#but it suits hamish so much

[mamabear-elinor]

Back to School Shopping -> [Brave Women]

@heart-of-dunbroch​

"Come now, there must be something you like here, Mishmish,” Elinor said as she flipped through the racks of button ups. “What about this one? It would look lovely with your eyes.”

Elinor pulled out the deep blue sweater and held it up to him.

“Mam, I cannae wear a sweater, I’ll boil alive.”

Elinor clucked her tongue but returned the sweater. This was proving more difficult than she thought. Since when did her boys care so much about how they looked? Was it because they were nervous starting school? They wanted to be impressive?

“Fine, what about this?” She pulled out a green plaid button up.

Hamish made a face.

“Merida, tell your brother that no one is gonna care what he wears and unless he picks something, I’m sending him to school nekkid as a wee bairn.”

[outfit]

[betchiwilleatyou]

crazy how they are the only people ever !!!

[antiquatedplumbobs]

Spring 1916

It wasn't often that Will and his old school chums got together these days. Ever since they'd left the small Brindleton schoolhouse, moments in which all four were free had become infrequent. Clive's schooling in Britechester hadn't helped the matter, but the Brindleton based boys had also struggled to see each other with any regularity. Tonight was one of those glorious times that their schedules had matched up, and just in time, for Clive had returned home and they were all celebrating his graduation at The Wet Dog.

"To Doctor Guillen!" John was shouting as he toasted Clive, sloshing much of his ale at the same time. The other men followed suit and yet more ale joined John's on the floor.

The evening had perhaps started along a more proper path, with congratulations all around for Clive's recent graduation and upcoming nuptials to a Britechester girl; these congratulations had of course been accompanied by a round of drinks. Al had then shared the surprising news that he and his wife, Posie, were expecting. Another round had of course been necessary to celebrate the news. Each round had had a good reason to be drunk, Will thought, a bit fuzzily, but for the life of him he couldn't quite remember all of them just now.

Despite the activity of the evening, Will was distracted; Joe's offer stubbornly at the forefront of his thoughts. He had not shared news of it with anyone, holding it close, so it came as somewhat of a surprise when he found himself blurting the news out.

Initial confusion could be attributed to the less than sober nature of the party, but after Will's explanation, excitement overtook. 

“I’ll say, that sounds splendid!” Clive exclaimed. “My father’s been thinking about getting a motorcar, it would make house calls *that* much easier. He’s an awful hand with anything mechanical, though — human bodies, sure, but really anything else, and the man’s completely lost,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sure he’d be real happy to have that here in Brindleton. Plus, automobiles are spreading like wildfire; Carissa says you can’t cross the street in San Myshuno without having one honk at you.”

The others were quick to chime in with their excitement over the offer, and Will felt their support wash over him like a balm; suddenly the idea didn't seem so harebrained.

"What did you father say?" John questioned animatedly, "he's always had such a head for all that modern stuff, he'll talk Pa's ear off about new farm equipment any time he's down at the store." John had quickly hit on Will's biggest concern over this enterprise: Hamish's reaction.

"I haven't told him," Will said honestly. "He really relies on my help and I don't want to leave him in a lurch or anything. We've both built the dairy up into what it is now, and I don't know how he'd feel about me leaving; I think we both always assumed I'd take it over for him one day." It was true, Will had spent the last decade pouring his blood and sweat into their expanding business; they were now one of the largest suppliers of milk to the local cheese factory.

Will was realizing that he wanted to take this job with Joe more than he’d ever wanted anything before. In ‘06, when the blight had decimated their orchard, and, with it, any chance for Will to pursue a further education, he had been relatively unbothered; school had held little interest to him. But this was different; he wanted it so deeply it hurt. He had spent so many years with his head down, not allowing any thoughts for a future outside the farm, and — now that he had — the feelings beat upon him as powerfully as the waves upon the shore during a storm. He felt as powerless to resist their pull as a grain of sand to a wave.

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

next / previous / first

[luckyqueenreign]

Final thoughts….

Yep it’s official LITG fully gave up on us being the main character. Because how the hell do we walk back into the bedroom, everyone gets to talk about our night but us??? Not even a dumb ass “sister chat” to debrief?!

Then the final date outfits… fb really couldn’t be bothered to add in another outfit or two??? Look I hate how much they cost as much as the next person.. and I definitely have been swapping between like three dresses all season but this is final dates!!

So we knew from the texts adventure date = yacht and romantic date = beach date. I’m sorry but what’s adventurous about a yacht?? Lol. I love how ozzy keeps saying he doesn’t care about how the other dates are going and ours is better but then asks how we think the other dates are going. I thought we didn’t care about them?!?! Also reading through this date and spending TWENTY NINE gems for that cringe fest when playing THTH the dates and everything is FREE and you actually have good convos with ur dates. And he’s really just gonna keep repeating that he has a “special question” to ask us… bruh 🙄 YOU SHOULDVE ASKED LAST NIGHT

All MC could say about her date was we got on a yacht and Ozzy popped open a bottle of bubbly. It was a proper adventurous. LOL I mean if you say so! WHATS WITH ALL THE PRANKS THIS SEASON??? Pranks are the new feet!!! Pls stop hyperfixating on one thing and making it the entire seasons personality. Why was lewie in a suit?? You mean to tell me he’s rather workout in a suit rather than change into something more comfortable, in the middle of summer… in mallorca??

Grace babe!! It’s time to move on!! Picking a dress to make Ozzy regret his decision?! GIRL! Maybe that’s why he wants to ask us to be his gf in front of everyone at declarations..ok I already knew this was coming but Amelia saying it now in dress shopping makes it real he’s def gonna ask her to be his gf and Ozzy is gonna ask us… UGHHHHHHHH

The Ozzy dance and the bits scene after was cute but it seems like they’re trying to cram in as much bits as possible. I’m not complaining but wish we had more opportunities throughout the season with Ozzy.

At this point Ozzy better propose. I’m not here for the LITG proposals AT ALL but we need to one up Amelia. I will not stand for us being the same!!! Grace and Marshall’s speeches were weird that they mentioned Ozzy in them at all. Same with Bella and Lewie. Like everyone just needs to move on! Dying at the lack of spell check “your amazing good lucks” I stared at that for at least a minute, flabbergasted they really spelled looks like that. I’m sorry EXCLUSIVE?!?! That’s it??? He could’ve added in he wanted us to move in together… an i love you… something!!

Ok idk if this has bothered anyone else this season but MC has gotten like 95% of the texts all season. And now at the finale you’re making her read out the entire final?? At least make other islanders read too!

As much as obviously I loved winning. If Amelia had won but Toby stole the money I actually would’ve been just as happy. I wish there was a scenario where this could happen, so if you wanted the happy ending u could have it but if you wanted absolute chaos then that was an option too.

HAMISH LMAOOO. Best. Choice. Ever. I know my Hamish girlies are gonna be so happy with the choice to leave the villa with him 🤣

And another season coming already… ugh lol

[impishtubist]

adventures in teaching

“Sirius Ambrose Black!”

Sirius chokes and drops his cigarette, which he quickly crushes beneath the heel of his boot.

“Oh, hey, Moons,” he says casually, waving a hand to wandlessly clear the cigarette smoke from the air and his clothing. Remus glares at him. 

“You quit.” 

“Yeah, I know, I just.” Sirius rubs the back of his neck. “Harry’s teacher wants to talk to us! Harry’s never been in trouble at school before. What could he possibly have done that requires both of us to be here?”

“Well, we won’t know if we don’t go in, will we?” 

“S’pose not,” Sirius says sullenly. “Wait, Ambrose?”

“Your middle name is shit. I gave you a new one.” 

“Think you can do better than Ambrose, Moony.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Lord Black,” Remus says as Sirius pulls open the door for him. “How about Cosmo?”

“No.”

“Hamish?”

“No.” 

“Zephyr?”

“Let’s just get on with this, shall we?”

---

“Thank you for meeting me,” Miss Coburn says, gesturing for Sirius and Remus to have a seat in two of the child-sized chairs in front of her. 

“We’re happy to,” Sirius says. “To be honest, though, we’re a little surprised to hear that Harry’s done something that requires his teacher having to speak to us.” 

“Harry’s not in trouble,” Miss Coburn assures them. “He’s a smart young man, and generally well-behaved in class.”

“Generally?” Remus asks. 

“Yes, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Harry has a tendency to, well, disrespect authority when it doesn’t suit his purposes,” Miss Coburn says. “It doesn’t happen often, but it has happened enough that I wanted it brought to your attention.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for instance, he didn’t approve of today’s snack, so he organized the whole class to go on a snack strike until they were fed something he liked better.”  

Sirius smothers a laugh behind his hand. Next to him, he can feel Remus’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter. 

“I’m…sorry to hear that,” he manages. “Er, did it work?”

Miss Coburn gives him an unimpressed look. “I hardly think that is the point, Lord Black.” 

“No, I suppose not.” Sirius will have to ask Harry about this later tonight. “What else has he done?” 

“He has organized the class in similar fashion over the past few weeks. If he doesn’t approve of the game we’re about to play or the book we’re supposed to read together, he organizes all the children against me. I wonder if you might have a word with him about this behavior?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Sirius says quickly. They need to get out of here, fast, before he bursts into uncontrollable laughter. “We’ll--we’ll definitely speak to him about this. And, er, it won’t happen again.” 

Once outside, they both dissolve into laughter, leaning against the school’s brick wall and wheezing. 

“He gets it from you, you know,” Sirius manages finally. 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you, Mr. Hot Shot Werewolf Activist who has been taking Harry to rallies and protests since he was five months old.” 

“What about you, Lord Black, who takes Harry to Wizengamot sessions and to your shouting matches with the Minister?”

“Right, so this one is on both of us, then.”

“Probably.” Remus nudges his shoulder. “You really do have to quit, you know.”

“Quit what?”

“Smoking. At least for the next, oh, seven months.” 

Sirius’s head snaps up. “You’re--?”

“Yeah.” Remus bites his bottom lip, which doesn’t do much to keep his grin at bay. “We just found out last week.” 

“Moony!” Sirius grabs him around the waist and spins him in a circle. “A whole week! And you didn’t tell me?”

“We wanted to be sure, and--and I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Harry.” 

Sirius sets him back on his feet. “Hey. We’ll figure that out, okay? You and me, together. Besides, Harry will be thrilled to have a sibling.” 

---

Remus is stretched out on the couch with his feet in Sirius’s lap when an owl swoops into the room. Sirius is busy rubbing Remus’s swollen feet, so Remus takes the letter from the owl and opens it. 

“Bad news?” Sirius asks when Remus groans and throws an arm over his eyes.

“Harry’s teacher wants to talk to us again,” he says, holding up the letter for Sirius to read. 

Sirius skims the letter, his lips thinning. Harry’s practically an angel at home. He doesn’t understand how the boy manages to cause so much trouble at school, especially at only six years old! He expects this behavior when Harry is a teenager at Hogwarts, not right now.

“I’ll go,” he says, but Remus swings his legs off Sirius’s lap and works himself into a sitting position.

“I’m coming, too.”

“Are you sure?” Sirius offers him a hand up. Remus winces, resting one hand on his belly and the other on his lower back. 

“Positive. Just, ah, give me a second to catch my breath.” 

Sirius drives them to the school in his car, since magical methods of transportation are currently off-limits to Remus. Remus has his cane tonight, and he also accepts Sirius’s arm for extra support. His hips have always bothered him, and the added weight of the little one isn’t helping. 

Inside the classroom, Sirius transforms one of the child-sized chairs into a comfortable armchair for Remus, who lowers himself into it gratefully. Miss Coburn gives him a warm smile. 

“I’m sorry to call you both in like this,” she says. “But thank you for coming. Mr. Lupin, how are you feeling?” 

“Let’s just say I’m counting down the days,” Remus says, rubbing his side with a wince. 

“Harry is, too. He tells me he’ll have a little brother in May?”

Remus perks up a bit. “He talks about the baby?”

“He does. He’s very excited.” 

“Well, that’s a relief. He doesn’t talk much about the baby at home. It’s hard to know what he’s thinking.”

“But you didn’t call us here to talk about that,” Sirius says, and Miss Coburn shakes her head.

“No, I’m afraid not. We had show-and-tell today.” 

Sirius’s stomach sinks. “Yes, and Harry brought his toy motorbike to show the class.”

“He didn’t,” Miss Coburn says, and she pulls a box out from under her desk, setting it in front of them. “Harry brought a Boggart.”

“He what?” Sirius exclaims while Remus groans and buries his face in his hands. “He didn’t release it, did he?”

“He opened the box, yes,” Miss Coburn says. “Thankfully, as I was closest to it, it turned into a seal, which all of the children found positively delightful. I cast the Patronus charm and got it back into its box, and then we had a discussion about fear. It turned out well, all things considered, but I’m concerned that one of my students was able to bring a Boggart to school.”

Sirius turns to Remus. “Yes, Da, tell me how Harry got his hands on a Boggart?”

Remus lifts his head from his hands, looking sheepish. “I caught it in the attic last week. I was keeping it in that box on my desk until I had a chance to take it to South America and release it on the reserve down there. Er…sorry.” 

“So we’re going to keep Da’s office locked from now on,” Sirius says, rolling his eyes. “And I need to thoroughly inspect Harry’s backpack every time I bring him to school, apparently.”  

---

Harry has Miss Coburn again the next year, to Harry’s delight and Sirius and Remus’s relief. At least Miss Coburn understands their eccentric child, and has taken everything Harry’s done in class so far in stride. Sirius can’t imagine having a conversation like the Boggart one with any other teacher. 

He’s in his office at the Ministry when his secretary pokes their head into the room and informs him that he has a Floo call from Miss Coburn. All she tells him is that she needs to see him as soon as possible, so Sirius grabs his cloak and rushes off to the school. 

“Is Harry alright?” he asks as he runs into the classroom.

“Yes, Lord Black, of course,” Miss Coburn says, gesturing for him to have a seat. “His grandmother picked him up earlier. But we had an incident that I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Of course you did,” Sirius sighs. “What’s the little menace done now?”

The classroom door opens then, and Remus hurries in with a wailing Teddy in his arms. 

“Sorry,” Remus says as he drops into the seat next to Sirius’s, “sorry, I normally wouldn’t bring him, but we only have the babysitter until three, and my husband is in Bulgaria this week, and Mum’s busy with Harry--”

“Wait,” Miss Coburn says. Her eyes flick between Sirius and Remus. “Husband?”

“Yes,” Remus says absently, bouncing Teddy in a fruitless effort to soothe him. “He’s the director of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and there’s been an incident in Bulgaria that’s--well, I really can’t say, but he can’t get away and the baby’s teething and--” 

“Here,” Sirius says, holding out his hands. “Let me take him for a bit.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Remus sighs, transferring Teddy to Sirius.

“I’m--sorry, forgive me, but the two of you aren’t married?”

“To each other? No,” Sirius says. He cradles Teddy to his chest, patting his back as the baby continues to fuss. “Remus has been married to Kingsley for, oh, two years now?” 

“Three,” Remus says, smiling tiredly. “We got married right after Harry’s third birthday.” 

“Remus and I have never been together, Miss Coburn,” Sirius says. “Romantically or otherwise. But we’re best friends, have been since we were eleven, and we were both named Harry’s godfathers. We’re raising him together. We’re both his dads. Rem, have you got a teething ring with you?”

“Oh--yes, here.” 

Soon, Teddy is happily gnawing on the teething ring and drooling all over Sirius’s shirt, and they turn their attention back to Miss Coburn. 

“Has Harry displayed any accidental magic lately?” she asks.

“Er, he has done for about a year now,” Sirius says. “Why?”

“I’m not so sure that it’s accidental,” Miss Coburn says, her lips twitching. “He didn’t want to do maths after snack time, so he kept making my chalk disappear every time I tried to write on the board. Then, during our quiet reading time, he kept turning his classmates’ hair different colors.”

“Just like Jamie,” Sirius says fondly. “Can’t sit still for a moment, that one.” 

“He gets it from you, too,” Remus points out. “I’m sorry, Miss Coburn. We’ll talk to him.” 

---

Harry is happily coloring at the kitchen table while Hope putters around the kitchen, cooking dinner. The tip of his tongue pokes out between his teeth and he swings his legs, humming to himself. 

“Hi Dad, hi Da!” he greets cheerfully when Sirius and Remus enter. “Is Miss Coburn mad at me?”

“No, babe.” Sirius drops a kiss on his head and pulls out the chair next to him. Remus sits on his other side. “But you really need to stop turning the kids’ hair different colors, alright?”

“And you need to let Miss Coburn teach you maths and reading, even if you don’t like them very much,” Remus says, running his fingers through Harry’s hair. “She’s got to prepare you all for Hogwarts, remember?”

“You don’t want to be the only wizard at Hogwarts who can’t read or do maths, do you?” Sirius says, tickling Harry’s side, and the little boy shrieks with laughter.

“Fine,” Harry sighs, pretending to pout, but it doesn’t stick. It never does. 

“You’ll be good?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And you’ll let your teacher do her job?”

“Yes, Da.”

“Thanks, baby.” 

“Can I take Teddy outside, please?”

“Thank you for saying please,” Remus tells him, “but you can play with him inside. He’s napping right now, so how about after dinner?”

“But Ron says there are Grindylows in the pond, and I wanna see ‘em!” 

Sirius rubs his forehead. “Harry James, you cannot use your baby brother as Grindylow bait!”

“I won’t let ‘em hurt Teddy!” Harry says, sounding aghast. “I just wanna see ‘em! I can kick them, and then they won’t get Teddy. I can run really fast, too. Wanna see?”

Sirius laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “How about this? You and I can go flying after dinner, and Remus and Teddy will come out and watch us. You can show Teddy all the new things you’ve been learning in your flying classes.” 

“Okay!” Harry turns back to his drawing. “And when Uncle Kingsley comes home, I’ll show him, too.”  

“He’d love that,” Remus says.

Sirius meets Remus’s eyes over Harry’s head, and sees reflected in them the immense love he has for their little cobbled-together family. It might be unusual, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[the-frostiest-of-flakes]

Test Run

Fandom: rotbtd | Characters: Merida, Rapunzel, Hiccup, Jack Frost

Prompt(s): Merida, Favorite AU

Word count: 1851 | Warnings: None | Read on AO3

Summary: While giving her new gear a test run, Merida nearly dies and winds up meeting several budding heroes. Some more impressive than others.

