of voices were all a blur to her, a blur confirming she was in the right place as she barged past porters and taxis.

Birmingham Train station.

Weeks they’d been stuck in France, waiting for a ride home but they were here now. Arriving on the morning train, just as her father had promised they would be.

So close. They were so close.

Evie didn’t stop until she was on the very platform, eyes focused on the shining train that had drawn to a halt.

A great whine of gears. The brakes hissed. Then the doors opened.

Four years she’d waited for this. Four agonising years, filled with agony that no letter or prayer could fill. Until she saw them there, in person, for herself, she wouldn’t believe it was true - the war was finally over.

Doors began to open and men in uniforms descended in droves, bags and hats flying. The tears, cheers, and fears erupted in a mass symphony of life as people began to run, merging passengers and onlookers in one ocean of bodies.

Evie didn’t know which way was up. She’d never been the tallest of people and she was once again regretting her shorter stature as she jumped up and down on her tiptoes. Her eyes kept darting frantically around the place.

They had to be here somewhere. She could feel it in her bones…

Then she saw them. Well, she saw Arthur to be precise, jumping down from one of the carriages before making way for John. He’d always been hard to miss, more so with his overgrown moustache and loud cheers of relief to be back on Birmingham soil.

“Uncle Arthur! John!” she screamed, hurrying frantically toward them. They barely had time to turn before she was on them, flinging her arms about their necks and peppering their cheeks with kisses. To hell with the Shelby aversion to public displays, Evie was too damned overwhelmed to care. The laughs and hugs she received in return proved they didn’t care either.

“God damn, you grew,” Arthur scoffed, spinning her round and laughing as he took her in. Four years was indeed a long time for anybody, and Evie’s teenage body definitely betrayed the separation, almost like the lines on his forehead did him. “Just get a look at you. Some welcome wagon. Aren’t we lucky bastards.”

“The others are back home waiting. They can’t wait to see you all, the famed heroes.”

“I bet they are,” John grinned, taking his own turn to hug his niece. “I’d kill for a slice of Pol’s gin cake right about now. I’ve only had a bleeding sandwich all day.”

“Hopefully, John you’ll never have to kill for anything again.”

That was the voice that shattered any composure Evie had been holding on to as she turned.

“Dad?” she whispered. “Is it… is it you?”

He nodded. “I promised I’d come back, ey?”

The tears were strong as she staggered into his arms. Her legs threatened to go from beneath her as she tried to control the tidal wave of emotion that flooded through her. She simply let him cradle her to his chest, the itchy wool of his uniform pressed against her cheek.

She didn’t even care. It was merely more proof that this moment was real. It wasn’t a dream or some fantasy. It was real and solid and here. It was everything she’d hoped it would be and more. After all, she hadn’t dared hope they’d all look so in tact, so healthy compared to the previous train loads of injured and sick soldiers that had been pouring into the city for months now.

Yet, here they stood. Barely a scratch on them - just like their letters had said.

“I told you,” her father breathed, as if sensing her thoughts. “I keep my promises.”

“I know,” Evie sobbed. “I knew you would. You all would. I just… it’s been so long waiting for this moment and now that you’re all here I… I…”

“We know,” John muttered sympathetically. The thin sheen in his eyes told them he knew exactly how she was feeling.

It all felt too good to be true. Any moment she felt as if she’d wake up and this would fade away like sand slipping between her fingers. It was why she was reluctant to release her grip on him, on her father, and let him grab the remainder of his belongings.

“Come on,” Arthur coaxed, clearing his throat in an attempt to prevent himself from being caught further in the emotional reunion. It wouldn’t do for Arthur Shelby to be seen weeping in public now. He may have been in France, but he still had a reputation to uphold. “Let’s get moving, eh? I need a fucking drink.”

“You and me both, brother,” Tommy laughed. “You and me both.”

-----------

The rest of the day passed in a wondrous blur.

From the moment they’d stepped foot back into Watery Lane it was as if the whole world had brightened. The sun escaped the cloud cover that had been masking it all day and the smiles on peoples faces were effervescent as they greeted the returning heroes.

Finn, Ada, John’s children, and Polly were all quick to throw their arms around the boys and sob with relief.

“You’re home. You’re really home,” Polly choked, kissing each over and over again until they were thoroughly smothered in her lip rouge. “Thank God.”

“We’re home and here to stay,” John grinned, scooping up his newest child into his arms. Only three, he was the very spitting image of his father. “Isn’t that right, son? Your old man’s home.”

The toddler whined but seemed to understand, pawing at John’s face as if sensing the tears John was doing very well to hide. It broke Evie’s heart, knowing how much Martha would have wanted to see this moment, as delayed as it was. Still, she hoped Martha was watching, wherever she was.

“Come on then, you’re probably famished,” Polly cooed, wiping her own eyes. Arthur had taken one look at the awaiting feast laid out on the kitchen table and cheered. It was only Polly that prevented them from tucking in right away. Instead, they’d all hurried upstairs to wash up, change, and join them back downstairs in time for lunch as per their aunt’s orders.

“You’re no longer in France,” Polly had chuckled. “I’m your commanding officer now. What I say goes.”

“Sir, yes, Sir!” Arthur scoffed, saluting her. Still, he knew better than to argue. It would be shit luck to have survived a war, only to come home and be murdered by Polly Gray. It was why he tried alternative tactics. Tactics that involved opening a bottle of champagne and hurling toasts left, right, and centre.

For all her posturing, Polly eased with every sip of champagne. Everyone was too happy to care about anything other than each other and rejoicing at the domestic scene. For example, no one said anything as Evie had a second glass of champagne, cheering as she watched the room. The laughter was like nothing she’d heard since the day they’d all left, accompanied by the soft hum of the gramophone.

Whatever song was playing though, was drowned out beneath the voices and a particularly bawdy song coming from John. Finn was joining in, much to his delight. Where he’d learned the lyrics, Evie couldn’t be sure. Had Polly been sober she probably would have. She’d most likely have put a stop to it too, rather than joining in.

Before long, the party had decide to migrate elsewhere.

“To the Garrison boys!” Arthur bellowed, met with a raucous cheer of approval.

“Come on,” Tommy smirked, offering Evie his arm as she rose from the table. “I think we can celebrate for one night. Even Pol can forget about a bedtime on a day like this.”

Considering she was already half way out the door, Evie suspected her dad could be right. And so it was, they spent the evening surrounded by an ocean of smiling drunken faces.

Evie danced with anyone who asked, laughing all the while as she twirled, letting the world dissolve into a jubilant haze. She felt euphoric - and that had nothing to do with the several large champagnes she’d thrown back.

It had more to do with the realisation that this was real, and not one of the many dreams she’d woken from, heartbroken, the last four years. Every face, once familiar but now a surprise, were real. She could reach out and touch them and they wouldn’t disappear in a puff of smoke.

Maybe that was why she jumped as she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. A hand she’d recognise anywhere as her father grinned down at her.

“Dance for your old man?”

Evie laughed, eyebrows raising. “I thought you didn’t dance?”

“On the rare occasion I make an exception - mi’ lady.”

The sight of Tommy Shelby lowering in a mock bow, hand extended was enough to make tears of laughter prick at the corner of Evie’s eyes.

“Sir,” she smirked, struggling not to laugh as he pulled her into a rather good interpretation of a hold. Almost immediately they were swaying around the floor, laughing as they trod on each other’s toes and span about to the lively music. It was as if they were one of the couples she’d seen at the pictures, the whole world revolving around them.

Once upon a time, she’d been small enough that she’d stood on his toes when doing this. He’d held her against his chest, her grinning upwards. Now, though, she was tall enough to almost meet his eye. She could stand on her own two feet. She could dance just as well as he, even if she allowed him to lead.

Four years really was a long time. If she’d asked, Tommy would have told her such. As, for every new line or crease she saw on her father’s face, he saw an equally grown woman where a child had once stood.

For a moment as he’d got off that train, he’d thought Rebecca herself had come to greet him…

“Come on.”

“Tommy Shelby. No.”

“I’ve got you.”

“No. You’ll drop me,” Evie laughed, holding on for dear life as her father dipped her backwards, tilting her toward the floor before hauling her back upright in a well rehearsed motion.

Tommy just grinned. “See? I’ll never drop you.”

“One more drink and you would have!”

“Never,” he dismissed, laughing with her as the song came to an end. It was swiftly replaced with another. Most people didn’t even notice as they carried on dancing. “Another?”

“Why not?” Evie shrugged, already resuming their hold as she started to dance to the beat. It would take an act of God to interrupt her stride. “Otherwise Arthur’ll ask me again and I’m still recovering from the last dance.”

“I’m sure you are!”

----------

There was nothing overly spectacular about that party that night, not in comparison to the hundreds of other parties occurring across the country. Yet, it raged deep into the night and deep into the hearts of everyone there. For years after, they’d refer to this night with fond remembrance … well, those sober enough to remember it. Not everyone was in great condition come morning.

Evie herself had staggered into a chair at some point during the early morning, struggling to fight the oncoming exhaustion. Dancing all night had done her in. One yawn and she felt herself curl into the edge of the booth she’d chosen, letting sleep wash over her in waves.

She didn’t even realise she’d fallen asleep, not until she felt herself being scooped into someone’s arms some time later.

“Come on, let’s have you.”

She didn’t even need to open her eyes to know her father was responsible as he began to carry her towards the door and the early morning beyond it.

“You’ll be comfier at home, and Pol will gut me if I leave you on that chair any longer,” he continued softly, chuckling as he did. She could feel the way his chest vibrated with it; happiness.

“I’m glad you’re back, Gather,” Evie muttered, but she knew he’d heard her attempt.

“Me too, Chavi. Me too.” She hardly heard him speak in the ‘gypsy tongue’, or so Polly often called it when she was reading tea leaves or cursing about something. It was a soft sound, one that made her smile. “You’re almost too big for this now. It’s like carrying Arthur.”

Evie sniggered but yawned, choosing not to protest. She was just too damn happy to even try. Her family was back together again in one piece, and she knew when she awoke later that nothing could change that.

The Shelbys were home.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine

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adamantiumdragonfly · 4 years ago

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No Ordinary Time: Part Two “wherever you are tonight”

"...A time when the United States is what we fight for..."

The occupants of the Grisham Hall boarding house were no strangers to the war effort. Brothers, cousins, old flames, and current sweethearts have been wrenched from their grasp, the only contact to their stolen loved ones is military-grade pencils and scraps of paper.

Estelle prides herself on her mind for numbers but a usurper from her past rears his russet head and threatens to steal her thoughts every chance he gets. Bessie has been searching for a home in every patron in that cafe but she's left seeing his face everywhere she looks. Constance hears her lover's voice on the wind, finding quiet in the graveyard shift of the machine shop. Margaret refuses to admit defeat but the distance between her letters and her love grows wider each day. Jeannette has read many stories about tragic heroes. Her childhood friend has told tales of his plans for wealth and ending the war on his own. She just hopes she has a chance to do her part first.

wherever you are tonight

Taglist: @rinadoesstuff @vintagelavenderskies @julianneday1701 @wexhappyxfew @trashgoddess600 @pilindieltheelf @sunnyshifty @rogue-sunday @thoughpoppiesblow @pxpeyewynn @50svibes

Norfolk, VA. 4th of April, 1944.

While some found the adjustment to loved ones being taken from their grasp rocky, Elizabeth Ferguson had the advantage that only a select few possessed. She had already lived through it, making the sting nothing but a fond memory. It didn’t stop stinging though, no matter how many times one felt it. A dull ache would be a more appropriate term, the bruised flesh tender, and the black discoloration fading but the strain of muscles didn’t let the memory fade entirely. It was enough to make a first-timer bedridden for a week but to a repeat offender like Elizabeth, it was a mild discomfort. She had said goodbye before and did her best not to, when given the chance.

She held onto forlorn books, ragged quilts, and threadbare shirts to keep the end at bay, trying to prevent the inevitable ache. Elizabeth tried her best to limp about when the goodbyes were unavoidable. That could be said of everything she attempted. Bessie was a trier, an all-around trier and failer. She didn’t have a wall of degrees like Estelle or a self-assured flick to her head like Vera. She was just Bessie Ferguson, who had clattered and crashed her way through twenty-one years of life. Not that she hadn’t attempted school (she wasn’t the best student) and not that she hadn’t attempted to walk with the confidence that her theatrical friend possessed (it ended in a twisted ankle and a scraped-up knee) but by god, she tried.

She liked to think that her determination was her best attribute, right up there with the dimple on her left cheek that had gotten her more than her fair share of tips when she had been employed at Charlie’s. The real Charlie had said she was one of his best workers and his gruff voice in her head still brought a smile to her lips, bringing out the money-winning dimple.

Even when goodbyes were said, Bess found ways to hold onto the people or things. She still frequented her old place of work long after she was employed in the noble service of her country. Every Friday, like clockwork, she was in the second to last booth, the red vinyl striking against the blue of her uniform.

I look like the American flag, Bess thought, examining herself in the reflection on the glass of the window. Red booths, white mugs, and a blue uniform. How was that for patriotic?

She looked different, hair sleek and uniform pressed. Was this really Bessie Ferguson who knew every waitress and cook’s name in Charlie’s Diner? Or was Bessie older now, with the WAVES blue wool on her shoulder, finer and warmer than anything she had owned in her twenty-one years. 1941 seemed like a century ago, not three years.

“Hiya, Bess,” Angie was still there, her bouffant of pin curls still perched precariously on her brow. “You got a letter from your boy, I see,”

Bess came in every Friday, with a new letter or to write her own. The grease-stained walls had brought her luck and good memories. She thought that she could imbue them into the stationary, sending them across the ocean to him.

“Yup,” Bessie said, smiling.

“About damn time,”

She had been sat without a letter for some two weeks now. The patrons and the staff of Charlie’s had been concerned, fretting more than Bessie had herself.

“He was a dear thing, that Powers boy,” Angie said, tucking her pad back into the apron Bess was all too familiar with. There was no need to take her order, Bess ordered the same thing every time. “Two sugars, right?”

No matter how tenderly she tried, the bruise was liable to be bumped or brushed. She tried not to wince at the words.

“I saved you a seat,” He would say, even though she was working. He knew full well she shouldn’t sit during her shift but he would say it anyway and she could never say no, either. His smile had seared itself into her mind, a soft glow that warmed her better than any cup of coffee ever did. He would pour her a cup anyway, from the pot she had brought to refill his own mug. “Two sugars, right?”

That had been before rationing. That had been before the war had been set to boil when it was brewing like the dark roast that soaked every inch of this diner. It had been percolating, slowly dripping and staining their country. He had been a machinist at the shipyard’s graveyard shift and she had been a waitress at his favorite diner, that served coffee with “the prettiest smile I ever saw”. It had been a romance sweeter than any baked good in the case and more poetic than Jeannette’s Shakespeare.

She had been a different person then, just a little girl in her third house in three years. Bessie hadn’t known Mrs. Grisham’s motherly touch or the soft smile of her beau. Bessie had only known how to try and try she did.

the ‘30s hadn’t treated Bessie’s family well but she knew they weren’t special in that aspect. The world had been gripped by the choking thorns of financial strain and the vines had pulled the last strains of life out of her parents. When her father had died, Bessie had thought things would be okay. The farm she had grown up on and the family she had been surrounded with was invincible, or so she had thought. She would grow up under the bows of that oak tree that towered in the yard, swatting the swarms of yellow flies and raking up the leaves in the fall. It was her home.

But Bessie watched her family home disappear from view in the backseat of a second cousin’s car, eight years old and she had never seen her new home before. Her oldest brother, Arthur, was sent some twenty miles to the west, only twelve, to provide labor to yet another distant relative’s floundering farm. Eight years old and Bessie would never see home again.

Elizabeth Ferguson hadn’t been raised to admit defeat. As the Depression stretched on and her bags were packed and unpacked, Bessie kept trying. She made her peace with every attempt, trying hard to be useful, helpful, and liked. Her name provided a blank slate, quickly covered in her current caretaker’s preferred nickname. Elizabeth. Beth. Bess. Bessie. Lizzie. Liz. Eliza. She answered to them all and she didn’t mind, truly she didn’t. She would try her best to be what that family wanted, what that home demanded but she’d end up with the suitcase in her hand and a new route to a new home.

Elizabeth had parted ways with the last relative, the last attempt at home, at the age of eighteen. April had dawned cold that year, 1941. She had found employment with the sticky floors and chrome edgings of Charlie’s, turning up on the Grisham’s doorstep. It had been Carrie, Vera, and Estelle back then. Before the war.

Before the war. She worked hard, shoes wearing thin and bones aching when her head hit the pillows. Elizabeth had worked hard and tried to cling to what she had left, the friends she had gained, and the home she had made. Maybe if she clung to them, the one god thing wouldn’t slide away from her, finding a home in some other harbor.

She hadn’t been looking for him or anyone and yet, they had found each other. Drawn towards each other, blending and blurring in watercolor of perfection. Maybe the best pieces of art were the ones that weren’t intended.

“Has anyone seen to you two?” She had asked, whirling around on the slick tiled floor. They were a grease-stained pair, smelling of oil and sleepless nights like every machinist who crossed the line from Portsmouth for a cup of coffee after work.

“No, ma’am,” The tallest, a thin, rake of a boy who didn’t seem much older than Bessie said. His voice was soft, not loud and course like the usual Shipyard folk. “We are fine to sit for a spell-”

“Nonsense,” Elizabeth shifted the bus bucket of dirty dishes to her hip, bracing it with her arm so she could retrieve the pad and pen from her pocket. “What can I get you two?”

“Ma’am, do you need a hand?” The soft-spoken one made to reach for the bucket but Bessie raised a hand to stop him.

“It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.” She smiled. “Now what can I get you two?”

Faces came and went in that little diner on the corner of College and Duke, there were the regulars and there were the strangers. Elizabeth had treated them all the same, a bright smile and a warm plate. It was the least she could do and she knew what it was to need a smile from a stranger or two. These two machinists weren’t the only blue collars who sat in the vinyl booths but she fought to keep her eyes on the paper and not straying towards the one who offered her help. The orders were taken and the niceties exchanged, Bess turned on her heel, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

As she marched towards the kitchen, his companion jabbed and teased, the blush creeping up the soft-spoken boy’s face, settling into his hairline. She

These two machinists quickly became regulars, coming back every Friday. Small talk was made and a rough sketch of their characters was established. Elizabeth had never been one to chase but it seemed the work was being done for her. Mr. Wynn and Mr. Powers returned week after week. As the months dragged by and April came and went, Mr. Powers would linger.

“Where are you from, Mr. Powers?”

“Clincho, ma’am,”

“I’ve got family out that way,” Elizabeth had said. “How long you been in the area?”

“I’ve been in Portsmouth for about a year now, I reckon,”

“I’ve an aunt in Portsmouth. Over on Bains Creek,”

“Where don’t you have family, ma’am?’

“The moon,”

He had smiled, bright and warm. Elizabeth felt like she had taken a warm cup of coffee and held it tight to her chest, fingers warming on the ceramic. The dimple on her left cheek appeared in response.

“It’s Elizabeth,” She said. “Elizabeth Ferguson.”

“Darrell Powers,”

Elizabeth had never thought that sharing a smile could be something so special. She had smiled at hundreds of patrons, offering a grin here and there until the muscles in her face hurt, all for a few extra quarters thrown on the table. Elizabeth had never expected a tip from Mr. Powers, or Shifty, as he said the boys called him. Mr. Powers, he remained to her, even on their tentative agreement to a show at the cinema on some Friday night. Mr. Powers, he would be, until he walked her home from her shift, offering her his jacket in the rainstorm that sent them racing towards the nearest porch. There, standing on a stranger’s porch, in the April rainshower, Elizabeth wrapped his jacket tighter around her disheveled uniform, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke and oil. There, the rain beating down around them and his hair slick against his blushing face, he asked her if he could call her Elizabeth.

“Liz, Bess, I don’t care,” She said.

“Which do you like better, ma’am?”

“My brother used to call me Lizzie,” She admitted.

His eyes studied her like she was some fine painting he had spent hours perfecting and the name on his lips was the signature at the bottom, declaring the work as his. The colors could run and the ink would fade but Elizabeth Ferguson would cling to that coat in its smokey comfort. She had worn it as the rain had lightened up enough to begin their route to the Grisham front door. She wore it on the front porch and burrowed her hot face into the leather as Vera pounced on her, pounding her with questions and squeals.

Elizabeth Ferguson knew what it was to lose thing but Lizzie was willing to try and hold onto this boy as tight as she could. Lizzie was going to try her damn near hardest. This boy with his soft words and bright smile would be taken from her kicking and screaming. She allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of security, taking the two sugars in her coffee and his offered hand too. Lizzie was all bright paints and newly sharpened pencils and Shifty Powers was all steady hands and fresh paper, the perfect medium for this new home Lizzie dared dream of. She was ready to start something new, something untouched by the inevitable goodbyes.

Then the bubbling brew of Europe had overflowed into the spitting flames. Steam rose and Pear Harbor shattered like a ceramic mug on hard tiled floors. Vera left, caught up in the theatrics of secrets and intelligence and Carrie joined up, bringing her soft words and soothing hands to the wounded. Estelle left her school and allowed her talented mind to be lent to the Navy, putting together pieces of puzzles and breaking codes like they were the Sunday crossword. Lizzie wasn’t brave or smart or soft like her friends. Elizabeth Ferguson was a stumbling, bumbling trier and she grasped for the remaining pieces of that home she had searched for. She had spent years searching for family in the faces of strangers, reaching for that oak tree and rope swing in houses that would never be her home and she wasn’t about to lose it. Not to war, not to an Army, and most definitely not now.

“Don’t worry about me,” he had said, gripping her hands in his own calloused ones. He had volunteered, given himself up willingly. Lizzie could have screamed. The Airborne had terrified her, the planes and the silk chutes were terrifying. Their kiss on the Grisham Hall’s front porch had tasted like possibility and tears. He left for Georgia that morning, leaving her in Norfolk with only a pen and an empty hand.

She had told him she wouldn’t if he promised not to worry about her. She had tried not to be worried but maybe he had every reason to be worried about her.

“Bess?” Angie said again, snapping her fingers. “You good, sugar?”

“Yes, sorry,” Elizabeth said, smiling sheepishly. This diner could pull her back when she didn’t have a thought for the present.

Angie shook her head. “Baby, I think they are working you too hard over there,”

“There” was the mailroom on base. “They” were the WAVES, summoning Bess to their cause. She had joined up in April of ‘43. He had been gone for a week and Bess couldn’t stare at the booth where he had once sat for hours. She didn’t mind the work, and she told Angie so. Being surrounded by all those letters and being the reason soldiers and families heard from their loved ones was the only thing that kept Elizabeth sane. She could try and offer some peace to the fellow fretting wives and friends who longed for a letter, a word, or even a telegram that told them that he was safe.

Angie wandered back to the counter, Elizabeth’s order safely scribbled in the confines of her mind, leaving her with her thoughts and her pen. Staring at the traffic that passed outside the window, her fingers gripped the pen, sketching out the twist of his head and the twinkle of his eyes as she remembered it. As his face burned into her mind.