Author's Note: I wrote this for the third week's prompts of the 2023 Big Four Fest, which were Merida and Favorite AUs. My favorite au is a very specific one by lucidorange on tumblr, and it's based around the larger superhero au. Unfortunately, the creator of the au deleted their tumblr account a while back, so everything I know about the au is thanks to the wayback machine and reblogs of the comic. (You can find part 1 here)

I tried to give the triplets more unique personalities while still staying in line with the au versions. I hope you enjoy!

---

Merida DunBroch, daughter of the wildly successful owner and CEO of DunBroch Technologies, Fergus DunBroch, was doing her homework.

Or, that’s what she was supposed to be doing.

In reality, she was perched on a flat roof thirty stories up, the lights of the city shining like stars below her.  It was beautiful, and the wind gently caressing her face only added to the serenity.  Unfortunately, it was currently being ruined by multiple voices jabbering in her ear.  Tuning back in, she found that they were still going on about features and safety and blah, blah, blah.  Pretty much everything she didn’t care about.

“—and if you notice sparks, tell us immediately and drop the—”

“If you’re done yapping,” she interrupted, grip tightening on her bow, “I’m gonna take this gear for a spin now.”

“Be careful,” buzzed one of the three nearly identical voices in her ear.  Her amazing sister-senses told her it was Hubert.  “This is just a test run — we don’t know if there are any glitches with the suit or bow.”

A second voice — Hamish — piped up, “Not that there will be any, considering we made it.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Harris broke in.

Merida rose, a wolfish grin spreading across her face as she looked to the ground below.  So, so far below.  “When have I ever needed encouragement?”

Three matching groans reached her ears, but she barely heard them over the rush of wind as she stepped over the edge—

And started free-falling.

All she could hear was the roaring of air in her ears as it whipped strands of hair out of her ponytail and stole the breath from her lungs.  Her gut was long gone, left behind on the rooftop.  The city lights pulsed brighter, getting ever closer.  To most this would be a nightmare.  But to her…to her it was exhilarating.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end.  Grasping an arrow from her quiver, she drew her bow, changing the setting to “Zipline” with a flick of her thumb.  Ah, the beauty of having genius inventor brothers.  Aiming for a nearby building, Merida fired.

And was promptly disappointed.

Yes, the arrow flew true, arching through the air with the precision only a master could give, but it did so without the intended zipline attached.  Leaving Merida still falling to her doom.

Okay, so maybe she should have checked that feature before jumping off a building.

A lump of panic rose in her throat.  “Uh, guys?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already broken it,” came Harris’s response.

Oh, she was never going to live this down, was she?  “I, uh.  Might be about to die.”

There was silence on the other end.  All at once, her brothers’ voices came pouring over each other in crackling mayhem.

“It hasn’t even been five minutes—”

“—You are so irresponsible—”

“—More inheritance for me!”

Gritting her teeth, she was about to cut through their chatter when something soft and golden wrapped itself around her waist and promptly yanked her to the side.  She was no longer falling, but being swung like a pendulum.  Grabbing at the fabric that led away from her waist into the dark of the night, she realized it wasn’t fabric at all.  It was thousands of strands of golden hair.

What in the bloody hell…?

A moment later she was dropped — surprisingly gently — onto another roof, much lower than the one she had originally been on.  The hair loosened and fell away, disappearing in a flash.

“I don’t know what happened,” said a voice from the shadows, “or what you’re going through, but killing yourself isn’t the answer.”

Merida sprung to her feet, narrowed eyes scanning her surroundings.  It seemed to be the roof of an apartment building, with a box-like entrance to a stairwell in one corner.  And yet, no sign of whoever had— wait, there!  There, in the shadows of the entrance, was a girl, parts of her golden hair somehow still managing to gleam in the dark, giving away her position.

Her hair…

Calling it long would have been an understatement.  “Long” gave the impression that the hair went down to her waist, maybe a little ways past.  But the mass of yellow didn’t stop there.  It went to her feet, and then continued off, spilling over the edge of the building like a waterfall of spun gold.

“Are you okay?” The girl asked again, her voice just as soft as her hair had been.

“‘m fine.  And I wasn’t trying to kill myself.“

The girl stepped out of the shadows, confusion making furrows in her brow.  They looked out of place, and Merida had the sudden urge to smooth them out.  “Then what were you doing?”

“Testing out my gear.”  She motioned to herself and the bow that was still in her hand.

The girl’s green eyes lit up with understanding.  “Oh!  You’re like me then!”

“Like you?”

“Yeah, you know.  Superhero, vigilante, whatever you want to call it.”  She flashed a grin, bouncing on the balls of her feet.  “This is so cool!  I’ve been working alone for so long — well, not really alone, I mean I’m technically working alongside the police but that’s nothing like having an actual partner — not that you’re going to be my partner, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Whoa, slow your horses!”  Everything was suddenly falling into place, from the freaky hair to the large purple crown perched on the girl’s head.  “You’re Swift, aren’t you?  The vigilante people are claiming is running around?”

The girl — Swift — nodded.  “Yes, that’s me.”

“I thought you were an urban legend!”

“Nope, I’m real.”  The smile on her face grew ever wider.  “And so are you!  Ohhh, this is so cool!”

Despite herself, Merida could feel one of her eyebrows raising.  This was…not how she had expected her first meeting with a vigilante to go.  Granted, she had never really thought about it before, but Swift had a strangely innocent demeanor about her.  She wasn’t remotely hardened or threatening.

Three loud beeps sounded from Swift’s pocket.  She withdrew what looked to be a burner phone and grimaced at whatever was displayed on the screen.  “Sorry, I gotta go.  There’s a fire downtown and a…dragon?”  She squinted at the screen.  “I think that’s a typo.”

Merida perked up.  A fire and possibly also a dragon?  That would be a perfect test run for the gear!  Never mind the fact that her original test run had almost ended in her own demise.  “Mind if I come with you?”

The look on Swift’s face could only be described as ecstatic.  “Of course!  But, uh…since you’re having some issues with your equipment, would you like me to carry you?  It’ll be faster that way.”

Well, she certainly didn’t want to die or get left behind.  “Sure.”

Golden hair came whipping up and around her waist, and a second later she was swinging through the air again.  It took all her willpower to suppress a scream.  From the way the city was whizzing past below, she had been right to agree to Swift’s offer.  She would have been left in the dust long ago otherwise.

Soon the sound of sirens and the sight of orange light licking the night sky reached her senses.  As well as…Snow?

A moment later the two of them were safe on the ground outside a burning apartment building, above which was a dark cloud.  From the cloud fell a flurry of flakes, killing the fire slowly but surely.

Swift frowned.  “That’s…weird.  It’s the middle of September.”

Merida’s comm piece crackled to life.  “So…are you still there?”  Came Hamish’s voice.  “I need to know if I won the bet or not.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Yes, I’m here.”  At Swift’s quizzical look, she gestured to her ear.  “‘m talking to my brothers, sorry.”

“Dang it.  Wait, are you with someone?”

“Just another hero I met.  Turns out that vigilante, Swift, is real.”  Merida followed said hero as she ran towards the entrance.  “And now we’re gonna stop a—” she broke off at the sound of shattering glass.

The two girls skidded to a halt as a large black bundle landed in front of them.  It was metallic, and as it slowly uncurled itself they realized what it was.

It was a metal dragon.

The craftsmanship was astounding.  From the textured metal and leather to the glowing green lights that constituted eyes.  There was an air of intelligence in them, making Merida second-guess whether it was really insentient or not.

The reason for its previous ball-like state became evident as well.  Clutched between its paws — talons? — was a child.  Covered in ash and smoke, Merida could barely make out where the kid’s dark skin ended and the gray smudges began.

“That’s the last of them!” Called a voice from above.  A moment later a brown-haired teenage boy dressed in black and green landed a little ways away, not noticing the two heroines.

All at once, the fire went out.  Instead of flickering flames, the building was now covered in layers of frost and ice.

Merida gawked at the now blue-tinted structure.  Just how many super-powered people are running around in this city?!

Swift was helping the dragon move the poor girl to a safe spot for when the paramedics would arrive, acting as if this kind of thing happened every day.  And hey, maybe it did.  Before Merida could decide what to do to help, another boy landed next to the first, this one seeming to float down with effortless ease.  His blue eyes were locked on her as he pulled down his hood, revealing a shock of white hair.

He grinned.  “Hey, look at that!  We’ve got an audience.”

The Brunet turned, finally noticing her.  He flinched, shooting a glare at his companion.  “Jack!  You said we wouldn’t be noticed!”

“Actually, I said we wouldn’t get in the papers.  Big difference.”  He was in front of her in a flash, lifting off of the ground like a leaf on a breeze.  “That’s some outfit you got there.  Who are you?”

Merida pursed her lips.  She certainly wasn’t giving this weirdo her name.  If she was going to be a vigilante like Swift, she’d need an alias.  “Atlas,” she finally answered.  “And what are you two supposed to be?  Dragon Boy and Frosty the Snowman?”

The brunet made a noise akin to a broken squeaky toy.  Jack only smiled wider.  “Close.  The name’s Frost.  And you can call my sidekick whatever you like.”

 “I am not your sidekick!”

Merida sighed internally.  These two yahoos were obviously just playing around — although the metal dragon was pretty impressive.  

“Well, aren’t you Miss Popular,” Harris’s voice rang in her ear.  “Just how many people have you met tonight?”

She had forgotten her comm was on during that whole exchange.  Great.  She turned away from Frost and his sidekick/partner/friend and whispered through clenched teeth, “Shush.  I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.  I promise.”

“You better.  We’re already making popcorn.”

[cxhleel108]

S7 Thots for this week: Ok girl…

• Not too much lil bitch cuz I let you off last week don’t make me start up again.

• Why are we jumping into the pool fully clothed??? In FORMALWEAR no less like why is that a thing people do?????

• Uh uh. I am not finna be dealing with this Uma vs. Alex bullshit for the entire volume. I refuse.

• Girl when I say y’all are DRAGGING this little surprise Bryson got for us. Bitch, we already know what he’s finna do what is the point of building up anticipation😒😒😒

• So his “outfit change” to match with us is just the same goddamn suit but silver? Y’all pissing me off…

• So we don’t even get to change meaning that we are wearing a soaked ass dress for the remainder of this party? Y’all still pissing me off…

• Now contrary to popular opinion, I like the necklace. Well…I like the idea. The design though…girl. It looks like he got that shit from a flea market no shade.

• Bae #2 is back YASSSSS ugh he so fine😍😍😍

• Oh Joyo’s here too I guess. Nah I’m just playing cuz he lowkey look good too like hold on homeboy😏

• CLOCK IT!

• CLOCK IT!

• Evan, I love you but no…no booboo.

• CLOCK IT!

• Oh lord Evan flirting with me again. STOP IT! I’m gonna fuck you!

• Daphne trust me babe it’s not just y’all. This entire last half of the season been sending me to sleep.

• Well well well…look who tf it is.

• No y’all tbh Summer used to make me laugh a lil bit. Even though I shaded her and she kinda got on my nerves sometimes, I don’t hate her fr.

• Oh girl…😭😭😭

• Mind you, she doing this over Hamish of all men. You know what, ride for yo man sis.

• More of Alex and Uma fighting blah blah blah can we move the fuck on????? Damn!

• We are so cute ugh.

• Bryson…please.

• Y’all been saying this all season and I have yet to see neither one of these muthafuckas. How are they not here??? Bitch it’s literally the reunion party.

• I’m so glad we corrected him cuz don’t make it seem like I chose to get with her.

• Once again, I like the treasure hunt idea, but I really wish we weren't being gifted jewelry from Goodwill. I hope at least the engagement ring is cute and classy (yes bitch let's not play dumb that's exactly where this is going).

• These jokes chile. Bruno stop possessing Bryson’s body please!

• OMG QUEENIE’S BACK YAYYYY! AND HER DRESS IS CUNT!

• OH BITCH-

• Uma…you on yo own niece I can’t help you anymore😭😭😭

[musingsofmyown]

  "I have broken your heart too many times. I have laid my hands on you in ways that I never should have. I have left you before, but never again.

  "I vow to love, hold, and cherish you till death, and even then I have a suspicion that we'll still be together. I vow to use these hands to piece together what I have broken. I vow to love you as I should have for all the years past.

  "Never again am I letting opportunities pass. Every moment I can express my adoration, my love, I will take it with fervor. There will never be a day where I do not remind you just how much you mean to me.

  "This is my vow, my promise to you. Here and forever."

  "He'll definitely cry," Greg tipped his glass towards John, who had been rehearsing his speech for the umpteenth time- "And you, here and now, are panicking."

  "Of course I'm panicking! How can I not?"

  The silver-haired man stood, handing John his own glass of bourbon,"Breathe," He flattened a few wrinkles in the doctor's suit,"He loves you, you love him. If you stumble I'm pretty sure he'd find it endearing."

  "I think there's too much repetition-"

  "John-"

  "There is-"

  He took the glass, which was now half empty,"It's perfect, he's going to cry, you're going to cry, half of the reception is going to cry. Hell- I may cry." 

  "I'm a bloody crying shame-"

  "John Hamish Watson, there is no shadow of a doubt that Sherlock loves you. So do some breathing exercises, drink water, and stop worrying."

Meanwhile-

  "Have you written your vows brother mine?"

  "... I had to write vows?"

  Mycroft puts on an amused grin,"You can make them up as you go."

  "Alright. I assume talking about murder would be not good on our wedding day?"

  "He would find it endearing, but I suggest keeping the morbidity to a minimum."

  Sherlock checked his suit for the millionth time, adjusting his lapels and tie. His curls at their peak condition, well manicured nails and even wearing an expensive cologne,"Myc…"

  It had been decades since Sherlock had used the nickname for his elder brother,"Yes, brother?" a slight edge of worry in his voice.

  "I don't want to mess this up."

  Mycroft stood from the armchair in the corner of the room and embraced the younger Holmes in a true hug,"I promise you, today is about you and John, and nothing could mess it up. As long as you love each other, it will be perfect in every way."

  "Easy to say for the man who's already gotten married…"

  He held Sherlock's shoulders and looked him in the eye,"I mean it."

  The younger thought for a moment before putting a hand on Mycroft's,"You're a good brother… and I don't remember the last time I expressed that to you."

  "You don't have to,"He backed up, taking in how nervous his little brother was,"All you have to do today, is express your love for John. In oral- vocal form."

  Sherlock snorted at the joke, putting on his first smile of the day. One that would be followed by many more, and would still be there as he fell asleep in John's arms.

[struggles-and-prose]

WTF is wrong with Hamish Linklater

Ok, so when I discover a new actor or actress that captivates me, I binge watch a bunch of things they've been in. Lately, it's been Hamish Linklater.

Although this 6'4" tall dude looks pretty sweet and innocent, do not let that fool you. Oh no, that was a HUGE mistake on my part ! Saw him in Midnight Mass 1st, and though he does do some pretty fucked up shit, he seems pretty oblivious to what he's actually doing to his community and what is actually happening around them all. So, in my opinion, that innocent looking face of his fits pretty well with the character, even adding a pinch of creepiness to Father Paul's persona. He thinks he's doing the right thing and is so passionate about it, but yet, too much of a blind fanatic to even notice the harm he's doing to others.

I mean come on ! Does he look like the type of dude that would even hurt a fly ? XD He's only trying to do good in his community, that's all ! x)

He welcomes them with open arms and says good morning, ...

he's a good listener,…

he preaches about love and loves to sing,...

he ask's if they need help and tells them when he's proud of them,...

he promises shit he can't but apologizes,...

he's up and about and wants to be left alone,...

he lies and apologizes again,...

and they all live happily ever after-ish. XD (Yeah, i had to put a crap tons of Gifs XD) You know, normal creepy pastor type of shit ! XD Doesn't change that he's trying to be a good man even if I found him to be a bit dumb on that part, but still. But not before being an absolute creep of a man. XD

Da fuck are you trying to do there buddy ?! :D Wtf is wrong with your dumbass ?! :D You disturbing fuck ! XD

All jokes aside, I absolutely loved him in Midnight Mass and I'll have to watch it again, because, that shit was amazing.

Though he was perfect for Father Paul's character, his innocent face does a better job in an innocent role like Andrew Keanelly in the mini series The Crazy Ones, playing along side this legend of a man, Robin Williams (miss that man honestly <3). Better job as in his innocence fits much more for this nerdy dude. Don't get me wrong, it added the perfect amount of creepiness to Midnight Mass.

Look how charming he is lol. I liked him in this role, since it's suits him so well. The perfect innocent nerd.

I mean come on, look how adorable he is lol. Who doesn't love a handsome nerd !

Another role that fitted him well was the one and only Jeb Magruder from the mini series Gaslit. His innocence, mixed with this long legged idiot is perfect lol.

Though is blue contact lenses did kinda give me the creeps. XD But hey, he does the role perfectly and I thought he was hilarious. I still can't get over his face when he tells those FBI agents that he's gonna "fuck them". XD Just look at this nervous fuck ! XD

But then, upon his numerous perfect performances, I stumbled onto this mini series called Tell Me Your Secrets. And holy mother of God was he ever so excellent there.

Look at this fucking creep spying on you through your window. And yeah, I hear you say "But Chloe, look how adorable he looks!" Yeah, no ! This twisted little fucker may look handsome when he's not a fucking psychopath, but this, this is a whole new level of fucked up. I just feel like punching him in the goddamn throat ffs ! XD

"But Chloe, he's so sexy !" Nay nay I say ! XD What the fuck kind crack are you on ? XD (Yeah, sorry, I'm getting a bit overwhelmed over here XD) Regardless of the fact that some women fantasize about this, Idk why, you do you, he creeps me the fuck out.

That fucker looks like an absolute psycho with that twisted smile and still, his damn so innocent looking face ! I literally can't get over this shit honestly. XD It just works so well with the character. A bit too well if you ask me !

Da fuck are you doing there man ?!? Why must you destroy your friendly innocent self like this ? Why you do this to me Hamish ?! XD Plus, that fucking spit scene made me fucking gag. XD I hate spit on a whole new level, or any bodily fluids for that matter, that it made me vomit a bit in my mouth. Yeah, that sounds lovely doesn't it ! :D XD

Anyways, I'm getting a bit carried away now lol. But needless to say that I've watched TMYS twice so far and will probably watch it again, because I thought this was his best role yet. Despite the fact that this fucker creeps me the fuck out, like dude gave me nightmares ffs. XD I just think he does it so well and that, again, repeating myself, his innocence and his friendly looking face adds a lot more creepiness to the character and that's just fucking amazing if you ask me. I think any role he does is perfectly made to be fair. In Dead For A Dollard for instance, with that sick look mustache lol. He wasn't there a lot, but he was awesome.