She didn’t draw him as often as she wanted to. Elizabeth’s sketchpads were filled with the same sketches over and over, page after page, burned into her memory. She didn’t have to look at a reference anymore, the oak trees and the slopes of the house never changed. The smiling faces and the bright eyes as she remembered them didn’t shift. Every so often, a new face would grace the pages but that wasn’t a usual occurrence and was a great honor when a stranger or new face caught her attention. Flipping through the sketchpad, Elizabeth saw his face etched into the pages. She only put pen to paper and chronicled his features on the days she missed him the most. He haunted her more than she drew, hours spent with her finger on the desk tracing out his smile.

“They said you’d be here,” Jeannette Edwards stumbled through the door, arms full of books as she slid into the seat across from Bess. In the few weeks that Jeannette had lived in Grisham Hall, she had slowly acclimated herself to the Norfolk streets.

“Jeannie,” Bess smiled, closing her sketchpad. “Estelle still working?”

Jeannette nodded. “She said to meet you here and that we’d take the bus home.”

Bess folded her letter, sliding her belongings to the side so that Angie could place her order on the sticky tabletop. The mug of coffee, two sugars carefully rationed and dissolved, and the apple pie. Offering Jeannette the fork, she encouraged her to take a bite. Bess was passionate about oil pastels and pastries, making it her mission in life to share those passions with her friends. When a pie or a drawing was offered, Bess’s trust soon followed.

“Why do you rank pie, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jeannette asked, using the side of the fork to cut a piece off of the wedge of glistening golden pie.

“Every home is the same but the apple pie is different everywhere you go.” Bess explained.“Mrs. G’s is third best, this is the second-best apple pie.”

“Who is the first place?”

“Mine,” Bess smiled.

“You are multi-talented then,” Jeannette said around the mouthful of second-best pie, dipping her head towards the sketchbook she had abandoned.

“I just doodled,” Bess shook her head but she offered the book to Jeannette all the same. Watching her thumb through the pages, Bess’s heart was wedged firmly in her throat, not daring to hope for any kind words or critique.

“These are beautiful,” Jeannette said, her fingers tracing the lines that intricate leaves that had first taken hours and now took a matter of minutes. “Where is it?”

“That’s my family’s farm.”

“You must visit often to sketch it so much,” Jeannette said.

Bess smiled, taking the sketchpad back and tucking it into her bag. Reaching for the cup of coffee, she stared into its dark depths. Maybe Jeannette knew the words to describe how she felt. Jeannette was better at words than Elizabeth.

“It’s hard to forget,” She admitted.

A knock on the window beside their booth made both women jump, the fork clattering on the shared pie plate. Estelle’s face pressed against the window as she beckoned them out, her lipstick faded after the long day hunched over the papers and codes. Estelle Tran was rarely seen with a hair out of place, much less with her signature red lipstick anything but striking against her pale skin. Bess insisted she looked like a real version of Snow White, something that Estelle had always shake her head at. Disney’s princess hadn’t been college-educated, she reminded them.

Bess dropped the money on the table and gathered up her purse and hat, waving goodbye with her fistful of gloves to the cooks and the regulars who still knew her name.

“See you next Friday, Bess,” Angie called as the door swung shut behind them.

“How was work, Stell?” Elizabeth asked, looping her arm through her friend’s as she tugged the gloves over her graphite-smudged hands.

“Heinous,”

The disheveled appearance of the usually put-together Estelle was indication enough. Bessie nodded.

“Let’s go home,” she said.

It was, in moments such as this, when rest is most needed that the world decides to test you.

The bus pulled up to its spot, just as it always did. It was a route that Bess was familiar with, a routine that she welcomed. Fridays were spent at the diner until Estelle got off of work. They would then walk home or, if particularly exhausted, take the bus. Bessie hopped inside without hesitation, ready to sit in a seat and watch the world pass by while she finished the letter she had drafted in her mind. The bus driver, a new face, said nothing as she entered. But, on the days when rest is most needed, inconvenience is the Devil’s worst weapon.

“We don’t let your people on,” The bus driver said, the passengers peering over the edge of the nest, not daring to disagree.

“I beg your pardon?” Bess looked back, seeing that he was not referring to her in her American blue uniform but Estelle. Dear Estelle with her features nothing like the usual faces of Norfolk, Virginia.

Jeannette’s mouth hung wide and Estelle froze, foot perched on the step. Her face fell and Bessie could almost hear it shatter on the pavement. The Grisham girls had been informed that Estelle’s family hailed from the Indochina islands in the Pacific and had been in America since Teddy Roosevelt’s days. She was most ardently NOT the enemy. Mrs. Grisham would sniff indignantly at such a mention and Vera, before she had left, had been known to glower at anyone who dared say such a “fucking disgusting thing”.

Bessie stepped forward, ready to give the man the facts but a hand encircled her arm, pulling her out of the bus and back on the pavement before the doors swung open. Swearing so loudly and vehemently that Mrs. Grisham would have been sent to an early grave, Bessie aimed a kick at the tire of the bus before it sped off, sans three passengers.

“It’s fine,” Estelle said.

“You aren’t Japanese!” Elizabeth growled, her shoes stomping on the pavement. Bess was a trier and she was a fighter. She was ready to try fighting for Estelle, even if that meant throwing a fist at this burly bus driver.

“It’s fine, Bess,” Estelle said.

“That was a despicable thing to do,” Jeannette fumed.

“Let’s just go home,” Estelle muttered, squashing her hat more firmly over her brow and leading the way down the street.

What good was it, Bessie grumbled to herself as she followed Estelle, to serve your country when you were still considered the enemy?

Estelle worked harder than any man and she had been working hard for many years. She had been a teacher and now fiddled with codes that boggled even the male mind. And yet, she was only seen as the enemy. Estelle Tran, by seniority or by necessity, had taken the unofficial role of den mother among the women of Grisham Hall. On the third floor, nothing went on without Estelle knowing. She guarded the girls like they were her own, a grim mother hen who warded off broken hearts and bruised feelings with wise words and her own experience. Bessie loved Estelle like she was a sister and she would have gladly punched that bus driver if she wasn’t wearing the uniform of the US WAVES. Women’s work in the war was precarious enough as it was.

Elizabeth didn’t say a word, as she slipped her hand into Estelle’s, gripping it tightly as they marched through the streets of Norfolk, their heads held as high as they could manage. She knew she couldn’t fight to change every mind or man in this country but Bessie Ferguson was a trier, through and through. Home may not have looked like that oak tree or the face she had sketched so often but she’d hold onto it as long as she could.

#world war two women #grisham hall for ladies #estelle tran #Bessie Ferguson #bessie x shifty #jeannette edwards #no ordinary time #bessie backstory #flora skye writes #tildy writes #band of brothers fanfiction #hestias of the homefront

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raijinhasverybigpecs · 5 years ago

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smite stuff that lives in my head rent free

hi-rez stating on a post about cthulhu that they are anti-racism (great) and also anti-human sacrifice (???)

the hyping of jormunangndr as the tallest god in smite and immediately undermining him by having cthulhu being bigger than him

the smite twitter account posting “we have caught cerbereus smiting freya’s tight pussy”

former smite employee hi-rezdavid posting about how he loved the messy drama in the smite tumblr community and also being an azealia banks stan

‘creepy’ centipede medusa’s immaculately contoured boobs

water dancer nu wa’s card art just showing her hard nipples through her scarf outfit

artemis’ holes in the side of her pants that are there for like no reason

shadow howler hun batz and dragonguard horus wearing no pants and showing their underwear/having a crazy short pussy flap

sobek still not having directed taunts, his release was back in 2012 btw

the soar vs envyus match where they surrendered after 1 minute and 35 seconds and the announcers apologised for the game

the ever changing nature of king arthur’s face in his card art and his ugly in-game face

the last hindu god being released in 2017 and the last mayan god being released in 2016 while the greek pantheon has 20 gods

zhong kui’s nipple piercing

the only smite dude to have ass is apollo and his ass looks fucked up anyways

the amazing body diversity of smite’s goddesses resulting in bellona and neith having the same size twig arms

people actually getting mad at mulan’s sculpted breastplate armour and hi-rez not changing anything about it

the divine uprising event being the first event to have crazy expensive chest rolls and the community being mad as hell at it and chest rolling events immediately becoming just a normal accepted event type

amaterasu having a awkward at best japanese accent while her brothers sound american, also they’re all voiced by american voice actors lol

one of the hi-rez concept artists (andy timm) openly liking far right twitter posts

tsukuyomi being described as ‘carrying himself with a soft beauty’ while he’s shirtless, does front flips and is a giant asshole in general

redditors losing their shit over robdraws concept for athena where she has muscles and actually looks like a war goddess

raijin not getting a skin for over 2 and a half years and it immediately being locked behind the viewer store

set, horus and heimdallr being in their underwear for their concept art

the last t2 skin being released in 2017 for nike

raijin’s crazy jiggle physics that literally no other male god has

the beach hercules skin having literally no bulge or ass in sight

the smite community skin concept winner being the most basic artio kitsune concept and the fox model looking like complete shit to this day despite multiple updates to the skin

chernobog looking like a final fantasy boss with basically no connection to his slavic background

feel free to add on <3

#i know there's more but like. i feel like i have covered a lot of bases #this is just the stuff i don't shut up about lmao

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nincompoopydoo · 5 years ago

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STOLEN GLANCES

PAIRING: Sir Percival x Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1589

SUMMARY: You and a certain knight of Camelot keep catching each other’s eye but one of you ever acted upon the visibly growing tension between the two of you. Small and wistful glances only ever came close. However, all that changed on one night.

A/N: It’s kind of a mess because I wrote SO MUCH. But, I personally love it. The concept of it at least. Percival will forever hold a special place in my heart. Stay safe, lovelies xx

MASTERLIST

“I see you have caught a certain knight’s attention.” You jump at the familiar sound of none other than Merlin approaching from behind you. He shoots you a smug look when you turn towards him with furrowed eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, nodding in a direction that passes you. You follow his candid gaze, turning, you are greeted with a certain pair of blue eyes. Sir Percival’s, particularly. He stood among the other knights, towering over them, with a cup in hand. Your heart promptly begins to stutter under his unwavering gaze as you watch the growing crimson color upon his cheeks once he realizes he has been caught. Instantly tearing his eyes away from yours, he anxiously takes a sip from his cup, directing his attention back to Sir Leon. You merely blink, turning to Merlin with a somewhat bewildered look yet your apparent blush inevitably betrays you. You wave your hand dismissively. “He’s looking at Gwaine.”

The manservant snorts. “If you say so.” and with that, he flees, abandoning you once more as you typically begin to think about what you’ll have to salvage from the leftovers for supper tonight.

When you turned your attention back to the hall, it didn't last for very long as you found yourself naturally drawn towards Percival. He was laughing heartily along with Leon and Elyan and before you knew it, he looked up; those same startling blue eyes were on yours once more. You watch the right corner of his mouth crease up in a half smile, your heart jumped and your pulse raced once more.

Promptly returning a bashful smile, you forcefully yet reluctantly shift your stare away, preventing anyone else from falsely accusing you for merely making ogle eyes at one of the knights of Camelot.

You hoped to maintain your job, for now.

Initially, Sir Percival was nothing but a name. But when you had seen Prince Arthur and the knights returning from a quest, riding on horsebacks, Percival stood out the most. The other women had said he was the tallest among them all yet no one ever mentioned him being so incredibly handsome. You had let yourself embarrassingly walk into one of the barrels near the stable, causing all eyes to turn on you. Capturing his eyes briefly, you sheepishly ducked your head lowly, swiftly running back through the door leading to the kitchens.

As for Percival, he was only able to catch a slight glimpse of you as you ran away in spite of your embarrassment but when his eyes met with yours, even for a brief second, you had managed to knock the wind out of his lungs instantly. His sense of balance grew weak, nearly falling off his horse causing Percival to make a sound as he steadies himself back onto the saddle. The other knights’ attention were all on him, with smug looks as they looked at each other knowingly.