I rarely get obsessed like this over actor's performance. Yeah, I have actors that I love and admire and love what they bring to their characters. But nothing like what Mr. Linklater over here. The fact that he makes every role he does fit so well with him is just, wow ! He brings a whole new level of fucked up to fucked up in TMYS.

Look at this SOB. XD He's fucking creeping me out for the love of God ! XD Honestly scares the shit out of me. ! I think if I'd meet him irl, I'd freaking shit myself ! XD I've never been so creeped out by an actor like this before ! XD

Anyways, hope y'all enjoyed my massive review/rant on Hamish Linklater. Love the dude, he's amazing. Scares me, but still amazing lol.

[johannestevans]

Little Devils: Chapter Six

Velma Kuroda, a young specialist in magical and enchanted antiques, is taken under the wing of Hamish MacKinnon, a master enchanter and centuries-old immortal — a crotchety old man possessed by a horde of little demons.

---

Prologue

It was a bright and sunny day when Hamish woke up, but because it was January, the light was somehow anaemic, neutered. It came through the window in a neat square, directly upon his pillow, and he groaned quietly, reaching up and pressing the heels of his hands against his tired eyes. Pressing his face to the pillow did naught at all to drown it out, but he tried anyway, his mouth twisted in a somnolent scowl. One knew from how the light landed that there was no true power in it, no heat, and yet for all that, it seemed so much the brighter.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

He did not usually use an alarm clock. For all his attempts at sleeping in over the years, he had never succeeded in sleeping past nine o’clock in the morning at the very latest, and as it stood, it was a little bit before eight.

Sighing, he pulled himself to the edge of his bed, drawing himself reluctantly from beneath the warmth of his coverlet, blindly putting his feet into his slippers as he reached for his spectacles.

He did not get dressed right away — it was a Monday, and he never opened the shop on Mondays. He had an appointment late in the evening, customising a chair for a gentleman with rather particular tastes, but that was all for the day. He drew his dressing gown down from its neat hook on the back of his bedroom door, pulling it on and belting it shut over his belly.

This had been the dressing gown he had used since Christmas, and yet it felt so incredibly decadent, lined as it was with a plush, black fleece that was ever-so-soft to the touch. Hamish was a gentleman inclined to life’s small pleasures, where they might be found, but this particular dressing gown was beyond, and he allowed himself a moment to huddle in its sleek, black warmth — rather too sleek to suit him, actually, and somewhat at odds with the cheerful yellow flannel of his pyjamas, but what did it matter?

It had been a gift.

One was allowed to enjoy a gift.

He brushed his teeth whilst ignoring the chattering din of the shadows behind him, as he did every morning. He washed his face with a flannel, and combed his blond hair — it was thinner than he would like, although it was a mercy he was not bald as a cue ball, as his father had been once upon a time — back from his face, and then he went downstairs.

The stairs creaked under him as he stepped on each one, grateful for the fleece lining of his slippers to protect him from the hardwood’s cool morning bite, and he moved to put wood on the fireplace that dominated the living room, laying kindling in amongst it and then lighting it with a match.

How many fires had he lit in his lifetime, just like this? Kneeling on the rug with a match in his hand, feeling the sudden heat against his skin before he laid it onto the fire? People didn’t really do this anymore, most people. He stared into the embers as they came to life, licking at the logs before working to devour them.

Behind him, beyond the sleek blackness of his dressing gown, there was a deeper, darker blackness, and try as it might, the morning light could make no penetration of it. He felt the eldritch weight of that blackness behind him, looming over his shoulders, and heard the soft, chittering whispers of the horde at the very edge of his hearing.

It was an inhuman sound, insectile in its multitude, and insectile, too, in the way it buzzed and hummed, subsumed by a vibratory note that one would never hear in a voice from something… natural.

The horde grew louder, louder, until it sounded like rolling thunder in Hamish’s ears, the noise of it all running down his spine like the accompanying lightning strike. Sighing, he sat back upon his heels, his palms against his knees.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said, finally, and the horde was abruptly as silent as anything, anticipatory, hungry, for what he would say next. “Time for breakfast.”

The darkness became a hundred smaller, rushing shadows as the horde rushed toward the kitchen, cackling and laughing and falling over themselves, and smiling ruefully — fondly, goodness, how fond he was — to himself, feeling the tired ache in his knees, Hamish pulled himself back to his feet, and made to turn on the stove, as he did every morning.

The horde waited impatiently for its customary breakfast of bacon and eggs.

Read on WorldAnvil / / Read on Medium / / Read on Ao3

[girlwiththenegantattoo]

This is entirely @aherdofbees @agirlinherhead @everythingbutresolved @apbajs @plainlo-inthemorning and most importantly Hamish' fault.

Not sure if a part 2 is wanted but this was fun to write. Throwing down here and editing more later.

TW: Mention of abuse, whipping erotic behavior

"Sometimes you deal with the devil not because you want to, but because if you don't, someone else will."

When you were a little girl your father seemed to have an endless amount of advice and words of wisdom. Naturally, most of them went in one ear and out the other. Honestly, it was all but that one.

After high school you decided to get into teaching and while doing so, generally had it stresses, the rewards out weighed any negative experiences. That was until you figured a move across the United State and a new school would help you come into your own. Hadn't it been just your luck that you also chose a school with a teacher whom was racist, miss 'gifted with good looks and possibly harbored a fetish for whips?

Calling Maynard Spencer the devil would be giving that horrible excuse of a man, too much credit in your opinion. To you, he was merely a giant, insecure child. A man with a superior complex that was based off nothing but lies and severely misconstrued beliefs. Looking into Maynard's eyes you didn't see pitch black ovals or distance flames, flickering with the light that hits them. Instead, there's just the bend of thick eyebrows, sat challengingly, over brown iris'. To you, Mr Spencer's was far from the Devil, not even close.

Despite how protective you've become over all of your students throughout the years, the ones at Nichol School for Boys held a special place in your heart. Which made it all the more devastating hearing of the heinous acts that take place in a secluded building called the White House. How could one school just turn their cheek and pretend nothing was going on? You tried everything in your power to put an end to Maynard abuse until the only option left was to make a deal with the devil.

----

The thought of having to come to Mr. Spencer and make such a ludicrous deal made you physically ill but you were willing to do anything for those kids.

"I'll let you whii...whip me, if you promise to leave the kids alone"

The smile he gave you then sent a chill running down your spine before he spoke in his thick monotone southern drawl.

"I'm not sure a little lady such as yourself would be able to handle that."

It was clear that he thought highly of himself, throwing condescending remarks towards you purely for the sake of getting under your skin. The most infuriating fact was that it was actually working.

----

"I want you to go over to that wall and stay there," Maynard growled as the hairs of his mustache tickled your ear.

The building was as you expected it to be, fairly dark save for the sun rays that shone through the high glass window. The only sound that accompanied the dreariness of your surroundings, was the buzzing of fluorescent bulbs as they came to life. Upon arrival you couldn't pinpoint what was creating most of your anxiety. Was it the fear of what's to come or how small he was currently making you feel?

Resting your back against the wall, you wrung your hands together while giving Maynard an expectant look.

"Take off your clothes and turn around." It was a curt demand. A smug smile crossed his lips as he watched you stare back in a stunned silence.

"Is that what you make the little boys you whip do. Do you make them strip?" The sudden brazen in your demeanor surprised even yourself. A sound akin to a snarl fell from Maynard's lips before he tried to compose himself by feigning a look of contemplation. "Suit yourself, just figured a whore would want to keep her nice cloth in one piece."

By some miracle you were able to keep the anger out of your eyes and give him a pointed look instead. You wouldn't allow him to disparage you any further. Finally turning around you placed your hands on the wall and judging by his gruff mumbles, his patiences with you was wearing thin.

"It's such a shame that you're willing to endure so much pain for some worthless kids."

Before you could reply, a sharp cry was pulled from the back of your throat as blinding pain shot through you. The harsh contact was felt long before the sound rang in your ears. Neither of you agreed on a count down but you thought you'd at-least know it was coming.

"Or maybe this is something you are into."

Two more blows were administered in rapid succession, nearly causing your knees to give out. The aftermath resulted in trying to keep your breaths shallow, for the expanding of your lung only sent more pain blossoming through your rib cage.

"Mmm... I love the sound you make when the leather touches your skin. Are you enjoying this as much as me?"

There was a beat of silence before another whack filled the room, this time it was off to the side as to demand an actual answer. Remaining quiet you hadn't been prepared for the sight you saw when you looked back over your shoulder.

Maynards usually well kept brown hair hung in wet strands down in front of his forehead as he stood heaving and cheeks red. His thin white tank top clung to his chest, soaked with sweat. You realized he must have removed his shirt after you turned your back because you hadn't noticed the suspenders that were now hanging down on his sides before. The grip he held on the whip's handle was causing his knuckles to turn white while the sweat that ran down his neck and shoulders glistened in the dim fluorescent lights.

With a cruel smile now painted on his lips, Maynard casually made his way to stand directly behind you. Placing his left hand on the wall just above yours, the whip dangled from his tight grip. It was longer than you thought with its dark brown, braided leather giving it a round shape.

Cocking his head to the side Maynard let out a low whistle, his face so close that his nose almost touched your cheek. Slowly, he slid his hand under the back of your shirt and the contrast between his cool sweaty palm and your burning flesh prompted an inward sigh.

"Those feel like some angry welts, I have something that can help with that." His voice sounded emotionless

Repulsive

Dipping his head, Maynard began to run the tip of his nose up your neck, stopping just behind your ear.

"Oh...the things I could do to you."

Maynard's words were far from the soft touches he laid onto your skin yet, the heady mix of both were becoming too much to ignore. You couldn't forget the reason why you agreed to this.

Catching him completely off guard, you landed a particularly hard blow to the underside of his ribcage, with the back of your elbow. To your relief Maynard dropped the whip to clutch at his side but he hadn't stumbled backwards like you hoped. The ponderous weight of a muscular 6 '4 man proved to be too much for your attempted shoved. However, the few steps Maynard took to steady himself gave you time to bend down and snatch the whip.

There was something incredibly eerie about the way he stood up to his full height with a scowl that turned to a sinister smile.

“Get over there on your knees,” you ordered, praying your voice wouldn't betray you. Huffing out a laugh through his nose, Maynard narrowed his eyes

“Or what?”

Not waiting for your answer he took a step towards you. Acting as if your arm had a mind of its own, the snap of your wrist sent the end of the whip slicing across his cheek. The cut was minimal but startled Maynard all the same. Reaching up, he placed two fingers over the wound and emitted what you could only describe as a low growl.

“It's either your face or your back. You choose”

Once he stood with his back facing you, getting him to his knees took a single whip to his calves. Better

“Now I'm going to show you what this feels like.”

The first strike landed with an exquisite whack causing his back to arch inwards and a strained grunt to leave his lips. Unsatisfied with his reaction you put a bit more muscle into your next strike, the contact of the leather lash exploding in a thundering noise. This time a high pitched groan reverberated around the empty room, the force of impact bringing him to hunch over his knees. The tremble in his body was now evidently visible. Still not what you wanted to hear, you began to lose hope. What if he wouldn't break? What's the point in teaching a lesson if no one learns from it? Suddenly, you watched on in astonishment as he straightened his back.

Perhaps your actions were fueled by anger but with a fluid motion of your wrist you landed the third blow square between his shoulder blade. Throwing his head back a deep moan triggered a titillating shiver to course through you. Oh. He wasn't trying to bear the pain of his punishment. He was actually enjoying it.

For the first time ever, you felt powerful while in his presence.

The pride in your steps echoed delightfully as you walked closer. Running the end of the whip over his shoulder, it came to rest between his legs after sliding down his torso like a snake. Its leather wet with the sweat gathered on each blow. If his hooded eyes were any indication, Maynard's heavy breathing was not due to pain.

Kneeling in front of him, you made sure you had his full attention. "Now. I've seen what your hands can do with the whip in it. Let's see what they can do without."

[plainlo-inthemorning]

The Night Jeb Magruder Said No to Dick

Warnings: M/F SMUT and shameless babygirlification of the very fictional representation of a real-life evildoer. Historical accuracy be gone.

Pairing: Jeb ‘Haimgruder’ Magruder (Hamish Linklater in Gaslit) x You

Words: 14.200

Summary: Someone's working late.

(Prefer to read it on AO3? Here we go)

.

.

A tired sigh.

Ice cubes swirling in a cocktail glass. 

Then: 

“My husband is not an intelligent man.”

Jeb, on his way to the bathroom, freezes in the hallway right outside the Mitchell’s bedroom. 

She hadn’t meant for him to hear her. 

He knows that. 

Gail, his wife of more than fifteen years is in there, chatting with what can only be the spouse of one of the other party guests (God, please don’t let it be Martha Mitchell herself). 

The door is only halfway closed. 

No great secrets being spilled. Merely inconvenient truths. 

The other woman snorts.

“Well.”

Pause. 

“Thank god he’s pretty, then!”

Laughter. 

(Not Martha’s. A small comfort.)

Jeb’s face has gone hot. The plush, pink carpet under his dress shoes feels like it’s becoming liquid, sucking him in.

How much has he had to drink? 

Gail has started saying something else, about him, and he doesn’t want to hear it because whatever it is, she’s probably right.

He cannot just stand there. 

Striding quickly past the door without looking into the room (the conversation is uninterrupted), he reaches the bathroom at the end of the hallway, blessedly unoccupied, and locks himself in there. 

He has to pee quite badly, but instead of unzipping he finds himself by the sickly yellow sink, gripping the edges and staring at his own reflection in the ornate mirror. 

“My husband is not an intelligent man.”

The tears come, as they have always done with him, ever since he was child (why must he be the one to not outgrow them?), but this time he doesn’t bother to wipe at them, instead letting them run down his sunburned cheeks while he glares into his own naïve, stupidly oh so blue, blue eyes. 

Such a pretty man. 

Such a pretty dumb man.

No, Gail definitely hadn’t meant for him to hear that. 

But meant it, she did. 

Jeb knows. 

Gail is tired. 

Gail is exasperated with his constant fumbling, be it with the clumsy secrecy surrounding his work, or the buttons of her nightgown on the rare occasions they have sex.

Used to have sex.

Gail, the studious Political Science major who graduated with honors, is growing steadily bitter that she gave up work to be a full-time housewife every time he, Jeb, gets up from the couch for the fourth time during a two hour movie to go pee because of, well, the circumstances at the office.

Gail would probably have been better at his job than he is. Much more sensible. Unimpressed by petty power plays.

But Gail is not cruel. 

Not ever. 

It’s not her fault if she doesn’t love you anymore.

Jeb squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head. The sink creaks a little dangerously as he leans his tall frame on it. 

…But do you still love her? That way? A whisper from someplace he doesn’t want to go right now.

What the hell is he even doing here?

Every day for years on end, he has gotten up in the morning and put on the right suit, the right watch, tamed his thick, curly hair and parted it the right way. 

He has gone to work, and he has delivered his lines with as much confidence as he can muster, making sure to be in the room when the guys make fun of the younger staff and discuss foreign events, god damn hippies and new cars, even if he hasn’t always paid the best attention.

Or caught the punchlines. 

When he was younger, he considered becoming a high school teacher in geology or history, and he still thinks he would have been good at it. 

But he’s good at looking the part in Washington, too.

Was.

Jeb Magruder used to be an important man to the President, and in extension to the nation itself. Something to be proud of.

Bile rises in his throat.

With every anniversary at the office, his purpose has become less clear to him, and he tries to laugh it off whenever his old, busy-body neighbor of a retired judge with the prize roses throws casually snarky comments over the trimmed hedge about homemade fertilizer and politics nowadays being all about looking smart on television.

Jeb knows. It’s the only power that has ever come natural to him.

Although not entirely cost-free.

He has known full well since his teens when the mothers of his friends begun fawning over him whenever he came over. 

When they started hanging around the periphery as he was lounging next to the pool (his parents didn’t have a house with a pool back then), offering him lemonade and home-baked goods, and cooing over his politeness. 

Such a perfect gentleman. 

How proud his parents must be to have raised such a polite, charming young man. And captain of the swim team, no less!

How marvelous. 

What stamina he must possess… 

When, at 33, Jeb sat in a packed, too-stuffy cinema and watched the hit movie of 1967, The Graduate, it had made him feel increasingly uncomfortable as memories of those summer afternoons came creeping back. 

Of a manicured hand casually but consistently brushing against a sculpted, tanned thigh on the sun-lounger, not yet dry from swimming. 

Spontaneous shoulder rubs he didn’t know how to turn down, administered by all too probing fingers while his friends looked the other way, or left him alone entirely, embarrassed and angry at the effect he had on their mothers.

He had given Gail a line about an upset stomach and gone out to wait for her in the car while she watched the rest of the movie without him.

Jeb had felt intimidated by women when he was young, and he has rarely since felt true confidence as a lover, letting down more than one college crush who found no hidden superpowers behind his Clark Kent façade.

Before meeting Gail. 

Gail who was smart, and full of life and plans, and who found Jeb to be not only the most handsome man of his campus but inexplicably funny, too.

And sweet. 

When other girls had called Jeb “sweet” in the past, it had meant only one thing:

Goodbye. 

But Gail meant what she said. She thought Jeb was very, very sweet. 

And life had been good for a while. 

For a few years, before sweet inevitably did become boring and then frustrating, and their sex life - good, fine, never fantastic - dwindled in between baby number one and two.

If he had told Gail how much he missed it, how much he missed her touch, she probably would have been taken aback - Jeb was never adventurous in the bedroom. 

He does have stamina going for him, yes, and keeps himself in good shape. 

But he and Gail never found a language for talking about sex, much less expressing specific desires to each other.

Jeb turns the knob of the faucet in the bathroom, letting the water run cool before splashing some on his face. 

Once, he went to one of those basement “movie houses” downtown and took a seat at the very back of the room, near the exit, trying to do his best invisibility act to avoid acknowledging the presence of a handful of other men in suits, all doing exactly the same thing.

Obscenities had played out on the screen, women being taken, being punished and liking it, moaning for more between hard thrusts and flesh slapping on flesh, and his cock had throbbed painfully while his cheeks burned with shame, and he tried not to touch himself. 