Ever since then, the idea of you and him constantly filled your minds day and night. It was rather distracting at times.

Tonight was no different.

Camelot was particularly silent during the wee hours of the night; the mere sound of crickets and men talking from afar, indicating the knights were still making their rounds throughout the area.

Your cloak drowns your figure into the night, it’s dark fabric faintly contrasts under the moonlight. In your arms, loafs of bread and a couple or apples -- leftovers from the feast earlier on -- were wrapped neatly in a beige woolen cloth. The walk from the castle was thankfully near enough for you to make it in time to Alberta, who was awaiting for you every night for supper. She was a mother to you ever since you first arrived at Camelot during your adolescent years.

You couldn’t wait to see her face when she sees the amount of food you had tonight in comparison to the days. Ever since she began to fall ill, you were the sole source of income which sometimes forced you to sacrifice your meals just for her. She doesn't know about this, of course. There were many times you wanted to call upon Gaius, just to check up on her, but the woman refuses to allow you, not wanting to trouble anyone else.

“You already do so much, dear. There’s no need for Gaius.” She would claim.

You take long strides, cutting between the small stone cottages as a certain knight's half smile begins to fill your head. You can’t help but grin to yourself. As you made a sharp turn into another alleyway, you suddenly heard a low yet hush voice of a man from behind you. “What are you doing out here?” he calls out.

You desperately hoped whoever stood behind you wasn't a bandit.

But then, would bandits ask you such a question?

Bringing your feet to a halt, you cautiously turn around and your eyes grow wide. Percival towers over you, torch in hand; his eyebrows shoot up as his face softened at your somewhat petrified look. Your eyes, however, seem to shine even brighter under the firelight. He nearly loses his grip on the fire torch.

Recomposing himself, his eyes immediately flicker towards what he could make out as bread peering out of the tightly wrapped woolen cloth you held in your arms. “Please do not tell me you stole those.” Percival gestures towards the bread; his deep voice sends a shiver down your spine.

Your brows begin to knit into a frown, gazing down as you realize what he was indicating at. “Oh! No, no, no. No. These were leftovers. I’m heading to Alberta’s for supper.”

He seems to be taken aback by your response. In truth, Percival was certainly unprepared to hear your voice; it’s sweet, gentle and somehow reminds him of home.

He’s already attached, that’s for sure.

You watch him grow silent, lips pursed; you finally let yourself breathe as he cleared his throat.

“Let me-Let me walk you back. It will be uncivilized of me to let a lady walk alone at this hour.”

The knight attempts to showcase his confidence in such a way it might impress you although he isn’t quite sure why but Percival still manages to stutter under your stare.

You try not to gape at him, becoming even more flustered by the second.

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” You lower your head briefly, an expressive gesture to show one’s appreciation.

The corners of his lips turned up gently, gazing wistfully at you. “I’m just doing my job, ma’am.”

You turned, starting to walk once more as Percival fell into step beside you.

You feel foolish for not introducing yourself to the very man who was currently accompanying you on the trek back home. “Y/N,” you merely say, he turns to you. “You can call me Y/N.”

He nodded thoughtfully, eyes still fully on you. “Percival.”

Oh, you knew that already. Nevertheless, you sincerely appreciate the formal introduction.

Nothing was said beyond that as your footsteps sounded in quiet unison along the cobble-stoned path already nearing the cottage. You see the twinkling candle that glistened through the window; she was still awake.

The two come to a halt at the doorway side by side; you take this chance to glance up at him and notice that due to his height, he was nearly as tall as the doorway. “Thank you again. I will find a way to repay you.” You said, lowering your hood. Percival waves a hand dismissively. “Like I said, I am only doing my job.”

You let out a soft chuckle, the corner of your eyes crinkled. “If this is a knight’s job, I must say the others aren’t doing theirs.” It was true, this was the first time you have been offered to be escorted back home. Percival eagerly beams down at you.

An audible gasp pulls you away from the conversation, and you were immediately met with the sight of Alberta by the door, staring up at Percival in awe. “A knight of Camelot...” she trails off, voice hinted with pure amazement. “Tell me sir, are you courting this young lady? Because it’s about time she-”

Your skin pales, eyes wide. “Alberta!” you exclaimed nervously. Percival merely averts his gaze elsewhere, face reddened. The woman merely laughs at your reaction, heading back inside.

You turn to him once more, cloak flicking behind you. “I,uh... Goodnight, Percival.”

The way his name rolls off your tongue, it sends a million butterflies to his chest. He bows his head slightly, “Goodnight,”

He begins to walk away when Alberta simply appears by your side at the doorway once more, pushing past you. “And where do you think you’re going, sir?”

Percival comes to a stop, snapping his head towards you and Ma. “Ma’am, I-I was heading back.” The woman scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous! Join us please.” Her gaze shifts between you and him for a moment. “I insist. You can accompany my dearest Y/N when you return to the castle.”

What was she up to?

The knight merely stoorld there for a moment or two. The night was somewhat still young, and he clearly wouldn’t want you returning the castle alone once more.

You wistfully watch him return an imperceptible nod, and Alberta smiles triumphantly. You willingly meet his kind eyes as he flashes that same smile he had given you earlier at the banquet hall.

This was assuredly going to be a long night.

#sir percival #sir percival x reader #merlin #merlin bbc #arthur pendragon #sir leon #sir gwaine #sir elyan #sir lancelot #gwen x arthur #merthur #merlin x reader

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swixtern · 5 years ago

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In attempt to get back into writing, here's

A bit about my Arthurian anthology (retelling) that nobody asked for:

Whispers: it's going to be a mess... sorry... It's also long and out of order...

Ambrosius was poisoned by Uther, his brother by their father’s second wife

Uther is a shape-shifter and Gwrlais studied magic while fostering under Consul Aurelius

Igraine is Jewish. I don’t know; it just feels right. And she’s a proven warrior (her sisters, too).

Anna is Gwrlais’ eldest, then Elaine, then Morgan

Merlin puts Arthur in a brothel (I’m sorry, but I really enjoyed that idea from King Arthur: Legend of the Sword)

Uther’s next, and only other child, was named Anna, and she is not to be confused with Anna of Orkney

Arthur leaves the brothel at 14 after he turns Cai (who is 17) in to the city guard for whatever crime he’s committed; Sir Ector comes to inquire after him, intrigued by the boy, and takes him away with him when his secret heritage is made known

Cai is acting out due to his father, Cynyr Ceinfarfog, and mother, Sir Ector’s currently unnamed sister (probably named Elaine 😂 *shot*🙃), being killed; Sir Ector is his uncle, and he loves him, but he’s frustrated and grieving

Arthur is called “Boy Rivers” until Sir Ector takes him in, giving him back the name Arthur; Cai calls him Wart every chance he can

Bedwyr is black and two handed at first; he and Arthur meet in battle against the Saxons and they become fast pals. Griflet is mixed race

Arthur stole pigs belonging to Mark, King of Cornwall; finds it hard to trust Arthur after that, even after Arthur pulls the sword Clarent from The Anvil™️

The sword Clarent is pulled from an anvil on a stone

There are three Guineveres: G1 mothers Arthur’s daughters; G2 dies within the first year; G3 mothers Amr and much later Loholt.

Arthur marries G2 when he becomes King of Logres after pulling Clarent; he’s approximately __ years old (I really need to find the timeline that I did... I think he was, like, in his thirties?)

Lancelot tries to repress his homosexuality. Galehaut encourages his exploration (but never pushes) but his duty to King and Country™️ keep him away a lot; the longer Lancelot is around Arthur, the more he falls in love with him, the more he represses it, the more he needs to convince himself he loves Guinevere. He’s a confused mess.

Lot is not the name of the King of Lothian (anymore; he dies), it’s Uen; when Mordred is 13, he curses his ‘father’ so that the world will forget the man’s name

May Day Massacre totally happened and that’s when Gawain uncovered his sun-powers

Geheris has Moderate-ID

Mordred spends his 14th birthday on a ship to Norway; he doesn’t see his family again until he’s 17 and he returns with strong Viking-ties

Most of the Orkney Clan look next to nothing alike: Gawain is big and strapping with red hair and freckles galore; Ywain has auburn hair and light freckling, he’s a bit narrow and willowy; Gravaine is built like a barn and pale like his father with black hair; Clarissant, Agravaine’s twin, shares his black hair and stocky build but she has freckles that covered her face; Soredamor has medium-brown hair, she’s the tallest and thinnest of the lot, but physically frail with a chronic cough; Geheris is stocky with black hair, a red beard, a ruddy skin tone, and freckles; Cai the Grumbler, or Calogrenant, has light brown hair and green eyes; Gareth is albino with mismatched eyes (one brown, one pale); Mordred’s hair is long and dark brown and his eyes match Arthur’s grey; Yvain has freckles and Urien's black hair and short stature; Morfydd has pale blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and is short and curvy

Tristan and Mordred are bros who adopt each other almost immediately

Gay Squad: Dinadan, Galehaut, Lancelot, Ywain, Calogrenant

Bi-Team: Galahad, Gawain, Lamo (Mordred’s servant), Bertilak, Mabon ap Modron

Aces: Morgan le Fay, Mordred, Ambrosius Aurelianus

Magic users: Uther Pendragon, Gwrlais, Morgan, Guinevere the Third, Myrddin, Mordred, Cwyllog, Iseult (Queen of Cornwall, Princess of Ireland), technically Tristan via harp, Gawain via solar power, technically Cai because giants

Tristan seems drunk when he’s sober and he knows elf-tunes; the court learned that the hard way when they heckled him one too many times and he magicked those of them who weren’t sent out of the hall into an orgy they never speak of

As much as Cai honestly loves being a knight, he's also got this secret passion for cooking and all things culinary; despite all his outward protesting of being Seneschal, he actually jumped at the chance, seeing it as a way to indulge his "little selfish interest" and to sort out all the riffraff trying to get in with Arthur

I’m about convinced that the Orkneys as a unit lean Slytherin and Pellinore’s family leans Griffindor; this is not the cause of the feud but a participating factor in why it keeps escalating as it does

G3 is technically a low(low low)-level earth goddess tied to the land (family of Welsh giants), and that's part of the reason she feels drawn to the men she's drawn to but her actions towards --and with-- them are her own

Guinevak is G3's twin in every way but mothering, magic, and looks; she's the rejected bastard who spends a lot of time with Mordred, Galahad, Calogrenant, and Tristan; envious of G3, Lynette, and Cwyllog --each for different reasons

Urien was first married to Modron (the relationship deteriorated after Mabon's abduction and she returned to Annwn) before patiently pressing suit to Morgan who eventually yields as "friends in matrimony". After Morgan chooses Accolon for a lover, Urien is upset but allows this, naming him as her personal knight

Urien does not do comfort. Ask Morgan and Anna about when they found out Uen had sent Mordred away and the mother was distraught

Bedwyr loses his right hand as penance for Arthur stealing King Mark's pigs.

Yvain is a bastard child sired by Urien on his steward's wife after Morgan and Accolon are... happy together

Anna of Orkney is... twisted up. She loves her children (a little... too much sometimes) and tries to do right by them but... well... yeah... it's... it's no bueno

Cai has super powers. Access giant-size, extra endurance, impervious to hot or cold, and heat-radiating hands

Uther is... terrible. He's the sorta worst, really. Seriously, the things he does

Eigyr is not passive in captivity; that does not mean things go well for her

Morgan was learning magic from Gwrlais and took his scrolls and books on the subject hostage after his death

Gwrlais' daughter Elaine (the one who marries Nentres) is devotedly Jewish like her mother and raises her children as such (such as Galeshin and Hoel).