Finally, it had been too much, and he had buttoned his winter coat to hide his erection as he hurried up the stairs and back into the harsh daylight, mortification overtaking him.  

To think if anyone had recognized him. So stupid. 

Then he had driven home, gone to take a shower, and pumped his shaft under the hot water and thought of another life with willing women in miniskirts inviting him in to help with the television set, and letting him do unspeakably perverted things to them on their plastic covered pink couches.

He hadn’t felt any cleaner when he stepped out of the cubicle again.

Now, Jeb stares down at the sink.

Drops of water run off his brows and the bridge of his nose, and once more he has to ask himself:

What the hell is he doing here, tonight?

He can hear the music and the laughter, the clinking of service and glasses from beyond the closed door. His chest feels tight just at the thought of going back out onto Mitchell’s grand terrace overlooking the capitol.

Out where his colleagues are currently lighting cigars and basking in the heat of their own smugness, convincing themselves and each other that they’ve come out on top after all. 

Phew, fellas! Close call! Now, try this whiskey … 

Convincing themselves that the situation has been handled, despite the colossal shitshow of Liddy’s botched operation.

The psychopath has even volunteered to take all the blame as his great “service” to the motherland.

Why wouldn’t this be cause for celebration?

Because they don’t know. 

They don’t know yet that you let your paranoia win.

That you took the deal just before Liddy offered them all a way out.

… Sweetheart. 

Even with the deal, Jeb very much suspects there are no guarantees he won’t go to jail himself.

Scratch that, he knows he’ll go to jail.

It’s just a matter of how many months.

Or, God forbid, years.

The investigators could have thrown empty promises of a more lenient punishment at him and, gullible as he is, he believed them.

As long as they don’t send him to one of those prisons in Bolivia he once read about in The Post. Where influential men who have fallen out of favor disappear. 

He knows it makes zero sense, not least because he’s not terribly influential.

Nevertheless, ever since the thought entered his mind, he hasn’t been able to let it go.

His broad shoulders heap once as a solitary sob escapes him. 

How long now? 

For the past week, he has barely slept at all, instead lying awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling fan and listening for the sound of a car pulling up in front of the house. 

Waiting for the law enforcement to knock on the door and end his career and along with it his chances of ever working anywhere in Washington again.

Will Gail stay when she finds out? 

Despite the children, Jeb isn’t so sure, just as he isn’t sure he wants her to either.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to look in the mirror again. 

Get it together, Magruder, god dammit.

His father would have a few choice words for how low his promising son is about to sink.

He really does have to relieve himself. 

If it’s not the crying, it’s the peeing. Embarrassment leaking out of him, out of his control.

He turns to the toilet. Everything in the bathroom is either that awful yellow or too-bright orange. Martha’s “modern” touch.

It’s making him nauseous. 

Or maybe it’s just the whiskey.  

His cock is as sad and limp as the old garden hose in his hands.

As he washes up after flushing, Jeb decides he won’t stay another minute in this apartment where the air feels thick with impending doom. 

And now he knows for certain that he must be drunk, because surely, he cannot leave without Gail?

Yes. 

Yes, he can, and he will, and he will simply tell her that he must go to the office to pick up something important. 

That’s it. She’ll take a cab. 

It’s the second to last place he wants to be, the office. 

But he has nowhere else to go but there or home, and if he opts for the latter, there’s a strong possibility he may start crying on the drive there, and then Gail will sigh and not ask him about it, and they will sit in the car with the Grand Canyon of scorching feminine regret and pathetic masculine inadequacy between them.

He cannot bear it tonight. 

Clearing his throat and straightening his back, he dabs his face with a paper napkin from the neat pile next to the sink, unlocks the door, and heads back to the center of the festivities. 

Gail is now talking to Dean’s very pretty, new wife, Mo (Jeb had tried and failed not to gawk at her shape the first time they met, and fuck it if Dean hadn’t clocked it, the arrogant freeloader). 

Now, Jeb gently touches Gail’s elbow and informs her of the change of plans, but she barely bats an eyelid. 

“It’s fine, Jeb.”

There is no real emotion in her voice, and Jeb cannot help but notice the overbearing curve of Mo’s smile as she bears witness to this non-exchange. 

Another dull, sexless married couple from the suburbs who only just about tolerate each other’s existence so long as no one starts breathing in an offensive manner while the other is trying to sleep. 

Only Gail’s not dull. 

Anyone who spends two minutes with her will know. She’s whip-smart with a contagious laugh. Mo knows.

So, it must be just Jeb, then. 

Thank god he’s pretty. 

He finds John to quickly thank him for a grand evening, and narrowly avoids being pulled into a slurry discussion between two of the guys who want his “professional opinion” on one of the cocktail waitresses, and who scoff at him for being an old bore when he says he’s off to the office. 

“For fucks sake, Jeb, you’re never any fun. Relax, will you?” 

But they have already turned their backs on him to continue with their conversation before he can say anything in return.

Does anybody give a shit if he’s here or not?

Probably not.

These days he’s little more than a glorified dog walker who has never even been invited to fly on Air Force One. A fact Dean will never tire of recalling whenever he and Jeb disagree.

Which has been a lot, lately.

Sometime in the near future, that may serve him well, according to the investigators.

After making his way through the throng of smartly dressed people in the high-ceilinged living room and finally letting the front door slam shut behind him, Jeb waits for the elevator to come up, well aware that he’s not in a great state for driving.

Gail was the designated one tonight.

But he just wants to slump into the front seat of his beloved Oldsmobile and wrap his fingers around the leather-clad steering wheel and take control over just one thing in his life.

Just one damn thing.

His getaway car, just like they say in the ads.

And like McQueen’s in that movie, he really liked but only got to watch two thirds of because of the imminent threat of BOLIVIA terrorizing his bladder.

He has McQueen’s eyes, too, Jeb tells his distorted reflection in the polished steel doors, as the elevator takes him down to the garage.

This suddenly very important Hollywood connection makes the color a lot less stupid than just before, in the scornful bathroom mirror.

Maybe he should have tried to become an actor, instead of campaign manager for a corrupt president, destined to go down in flames because he did little good but look presentable when spewing manipulated facts to the media.

Jeb sways as the elevator reaches its destination, and the doors slide open with the expensive kind of ping of expensive apartment buildings.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, his colleagues up on the terrasse are witnesses to his thoughts and laughing riotously at his foolishness.

Jeb shakes his head, and a lock of dark brown hair escapes its styled confinements to fall over his forehead. He leaves it.

No, siree - he should absolutely not be driving. 

Somehow, he still makes it to the office in one piece.  .

.

.

.

.

“... But the Republican office? The Republican! MY daughter working for the creeps – literally?!”

Your mother had looked close to tears when you told her about your new temp job, while your father had abruptly gotten up from the couch in your childhood home to mow the lawn.

An activity of approximately 30 minutes that on this afternoon required two hours and a secret smoke in the garage. 

A temp job, dear parents.

Temp! 

As in, not suddenly brainwashed into campaigning for Nixon and the war and abandoning all ethics on the steps of the castle of political depravity. 

Of course, you would rather have worked elsewhere. 

But after being fired from your almost brand-new job at the library because of staff cuts, it was either take a temp position fast, or risk losing your equally brand-new teeny tiny studio apartment (“the closet”, as your parents call it, dismay written all over their features the first time they came to see it). 

You’re not moving back to suburbia. 

Thus, filing work for the evildoers it is. Your friends have already given you shit about it, and had it been one of them, you would have to.

But it’s only for a couple of weeks, tops.

Or a month, until you find something else.

Hell, maybe you’ll learn some valuable insight behind enemy lines. 

So far though, it has been mind-numbingly boring work of filing paperwork and typing up internal communication memos that has left you devoid of all joy and creative thought every afternoon at five. 

“And that’s how they get you, Y/N!” Your best friend Katie had said, wagging a mock-serious finger in your face over a cocktail one evening after your first week. 

“Suddenly, one morning you won’t remember your past life or why Vietnam isn’t a great adventure, and that’s when they’ll slyly hand you a ballot.”

“Yeah, well, in my ‘past life’ I wouldn’t have been able to afford us cocktails at downtown bars, remember?” you had shot back.

What bothers you more than the mundane tasks, are the men. 

The self-satisfied, middle-aged-and-way-over suits who have been none too subtly eye-fucking your shape from day one, calling you “cookie” and “honey”, and generally addressing you as if the frighteningly complicated world of coffee making and photocopying is so overwhelming, you had better hold someone’s…hand

Balding, leering, handsy C.R.E.E.P.S.

Except one or two perhaps.

Well, maybe just one. 

His height and striking looks alone set him so very far apart from his graying, decaying colleagues, and every morning you look for him as the first thing when you walk through the lobby. 

When you walk down the halls. 

When you linger in the small kitchen in the hope that he may drop in. 

Mr. Magruder. 

Mr. Jeb Magruder.

Such a preposterous name for such a dashing man. 

You’ve only had but one real interaction with him. On your first day, in the beforementioned kitchen.

He had been fiddling with the coffee filters by the machine (a C.R.E.E.P. who makes his own coffee!) when you walked in after having already been shown around the floor by the head of the secretarial pool, Mrs. Lautner.

When you had asked him if he needed a hand, he had looked a little startled, then blushed as your eyes met. 

And, oh, had you been glad for his befuddlement. Without it, you may not have been able to disguise the immediate jolt of electricity that had shot right through you when you looked into those astonishing pools of icy blue.

McQueen eyes. 

Beyond dreamy. 

Not knowing what had come over you, within a second and a half you had made a mental note to tell him one day, should he turn out not to be yet another sniveling lackey of Sauron.

Although with him managing the reelection campaign, he had to be. 

Even if at first glance those eyes appeared much too wide and too weirdly earnest to conceal government secrets without details spilling out all over the place.

Of course, you’re mistaken. 

Of course, they’d put an attractive man in front of the cameras.

It’s all in the game, and he’s a piece on the board, just like all the rest. 

Jeb had laughed a little nervously, said you gave him a fright, and then introduced himself, immediately knocking over a tin of freshly ground coffee on the kitchen counter as he extended his hand. 

It had gone flying everywhere, some of it had gotten on your miniskirt, and Jeb had apologized so profusely while handing you numerous napkins and attempting to somehow casually clean up the mess on the counter and floor while only making it worse and getting it all over his crisp white shirt sleeves (“Oh, dear, look at that”), that you had been utterly charmed.

He found you attractive, clearly, but unlike his colleagues, Mr. Magruder didn’t give off sleaze.

Or maybe (probably) it was just that you didn’t mind him ogling you one bit. 

You ogled right back, watching his blush deepen, and within five minutes of fantastically awkward small-talk and you brushing coffee grounds off your skirt while Jeb tried not to stare at your legs or down your blouse as you bent forward, you knew you desired him and those eyes and his floppy dark-brown hair carnally. 

A Republican and a married man – yes, you spotted the ring.

The horror.

“So, um, you’ll be helping us with the filing systems, huh? Very important work. In fact, um…did you know that-”

“Y/N! There you are. Never mind with the coffee, we’re going for lunch with the girls now.”

Mrs. Lautner’s chirpy voice had interrupted whatever gobbledygook Jeb was about to lay on you in lieu of accomplished flirting, and he had quickly cleared his throat and made his excuses. 

For that you liked poor unsuspecting Mrs. Lautner a little bit less.

“Now,” the woman had said, as you started down the hall again, your kitten heels clacking in harmony like miniature hooves on the tiled floor. “Since we got most of the practical stuff out of the way this morning, why don’t I fill you in on some of the more…precarious details of the job, hmm?” 

Her voice had taken on a conspiratorial note as she gave you an elevator look that made you a tad uneasy. 

“The gentlemen of the office …” she began, once safely in the elevator.

…And she didn’t stop for the entire lunch break in the packed downstairs diner, except for when some of the other typists and secretaries who crowded your booth interjected with important commentary on “the gentlemen” and “their ways”.

There were the touchy-feely ones, the ones with bad breath, the one who liked to corner the new girls in the elevators at every chance he got, the one who almost caused a salacious ruckus at the Christmas party of 1969. 

Names were rattled off with surprising indifference to the potentially sensitive nature of the topic, and you had secretly marveled at how easy it would have been for someone ‘undercover’ to unearth enough dirt for a handful of upsetting gossip pieces in some of the more colorful leftwing weeklies.

Then again, doesn’t this stuff happen everywhere?

Unless it was Martha Mitchell herself being felt up behind one of the half-dead monstera plants in the lobby, left-leading journos probably wouldn’t care much.

Speaking of the Mitchell’s: John Mitchell, especially, seemed to be one to avoid, if the women were to be believed.

“Don’t fall for the power,” Mrs. Lautner intoned, more seriously. “He’ll use it.”

Yet one name did not come up. 

“And, um, what about the guy I met in the kitchen just now…?” you had asked, offhandedly, taking a large forkful of your salad. 

“Mr. Magruder?”

“Yes…”

You pretended to poke around for another piece of tomato on your plate but didn’t miss how the women around the table shot each other knowing glances.

“Another one falls for The Eyes on her first day,” one of the typists snickered, and the others joined in until Mrs. Lautner hushed them with a wave of her hand.

The whiff of her heavy, middle-aged-lady perfume made your nose itch.

“Don’t worry about Mr. Magruder. He’s very…”

Mrs. Lautner pretended to search for the appropriate word, lips pursed, when the typist from before finished her sentence in what felt like a well-practiced bit:

“Soooo dull. Bo-ring. Unfortunately.” 

The other women nodded.

One even sighed with what sounded like genuine regret.

“Leave it to one of the very few good-looking men on the floor to be deeply uninteresting,” the secretary for Mr. Dean supplied, shaking her head.

“Once, when he was waiting by my desk for a meeting to start, he actually tried to talk to me about rocks. Rocks! It was most bizarre.” 

“No wonder he got demoted,” the typist said, and you had fought the urge to ask for more details. “Although, having to give up your office like that … I wonder how Mrs. Magruder took the news”.

You had spent the rest of the lunch break just listening to your new colleagues talk animatedly, silently vowing to never bring up Jeb in their company again.

Still, no matter how “dull” they seemed to find him, your curiosity hadn’t been satiated.

You wouldn’t mind him chatting you up about rocks, or anything, really, if that would allow you unlimited access to gawk at him some more.

Alas, he had not. Why would he?

You had not even seen him in the kitchen again, and lord knows you had tried to time your visits there.

The only glimpse you had gotten of him was in the carpark on that very strange Monday afternoon last week when Katie had graciously come by to pick you up in her banged-up deathtrap of an ancient car.

“Some weird shit just went down”, your friend said the second you slid into the passenger seat.

“Yeah?”

It had been a warm day, and your blouse had been clinging to your back for hours. You just wanted to leave the stale building far behind and go jump in a fountain.

“Yeah. This tall suit came out, and two men were waiting for him by his car. Cops, I think. And the suit guy started yelling at them, and I thought he was about to get into real trouble, but then he got in his car, and the cops left. But…”

Katie craned her neck out of the open window on her side to look for something.

“Yes, he’s still there! In his car. Right over there. In the smart one”.

She twisted in her seat and pointed to an Oldsmobile on the other side of the carpark.

You could only see half of it for other cars, but what you could make out was the man in front.

Just sitting there, hands on the steering wheel, head low.

Tiny goosebumps on your neck.

“Do you know who it is?”

“Yeah, it’s the campaign manager. Jeb Magruder. I mean, I don’t know him…”

Katie giggled.

“Jeb Magruder? I read about him somewhere recently. That name’s too dumb to forget”.

“Mmhm”, was your reply as you were trying to make out what the hell Jeb was doing.

“You couldn’t hear what they were saying?”

“I didn’t get the window down fast enough, but swear I heard him say ‘ass’. Twice.”

More giggles.

“Ass?”

“Yes!”

“Leave it to your ears to only pick up on ‘ass’”.

“Pfff”.

Your friend had started the engine, and you threw one last look at Jeb’s Oldsmobile before driving out of the carpark.

“You sure they were cops, the other guys?”

“Well, I can’t be sure, of course. But they had a cop vibe. And your friend Mr. Magruder…”

“He’s not ‘my friend’”.

“Whatever. The hot scumbag, then. He looked scared”.

“I thought you said he was angry?”

“That too.”

Then you had gone to the nearest park to lie under a tree, and Katie had chatted happily about everything and nothing while smoking a joint, and you had wondered.

After that there had been no more sightings.

And so here you are now, a week and a half later, working overtime on a Friday evening, and considering for the umpteenth time if it wouldn’t after all be less soul-crushing to take the pay-cut and become a shopgirl somewhere instead of photocopying piles of memos for a hastily scheduled meeting Monday morning.

The new girls always get the shit tasks at the last minute.

“Cheer up, dear. You can be thankful you don’t have to hurry home to get supper ready for three ungrateful children and a husband who would all rather eat tv dinners from the fridge,” Mrs. Lautner had said as she wrapped her tiny silk scarf around her neck and left for the weekend.

“Then why don’t you let them do just that and spend your time on something better?” you had wanted to ask her but thought better of it. Mrs. Lautner was a proud woman.

It’s well past 10 pm now, and the floor has gone quiet.

Eerily quiet.

You know there’s a guard in the lobby, and probably more people working behind closed doors in the big building, burning the midnight oil, but you don’t like the echo of your footsteps.

Even so, you need stretch your legs after being hunched over the copy machine, and so you’ve decided to snoop a bit.

More accurately, you’ve decided to help yourself to a drink.

Seeing as it is Friday after all, and the oppressing powers that be have ruined your plans to go out.

All the gents have well-stashed liquor cabinets in their offices, you know by now, and you doubt any of them would notice if you had a tiny glass of whatever bottle is already open.

Hey, should the old, good-natured guard come by and catch you in the act, perhaps he’d even like one too.

You assume John Mitchell is the one with the finest collection of spirits, but something makes you hesitate in front of his office.

Call it bad karma.

Or the lingering words of Mrs. Lautner on your first day.

So, you continue down the hall, envisioning yourself as a sexy cat burglar until you just happen, completely by coincidence of course, to find yourself in front of another, more enticing nameplate.

Yes.

If Mr. Jeb Magruder and his precious rocks won’t come to you, you’ll simply have a look around his quarters on your own.

How is it that so few of the offices are locked?

Do these men think themselves invincible?

It’s highly likely.

Jeb’s office is very much like the rest of them – dark mahogany, heavy dark green curtains and leather armchairs being the universal décor signifiers of rooms in which important white men plot world domination.