Nentres adores Elaine in marriage and even before that took his vows as her knight and betrothed seriously; he carries whipping scars on his back (from Uther) for trying to rescue Morgan from a monastery in her name. He tells Arthur later that he bears them proudly

Cai's parents are dead because of Uther (I can't remember how) and Sir Ector's father was a Roman soldier who stayed behind

Mordred is technically Melehan's step-father (he's a bastard by rape) but only Mordred and the mother know. They don't talk about it

Elaine of Garlot has psychological damage from the things Uther has done to her family and others in front of her. She has no tolerance for violence and aggression.

Tristan has PTSD and severe depression; he's also an alcoholic

Nentres slowly poisoned Uther over the years with hemlock

Mordred's first wife is a Lothian common girl-turned-slave-turned-servant that he's known from childhood. Her name is Julianna, and her family name is Ruricius, coming from a Roman-merchant connection

Morgan has been locked in a monastery twice; she escapes the second time after Uther's death and runs into Urien for the first time

Urien owns the first claymore. His father had it made for him as joke but he's a pro now so, well, guess who has the last laugh?

Agravaine killed a Unicorn as a child; it's okay, Unicorns are kinda evil here and will straight-up murder you

Urien doesn't age, eat, or drink (he hasn't since Modron); he still looks super young, roughly 16-17. His younger brothers and later on his own children look older than him

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mertronus · 4 years ago

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Secret Mission

Chapter 2

Read it on AO3 or FFN

Oh! M for language.... This is Ron we're talking about.

----

Harry found Ron later that evening looking out over the makeshift pitch at the Burrow deep in thought. Dinner was over and Ron knew that soon his siblings would begin to head to their homes. Sundays at the Burrow were a treat, but Mondays meant back to lives and work. Bill at Gringotts, Harry, Percy, Audrey, and Arthur at the Ministry, Fred and George at their famous joke shop, Katie to school (she was training to become a healer Ron learned earlier that afternoon) and Ginny and Angelina to practice with their team, the Holyhead Harpies. Ron was chuffed to find out that while he was away, Ginny joined Angelina as starting chasers for the team.

For now, everyone was enjoying the last joyful moments of a relaxed Sunday evening.

As they stood together overlooking the pitch, Harry asked Ron more about the extended mission he was on.

"I can't tell you much yet, not until it's conclusion anyway, but I can say thus far it's been a success. Almost all the suspects for the case have been caught, and no aurors on my team were too injured."

"You were injured at one point, right?"

"Yeah, but it was a minor injury. I had to sit out a couple days...no biggie."

Harry nodded. "Yes the report noted it was extremely minor so I didn't say anything to the family. Didn't see the point in worrying them unnecessarily."

"Thanks for that."

"Were you leading?" Harry asked. He always egged Ron on about his leadership skills. Ron, however, still felt them mediocre at best.

"I was, yeah, for most of it. Captain Ledwig had the final say for all decisions but he pretty much let me call the shots."

"That's amazing Ron."

"Yeah...I mean, we had help. Amazing help." A small wistful smile appeared on his lips and he looked away just enough so Harry wouldn't see it.

"Right," Harry said in a way that told the tall redhead that he wasn't fooled. "So...staying with the team tonight huh?"

Arse, Ron thought to himself. "Oh, erm..."

"Where are you really staying?"

Ron blew out his exhale and groaned. "At the Leaky. I have a room there for a bit." Harry opened his mouth to say something but Ron cut him off. "I just need some space, y'know? To come back from a mission and stay here is just...I just...well, at least for now - a couple days maybe - "

"Ron," the dark-haired wizard said putting his hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to explain. I know."

Panic shot through Ron as he turned to him. "Y-you know?"

"Yeah, of course you need space. We see and deal with a lot out on these missions, and I don't even know half of what you dealt with wherever you were in France. Take a few days and decompress, definitely." Ron sighed in relief, thankful that his brilliant best mate could also be extremely daft. "Just don't be a stranger. Your mum will want to see plenty of you. Gin too." Ron nodded, telling himself he would at the least come to the burrow each day for breakfast or dinner...and not just for the food. "And feel free to pop by Grimmauld too. You're always welcome. You can still apparate right in, that hasn't changed. And your room is always ready. Sirius saw to that before he handed it over and I definitely didn't change it."

A smile grew on Ron's face as he thought about Harry's godfather, who gifted his London home to Harry upon his engagement opting to live in a small flat of his own just a few blocks away. He was always extremely generous to his best friend's son and once Harry and Ron met on the train to Hogwarts all those years ago, Sirius practically adopted Ron as his second godson much like Harry's parents adopted Ron and Ron's parents adopted Harry. As Ron didn't officially have a godfather of his own - none of his siblings did to his knowledge - he developed his own special relationship with the eccentric and carefree older man. He would absolutely have to get to London to see Sirius Black.

After a short silence, Ron finally spoke up. "Harry? What if I didn't come back?" he asked softly.

"What?"

"What if I didn't come back? Or the mission took longer than we thought? You and Ginny love each other. Why wait for me? It's been a year and a half since you proposed."

Harry shrugged. "I just...I can't picture my wedding day without you there. Gin feels the same. We're happy to wait. Pretty sure we would have had a longer engagement anyway. But..I don't think we'll be waiting much longer."

"Oh?" Ron raised an eyebrow turning to Harry.

"Your brothers and I slipped out of the kitchen as the witches we all love started on wedding talk. From the looks of it, Molly is ready to pull a wedding together very, very soon, in case you get sent off again." Harry ran his hand through his hair making it stick out on all ends. "I think I'm getting married Ron. Will you stand beside me?"

"I wouldn't stand anywhere else mate."

As Harry head down the hill leaving Ron after his promise to follow him in a minute, Ron watched with trepidation.

Guilt. Complete and all consuming guilt. "Shit," Ron cursed to himself. "Bloody fucking fuck." He rubbed the back of his neck. "M'sorry Hermione," he said out loud. "I'm so sorry. I can't tell them today." He took a deep breath then started the walk back to his family to bid them goodnight so he could apparate back to the Leaky...back to the bollocking he'd no doubt receive...from his new wife.

----

Hermione Granger-Weasley paced room 14 at the Leaky Cauldron, just on the boundaries of muggle London and Diagon Alley, which she learned was Wizarding London. Ron should have been back by now.

She knew that his return to his family would be an all day affair, and truth be told she was excited to explore Diagon Alley a bit on her own. Being a muggleborn witch, she was not privy to England's wizarding community before her parents moved her to Paris, France shortly before she turned 11. On her eleventh birthday, she received the news that she was a witch ("That explains so much!", her parents had both exclaimed.) and two letters - one inviting her to study at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and one to study at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Her desires to both stay close to her parents - her only family - and to become fluent in French drove her to accept the invitation to Beauxbatons. She often wondered, however, how different her life would have been had she chosen Hogwarts, and was thrilled to finally get acquainted with London as a witch.

And so, she spent Sunday, her first day in years back in London, busying herself by exploring the shops of Diagon Alley, and was delighted to discover Flourish & Botts. She spent a better part of the day perusing the wide array of books the store had to offer before finally heading back to the Leaky Cauldron with her purchases for a quiet dinner in the room.

She expected Ron shortly after dinner, but now it was nearing half nine and he still had not returned.

As she sat up in bed with one of her newest purchases open in front of her, she found herself unable to focus on reading for once. She closed the book softly and ran her small ink-stained fingers along the books cover. When she stumbled upon "Hogwarts: A History" in Flourish & Botts, she knew she had to have it. Having read "L'Histoire Complète de L'Académie de Magie Beauxbatons" (The Complete History of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic) several times during her attendance, she was happy to find a similar book about Hogwarts. She would be able to learn all she could about the school she turned down...the school Ron attended and talked so much about.

When she told Ron that she was in the house Bellefuille at Beauxbaton and explained what that meant, he told her she very well may have been in Gryffindor with him and his best mate Harry. "Either that or Ravenclaw," Ron had laughed that evening as they stole away to the back gardens of Le Chateau Cache, which had become their favorite spot to be alone. "Given your obsession with reading everything under the sun you very well may have been."

Hermione and Ron would have been in the same year. And if she was sorted into Gryffindor...

Would they have been friends? she wondered. Unlikely. I was such a bossy know-it-all as a child. Ron is so laid-back.

It wasn't until she befriended Luc deBlanc and Isabelle L'Amet that she began to settle and relax. I would have driven Ron mad if he knew the eleven year old me. He would have called me a nightmare.

Hermione's thoughts drifted to the first time she met Ronald Weasley, just 15 months ago at the start of their mission just outside of Paris.

A team of British Aurors had just portkeyed in to a secret location in the French Ministry. They were met by head of the French aurors, Mathieu Besson and herself. As an intern for the Office of Magical Law Enforcement in Paris, she was to serve as a translator and guide for the team. She was instructed to be with them every step of the way and even required special combat & protective training as she would be considered part of the team on the mission.

As the team filed into the conference room where they would meet and debrief, the tallest of them all immediately caught her eye. Perhaps it was his formidable height, or his blazing red hair. When he glanced her way from across the room, she thought maybe it was his piercing blue eyes. And when he smiled at the crude joke of one of his team, she noticed the sweetest lopsided grin. As he grinned he glanced at her again and she couldn't help notice the way his ears turned the most adorable shade of red. Her cheeks responded with their own pink tint.

It was more than just his looks for Hermione though. After all, Hermione was surrounded by very good looking French wizards (and muggles for that matter thanks to her parentage) on a daily basis and, if she was being completely honest, the team of nine or so British aurors included seven wizards who were all quite stunning in their own way. If she was being honest, however, she never took a considerable notice in men. She dated extremely sparingly and none of those dates went on to be anything significant...she just was not interested. But there was something about this one auror...Auror Ronald Weasley, she soon learned he was called. She also quickly gathered that among the British aurors, he was considered one of the best.

Hermione Granger quite liked the best.

In the coming days she began to work closely with the team. They were brought in to gather up a gang of French wizards who were once aurors and thus, knew the inner workings of the French Auror Department, as well as the identities and secret identities of those that remained. That's when the Ministry decided to bring in fresh faces from the outside to get the job done, with their secret weapon being the unknown, quiet, plain-jane intern who knew the inner workings of the French Ministry, the country - both wizarding and muggle - and the language, and would guide the outsiders to their targets.

The British Aurors' Captain, a stocky wizard named Captain Ledwig, seemed to give auror Weasley the reigns for the mission, so Hermione found herself working with him directly, much to her excitement. After several days the excitement drained from her.

Auror Ronald Weasley was the most insufferable, crude, ill-mannered, insensitive prat Hermione had ever met.

----

I won't keep y'all waiting... Chapter 3 will post tomorrow! How does Ron change Hermione's opinion of him? Thanks for reading 😁

#Ron Weasley #auror ron weasley #ron and hermione #ROMIONE #romione fanfic #hermione granger #au harry potter #auror harry potter

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rainandhotchocolate · 5 years ago

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The girl next door

A/N ok yes it’s technically 1am but fk u all its STILL DAY 6 IN MY MIND anyway this is a !muggle reader x James fic, the classic girl next door trope :)) Enjoy lovelies!

The girl next door

James watched from his window as a bright red car rolled up into the driveway next to his. The house next door was relatively similar to his own, a classic Victorian terrace with a balcony overlooking the front lawn and the back garden. James’ parents hadn’t changed the decorations much, wanting to keep it in line with muggle stereotypes as much as possible, not draw attention to themselves unnecessarily. The most they had added were two rocking chairs out on the front porch for them to watch the neighbourhood pass around them, doing muggle things.

James’ next-door neighbours, however, had done the exact opposite. Whilst they had to keep the front façade, heritage or some odd muggle council thing, they had painted the front a deep-sea blue, the door was porcelain white to match the balcony. Hanging down across the painted walls was lush ivory which vined its way across the façade and up the edge of the balcony, meeting a row of blueberry and raspberry plants that had never really sprouted. From James’ bedroom, he could see into the back of the house and garden, completely renovated so that there were large windows covering the kitchen and living space and led out into a complete mess of a garden, a huge oak tree in the middle, daisy’s and honeysuckles covering the grassy surrounding it.