Although according to the other girls, this one isn’t doing much plotting.

Still …

Just thinking of his rolled-up shirt sleeves and toned forearms when he was cleaning up the coffee grounds, and the way his hair kept falling in front of his eyes makes you pine.

In the wise words of Mick Jagger, You can’t always get what you want.

But you sure can sample a bit of the hot man’s hot spirits.

You step inside the office and do your burglar tip toeing to the desk, solely for your own amusement, turning on the lamp there, and looking around.

Ah.

Against one of the wood-paneled walls is a small glass and metal table with what appears to be a scotch on it, and a couple of those very thick, deliberately too-heavy cocktail glasses molded to suit a firm masculine grip.

Such a waste of glass, really, you think as you pour the golden liquid, just because powerful men cannot be trusted to hold a delicate thing without accidentally crushing it with anger or excitement.

Drink in hand, you turn again to survey the room, knowing you should just take the glass with you back to the copy room but feeling yourself drawn to the desk.

And the papers atop of it.

Not that you expect Jeb to have top secret documents just lying around, obviously, but now that you’re here you could just …

You step closer while taking a sip of the scotch, savoring the way it burns your throat going down.

Good stuff.

“What are you doing?”

You very nearly throw your drink into the air as a man’s voice calls out behind you.

And though you shouldn’t be totally surprised that it’s him, it’s his office after all, your breath still catches in your throat when you spin around and lock eyes with one Jeb Magruder, standing in the doorway.

First thought: God, he looks as good as you remembered. And dressed to the nines.

Second thought: Is he swaying a little?

Third thought: Bye, job. It was not a lot of fun while it lasted.

Jeb doesn’t appear angry though, nor does he reprimand you. He just looks at you with a blank expression.

His hair seems more ruffled than it’s likely supposed to be, his formal outfit considered, although it absolutely suits him.

“I was just…I’m putting together the briefs for the, um, for your meeting Monday,” you splutter, willing your feet to stand their ground and not step on each other’s toes out of nervousness.

You’ve been caught red-handed.

There are not a lot of ways around simply being honest and hoping for the best.

Jeb’s not saying anything.

“I know I shouldn’t have, and I’m so sorry,” you continue, “But I just went looking for a quick drink. I swear I’m not a spy or anything.”

You laugh a little nervously.

Fuck, don’t let him think that this is an actual break-in. That would spell more trouble than just a firing.

“Really, it was very stupid, and I’ll get out of here now, of course.”

You put down the glass on the small table and make to leave, but then Jeb steps into the room, walks right past you and around his desk and practically dumps his body into the chair there, long legs sprawling out in front of him as he wheels the chair back.

Ah, yes. He’s drunk.

Interesting.

Then he looks to the ceiling and sighs deeply with eyes closed, his unbuttoned smoking jacket falling wide open on either side of him, white shirt stretching over his chest, and you try not to imagine what sculpted muscles hide under the expensive tailoring.

“It’s fine,” he says, looking back at you.

“I could do with a drink myself…” His eyes are a bit unfocused.

A good girl ought to make her excuses and leave Jeb to whatever mini crisis he’s going through.

A good girl ought to ignore the feeling of bubbling excitement mixing with the strong liquor already heating up her loins.

Thank Christ, you’re not her.

Not tonight.

“Okay…”

You take a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

What do you know, just you and the famous Mr. Jeb Magruder, having a late meeting about world affairs.

If your proud parents could see you now. You smirk into your drink.

Meanwhile, Jeb is looking around, ostensibly confused to find no bottle within arm’s reach.

He’s about to get up, when you gingerly beat him to it, putting your glass down on the polished surface of desk (your mother would berate you for not using a coaster).

“Let me get that for you … Sir.”

Jeb’s eyes briefly widen just enough for you to feel a tingle run down your spine.

He’s about to protest, but you’re already by the table, pouring him a generous helping.

“You look like your evening has been significantly worse than mine,” you say, smiling, as you sashay back to the desk.

His mouth opens and closes, but no reply comes out.

“I’m Y/N,” you offer, filling in for his silence.

“We met on my first day a few weeks ago in the …”

“Kitchen. Yes. Yes, I remember you.”

Finally, Jeb smiles back at you, displaying pearly white teeth, and your stomach does a little flip.

You step around the desk, and he slowly spins his chair to look up at you when you hand him the drink.

Your bare knee brushes against his pants’ leg just as your fingers meet on the glass.

Jeb clears his throat and sits up straighter.

“Thank you. Miss.”

He quickly takes a sip, his eyes flitting over your legs before he lowers his gaze to the drink.

“So, um, have you settled in alright? In the job, I mean?”

All manly politeness and feigning indifference to your closeness as you remain standing in front of him.

He doesn’t quite succeed, even swallowing his second sip of the scotch with an audible gulp as you perch yourself on the desk instead of returning to your chair.

Perhaps it’s the foreign vantage point of looking down at the tall man that’s making you audacious.

Or perhaps it’s that he looks uncommonly lost.

How old is he? Mid-forties?

While classically handsome from a distance, up close his good looks are more fascinatingly multifaceted.

You have a sudden, surreal impulse to draw him.

There’s a boyish, melancholic quality to his features while at the same time his strong, black eyebrows, the crinkles around his eyes, and the flecks of grey by his temples give off an air of someone who secretly knows how to chop wood, make a fire, and enjoys long breaststrokes in cool lakes.

Or maybe he has simply seen too many late nights and cigarettes at the office?

Yet his skin remains the rich, honeyed tan of wealth and weekends spent outdoors, and even if his smile is anything but carefree this minute, you have a feeling he could be a man who laughed easily and often, given the chance.

But hold on, why wouldn’t he be that man?

He must be making a fortune working closely to the President.

Demotion or not, he’s still a C.R.E.E.P., isn’t he?

Jeb clears his throat again, a little more awkwardly, and you realize you’ve been staring down at him for quite a few, long seconds.

Your blush mirrors the one has already crept into his cheeks.  

And he’s still waiting for you to answer his question.

“Oh, well, it’s fine, you know,” you say cheerfully, brushing over your fluster.

���I’ll just be here for a few more weeks, I think. Not long.”

Jeb raises his eyebrows and cocks his head in a most darling, owl’ish manner.

“Oh? You don’t plan on making a, uh, career here?”

You almost burst out laughing. A career?

Jeb looks puzzled and you realize that he – much like the rest of them – may be under the assumption that working here is a great honor.

“Well, Mr. Magruder, let’s just say that my personal ambitions don’t quite…align with the work that I do here.”

That you do here, is what you wanted to say, but that would be pushing it too far.

“Well. Okay.”

To your surprise, Jeb doesn’t press you on the subject.

He exhales and slumps down in the chair again, gesturing at nothing with his drink and spilling half its contents on the carpet.

“Oh”, is all he says, looking down at the darkening stain as if somewhat bewildered that the laws of physics still apply.

Then his eyes find yours and he smiles a sad little smile.

“It’s probably for the best, anyway.”

Say what? Now you’re intrigued.

You reach for the bottle and top up his drink (he thanks you), then your own.

“Something weighing on you, sir?”

Again, there’s that look in his eyes. A quick glint of something kept well under wraps.

This time accompanied by rapid blinking before he looks away.

Another sip. A large one.

“You could say that”.

He sniffs, defeat written all over him, and the frankness inspired by his inebriety makes you want to prod him.

But then he gathers himself, as if he’d forgotten who he’s talking to.

He puts down his glass and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m so sorry, Miss. I’m, uh, I’m afraid I’m being awfully rude. I certainly don’t mean to keep you here…”

He looks to the door, worry blooming, apparently becoming aware of how the ‘situation’ might appear.

“I don’t mind”, you say and smile, determined not to have the evening end here.

“I didn’t have plans anyway, and…”

You search for something to say to soothe him, so he won’t make you leave, yet end up going for a more ballsy approach.

No time like the present.

“…I’ve been hoping to run into you again”.

Jeb looks completely taken aback and not in the least less worried.

“You have? W-why?”

Softly kicking off one of your heels, you place your foot on the edge of his chair between his spread legs.

He stares down at it, then back up at your face, baffled.

Oh god, why is that so endearing? He’s so lost.

You lean in a little, ever so subtly squeezing your breasts together.

“Because, Mr. Magruder, you made quite the impression on me when we met”.

Jeb is dumbfounded. Then he remembers how to blink and lets out a short, nervous yelp of a laugh.

“Who…who put you up to this?”

Huh?

He grips the armrests of the chair and tries to sit up straight.

“Dean? If so, I really…I don’t think this is…”

No. You won’t let him get up.

He freezes when you lift your bare foot to place it lightly on his chest, gently pushing him against the backrest.

Money well spent on that perfect pedicure you got only just yesterday.

“Nobody put me up to this. Sir”.

Front teeth worrying over a lower lip. Oh boy, does he like being called that, even as he’s trying his best not to show it.

“I find you…interesting”.

You lean back, kicking off the other heel and moving that foot to where the other one was before – between his legs.

Your thighs now spread in front of him, your mini skirt is reduced to a wide belt, and you can tell it takes Jeb a very conscious effort to keep focusing on your eyes and not up … there.

“But...why? We’ve never…I mean, you don’t know me. I can’t imagine…”

He’s drawing all blanks.

Honestly, your foot is on his chest. Is the man just drunk or dim as well?

Or…oh, no.

Could it be that Jeb Magruder is an actual happily married man?

Stupidly, the thought hadn’t even occurred to you, with all the gossip of his colleagues’ wandering hands filling your head.

You had just decided for yourself that he was shy, as if per definition every man in the building is just a drink away from extramarital shenanigans.

Jesus have you drunk the Kool-Aid of this workplace.

Now you’re the one who considers exiting the scene, but your curiosity - and the feel of his beating heart your bare foot - spurs you on.

“There’s something about you, I suppose. Something…mysterious”.

You tilt your head as you explore his face. That’s it, keep your voice pleasantly sultry.

Don’t mention the incident in the carpark.

“That’s…I’m not… I don’t think you’ll find a lot of people who’ll attest to that”.

Another failed attempt at a laugh on his part, this one ending in a resigned grunt.

“Especially not around here”, he adds quietly and looks to his half-empty glass on the desk.

He knows what people say about him then.

When he reaches for the drink you grab it first, and you hold on to it just for a second as your fingers meet again.

The side of his mouth twitches in what may be a nervous tick.

“Well, I don’t care about what other people say...”

“With all due respect, Miss, you don’t know me.”

“…but I think you may be hiding.”

“What?”

It was mostly a guess on your part, based on his morose demeanor and the fact that he left somewhere fancy to come to his office late in the evening, drunk and sad, but now he looks downright scared.

Almost sober.

“Why…who would I be hiding from?”

So much is happening behind those eyes, confirming that Mr. Jeb Magruder is indeed in some kind of bind.

“Yourself, maybe?” is all you’ve got though.

He stares at you for a long time.

“You don’t know me,” he says again, trying for defiance, but his voice is a lot smaller, and his lips have started to wobble dangerously.

You remove your foot from his chest and place it next to the other on the chair between his legs. You put your drink down. You lean forward and hope for the best and place a hand on either side of his face.

He shudders in a way that tells you he’s not just anxious, he’s most likely starved for physical contact, too. His eyelids even flutter shut for a few seconds.

Not so happily married.

“Then tell me…Jeb. Talk to me. I’ve got time.”

At that something breaks.

His face just crumbles between your hands, tears spilling over his rich, black lower lashes. Too much blue in those eyes to hold it all in.

“I don’t”, is all you make out before his sobs drown out the rest, and you move your feet off the chair so that you, a staunch anti-almost everything Jeb stands for, can pull the very same Jeb, this handsome agent of Republican evil, in for a hug between your legs that he doesn’t resist.

You have no idea if he even deserves it.

But as you weave your fingers through his gorgeous, soft hair, cherishing his scent while his shoulders rise and fall, wild horses couldn’t drag you away.

.

.

.

.

There’s a woman in his office.

Not just any woman.

You.

First thought: Finally.

Second thought: Stop swaying, you idiot.

Third thought: Wait, why are you here?

The one he embarrassed himself in front of in the kitchen.

The one who hadn’t seemed to mind.

Temping, you had said. Very pretty.

No, beautiful.

Not quite the same type as the other girls – sorry, women – in the office.

More…vibrant.

And the way you had looked up at him even after he had made a mess.

Such unabashed curiosity, holding his gaze and flashing a bright, infectious smile.

It had made him feel taller.

Straightaway, he had wanted to impress you, coffee grounds on his shirt and tie be damned.

…And, of course, he had got nothing to say.

It’s not as if he doesn’t know how bad he is at small talk.

Yet often he can’t seem to stop, even when his audience starts to look for a way out.

When their eyes wander past him as they realize he’s not that interesting or someone like Mitchell who dazzles without doing much other than being a lot more important than Jeb.

But your eyes hadn’t left him for a second, and he had drunk in every detail of your face, the way your shapely lips formed a cheeky grin, the way you threw your hair back after bending down to brush coffee off your (very short) skirt and (very nice) legs.

The way he had been able to look down your blouse and felt something most inconvenient stir.

There’s no shortage of affairs being conducted in the building. Few of his colleagues, almost all married, think much of it, whether they indulge in it themselves or not.

Every arrival of a new secretary is met with the obligatory lewd jokes, although Jeb’s not so sure the guys’ brand of ‘charm’ always sits well with the girls at the receiving end of the punchlines (wom- oh, nevermind. He’s old school).

He has never had an affair.

If he’s bad at small talk, he’s even worse at flirting.

And what’s more, he has never wanted to cheat on Gail, knowing he’d be wrecked if she did it to him.

That was, until the last couple of years.

Now he looks.

Yearns, sometimes.

But never as strongly and as instantaneously as he had with you.

Going back to his office, he had shut the door, sat at his desk, and tried not to imagine a scenario much like in those movies in which you hadn’t been interrupted by Mrs. Lautner, in which he was anything but clumsy and where he would have unceremoniously lifted you up to sit on the narrow kitchen counter, spread your thighs wide (in this scenario he wasn’t imagining, you weren’t wearing any underwear), swiftly unbuckled his belt, not even caring that they might get caught.

He had watched you throw back her head and moan lustfully as he gripped your hips with firm, sure hands, and …

Palms moist and fingers shaking, Jeb had had to practically rip open the nearest and what looked to be the dullest memo from accountancy and start reading the numbers with fervent concentration to stop himself from reaching into his pants right then and there.

It had taken several pages, graphs and budget cuts and all, to for his treacherous member to calm down.

He had looked for you every day since, but no luck.

Only a sinking feeling in his stomach whenever he turned into the kitchen and didn’t find you there.

And now you’re here?!

In his office of all places.

Are his eyes still red from crying?

He tries to play it cool.

Tries to be debonaire and laid-back, and yet he can’t shake off the hurt.

Or the drunkenness.

So, he just drinks more when you fill up his glass from the expensive bottle he got for Christmas four years ago, when he was still a professional worth rewarding, sent over from The White House, no less.

His voice sounds small and impolite but, incredibly, you don’t leave.  

Instead, you sit your beautiful, beaming self on his desk, kick off your heeled shoes and tell him you find him “mysterious”.

He wants to laugh, it’s so absurd, and this doesn’t happen to him.

The guys must have called you the minute he left the Mitchell’s.

Asked you to…to…whatever it is you’re doing that will end with him being humiliated beyond belief.

Then again, isn’t he about to fuck them over in a much worse fashion?

Perhaps it’s karma, as the hippies say.

When you call him “sir” and position yourself so he can look straight up your skirt (the real-life version of you is wearing underwear), Jeb decides not to care why or how you’re here.

Breathing in your closeness, he can feel himself growing hard, and he’s even working up the courage to reach for you, trying to figure out where one might put his hands so as not to get it wrong on the first try, when you say something that sets the alarms blaring.

You seem to be hinting at a secret, and this he doesn’t like at all, seeing as no one’s supposed to know of his ‘betrayal’ yet.

If word got out before the feds start knocking on doors, who knows what types may come for him.

He’s suddenly afraid he’ll start crying if you come any closer…

And then you do.

Of course.

Total humiliation, then.

His colleagues, the media, whoever you speak to of this will have a ball when you reveal how you only had to remove your shoes to make Jeb Magruder weep behind his own desk.

Even so, unable to quell his sobs, he lets you hold him, and finds that your arms around him, your fingers in his hair, are preferable to sinking into the floor out of shame.

“It’s okay…it’s okay. You’re okay”, this apparition who has manifested out of nowhere, whispers as stammers apologies, and he desperately wants to believe you if only for tonight.

When, finally, he begins to regain some control, he lifts his eyes to yours and finds no mockery there.

Gentle hands cradle his face, and he swallows hard to keep from blurting out more inane excuses for why he is what is.

Your face is so near as you look down at him, still perched on the desk, your bare legs now smoothly wrapping themselves around his waist as he sits more upright in the chair to allow you room to do anything you want with him.

Thighs squeeze his ribs, and on their own accord, his hands find their way to either side your waist, and then you lean in and kiss him on the mouth.

Jeb Magruder stops breathing.

Your lips are soft and inviting, and he hasn’t been kissed, really kissed in so long he’d forgotten what a real kiss can do.

How it can stop time.

You stay there, tasting his mouth, the tip of your warm tongue playfully trying to pry his own lips apart.

He gives in.

Hungrily kissing you back, he pulls you off the desk and into his lap.

The way you shamelessly grind yourself over his erection makes him groan with need, and his hands clumsily roam your back, your ass under the skirt, pulling you so roughly against him you’re the one to gasp into his mouth.

Oh god, this is really happening.

Not breaking the kiss, you loosen his butterfly and dispense of it over his shoulder, quickly moving on to pry open the top buttons of his shirt.

He lets go of you only to hastily shrug off his jacket, but when he makes to unbutton your blouse, you lean back, leaving his own shirt only halfway open, a wicked, satisfied look on your face.

“You just stay there, sir.”

Untangling your limbs from behind his back, you somehow elegantly slide yourself down to the floor, where you get on your knees between his legs.

“I think I know what’ll make you feel better,” you purr, and Jeb grips the armrests so hard he thinks he may break the wood when you proceed to run your palms up the inside of his thighs, kneading your exploring fingers into him as you go, before reaching his length and massaging your hands over him.

“Oh god, oh god”, seems to be the only thing he can get out, and your smile is so mischievous it makes him dizzy when you unbuckle his belt and zip down his fly.

“Now, Mr. Magruder, can you sit still for me?”

One eyebrow raised, hands hovering over the waistband of his boxers.

“Yes, yes…good god.”

Maybe he’s still crying.

His vision is blurry.

“Or…” You hesitate.

No, no, no, don’t stop!

Biting your lip, you adopt a semi-serious frown.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t? I mean, you’re a married man after all...”

You’re bringing this up now??

“I’m…I…” Jeb splutters, completely lost for words.

You wait.

Are you actually serious?

What do you want him to say??

Is it a test?

Then you rub your palm over his cock, applying more pressure this time, and he closes his eyes and begs.

“Please, please… I’ll do anything! My…my marriage is…”

He squirms helplessly in the chair, trying to say it out loud for the first time, labeling it a fact:

“My marriage is over.”

But you take pity before he gets there.

Without another word, you free his length, both hands closing around the shaft as you look up with a most pleased sigh.

“Oh, yes, sir. Just as I thought.”

You wink, and Jeb doesn’t think he can blush any deeper, but the way you now return your attention to his cock like you want to devour him momentarily abolishes his insecurities, and then your mouth is on him and fuck, fuck, fuck it’s been years.

He resists the urge to grab hold of your hair, and instead digs his nails into the armrests and whines when you start to move your mouth up and down, lightly sucking whenever you reach the top of his cock, tongue tapping against the underside of the leaking head.

“Oh, oh, oh…!”

Your hands are working him in unison with your mouth, and when you reach further down to cup his balls, it’s almost too much. He’s so close, and you’re taking him in so deep he may pass out.

Still, he tries to hold back and oh, no, they forgot about the door!

“I’m gonna…if you continue…the door…”, he pants, not wanting you to stop, but also not wanting to be rude.

Of the few times in his life Jeb has received a proper blowjob (not Gail’s thing), he has certainly never come in anyone’s mouth, and he’s not sure if it’s something that’s even done outside of adult entertainment.  

You remove your lips from him (too soon, too soon!), and lick them while wearing what he finds to be an adorable smirk.

You’re adorable. Amazing. He needs to shut up before he ruins this.

“Afraid we might get caught, sir?”

His cock twitches between your hands.

Ugh, he’s so obvious.

Sure enough, your smile widens.

“You like that, don’t you…sir?”

You squeeze his length.

“God, yes. Yes.”

He’s not exactly in a good position to lie.

“I’ll get the door. You stay.”

He nods obligingly, dazed, and supports your elbow as you get up, as gentlemanly as he can with his reddened cock still out and sweat now running down the sides of his face, and you skip across the office, and close the door.

“Now…”

Walking slowly back to him, you unbutton your blouse and let it fall to the floor.

Your bra follows suit, releasing pert breasts, and Jeb cannot help but gape at you slack jawed.

You shimmy out of your skirt, walk around the desk, and then you’re standing in front him again, wearing nothing but panties and the faint ghost of a perfume that is now Jeb’s favorite scent in the whole world.

Maybe it’s your skin. To him, it glows.

“What should we do with you, Mr. Magruder?” you muse while just out of reach from his touch.

He can’t bear the distance. You may slip away if he doesn’t hold on to you.

This parallel reality you occupy together feels much too fragile.  

“Anything. Anything you want…?”

His voice is a pleading whisper.

You mull this over.

“I could think of a few things, but…”

He holds his breath, afraid to disturb you.

The wicked smile returns.

“I think I’d like to know what you want, Mr. Magruder”.

“Me? I…I don’t...”

“You don’t know what you want?”

You’re teasing him, taking a step back.

He wants to follow, but you told him to stay so he stays, like a good boy.

“I just want…”

I just want you.

You cross your arms over your breasts, concealing the nipples he’s dying to touch, maybe even put his mouth over.

But he can’t find the words to say it.

Doubt seeps in while he struggles, so once again you save him.

“Jeb?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

His eyebrows disappear into his hairline, the side of his mouth twitching.

No. No, she mustn’t think he’s…

“Never.”

“I didn’t get that impression either.”

He doesn’t quite know if he should feel shame for being so inexperienced, or if you’re pleased that he is.

But he dearly hopes it’s the latter.

“Tell me a fantasy.”

“A…a fantasy?”

“Yes. Everybody has fantasies. Even C...R…E…E…P…S.”

You spell it out slowly, putting extra emphasis on each letter.

Another wink.

“I want to know one of yours.”

As if he wasn’t hot already, he feels his cheeks burning scarlet.

Ah. The pièce de résistance of the set-up.

“W-why would you…”

You sigh dramatically and throw your hands up.

Nipples!

“Okay, Mr. Magruder. Here’s the deal.”

You come closer, bend down, and put your palms on his knees so you’re nose to nose.

Your breasts are right there.

“Not only do I think you’re mysterious, I also think you’re very attractive, in case that wasn’t abundantly clear by now.”

Thank god he’s pretty.

You don’t say it outright, but he assumes that’s what’s implied.

For his failure to articulate a single fucking thing of coherent value or catch up to what’s happening around him.

To him.

“You’re going to fuck me on this great big desk of yours, okay? That’s going to happen. In fact, you’re going to ravage me on this desk.”

His jaw hits the floor.

“But!”

Salvaging said jaw, you tilt his face upwards with a finger under his chin.

“First, you’re going to admit to one little fantasy for me. And if you’re lucky, I’ll let you act it out. Right now.”

His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish on land.

“And Mr. Magruder?”

“Yes?” His voice is all croaky.

“You better start talking, or there will be no desk action at all.”

Oh.

They have wired his office.

Again, his cock doesn’t care one bit about his paranoia.

You should just count yourself lucky you haven’t had to pee yet which in itself is a small miracle.

He has fantasies.

One of them is playing out right now.

What he doesn’t usually have is the ability to readily put those fantasies into words in front of a young, sexy stranger stripping down in his office.

…Except when the sexy stranger blackmails him with the word “ravage”.

Oh, how Jeb wants to ravage you with every bit of that impressive medal swimmer stamina he’s got.

But first:

“I, uh…I…”

“Yes…?”

Christ, you fool, just say it.

He closes his eyes. Perhaps that’ll make it easier.

“I want to…I mean, I’d like to…If you don’t mind…”

Another deep sigh, this one close enough for him to feel your warm breath on his trembling lips.

“Okay, okay…I would like to…sp-…spank you?”

You stifle a giggle, and instantly he’s ashamed.

There’s no taking it back now though.

“Are you asking me, or are you telling me?”

He opens his eyes.

“I’m…both?”

“And why do you want to spank me?”

“…uh…”

“…Because I’ve…been bad? Because I have tempted you here at your place of business? Because…I’m a Democrat who thinks you work for the devil?”

Jeb nods vigorously. Yes. Yes, that works.

Wait, what?

“Are you…?”

You straighten up and put your hands on your hips.  

“Really, Jeb?”

He quickly shakes his head. No. It doesn’t matter.

And so, you turn, bend over the desk, and shoot him A LOOK over your shoulder.

“Well then…punish me. Sir.”

.

.

.

.

.

Of course.

Of course, this is what he wants.

This gorgeous, strangely broken, self-doubting President’s man, who should be able to get whoever he wants, but nevertheless acts as if he has spent his adulthood slamming face first into sexual rejection.

Is this what a bad marriage will do?

You’re sure there’s more to it.

Also, he has absolutely gotten himself in way over his head in something that probably, ultimately, makes him an even bigger douchebag to the world than he already is in his position.

However, right now, it only makes your sordid act even spicier.

You’ll repent tomorrow.

And never tell a soul.

Behind you, there’s a rustling of clothes and the chair finally being wheeled aside as Jeb stands up, pants falling to his ankles, and you shiver with excitement when he steps close.

Your toes just barely reach the floor.

Jeb places a large palm on your lower back, tentatively, like he’s trying to figure out how best to proceed now faced with the view of your ass, covered only by the thin fabric of your panties.

He’s hesitating, you can feel it, and you’re just about to say something to egg him on before he loses his nerve and you have to start all over with him, when his other palm comes down on your left ass cheek.

Swift and firm.

You yelp, even though you knew what was coming, and while you can’t see it, you feel his hand stop mid-motion before slapping you again.

“Is it- do you want me to stop?”

He sounds all nervous, much too nervous for this game to be truly fun, so you wiggle your ass, and give him what you hope will do the trick.

“Please, sir, I need it. I need to be punished”. You make your voice as breathless as you can.

“…If you don’t, I’ll have to tell everyone that Jeb Magruder can’t even put a dirty little Democrat in her- ouch!”

This time, his slap is harder. More purposeful.

You’re already wet from when you sucked his cock and elicited those sweet, sweet moans from him, but now your clit is throbbing with desire.

Do all bad girls just want to be spanked by handsome, morally corrupt men in expensive suits?

Absolutely.

Most of the good ones too, if the men in question look like Jeb Magruder.

Even his tears turn you on.

“More…” you pant, hands roaming for something to hold onto to on the desk. A stack of papers goes flying, but Jeb doesn’t seem to care.

Instead, he grunts as he slaps you again, his other palm on your back pushing you down to hold you in place.

It takes your breath away, the force he’s suddenly applying, and now you’re the one moaning helplessly as he continues to spank you, making the flesh on your ass quiver perversely under his hand.

Soon, he even starts mumbling things under his breath, and there’s no mistaking just how into this he is.

“You like this, huh? You like me punishing you?”

There may be question marks at the ends, sure, but they’re nothing like the ones that spilled desperately from his lips with every word just moments before.

“Yes…yes, sir, please”, you gasp, and you can feel the muscles of the hand holding you down tense at the “sir”.

He needs to be in control.

Craves it.

Halting his slaps, you feel his fingers between your legs, and when he runs them over your sex, feeling the soaked fabric, he actually growls with a mix of lust and disbelief.

“You’re so wet…God, how are you so wet?”

It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to you as much as to himself, but then he catches you by total surprise when he leans forward over the desk, grabs a fistful of your hair, and pulls your head back.

He doesn’t pull hard, not at all, but the move still stands in Mr. Hyde’esque contrast to the man who could scarcely utter the word “spank”.

Equally so, his voice is uncharacteristically deep and husky when he asks you if you’re sure you really want more, and the shivers running through your body make you writhe under him.

“You want me to give you what you deserve for coming here, to my office, and exposing yourself to me like some…some…”

That he cannot say.

It doesn’t matter.

“Yes, yes please”, you practically mewl.

He lets go of your hair, and you imagine the gush of air as he lifts his hand over your ass once more, and….

And the door to the office swings wide open.

.

.

.

.

.

“Jeb, you in here? We need to-“

John Dean, wearing his best suit and an urgent frown, stops dead in the doorway.

For a few excruciating seconds the silence is deafening, and you wish you could see the expression on Jeb’s face behind you.

No doubt you look like a deer in the headlights yourself.

A deer wearing only panties, bend over a desk while one of The White House’s former top dogs has you pinned down, cock still out, shirt and hair wildly disheveled.

“Jeb, we, uh…we need to…can you…the President…uh…”

Dean’s voice trails off like there’s just not enough oxygen in his brain to remember why he’s even here.

He’s looking at you, transfixed as if he was staring at a solar eclipse.

Permanent damage to the cornea in 3, 2 …

“Dean…”

Jeb’s long, spread fingers on your back are perfectly still. You sense he may be pointing at the door with his other hand.

“Get out.”

Of everything that has happened within the last hour or so, the determination with which Jeb delivers those two words is by far the most surprising of all.

“Now.”

Dean finally looks up from your exposed body to his colleague, and you can tell he’s just as stunned.

“But…no…Jeb, we have to go. You- you must come. There’s been an, uh, incident…”

“Get. Out.”

You could break ice taps off the “out”.

Dean starts shaking his head, trying to collect himself.

“No, it’s the President, Jeb. Mitchell told me to come get you. There’s an…”

His eyes briefly flicker back to you, remembering the third set of ears in the room.

“Uh, we’re having a meeting.”

He tries to give Jeb a comically knowing look that ends in a frightened grimace.

“You’re going to shut that door now, Dean, or I’m coming over to do it for you.”

Jeb’s not wavering, nor is he apologizing, and fuck isn’t that the sexiest thing in the world.

It takes guts to pull that off with his pants around his ankles, but it’s working.

“For God’s sake man, you can’t…you can’t say no to Dick!” Dean hisses, sounding slightly hysterical now.

“OUT!”

Choosing not to wait to find out if Jeb will make good on his threat to come over, Dean slams the door.

Footsteps disappear down the hall. It sounds like he’s running.

You breathe a sigh of relief, but before you can say anything – like, “Wow, Jeb, where did that come from?” – the man behind you grabs your waist and turns your body over, pulling you up so you’re once again sitting on the edge.

Damn, he’s strong.

His mouth crashes onto yours while his hands find your (fairly sore) ass to pull you close, and the underside of his cock presses against your pelvis, the head leaking onto your stomach.

There’s no fumbling now.

No asking for permission.

He seems possessed, almost.

You throw you head back, and he uses the opportunity to finally lavish attention on your breasts, one hand grabbing the left, squeezing, while he dips his head to the right, lips closing around your nipple, tongue lapping at the bud.

These are not the moves of a practiced lover, but what he lacks in technique, he sure as hell makes up for in eagerness.

You have never felt wanted like this before, worshipped, and you’re ready to give him absolutely everything.

Working the last buttons of his thoroughly crumbled, damp, shirt open, you push it off his shoulders and run your hands over his smooth, sculpted chest while he shakes off the garment the rest of the way, simultaneously kicking off his pants and polished shoes and nearly falling over as he attempts to plant kisses all over your breasts at the same time.

“Careful, sir”, you grin, and he gives you a goofy smile, a bit of the ‘old’ Jeb coming back, before blind thirst takes over again, and you lie back and lift your pelvis off the desk so he can rip off your panties.

He steps between your legs and pushes them wide apart, staring down at your pussy like’s he lost to the world. Carefully, he runs a finger along your entrance, and his whole body seems to quiver at the feel of the velvety slickness.

“So wet… you’re so wet for me…” he repeats, but this time it sounds less disbelieving and a lot more triumphant.

You want his fingers everywhere.

On you, inside you, exploring and penetrating every crevasse of you, but it’ll have to wait (a silent wish – there will be another time).

“Fuck me, Jeb, just fuck me.” You’re so out of air and he hasn’t even entered you yet.

He removes his fingers from your sex and places a hand on the desk next your body, leans over you and pumps the shaft of his cock with his other hand.

His hair is such a mess, and his eyes are a whole new shade of deep, dark sea. A drop of sweat lands on your cheek.

“Say that again.”

“Fuck me, si-“

All thought and reason leave your brain when Jeb guides his cock to your entrance and slowly pushes into you, stretching you, and although you’re so, so wet he feels big.

He was just in your mouth. You know the size of him.

But this is different.

Your walls instinctively clamp around him, making the space even tighter, and he closes his eyes and groans with such undiluted pleasure, emotion swells in you.

He hasn’t done this in a long, long time.

After a few seconds of accommodating to the sensations (and to keep from cutting the experience short, judging by how his cock pulses inside you), Jeb grabs your hips and straightens up as he pushes further into you, inch by inch, filling you up until he’s completely sheathed in your heat.

“God, you feel so good…so good…”

His chest is glistening, and the muscles of his biceps flexing from not giving in to instinct and taking you too hard, too soon.

…But that polite resolve goes out the window real fast when you tell him in throaty gasps how big he is, how you’ve never had anyone fill you up so perfectly.

How you’ve wanted him, him, from the moment you first saw him.

Teeth clenched and eyes wild, he pulls halfway out only to quickly thrust into you so hard, the heavy furniture creaks loudly under you, and you cry out and stretch your arms over your head to reach for the opposite edge of the desk to hold on to.

Jeb doesn’t let up, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you with each deep, frantic thrust as he grunts from leaning into all the strength he’s got.

And oh, fuck, the endurance of this man, despite the alcohol coursing through his blood.

.

.

.

.

.

He no longer feels drunk.

Not one bit.

He’s high on your naked body as he towers over you, on how tight your pussy feels around him even as the wet slabs grow louder with every thrust.

High on how you have so willingly submitted to him.

How he sent Dean running, tail between his legs, the little shit.

Him!

Jeb Magruder.

The “not a very intelligent man” who broke the law to fit in with the big boys, whose touch leaves his soon-to-be ex-wife cold, and…

To hell with it all.

Looking down at how his cock now penetrates you over and over and listening to your moans and cries as he thrusts harder, faster, the way his hips snap against your body, he feels delirious.

Unhinged.

Maybe he has finally gone mad from the stress.

Your cheeks are flushed, mouth open and eyes hooded with desire for him, and maybe the other Jeb, timid everyday Jeb, shouldn’t enjoy it so much when your features twist with a blend of pleasure and discomfort as he slams deep into you with increasing brutality, but oh god, this version of him sure does.

You deserve to be fucked this way.

You were begging for him to put you in your place, and dammit he’s going to do it.

A young, too brazen for her own good Democrat.

When your gasps become quicker, more shallow, your body thrashing on the desk as your thighs crush his midriff, Jeb decides to take another bold step, removing a hand from your hip and licking his thumb so he can use it to lightly circle what he hopes is the right spot for you.

And, oh, the thrills when you moan for him to not stop, please don’t stop, all the while his cock is still pumping in and out of you.

He’s pushing you towards your climax, he knows it, and he’s right at the edge himself, but he won’t let go before you do.

He wants to take with him the memory of how he pleased you, this girl who shouldn’t want anything to do with him, and when you finally cry out his name as your pussy constricts around him and you arch your back in ecstasy – yes, ecstasy - this becomes one of the best nights in a full decade.

Pleasure washes over him and through him, setting on fire every fiber of him when he buries himself in you one final time, spilling his seed deep inside you, the shudders making him crouch over to support himself on the desk.

His groin is still pressed against you, gluing you to him, when you reach for his face, fingers snaking around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss that he gladly reciprocates, wanting to extend the moment forever and leaning over the desk to rest his elbows on either side of you.

You kiss him until both of you gasp for air, and Jeb Magruder feels his heart skip a beat when you smile blissfully up at him.

You attempt to smooth the unruliest of locks out of his face (to no avail), and he sighs and closes his eyes at the intimate tenderness that threatens to break open the dams.

It’s only when you collect a tear from his jawbone with your lips that he realizes he’s already crying.

.

.

.

.

.

Afterwards, after Jeb Magruder has given you one of the best orgasms of your entire life (and you’re not exactly a nun, truth be told), he roams around in his drawers for a tissue and ends up handing you a dainty, lace thing with embroidered initials.