When James was young, he used to watch with envy at the large tyre that was tied to the edge of the tree, watching the couple swing their young daughter higher and higher into the tree. He wondered if it was the closest thing muggle’s felt to flying.

He first met the girl next door when he was 8, when Euphemia and Fleamont had brought around a large pudding to greet the new neighbours. They had ushered them in, the woman wearing an oversized pair of overalls and covered in paint, the man in jeans and a jumper, holding the newspaper in one hand as he led them into the kitchen.

“We have a daughter around the same age as James.” He remembered them saying to his parents whilst he looked around at the brightly coloured utensils hanging around the kitchen.

“Y/N!” At her mum’s yell, Y/N came skidding through the open doorway, sliding further than she expected in her socks on the smooth wooden floorboards and grabbing hold of James to slow down.

“She’s a bit of a wild one, our Y/N,” her dad had said, grinning down at her as Y/N gave James an apologetic grimace, “Why don’t you show James the yard?”

She grabbed James’ hand and pulled him out the large back door, which was also a window, and led him towards the tree.

“This is a fairy tree, they like to sleep here at night, but if you’re lucky you might get to see one,” She winked, a piece of her curly dark hair falling into her face. She tried to blow it off with the corner of her mouth before shaking it off her face. She was wearing a bright pink dress, James remembered because he wondered whether she was going to ruin it as she grabbed hold of the tree branch and swung herself up and onto it.

“Come on! What are you staring for?”

“Nothing, coming,” He’d grinned up at her and pulled himself up, joining her on the large tree. They’d jumped around it for an hour before his parents came back into the yard and brought him home.

Being an only child, James took any opportunity he could do have her over or vice versa when she was bored and wanted someone to hoist her onto the tallest branch.

“I can see the whole way to London from here!”

“You bloody cannot,” James snorted, tickling the inside of her leg so she jolted forwards, having to grab hold of the branch in front to steady herself.

“Oi!”

“That’s what you get for lying,” James giggled as she tried to reach down and poke him, but she was too high up.

“Come up here so I can get you back.”

“Not even if Merlin was up there,” James danced around the trunk of the tree, avoiding her foot as it dangled, trying to find his head.

“What, like King Arthur? Stop moving! I promise I won’t hit you I’m just trying to get down,” Y/N held her leg still until James sighed and moved over so she could use his shoulders to climb back down. She hit him across the arm the moment she landed on a thick branch, her lip curling brazenly.

“You are so dead,” James growled at her, chasing her across the tree branches, watching Y/N giggle loudly as he got closer until he could tackle her onto the grass in a heap.

When they got older, well mostly when James went to a ‘faraway very boring nothing to talk about’ boarding school they drifted apart. It was natural enough, they still saw each other on break, chatting about their classes and friends. On Christmas eve, Fleamont and Euphemia would invite all the neighbours around for scones and tea and Y/N would sneak some chocolate for James and herself to share in the garden, watching the stars. When they turned 14, it was a bottle of wine from her parents tiny under the floorboards cellar and they giggled for hours as the wine made James feel light-headed and flushed and like he could do bloody well anything.

When the parents had moved into the sitting room for whiskey (well it was firewhiskey with the label hidden), James and Y/N had stolen a blanket so they could keep lying on the grass as the snow began to fall on their heads. James turned to look at her, face flushed from both the bottle of red wine and freezing air, eyes wide and twinkling as she looked up at the stars, a look of awe on her face. Snow had begun to land on her eyebrows and hair, sparkling brightly against her pale skin and dark curls in a halo around her head.

“Snow has got to be the prettiest thing on earth,” She’d said sitting up and looking across the garden as it settled in the grass and leaves. James was still staring at her and she gave him a funny look in return. “What?”

“You look so beautiful with snow in your hair.” James wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking or himself but without giving it a second thought he leaned in and kissed her, softly, his heartbeat rising in his chest.

He’d pulled back slowly, watching Y/N’s mouth make a small ‘o’ and her whole body freeze momentarily.

“I’m sorry, it… must be the alcohol, I didn’t mean – “

“No it’s fine I just – “

“Why don’t we go back inside?” James’ heart was racing, his head catching up to himself. You bloody idiot.

“Oh, yeah ok.” James had given her a hand standing up, and they’d both walked back inside in silence, brushing the snow from their hair and shoulders.

Since then, things had never really gone back to normal. James focused all his romantic energy on Lily, Lily who would scowl as he walked past and became infuriated by the smallest of prods, but wouldn’t make him feel like he did that Christmas Eve. Hollow.

The next Christmas break, Sirius turned up on their doorstep, bruises covering every inch of visible skin, blood dripping down his lip and staining the side of his thin long-sleeve top.

“Hey… mate,” He spluttered when James pulled open the door, freezing up when he saw Sirius’ state.

“Sirius, Merlin, are you ok, get inside come on, MUM! DAD!” He yelled towards the stairs before reaching out and grabbing Sirius as he went to collapse on the front doorstep. They didn’t have anyone over for Christmas eve that year, Sirius still sickly thin, the fading bruises still deep blues and purples splaying across his face and legs. Sirius sat up with James all night talking about next years Quidditch cup and the best way to get a date for the first Hogsmeade weekend back, James continually flicking his eyes towards the bedroom window where lights were still on.

“Am I not as interesting as the darkness,” Sirius threw a pillow at him when James outright didn’t respond to Sirius’ question about how much frogs spawn was too much frogs spawn.

“Oh sorry, what?”

“What are you looking at?” Sirius narrowed his eyes, a smile creeping onto his face.

“Nothing, it’s nothing- “ But Sirius had already jumped out of the bed, masking his pain with a grimace and was limping over to the window. He gazed out, pushing James to the side as he tried to close the blinds, looking over into Y/N’s house.

“Ahhh, of course! I guess a hot girl is more interesting than I am,” Sirius snorted, still watching, “Ooo, a taken girl, much less interesting.”

“What?” Forgetting all pretence of composure, he hopped out of bed and rushed over to the window. He could see Y/N leaning up against the wall, smiling at something out of view. That something quickly returned, as a tall curly haired boy who lifted her up in the air and kissed her passionately. James felt something in his gut twist. He turned away quickly from the window, sitting back on his bed, determined to look calm.

“And here I was thinking that Lily was the only one for you huh?” Sirius grinned widely, prodding James, “Come on, there’s a million girls out there, I promise we can find you someone just like that.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow when James didn’t reply. He sat back on the bed and watched him, letting the silence hang.

“She was my first kiss.” James had said. He’d never really admitted that before. They didn’t really talk about that kind of stuff, more like what they could do, will do. Sirius remained silent, gripping one hand on James’ knee.

Y/N hopped out of the red car, opening the boot to help her parents get out the rest of the shopping bags and bring them into the house. Sirius wasn’t awake yet, and James was indulging himself by watching her smile up at her dad who had likely told a really terrible joke about fishing. The door closed and James found himself wandering back to his bedroom, wondering if she would go to her room and read or listen to music or something. Maybe she would look up to where his window was too, looking for him. James rolled his eyes at himself, shaking his head. Stop being such a sap.

Then he froze. Standing at the side of their house was Sirius, looking up at James and waving fervently, smiling like an absolute dick. He saw him exaggerate waggling his eyebrows and mime walking up to the front door.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” James mouthed at him, giving him the finger and trying to swat him away from the house. Sirius grinned wider and walked out of James’ vision. James sprinted back to the living room banging on the window loudly as Sirius walked up to Y/N’s front door and knocked. James stopped banging immediately as her mum answered the door and craned forwards, desperately wishing he could hear through glass. She brought him into the house and closed the door.

When Sirius returned James jumped him.

“What the FUCK,” He hissed, eyes flashing at Sirius who continued to look very satisfied with himself.

“Oh, calm down, I didn’t do anything too wild,” He winked, making his way to the kitchen, forcing James to follow him in a huff.

“You need to tell me exactly what you did.”

“I just invited her over – “

“What? Why? She doesn’t even know you!”

“For a little party we are having,” Sirius continued as if James hadn’t just spat a little in his face.

“Party?”

“Just a small thing, it will be fine. I’ve already cleared it with your parents!” He grinned as James went to tackle him.

As it so happens, Sirius (for once) was actually telling the truth and had only invited a small group of people from Hogwarts who lived around London and had gone home for Christmas. Marlene arrived first, holding a bottle of firewhiskey and a wild grin, followed closely by Alice and Frank who brought mince pies, and Remus and Peter who had brought a selection of sweets from their parents. They were sitting in the front living room exploding snap when the doorbell rang. James sprung up, flattening out his shirt pedantically.

“You really weren’t lying Pads,” Remus shook his head at James, “He’s smitten.”

“I told you,” Sirius sang, chuckling as James gave him daggers.

“Ok please, she doesn’t know we are wizards so please tame down the whole… fact that we are wizards.”

“Well said, Prongs,” Remus gave him a small clap.

“Oh, shut it the lot of you.”

“James are you going to get the door?” Euphemia called from the kitchen.

“Yes, mum, I’m going now!”

“Hurry up, she might leave,” Marlene winked at James but he ignored her, moving down the hallway a little too quickly, having to stop himself from slipping into the door in his socks.

Ok, calm down, it’s just a lowkey Christmas hang, nothing to worry about. Chill.

He took a deep breath and plastered a smile on his face, swinging open the door. Y/N was standing in the cold, covered in a large fluffy coat, arms tucked inside to keep warm.

“Finally, I thought you’d forgotten about me,” Y/N smiled up at him and James felt his entire pep talk get thrown out the window as he remembered how her how face scrunched up when she smiled and it made his heart jump. He silently thanked the stars when he heard Sirius slid up beside him.

“You came! James has told us all about you, come in come in,” Sirius elbowed James subtly, and James opened the door wider so she could step inside.

“Looks like you haven’t changed a thing,” Y/N stepped out of her wet boots and looked around the hallway.

“I honestly think I’d be worried if it had, my parents might have gone mad,” James felt himself fall back into the easy rhythm of conversation with Y/N as he led her back into the living room, Sirius on their tails.

“So this is a bunch of people from school, Marlene, Alice, Frank, Remus, Peter, and well you must have met Sirius this afternoon?”

“Yes! So nice to meet you all, and actually put faces to names,” Y/N beamed around at them all, finding a place beside Remus on the floor.

“He talks about us?” Marlene made a loud gasp.

“I’m shocked,” Alice shook her head in mock amazement.

“You all suck,” James hissed at them, quickly returning to his previously plastered smile state, “We were just playing cards. Do you know any good games?”

They continued playing cards, Marlene sneaking them sips of Firewhiskey when they were sure that James’ parents weren’t about to come and drop in another bout of snacks, with only one minor mishap with the cards when Frank slammed too hard on two similar cards resulting in Remus spinning Y/N around as a card exploded.

“What the hell was that noise?” Y/N looked disorientated, blinking vehemently.

“Car backfiring,” Marlene smiled, her eyes still slightly panicked. Frank was mouthing I’m sorry to James as he quickly wiped down the table with his hand.

“Right…” Y/N still looked confused but dropped the topic. Alice yawned loudly, stretching out her back on the soft carpet behind her.

“I’m actually getting super tired, might head off?” She turned to ask Frank, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, I have to be home before 12 anyway, my parents love Christmas,” He grinned at James, sending him a sly wink. James rolled his eyes, praying that Y/N didn’t see.

“Well if you’re heading, I might… catch a ride,” Marlene held back a laugh as she attempted a muggle phrase.

“Uh, yeah, sounds good,” Alice poked her in the ribs, shooting her a look to shut up. They all stood up, Marlene grabbing the bottle of firewhiskey and putting it back in her bag.