“Jeb, is this…?”

“Um…yes.”

“Fine.”

With Mrs. Magruder’s handkerchief you wipe away Mr. Magruder’s cum that’s leaking out of your pussy.

Then you sit on the carpet in the middle of his office, him in boxers, you in panties and his white shirt, and you drink some more of his scotch while he smokes and talks.

And talks, and talks, and talks.

It all comes tumbling out, the whole sorry tale of his and his colleagues’ misdeeds, of how they concocted ‘a mission’ so incredibly stupid that it’s most likely going to land them all in jail.

Of how he knew it was wrong, how it made him sick in the end, and yet he didn’t stand his ground, not once.

He talks of feeling like a fraud even before also becoming a criminal for a cause that doesn’t make much sense.

Correction: That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“But…the polls are already in his favor. Everybody says he’ll get reelected. So…why??” you ask, and Jeb nods miserably, then shakes his head, and you just know that the media will relish tearing him apart in front of the entire country.

There’s no avoiding it, even if his “sweetheart deal” does land him a slightly reduced sentence.

He’ll be a national disgrace.

And damn if you don’t feel sorry for him, as if he has fucked all logic out of you.

(“Now, that’s how they get you”, you can hear Katie say.)

You, for one, will not particularly enjoy seeing him trying to keep it together, and hear him stutter and stammer in the spotlight when the house of cards crumbles.

“Jeb?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t lie when it starts. Tell the whole truth.”

He grimaces.

“Mitchell won’t appreciate-”

“Fuck Mitchell. You’ve already taken the deal. Don’t get yourself into more trouble by muddying the truth.”

He nods and looks down, and you wish he wouldn’t completely abandon the assertive side of him so easily.

That Jeb might make it out on the other side with strength left to turn his life around.

“I’m…I’m not a monster.” He says, looking up at you again, lashes sparkly with fresh tears.

Sweet lord, he’s the most irresistible crying man you’ve ever seen.

“I’m not making excuses, I’m not, but…I wasn’t always like this.”

He gestures to himself, and your better judgement rolls her eyes at your aching heart.

“I’ll take what’s coming, and I…”

You reach over and take his hand.

“I believe you.”

You’ve made a career helping men in power do so much bad to this country, is what the ‘old’ you should be saying.

But it won’t do any good.

He knows. None of you can change the past.

Instead, you scoot over to him and straddle his lap, and kiss and nibble at his neck till he sighs again, and his hands slide under the shirt.

“Come home with me,” you whisper in his ear, and he pulls his head back to look at you.

“Now?”

“Yes. Just until the morning. Then I’ll let you escape back to the suburbs after breakfast… and morning sex.”

If “the suburbs” made him briefly wince, “morning sex” has the opposite effect.

“I’m not sure I should drive, to be perfectly honest.”

“I’ll drive.”

“Oh?”

“I borrowed my friend’s car today. It’s not exactly an Oldsmobile like you’re used to, though, it’s more just…old. Very old. Too old, probably. But it can still drive!”

Jeb laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound.

“That doesn’t sound all too comforting.”

He kisses you, large hands cubbing your ass that he has thoroughly marked.

“I take safety very seriously.”

You snort.

“That’s a tall order, Mr. Magruder.”

He has regained enough spirit to reply with another one of those infuriatingly cute goofy looks of his.  

You stand up, but not before he holds on to you just long enough to slip his tongue into your mouth once more before you break away.

He’s very into kissing.

You see potential.

“Come on, then.”

He gets up too.

You both get dressed.

You leave his office and get in Katie’s car (Jeb tries not to look too worried at the state of the thing, or the lack of a seatbelt on the passenger side), and you drive back to your closet studio and push him into your bed and tell him it’s time to live out one of your fantasies now.

“Okay.”

He will truly do anything you tell him.

And, oh fuck, is he a fast learner…

.

.

.

.

.

It’s been one much satired televised hearing, one unsurprising sentencing and seven months of jail time in Allenwood, Pennsylvania, when Jeb Magruder emerges into the sun wearing the same pinstripe suit, he had on when he arrived.

Dean has already been out for months, having ultimately made a much better bargain than Jeb, of course, whereas Mitchell’s trial has only just begun.

And the President?

He still sleeps in his own bed.

For now.

Jeb has been asked by the same President’s office to participate in a press conference to ensure the public that he has learned his lesson, and that he has had time to “reflect” on how he failed the administration with his “misjudgments” and “poor understanding” of the law.

The White House was fuming at his disloyalty during the hearing. Now they want him to bow and scrape and beg for forgiveness.

“Perhaps Mrs. Magruder could join you?” the press secretary had asked him over the phone a few days before his release, and he had wanted to hang up.

But he still has manners.

He declined to do any interviews. No press conferences.

For the second time, he has said no to Dick.

It felt even better than the first time.

He’s out.

Just like Gail is out of their old house, having moved to a new home closer to her parents while he was serving his time.

They’re on speaking terms, and he will see the kids as often as possible.

He wished he could have spared her the embarrassment of still being married to him when it all went down, but she weathered the storm with admirable calm.

Gail’s not one to wallow in self-pity (unlike other people used to…), and not for the first time he thinks that she probably knew a lot more than she let on.

He’s ever grateful for her not cutting all ties with him, as he imagines many an ex-wife would have been tempted to.

He squints against the light and takes a deep breath of freedom.

“Hey, McQueen Eyes.”

In the middle of the near empty carpark outside the prison, a young, brazen Democrat is perched on the bonnet of a banged-up, anything but safe old car.

“Hey.”

He tries to play it nonchalant, but the grin stretching from ear-to-ear will not be contained.

“You need a ride…sir?”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

“I don’t carry Republicans, just so you know.”

“Ah, I see.”

A beat.

“How about undecided voters then?”

“Hmm. We can work on that.”

“Good.”

“Where to?”

Anywhere you want.

.

.

.

Thank you for reading!

You can find all my other Hamish Linklater character fics here:

Masterlist

Tagging @agirlinherhead @aherdofbees @pegplunkett @supplanther @littleredwritingcat @girlwiththenegantattoo

[write-r-die]

By Tomorrow - Part 8

Masterlist

A/N: Did not proofread, just wanted to get this up b/c I’m in a slump and it makes me feel better to post

Sybil felt like a new woman when she descended the stairs the next morning, freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes that she borrowed from Catherine.

Sybil didn’t care for them overmuch – the Cavill plaid was made of lovely, bright jewel-toned colors, but everyone wore the same thing, which made it considerably less exciting. No matter. All she needed was needle and thread and she’d remedy the sartorial monotony in no time at all. And perhaps teach these women proper embroidery – surely they would have altered their clothes if they knew how.

Henry waited at the bottom of the stairs while his kinsmen pretended to eat. He didn’t offer Sybil his arm as she approached but she took it anyway. 

On the journey here, Henry and the others wore the clan’s hunting plaid, composed of muted tones, rather than the colorful formal tartan. But today Henry was all done up in purple and green. Such bright colors didn’t seem to suit him.

Arran waited with his hands clasped behind his back. Patrick and their sons stood further off.

“Laird,” she said with a smile, dropping into a curtsey. 

“There’s no need for that,” Arran said, guiding her back to her full height. “Welcome.”

Catherine appeared at her side. “She’s English, uncle,” she said. “Failing to curtsey is the equivalent of spitting in one’s face.”

“Catherine!” Sybil chided. “There’s no need to be vulgar.” She turned back to Arran. “She is right, though. I would hate to offend you in any way, especially after failing to greet you properly yesterday. I am terribly sorry about that, by the way, but Henry is terribly pushy and I was quite tired. Though I’m sure you know how bossy your nephew can be, since he is, after all, your nephew. . .”

Everyone’s eyebrows seemed to rise in unison as Sybil spoke. They looked at Catherine and Henry in amusement or disbelief or a combination of the two. 

Patrick outright laughed when he saw the look on Henry’s face.  

Sybil fell silent, cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Of course they would laugh at her – didn’t everyone always tell her how annoying and odd she was? She wanted to melt into the floor.

Catherine and Henry both shot death glares at Patrick. It was hard to tell which cousin was angrier at his rudeness. Even Arran turned to frown at his brother. But that was just Patrick’s way.

“Forgive me, niece,” Patrick said, still chuckling. “It was the look on Henry’s face that amused me.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Sybil made an effort to speak less while they eat their breakfast but she was too curious and excited for it to make much of a difference. She wanted to ask a thousand questions of each of her new family members.

Catherine, God bless her, knew this and steered the conversation to fit her friend’s desire without Sybil having to speak too much. 

Patrick really hadn’t meant anything by laughing – Sybil was already mostly recovered from the incident; everyone else at the table had already forgotten it – but Henry was still furious. It was his job to make sure Sybil was comfortable and happy in her new home. So far Patrick wasn’t helping.

Henry was distracted from his anger by a tug at his shirtsleeve. Finn stood at his elbow. Henry relaxed immediately. “There you are,” he said. “Are you pleased to have Catherine back?”

Finn nodded. “New horse,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of the stables.

“Yes, he was a present from the MacPherson’s brother,” Henry replied.

“MacPherson gave you a horse?” Hamish piped in.

“We were traveling on foot,” Sybil explained. “The first horse abandoned us after we fell down the slope. He said it was a wedding present. Henry neglected to thank him,” she added.

She expected his family to react to his rudeness somehow, but they didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t hear her right? She looked to Catherine, who rolled her eyes and shrugged. This was just one of his peculiarities to them.

They finished eating. Sybil offered to help the two serving girls carry everyone’s dirty dishes back to the kitchen. One of them thanked her and insisted that Sybil not trouble herself. The other girl ignored Sybil entirely.

“Don’t be upset,” Catherine said to her friend. “She’s only sour because she fancies herself in love with Henry.”

Sybil deflated. “Oh.”

“He never liked her,” Catherine assured her. “She can’t hold a candle to you anyway.”

The breakfast party disbursed. Sybil stood by the foot of the stairs as she pulled on a pair of borrowed boots and wrapped a spare plaid around her shoulders as a shawl so she would be comfortable as Catherine showed her around.

Henry appeared at her side.

“Catherine’s chosen a cottage she thinks will suit,” he said. “She’s done something or other to it, but it’s yours now. Make it however you like.”

“Henry,” she said softly, putting a hand on his arm to catch his attention. “I’ll be glad to go back to our cottage with you, but I don’t think it will work for the two of us to go to bed together at this point – both for practical and religious reasons, as I’m sure you understand. The Church says –”

Henry’s nostrils flared. “You’re speaking in tongues.”

“It’s only for a few days.”

“A few days?” he repeated.

“Usually six.”

“Usually?”

“Yes, that’s generally how long it lasts.”

His patience was at an end. “How long what lasts?”

“My courses.” Henry kept looking at her. “My monthly courses.” 

It took a long moment for Henry to work out her meaning. He half-growled, half-grunted, and walked away without another word. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was embarrassed. 

They’d begun just this morning, not a moment too soon. she didn’t know what she would have done if they came while she was traveling.

Henry reappeared a few minutes later when Catherine announced her intention to show Sybil around the village. He took her arm and pulled her aside; only Arran took note of iy.

“Are you lying to me about having your courses now?” Henry murmured.

“Why would you think that? You think I wanted to tell you?” she asked, tone dripping with revulsion. “Of course not! It’s private. And you’re a man. Men aren’t supposed to know such intimate –”

“Husbands should,” Henry interrupted.

She disagreed, “Well, you know already so I don’t have to tell you again. Why are we discussing this?”

“I wondered if you were lying,” he said casually. “It’s a fine excuse.”

“Excuse for what?”

Henry sighed. “I know you’re worried about the bedding,” he said, “but you have no reason to be.” She began to speak but he silenced her by holding up his massive hand. “We can wait until you’re more comfortable with me to consummate our marriage. But I won’t wait forever.”

“That’s . . . very reasonable,” Sybil said after a moment. “Thank you.”

He grunted again – more of a frustrated growl this time – and walked away.

That’s very reasonable. Had she expected him not to be?

***

Catherine spent the rest of the morning leading Sybil from place to place and introducing her to everyone they passed. Finn flitted in and out of their company like a woodland fairy. 

Catherine explained early on that her little brother had free reign within the clan, able to come and go as he pleased. But wherever he went, he seemed welcome. 

He had difficulty focusing or staying still for very long; he and Sybil had that in common.

The children stared at her and whispered to one another as she and Catherine ambled down the hillside where the bulk of the cottages were laid out. 

The boys’ parents told them the English had horns and cloven hooves; the girls were intrigued by her relative exoticism and the fact that she’d snapped Henry up as her husband at first sight. They were in love with him, of course, the way all little girls are in love with all older boys who are handsome and sweet.

Sybil greeted everyone in broken Gaelic, but her horrendous accent quickly exposed her as a foreigner. Not that everyone didn’t know already. Henry’s unexpected marriage to an Englishwoman was a hot topic of conversation ever since Catherine and the others returned and explained what happened on their journey.

It was so sensational, in fact, that hardly anyone paid attention when Cameron Maclean, the laird’s second and most decent son, sent his condolences to Catherine in a note wrapped with a lovely purple hair ribbon.

Patrick and Arran were a bit leery of the offering – Cameron, like all living men (including his brothers) – fancied Catherine. But it was a polite, innocuous gesture. He actively sought to smooth relations between the Cavills and Macleans, though everyone knew it was a futile effort.

They made the wise decision not to share the news of this gift with anyone else. Henry was liable to throw a table if he found out. 

Catherine intended to tell Sybil eventually, but now was not the time. She had too much on her mind as it was.

“Sybil here is my very best friend,” Catherine said congenially to one particularly displeased old Cavill woman. She looped her arm through Sybil’s in a subtle show of solidarity. “We are blessed that my cousin chose to take her as his wife. Don’t you agree?”

The woman relented, politely inclining her head at Sybil, before stalking off.

“I appreciate your loyalty, but you don’t need to threaten old ladies on my behalf,” Sybil said. “I’m English. Your countrymen naturally dislike me.”

“I didn’t threaten her. And hating you for no reason other than your heritage is ridiculous.” Sybil was surprised by the passion in Catherine’s voice. “I would have been a Scottish pariah in England were it not for you. I intend to return the favor.”

“You were not a pariah.”

“The women all hated me at first,” Catherine countered.

The men, however, were too busy worshipping at her feet to have a care for her nationality. It made Sybil furious sometimes. Catherine was married yet drowning in male attention; Sybil was as forgettable as she was single. But it wasn’t Catherine’s fault.

“And before you say it, I don’t consider any of those Englishmen to be friends,” Catherine said as if she heard her friend’s thoughts.

Sybil cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I dare say they were very friendly with you.”

Catherine rolled her eyes and then grinned. “Come. Let me show you your cottage. I’ve had it all made up for you.”

Sybil looked out at the vast body of water at the very foot of the hill. “Can’t we stop and see the lake first?”

“Loch,” Catherine corrected. “And no.”

The cottage should have been underwhelming to a noblewoman such as Sybil – she was accustomed to luxury – but she found it charming. It was one large room with a dirt floor. The furniture was sparse to say the least: a bed, two wooden chests, a table, and a handful of stools. The bed was piled with quilts, pelts, plaids, and pillows. It looked almost as luxurious as Sybil’s bed at home. 

She was so overwhelmed by her friend’s kindness that she started crying. She covered her face with her hands. “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled. “This must have taken a long time. It’s lovely.”

Catherine chuckled “You’re welcome. Oh, don’t cry.”

“You know I can’t help myself,” Sybil said. “Leave me be.” She kept talking but her voice was too muffled for Catherine to understand. She finally wiped her cheeks, cleared her throat, and straightened up. “It really is wonderful, Catherine.” She sniffled one last time before her thoughts, as always, turned to other matters.

“I will need at least two more chests, though, for my gowns.” She walked the perimeter of the cottage, poking at just about everything she passed by. “And before you say it, yes, I know I won’t be wearing gowns here but I do like them. I’ll find a way to make them work. Maybe if I separate the tops from the skirts? In any case, I shall find a use for them. And I’ve got to make Henry new clothes now, too. Have you seen the state of his shirts?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have a tough time trying to civilize the fellow.”

“He will have a tough time trying to remain uncivilized, you mean,” Sybil corrected.

A male voice came from the doorway. “Who’s uncivilized?”

Sybil turned to see the man step into the cottage and away from the door.

It was her husband, but it wasn’t. The man before her had only stubble dusted along his cheeks and jaw, was missing at least two inches of curls, and looked some ten years younger. But there was no mistaking it. This was Henry.

“What have you done to your beard?” Sybil asked once she was composed enough to speak. Catherine slipped out of the cottage and her cousin quietly shut the door behind her. 

“Trimmed it,” Henry said flatly.

Sybil shut her eyes to keep from rolling them. “Yes, but why?” Would she really have to drag every word from this man for the rest of their lives? Each attempt at conversation was like pulling teeth.

“You said I was too furry.”

Sybil was so surprised she actually stepped back. “I beg your pardon? I said no such thing.”

“Aye, you did,” he countered, doing his best to bury the smirk attempting to crawl onto his face. “On the road.”

“Henry, women in England are raised with etiquette. We do not say such things to our husbands, especially when we’ve only known them for a few days. Perhaps Scottish women do, but we in England are far more civilized. Furthermore, I have no recollection of ever -”

“That night in the cave after the storm. You were asleep,” he said, the slightest smile playing over his full lips. Lord, she was long winded. One of these days he would have to measure how long she could go on for without stopping for air.

Sybil’s blood drained from her face. She looked absolutely horrified. 

“Did it upset you that I said that? I do apologize. That’s a terrible thing for anyone to say, especially a wife. It’s certainly not my intention to make you self-conscious, and I was asleep so I can’t be held entirely responsible for whatever I may –”

Henry grinned, flashing his immaculate teeth. “No, you did not upset me.”

The smile threw her a bit off-balance. “Then why did you change your beard?”

To please her, of course. 

Sybil realized that as she spoke. Henry was large and quiet and cryptic, but he wanted to please his wife. 

Under normal circumstances, she would’ve wept at that kindness – she wept at everything, especially now when she had her blood – but she managed to restrain herself.

She was hesitant at first as she rocked up on the balls of her feet and reached to brush her hand over his short whiskers. He didn’t tense or flinch, but he followed her with his eyes like he was worried she’d pounce. “You look much younger than before,” she said.

“Did I look very old?”