“Sorry boys, and Y/N, you’ll have to live without for the rest of the evening.”

“Fine with me, it tasted way different to anything I’ve ever stolen from my parents,” Y/N laughed, smiling warmly up at Marlene. James wanted to hug her. Or something. Perhaps he was getting delirious.

They waved goodbye, leaving the house before apparating together away, James cringing when he heard the loud crack!

Sirius kicked Remus in the leg and gave Y/N a smile.

“Would you like a hot cocoa? Remus makes the best, I can help him find the ingredients.”

“I don’t think she want –“ James started, feeling increasingly panicked. He hoped his eyes accurately said don’t fucking leave me alone I’m a mess.

“I’d love one!” Y/N cut him off and Sirius’ smile widened.

“Perfect, come on Remus,” He pulled him up, Remus giving James an apologetic smile before following Sirius out of the room. A silence fell over the two of them, and James found himself beginning to stress over whether it was comfortable or if he should interrupt it or if that would make it seem like they couldn’t just hang out in silence anymore and would that be worse?

Thankfully, Y/N spoke first.

“Your friends seem nice,” She was leaning back on her hands, looking up at him with her y/e/c eyes.

“They’re a bit mental, but in a good way,” James chuckled, fixing his hair unconsciously. Y/N laughed loudly when she saw his hand ruffle through his already messy hair.

“You always do that when you’re nervous.”

“I’m no-“

“Oh shush, I’m nervous too… it’s been a while I guess.”

“Yeah… I guess it has.”

“I broke up with Dan – my boyfriend last month,” She avoided his eyes now, leaning forward. James saw her face flush slightly but didn’t say anything, pretending not to notice. “The first thing I wanted to do was come over and lie in your garden and just forget about it but you were at school and we hadn’t really spoken since… well, you know.”

“Yeah,” James replied dumbly, wincing at his lack of conversational aptitude.

“I just, miss you, you know?”

“Yeah, I miss you too. I pulled the best prank on one of our teachers and I just wanted to send you an o- letter, but I didn’t know if, you wanted to hear from me I guess,” He laughed awkwardly, reaching for his hair but stopping himself.

“I’m sorry for running out on you like that it was, well it was my first kiss.”

“Mine too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really, what do you think I am, Casanova?” James snorted at her and she grinned sheepishly.

“I don’t know, you were always talking about girls from school, especially um, Lily? I just presumed that it was something you did.”

James laughed properly now, a large booming laugh he hadn’t felt in a while. It felt good to talk to her again, even if it was vaguely awkward small talk.

“I honestly am the worst with girls. I think everyone presumes I’m some smooth mover and then doesn’t talk to me.”

“Well obviously, if you’re calling yourself a smooth mover,” She joined in, her face scrunching up as she laughed at him.

“Oh, fuck off,” James threw a pillow at her, but she just laughed harder, blocking her face and letting it fall to the ground.

“I had a massive crush on you, you know.” She spoke quickly, like she’d been holding it in and let it out all in one breath. James stared at her, momentarily stunned.

“So, your answer me kissing you was to splutter and run away?” James teased, unsure whether this was still a casual conversation or not. His heart was beating in his throat and he swallowed hard.

“I was 14, give me a bit of credit, I was having a mini heart attack,” She gave a soft chuckle, but also looked increasingly uncomfortable, swinging back and forwards on the floor.

“You were the one who got me drunk!”

“Ahh so you’re going to blame it on the alcohol huh?” She gave a knowing nod, her lip curling cheekily.

“I will give some credit to the alcohol for giving me certain encouragements.”

“Fair enough.”

A silence fell over them again, but this time James felt calmer, like a weight had been lifted from his chest and allowed him to look her in the eye again.

“I am sorry I didn’t respond how one should have responded,” She cringed at herself as she spoke.

“Ahh, don’t stress about it. Honestly I don’t know what I would have done if you had just sprung that one me either.”

“Mmm,” Y/N simply hummed in response, her head crooked to one side.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are the worst fucking liar.”

She huffed at him, tucking a curl behind her ear. James watched her hand carefully. He wondered what it would feel like to do that for her, to graze the edge of her cheek, cup her chin.

“I guess… I guess I was just wondering,” She bit her lip and James resisted the urge to stare at it. “How you would have reacted.”

James felt his whole body stop. He forced himself to nod in reply, suddenly very aware of how alone they were. And how easy it would be to just lean down…

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“Cocoa!” James could have killed Sirius in that exact moment, and by the expression that dawned on Sirius’ face, he could tell.

“Oh shoot, I should really get home, I promised mum I’d help wrap dad’s presents before tomorrow morning!” Y/N had checked her watch and stood quickly, brushing the mince pie crumbs from her skirt. “I’ll, er, see you soon?”

“Yeah, yeah of course, I’ll bring by some treacle tart tomorrow,” James led her to the door and watched as she got home safely. He closed the door and immediately banged his head against it.

Sirius and Remus were staring furiously at him when he returned to the living room and sunk into the couch, feeling more depressed than anyone should on Christmas Eve.

“HOW COULD YOU NOT KISS HER!” Sirius whispered and yelled simultaneously, not wanting to wake up James’ parents.

“It really is poor form, mate,” Remus agreed, sipping on a mug of cocoa.

“I think I’m just going to die here now. Forever. Please leave me to mull in my failures.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and sat up next to James’ face.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think we’d let you give up this easily.”

In a matter of minutes, the three boys had pulled on boots and jackets over their trackpants and snuck quietly out the front door and around the side of the house. They reached Y/N’s window slowly, careful not to make any noise that would have any neighbour poking their heads out the window and seeing three boys sneaking towards a girls bedroom window in the middle of the night. Not the best look.

“Ok, the lights are still on in her room, she said she was helping wrap presents. This is your moment!”

“This is stalking,” James hissed back, his stomach clenching. This was so so so stupid. And yet, the thought of surprising her, her big toothy smile at the window, and likely the firewhiskey, made him continue to follow Sirius. Remus walked behind, checking to see if anyone was watching.

“We will keep watch, go!” Remus pushed James forward lightly so that he was standing directly in front of it. He didn’t move, just watched the light flicker against the curtains.

“I can’t do this –“

“Shut up!” Sirius and Remus both hissed back. Sirius leaned forward and knocked on the window, immediately hiding on the right side of the wall, Remus on the left.

“You fucking – Y/N! Hey!”

Y/N had pulled back the curtains cautiously, opening them fully when she saw who it was.

“What are you doing here?” She whispered back, eye flickering to her door and then back to James who was now shivering slightly in the snow.

“I… well I was just thinking about what you said and…” He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. She was examining him closely, expression unreadable. “I was thinking that you never got to see my reaction…”

He wanted to bang his head against her window. Maybe he would pass out and could pretend this was all a sleepwalking episode or something. She continued to watch him for a second before she snorted loudly.

“Fuck, I am so sorry I just thought, I’ll leave,” James closed his eyes for a second, clenching his fists by his sides. He was going to stab Remus and Sirius in their sleeps for ever suggesting this.

It happened so quickly James wasn’t actually sure it did happen. With his eyes still shut, he suddenly felt something soft press slowly against his lips. His eyelids flickered open quickly, just in time to see Y/N pull away, a small smile on his face.

“I… oh.”

“You’re right, that was a reaction worth witnessing.” She looked a little giddy, though James was sure he looked ten times happier.

“I mean I’m definitely happy with it.”

“Good.” She bit her lip again, pausing for a second before continuing, “What are you doing on boxing day?”

“Nothing,” James replied very quickly.

“Pick me up at 10.”

“Ok.”

“I should probably actually get some sleep tonight.” Y/N giggled, her eyes shining bright against the moonlight.

��Yes, of course, sleep well, Y/N.”

“You too James.”

Y/N looked at him for another moment before closing her blinds with a wave.

James turned around on the spot, moving away from where Y/N would be able to hear him and jumping in the air, a fist in the air.

“Fucking YES.”

“Finally,” Sirius punched him in the arm, flanked by Remus who beamed at him.

“I’m glad this worked, the next thing was storming the place and telling her you were in love with her.”

“Very glad it didn’t come to that.”

“I’m not, I’ve always wanted to storm a house,” Sirius replied pensively, putting an arm around Remus and James, “But I’ll settle for this.”

Advent: @maraudersandco @gollyderek

All fics: @hermione-is-my-queen

James tags: @blackpinkdolan @blushingskywalker @thebabblingbookworm @cherrie511 @imlukesnirvana @avengersassemblee @maraudersandco @sly-vixen-up2nogood �� @katbernoulli @sirius-lysad @cherrie511 @siriuslyjanhvi @aikeia @evyiione @minerva26love @your-typical-giggle

#rainandhotchocolate #james x reader #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james potter x !muggle reader #!muggle reader #James potter fanfiction #marauders imagine

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visionsofelizabeth · 5 years ago

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✖ ▒ OH, WHAT A COINCIDENCE! i was just thinking of [ ELIZABETH OF YORK ]. most swear their resemblance to [ KEIRA KNIGHTLEY ] is unmistakable, but she has been around since the [ LATE MIDDLE AGES ]. it is rumoured that the [ CIS FEMALE ] was born in [ LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM ] in the year [ 1466 ], even though they don’t look a day over [ THIRTY ]. what a shame, though: they were once famed for being [ AMBITIOUS ] and [ STEADFAST ] ; yet now, they seem more and more [ STUBBORN ] and [ INTERFERING ]. but while [ ELIZABETH ] spends their days working as [ A POLITICAL AIDE ], they are already notorious around town for [ CRAFTING PRECISELY THE RIGHT WORDS AND FITTING THEM INTO SOMEONE ELSE’S MOUTH; METICULOUS & BEAUTIFUL PENMANSHIP; “ANCESTRAL” HALLS SHORTER-LIVED THAN YOU; THE CENTURIES’ OLD GLEAM OF A CROWN; A WAY TO WIN ON EITHER SIDE OF THE BATTLE ]. when you live forever, you might as well make the most of it. ( shannon. 20. bst/gmt+1. she/her. )

MUN STUFF:

hello hi there, friends! i’m shannon, i really hate ( most of ) philippa gregory, and this is the historical love of my life, elizabeth of york. i hope i make you all love her as much as i absolutely adore her. if you’re invested in the experience, i recommend listening to ‘the tower’ by ludovico einaudi while reading about her because it really helped me get my feelings about her down onto paper.

BASICS:

FULL NAME: her majesty queen elizabeth of england.

MONIKER / NICKNAME: lizzie; the white rose of york ( nicknames. )

TITLES: queen consort of england ( 1486-1503 ), princess ( 1466-1483 officially; regarded a princess by some after this date until her coronation as queen consort in 1486. )

GENDER && PRONOUNS: cis female && she/her.

DOB && AGE: eleventh of february, fourteen sixty-six ( age five hundred and fifty-four; immortally thirty. )

PLACE OF BIRTH: westminster palace, london, england.

ZODIAC SIGN: aquarius.

ETHNICITY: white.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: biromantic

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:

FACE CLAIM: keira knightley.

HEIGHT: 5 ft 7 in (170cm)

PHYSICAL BUILD: slim, rectangular.

EYE COLOUR AND SHAPE: brown; deep-set.

HAIR COLOUR AND STYLE: brown; varies.

USUAL EXPRESSION: neutral.

ACCENT AND SPEECH STYLE: received pronunciation; measured speed.

DISTINGUISHING MARKS / CHARACTERISTICS: pierced ears & an outline of the rennes cathedral tattooed on her wrist that she got done ten years ago.

CLOTHING STYLE: varies heavily; in her job, she likes suits now.

JEWELLERY AND ACCESSORIES: she still wears her wedding ring from the 1480s, and possesses earrings in the likeness of the tudor rose, though she can so rarely wear the latter.

FAMILY:

FATHER: edward iv of england

MOTHER: elizabeth woodville

SIBLINGS, IF ANY: nine full, two half.

EXTENDED RELATIONS: cecily neville (grandmother) && richard iii of england (uncle.)

SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): henry vii of england (husband, 1486—, legally ended upon her “death” in 1503). there has and will be no one else.

CHILDREN: seven or eight, including henry viii of england.

HOUSEHOLD PET(S): none; they die too soon. she used to keep greyhounds in her heyday.

FAVOURITES:

COLOUR: red && white; the colours of lancaster and york.

WEATHER: when it is overcast but comfortably so, and rain is on the horizon so the air is refreshing when it caresses your face. quintessentially english.

FOOD ITEM: the christmas roast. it reminds her of raucous and happy times with her family.

BEVERAGE: burgundian wine.

TIME OF DAY: just before dawn, when everything is peaceful & the world could just seem... perfectly endless, and yet, so small.

TELEVISION GENRE: drama. political & nordic noir. think borgen & the killing.

FAVOURITE ERA LIVED: 1486-1503; the years of her marriage.

PERSONALITY:

HOBBIES: gambling & music & reading & dancing & writing & watching theatre.

PET PEEVES: people who chew loudly. tardiness.

ALLERGIES: none known.

MBTI TYPE: estj-a.

ENNEAGRAM TYPE: type one, with a two wing: “the advocate.”

SLEEPING HABITS: restless. not as regular as they should be.

OLDEST BELONGING: her wedding ring from the 1480s.

HOME: chester square, belgravia.

DAUGHTER, SISTER, NIECE AND WIFE

No one else will ever be all four to kings ( Edward IV, Edward V, Richard III, Henry VII ) but that distinction — much like your life — is marred by instability, grief and strife.

Your father became sick: whisperings of poison persist, and you must admit you are not sure of the truth. Your brother disappeared to the Tower: whisperings of murder exist, and you must admit you are not sure of the truth. But you are sure that your uncle met his end upon Bosworth field, and on the matter of your husband you are sure that you love him.

At first you were not sure, at first it was not easy, but such is love.

Sweet Elizabeth, daughter of scandal: the fairest of her father’s children by his second marriage to Elizabeth Woodville. They call her ‘common,’ though she is beautiful; they are not audacious enough to call you half-common, because it is only descendancy from the God-chosen King that matters to them.

There would be more daughters before Elizabeth Woodville gave unto her husband sons, and by then they are talking.

THINGS I PROBABLY DON’T NEED TO WRITE CREATIVELY BUT YOU DO NEED TO KNOW, A SAGA:

Elizabeth of York was the first-born daughter of Edward IV and his wife Elizabeth Woodville; she was widely believed to be the fairest of his children. She had two older half-siblings from her mother’s first marriage, and would have nine full-blooded siblings: Mary, Cecily, Edward (V), Margaret, Richard, Anne, George, Catherine, and Bridget. Bold denotes the two ‘Princes in the Tower’ and italics denotes siblings who died in infancy.

In childhood, she was betrothed to the future King Charles VIII of France, but the French failed to keep to their end of the agreement & it was called off. Previously, she had been betrothed to a noble’s son, but this too was repudiated after the father rebelled against Edward.

The former King Henry VI was briefly returned to the throne when Elizabeth was but four years old. Elizabeth, her siblings, and their pregnant mother lived under religious protection until Edward was restored in 1471.

In 1483, Edward IV died, and the unexpected nature of this death & the age of her brother — also named Edward — combined by the ambition for power held by her uncle the Lord Protector ( Richard, Duke of Gloucester ) threw the succession into doubt. Once again, they were forced into sancturary.

Ultimately, both Edward V and the younger Richard disappeared shortly after her uncle took the throne as Richard III, known as the Princes in the Tower, with much credence lent to the theory that they were murdered; the Titulus Regius, in declaring the late King’s controversial — as Elizabeth Woodville was a ‘common’ widower and the marriage secret — marriage invalid, bastardised their children and robbed Elizabeth of York and her siblings of status & rights to succession.

When whispers began of an effort against Richard for the throne, the strongest claim was undoubtedly Elizabeth of York’s own. But there had been no queen that ruled in her own right, and would not for some years, and so Elizabeth Woodville arranged for her to marry the Lancastrian claimant Henry Tudor, who traced his line through a legitimised bastard line.

It was illegal for a Beaufort to take the throne, but it was agreed that they would support his efforts, perhaps due to Elizabeth’s vitriol toward Richard for the disappearance of her son. Henry vowed to marry Elizabeth in 1483.

Henry Tudor won the battle of Bosworth Field and was crowned Henry VII: he married Elizabeth in January 1486, their first child, Arthur, being born that autumn.

The marriage initially was politics-born, but they came to love one another deeply, and there is no evidence of the king having kept a mistress.

FROM DEATH TO “DEATH”

18 March, 1496

The eighteenth of March, fourteen ninety-six, is immortalised in your mind as the day that you died. You were thirty that day — giving birth to your fifth child, Mary — and you are thirty now, utterly untouched by the centuries.

The death must have lasted mere moments; no one beyond your attentive husband noticed, and it was some time beyond then that the both of you began to believe it.

It was the tallest of the tales your mother told you in her confinement at Bermondsey before her death four years ago. But when they told you she was dead ( perhaps of plague, demanding a rushed & private ceremony ) it would take a fool not to wonder whether the machinations of Elizabeth Woodville, the queen dowager, would continue from beyond the ‘grave.’

( The Reaper himself surely could not stop so ambitious a woman: and were it not for the king’s mother, perhaps you could have been more like her. You wonder whether you would want to be. )

Time passed, and yet none upon your face. Henry holds you close in anxious murmurings of what they will do to you if you are discovered; whisperings between kisses of witch-burnings.

You know, though you wish that he was not, that he is right to be afraid.

4 April, 1502

For all the world and time, no worse news could be imagined; the existence of those without faith is one without pity or mercy & you have always tried to keep your love of God intact, but it is oh-so-difficult when the world itself is so malignant as to take your little prince away.

Why is it, then, that you must live and yet bury your son? Why must his wife live on and yet he must die? You are not a spiteful woman. But even you, in this all-consuming grief, must be allowed your bitterness.

You remind your husband of the grace of God: it does not help you believe it.

You remind your that you have a son and two daughters, and that Arthur is with God, and it does not help you believe it.

You remind your husband that you are both young and have time enough yet.

It does not help you believe it.

As soon as you are gone from him, having remained strong for Henry’s sake alone, you buckle, and you wail, and you scream in defiance; it is hopeless, of course, for you to have insisted on sparing him your grief. When you need him, he will always come, until he can no longer.

10th February, 1503

Your newborn daughter Katherine stopped breathing, and something trapped the scream in your throat like a reassurance: some hand over your mouth whispering wait, until the baby girl wailed and began to move again.

She is too young to have the burden of forever on those tiny shoulders, you think, but did any of you ever get a choice in whether or not you wanted to be Time’s Atlas? You say nothing of the occurrence to anyone bar your dearest beloved, who you trust with an implicitness thought impossible the day you married him.

How could one of the white rose trust one of the red?

Your blood still mars the bedsheets, too much of it, dark & damning; they thought the sanguine waterfall would never stem, skin growing paler and paler, until you were a paper ghost. Of course, you knew that you would not die. The doctors didn’t: they call you a miracle. The bells are rung for joy, but when they are gone, there is rue upon your husband’s face. Not long ago, they began to comment upon your unchanging visage, like an ever-fresh flower, and you both knew.

“It won’t be long before—” You press your finger gently to his lips, and he moves it away. “It’s time.”

“I know.”

11th February, 1503

The tower is just barely lit by the sun; you have been here many times before — a highlight of the fact the world still thinks the reality of childbirth, the suffering that comes with a miracle, to be a matter of shame — and he has always hated the separation from you, but this time, in the eyes of the nation ( he will deceive even his mother ) you will not leave it alive.

Cast your gaze back over your shoulder, and ask the most natural question of the immortal race: how did you get here?

To this liminal space, this balancing-act, between the past ( for this home of yours will be your past, your life with him will be your past, but your love for him will be your present, your tomorrow, and your always ) and forever? Can you process the endlessness of it — of forever — my love, where so many empires, overestimating their longevity, have failed; can you understand, darling, that you will watch the crumbling demise of so many more without him?

( When you see his vision misted over with tears, is your husband still the most beautiful, lovable thing you have ever beheld? He is. He is, and no matter how the centuries pass — no matter how many kings, queens and vagabonds you lay eyes upon — he always will be; they will brand him a penny-pincher and a miser as loss haunts him, but you will remember him like this, in the most pain he has and will ever be in, but selfless anyway, because here’s the kicker they all forget: he loves you. )

“My Lizzie,” he murmurs to you, kisses the backs of your fingers, and it is a vow. Even in the depths of his pre-emptive sorrow, he looks up. His mother always says he was God-chosen to be king, but it has always been you who puts him on his knees. “Happy Birthday.”

You promise yourself then — ruminating on the fact you have never had an unhappier birthday than this — that you will never forget it.

LIFE AFTER “DEATH” ( POST-1503 )

As is hinted, Henry knew of Elizabeth’s immortality & assisted her in faking her “death.”

Elizabeth has had a long time to live.

The sole large expense never recorded in the royal books by Henry was to send her away and give her a life of means: the most painful act her husband ever undertook, but which he did because he loved her so dearly. Henry never remarried: though he spoke of it ( had to, because his wife was ostensibly dead ) he staved it off with the instructions he gave to those searching for a second wife.

Hint: they perfectly described Elizabeth.

For some time, the parted couple sent letters, before they deemed even that a risk to their wellbeing.

Elizabeth was once a pious woman. She is not, anymore: an eternity of time and of watching all die around her will rob any woman of her faith. She was renowned for gentleness and generosity, and that is not entirely lost upon her, but the same grief that forged the Winter King from Henry has touched her, too.

She is more cynical, more bitter, but she is still trying. It was necessary for her to change: even at first, knowing she had forever to live, she had to force herself to accept the life Henry gave her & not bequeath her money to others who needed it more, as suddenly she needed it to maintain her own life throughout the centuries.

Throughout her life, though, this attitude has meant she has built up enough money to both give comfortably and be comfortable. For example, now, she is both heavily charitable but lives in Belgravia.

Many lives have passed: in just one, for example, she has been a teacher, just as she was to her son Henry. She has settled in this life on a political aide, so she can more obviously move the world.

The years have made her more ambitious.

She just hopes she will find hope — and her husband, because she knows that if he were dead he would feel it in her heart — before she indelibly becomes the Winter Queen.

TRIVIA ( some things I love & a note on some I have elected to ignore )

Obligatory note that I would sell my soul for someone to play James McAvoy as Henry VII.

Among other things, the Queen from “Sing A Song Of Sixpence” is reportedly Elizabeth of York, and Henry is the King counting his money.

However, Henry’s penny-pinching nature only blossomed after Elizabeth’s death ( or in this case ‘death’ ) and prior to that death he was very liberal in spending money upon his wife and family.

Elizabeth may also have inspired the Queen of Hearts on modern-day playing cards.

She was particularly tall for Tudor women — perhaps inherited from her father — as most were much shorter than five-foot six or seven.

History believes Elizabeth had little political influence, but that perhaps is not so true as they believe.

It is true that Margaret Beaufort exercised a grand deal of influence and was loudly opinionated, but Elizabeth was able to influence matters through gentle whispers in her husband’s ear, and through love. She did not live for the applause: never had done. Elizabeth was known to be heavily charitable. So why would she make fanfare of her achievements in her husband’s court?

I know Henry VIII isn’t allowed, but Elizabeth would bitch slap him. She would. It has to be said.

#qismat.intro #qismat.task

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