“Older than you are, certainly, but not old. Not exactly. I couldn’t see your face properly under all that hair. And you’re always frowning.”

He began to scowl at that but caught himself and neutralized his expression before she could say anything.

“You should have let me do it for you,” she continued, brushing her fingers through his hair. It was uneven, but his curls made it hardly noticeable. It was surprisingly soft.

Her touch felt divine. Henry couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. He didn’t understand why it mattered so much.

Sybil wanted to thank him, but like two nights ago when she simply leaned against him, she wanted to do it without words.

She impulsively put her voluptuous lips against his. It was the best way to let him know that she appreciated his actions and what they represented, she decided.

When she pulled away he looked curious and cautious and amused. She looked confused by her own actions. Her eyes didn’t meet his, instead resting on his plush lips. They were surprisingly soft, like his hair.

Henry slowly leaned forward, lowering his head until they were face to face. He stopped just before their lips met and waited, knowing he might drive Sybil away if he was too aggressive. But the moment she closed the distance between them, he became ravenous. 

This was very different from when he kissed her at their wedding. 

She suspected she felt his tongue then; she knew she felt it now. Not poking or prodding like she imagined it might be, but all soft and warm and lingering. She started to relax against him, leaning into him, and his hands – which were previously folded behind his back – came forward, his arms encircling her waist.

Henry was doing his best to be careful, taking all his cues from the way she responded to him. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off. But there was no danger of that. Sybil was enjoying this just as much as he was. Too much.

Henry’s heart sank when she put her hands on his chest and pushed herself away from him. He loosened his grip on her but didn’t let go.

“Wait,” she gasped.

He grunted questioningly. He sounded concerned. If that was possible. Could someone grunt in a concerned fashion? 

Sybil still couldn’t meet his eye. They’d have to work on that, Henry decided. 

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. “It’s just – we ought to stop now since we cannot . . . because of my courses . . . and it can cause men pain when they can’t be fulfilled – you know – if they don’t complete – and I do not want to cause you injury –”

Henry arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“I said – I – you know what I said, Henry. Please don’t make me say it again.” She was already flushed with embarrassment – and from something else, something Henry had stirred inside her, but that she was reluctant to name.

“Where did you hear that?” he was clearly suspicious. “Who would say that in front of you?”

Her father’s friend told her so when she asked him to stop. She didn’t want him to be in pain, did she? She didn’t want to damage his health or injure him, did she? Of course not. So she mustn’t ask again. She must be quiet and let him – 

“I must’ve overheard the servants talking,” she rushed out. 

He grunted. He shouldn't be surprised she heard that – it was probably a common excuse among Englishmen when their wives were unwilling – but he didn’t like that she heard it.

“That’s not true,” Henry said. “It’s unpleasant not to finish once you’ve started, but it doesn’t cause any harm.” It was downright painful actually, but it didn’t cause any harm. He decided to keep the painful bit to himself.

Sybil stared down at her hands, probably too embarrassed about it all to meet Henry’s gaze.

He ducked his head low to catch her eyes. His voice was all gentle and soft. “Any time you want me to stop, I’ll stop. Whether or not you have your courses.”

She looked up, surprise clear in her warm brown eyes. “You will?”

“Yes.”

“Always?”

“Yes.”

So not only would he wait to bed her, but he would also stop dead in his tracks if she asked him to when the time finally came? That didn’t make a bit of sense. 

She told him so, and her heart sank at the look he gave her. 

[antiquatedplumbobs]

~an excerpt from Violet Sewell's private journal~

Winter 1913

It is fortunate for the increased frequency of train travel between Brindleton and Britechester, or I do not think we would have seen Freddy for his birthday this year! He had only enough time to visit for a short luncheon; coming in on the morning train and leaving on the evening. He is so busy with his university that he insisted he must get back rather than spend the night here.

Despite his short stay, I went all out for the luncheon. I baked a decadently fudgy chocolate cake (his favorite!) and we had smoked salmon sandwiches and potato leek soup. It all felt very elevated to me. He seemed to enjoy himself grandly, and had three slices of cake! The rest of the children limited themselves to only one, in Charlie's case due to my edict rather than choice.

It's hard to believe that he is already eighteen! I'm not sure why, but in some ways Freddy has felt the most like my baby; perhaps because he was so fussy as a baby and required more attention than any of the other children have. As he's grown, that's changed, but I still remember those early days. Even if I only see him occasionally now, I want him to know how much I love him.

"He seems to be enjoying himself immensely at university, having graduated from Britechester Academy last spring. He's full of stories of his lab work and classes — only for disciplines of his own choosing (a thing he's just over the moon about) — though, I must admit, their appeal goes right over my head! Chemicals seem like such a nasty, dangerous business, but I suppose if that’s what makes him happy, I am glad he’s had the fortune to be able to study it."

He really does look like a proper man now, outfitted in his good wool suit and modern city man's hat and with his leather attaché that Hamish gave him for Christmas. He looks every bit the young university student, which I must say looks a bit out of place on a dairy farm. He's been leaving us slowly for a while, but this time as he left for the train station, it felt a bit more permanent. He hasn't lived here for any amount of time in over a year. He spent the last summer working for the Foxbury Electric Co., and informed us he will be doing the same this summer. I knew he would leave, but it's still hard to watch it happen. I just hope he'll remember to take the train to see his mother occasionally.

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

next / previous / first

huge thank you to @tianasimstreehouse for the delightful sandwiches and soup, perfect for a birthday luncheon!!!

[derailedfiction]

Run boy, run | Merlin | Kingsman

Chapter 2: A dog's life

Pairings: Merlin x Cecilia (OFC) | Merlin & Roxy & Eggsy| Roxy & Gary “Eggsy” Unwin | Percival & Roxy | Percival & Gary “Eggsy” Unwin | tbs whatever you can think about probably will be there Word count: 5492 Warnings: violence, swearing

Summary:  It had been nearly a month since the Valentine’s Day and during it, he couldn’t recall any free moments. Because Arthur was dead, the issue of having a new leader was an especially urgent matter and until the new leader was found, he must have had everything under control, even the process of choosing a new Arthur. It could last for a few months just because other Kingsman’s cells had to have started their recruitment for fallen agents only then the final recruitment could be made.

A/N: I wrote it in 2015 pls have mercy on me. Also pls forgive me if there's somewhere Max instead of Hamish, I tried to change all of it.

He opened his eyes with hesitation. The few moments of precious sleep had just gone away and once more, he needed to face the reality, which was really gloomy. It had been nearly a month since the Valentine’s day and during it he couldn’t recall any free moments. Because Arthur was dead, the issue of having a new leader was an especially urgent matter and until the new leader was found, he must have had everything under control, even the process of choosing a new Arthur. It could last for few months just because other Kingsman’s cells had to have started their recruitment for fallen agents, only then the final recruitment could be made. All this time he hoped that the superior unit was most important and finding new leader for it should be top one priority, but unfortunately that dream was only realistic in Hamish’s dreams. He stretched his muscles cautiously so he wouldn’t wake up Cecilia, to whom he moved closer as soon as he finished stretching. With sleepy smile he thought about his luck, that he met the right woman at just right time and she had prevented ending one of his missions in rather tragic way. He could lay all day long looking at her and admiring her perfection but as he thought about all his responsibilities, he felt weary.

All this time Hamish remained silent to listen to her calm breath and peaceful dreams.

“You’re truly an adorable creature,” he whispered and kissed her arm.

“Mish, what’s the time?” she turned around to him and stroked his cheek. “Do you have much to do today?” As an answer, she received a tired sight and dismal moan. “It can’t be that bad, can it? Is it?” she asked as he rolled eyes.

Hamish left one more kiss on her collarbone and sat up.

“I’d let somebody cut me for one peaceful day…"he sighed as he took the glasses from bedside table.

Cecilia moved to him and hugged his waist. "Don’t be so drastic… That would be a shame if somebody cut you, Mish,” she murmured into his ear causing a pleasant shiver.

“Are you visiting your father today?”

“Yes. He’ll send car for me and Alex…” She said with very unhappy face.

She got up and stretched after her sleep. He was observing her over an arm. The view was quite absorbing as the t-shirt she was sleeping in was too short and when she rose her hands up it showed her haunches. Hamish smiled to himself until he realised that glasses were recording everything and he quickly moved head back. As soon as he got to the headquarters, he needed to delete this video before it was sent further.

“Prepare yourself to work, put on some nice suit and in the meantime I’ll make your favourite coffee. What do you say on that?” she asked while entering the wardrobe just to go out in blue dressing gown.

“You’re an angel, Cissy,” she gave him one of her brightest smiles. “How’s your arm?”

“Not that bad actually. After a month of rehabilitation, it’s quite good but sometimes it hurts like a hell. Good thing I got some free time from work.”

“Are you doing it on purpose?” Hamish asked with slight annoyance and jealousy. As an answer, she shrugged her arms with boorish smile.

“I don’t know my dearest. Am I?” She gave him a mischievous look as she left the bedroom.

Of course she did it on purpose. She always did and she loved teasing her husband. It was like a small hobby of hers if she got bored. However, Hamish wasn’t any better, and when it came to teasing between them quite often it was he who was winning. Fortunately for her, she had some other techniques to get him into the shape she liked.

Carefully she entered her son’s room to check if he was still asleep. As she heard his quiet and peaceful breathing, she left the room.

“Where are my shirts?”

“One should be in the wardrobe. If not check bathroom, I think I ironed one,” Cecilia answered Hamish’s whisper in a low voice to prevent waking up the boy. Her gaze rested on his well-shaped abs. “My God. One day you’ll give me a complex for being in such good shape, Hamish…” He laughed silently at that and disappeared in the bathroom.

Cecilia slowly went down the stairs watching out for her left foot so in the future she would be able to wear high-heels without more than usual pain. The best solution would be to lay down with her leg up but having Hmish and Alex to care after she had no free time to do so.

The kitchen looked like a battlefield as she was quite a messy chef, and Hamish would only sometimes be willing to clean after her. With a sigh on her mouth, Cecilia put the plates after yesterday’s supper into the dishwasher and started preparing coffee in tact with energetic music from radio. First, she turned on the express and then she grinded the coffee beans, and in the effect kitchen was full of characteristic and intense smell.

“Uh… How can he drink such horrible thing?” she wondered out loud checking if Hamish wasn’t standing right behind her. If so he’d look at her judgmentally with a look annoyance put on his face.

The blonde-haired woman sniffed at the grinded coffee and with highest level of disapproval she filled the express with it and put a cup under it. Even though she wasn’t a lover of the drink she was very proud of herself for possessing the ability of making one of the best coffees ever. With pleasant whistling, she continued preparing some breakfast for her husband.

“I heard you were talking shit about coffee,” his voice made her jump as she didn’t expected it at all.

“MISH! How many times do I have to repeat myself about that?!” she reprimanded the grown-man-adult. “My God like a child. What are you laughing at?”

“Anger marrs beauty, Cissy. Don’t make such a fuss about it,” she snorted angrily.

“Perfect timing for coffee,“ she handed a cup of aromatic coffee to him. "An espresso so you can be awake all day long,” after that she gave him a plate with eggs, toast and bacon. “And breakfast, so you have enough power to deal with today’s oncoming shit.”

She turned around to brew tea, whistling quietly at the same time. She would start dancing a little bit if it hadn’t been for her husband’s remarks about it.

“Well, well, at least someone is in a good mood,” he commented her actions and drank all of his coffee with one sip.

She shrugged, licking the teaspoon from the honey in a very suggestive way.

“Cecilia, calm down please,” he tried so hard not to look at her.

“No, no, no… You don’t talk like that to me, Hamish or you’ll be late for work,” he raised a brow as he heard her answer with the fake Scottish accent.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Never!” Cecilia looked at him in disbelief trying to retain her poker face, but just a second after she burst into laughter.

“Sometimes I wonder why I married you,” he shook his head, trying to finish his meal without any disturbance from Cecilia.

“Because I’m making the best coffee you have ever drunk,” she said confidently.

“True,” he agreed finishing his breakfast and standing up.” I need to go. I’ll be late so don’t wait for me with dinner and be nice to your dad,” he kissed her forehead between the sentences. “Send him my regards.”

“Of course. I’m sure he’ll be happy as usual.”

Her smile brightened his morning, and was the only good thing in it as he thought about it. Cecilia looked through the window when Hamish got into black car and drove away. With a slight sigh she braided her longish hair in a loose braid and approached the stairs.

“Alex! Get up, little one! You need to prepare yourself to visit grandpa!” the woman shouted and waited close to the stairs until she heard some kind of movement and sound of bare feet on the floor. Only then did she return to the kitchen to prepare food for herself and her son.

***

“Lancelot, I hope you have good news from the United States and their presidential crisis?” Merlin started as he sat down in the armchair in the main seat at the table. Even though he was sitting there for over a month, still the feeling remained unusual and it was hard for him to get used to it.

“Yes, I do believe so, Sir,” she started looking through her notes, which she had made last night. “As the great part of the previous government were killed on Valentine’s day, they had to choose some unconventional practices and within a week there are going to be held elections. The candidates are nothing special, which makes me think that they’re just figures and someone else will guide them from behind the scenes. But for now it’s not our problem, so I think that America’s issue is closed for some time.”

She finished just in moment when Galahad with his smug smile entered the meeting room.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he seated himself at Galahad’s seat.

“Eggsy as you took Harry’s place, it would be more suitable for you if choose to wear more formal clothing, especially for the meetings,” Merlin pointed out wearily, looking on the boy’s outfit with doubt.

“I know, I know. I was late anyway and if I had to put the whole suit on too I’d have been even later. Sorry for that. Won’t happen again,” he ensured, with nod to Lancelot as a form of greeting.

“Well then, getting back to the other crises; The European countries did exceptionally good work with overcoming ruling problem. The United Kingdom after losing its Queen, which is irreparable loss, won’t be the same again but the royal family is quite big so we can be queer for new King William. Unfortunately, I cannot be so optimistic when it comes to Kingsman. Glasses, please.”

He waited until they put on glasses and then he showed diagrams and names of fallen agents in the incident.

“As you can see all over the world, each cell of Kingsman has lost an agent or two. Which is not a good thing for overlay. If we stay weakened for too long it would make for a great opportunity to attack our organisation," while talking he changed the page and pointed out average number of deaths in European countries in comparison with other world’s countries. “Yes, Galahad?”

“What about new Arthur? As you don’t want to stay at his position – “ he started but was interrupted by Lancelot.

“Is there another recruitment oncoming?” she asked with her eyes on Merlin.

“Yes, there will be another recruitment, but unfortunately I have to wait until the other cells will start their supplemental recruitments.”

“Merlin, what is the point of it? There will be no such good candidate as you to take over Arthur,” Eggsy insisted on getting a more specific answer.

“Well thank you, but I do not see myself as a leading figure of this agency and I do not feel competent to do so. Therefore I believe that my concerns are good enough to start procedure for casting a new Arthur,” Merlin’s voice was peremptory and the forceful gaze he put on Eggsy, made him quiet for a few precious moments.

“What will the procedure look like, Merlin?” Lancelot queried trying to put the tension down.

“Good question, Roxy, but I’ll get to it later, as I haven’t finished with the number of deaths. Now, other agencies; FBI, CIA, MI5 and other intelligence organisations registered high numbers of fallen agents and unfortunately some of them, such as directors and important agents, were found out to be enlisted by Valentine, which basically meant their heads blew up,” he showed the last diagram and paused.

“Why are we looking at these week after week,” Eggsy wondered aloud, not even trying to hide that he was a little bit bored.

“Because, Galahad, the numbers are still changing, and even after a month the number of people killed grew, just because of maybe a simple miscalculation, and we need to be updated about any changes,” Lancelot answered the question, forestalling Merlin.

“Now, we can get to the current order of business. On Friday evening, recruitment for Tristian’s place will begin. I’m giving you two days so you can find your candidates and bring them here at 9 P.M. This time Percival will take care of the process and our candidates,” Merlin said with a bitter voice.

If he had to be honest, he’d love to run the recruitment for fresh, untrained minds which he could evolve into something great. It was something that gave him, maybe not the meaning of the life, but hope that one day, when he would be much older, the future would be as bright as today’s or even brighter because of high-trained, Kingsman agents, who were prepared for everything. The sight of people getting better and better was giving him pleasant chills and he didn’t want to give it up.

For now, he had to be satisfied with the part that didn’t suit him at all. Taking care of almost everything was slowly driving him crazy and he was exhausted of it. He knew he could depend on Lancelot, Galahad and Percival for finding needed backup information but his old habits were pushing him to prepare weaponry by himself, making all charts and numbers to presentation. Merlin was overworked and pushing himself to his limits. He couldn’t stand that Kingsman was literally on the bottom of its previous glory. It seemed to him, that the organisation was falling down and he felt obliged, in memory of Harry, Lancelot, every single fallen Kingsman agent, to keep it safe and bring it back to its previous glory.

But if that was going to happen the new Arthur had to be chosen and that wouldn’t be an easy assignment to accomplish.

“Now, answering to your question Lancelot. The recruitment for Arthur’s replacement will look much different from what you have been through because there will be no freshmen. To replace the head of our organization, each cell must provide one candidate. It must be one agent, the best agent on Kingsman’s behalf,” Merlin said after a little break. He still wasn’t sure who was going to be the representative of headquarters, and he was silently counting that Percival would agree.

“Will you be our candidate, Merlin?” Merlin looked at Eggsy with sight.

Huh, you’re not the only one who is wondering about that boy, he thought.

“I’m not sure, Eggsy. There are other agents who can be suitable candidates to represent us. And I’m sorry to inform you, that you won’t be taken under consideration even though I know you are valuable agents,” he pushed up glasses as he continued, “The other rule is that the candidate must have served the agency for no shorter than five years and must be older than thirty-five years old. So no offence but you’re both too young and too inexperienced.”

Merlin was about to add something else but was interrupted by Percival’s entrance. He was holding a couple of letters, which he handed Merlin.

“Thank you, Percival. Have you got what I asked you for?” he asked with light smile as he checked the addresses on envelopes. “I was just introducing Eggsy and Roxy to the rules of choosing new head of Kingsman.”

“That’s good. It’ll be useful in short future as we have to vote for our candidate. Also I’ve got what you wanted, and even something more,” Percival couldn’t help himself, and a self-satisfactory smirk appeared on his lips, “As you asked, I’ve contacted the heads of other Kingsman’s cells to start thinking about their probable candidates. At the moment three of them sent me back information about their candidates. Also two of them, the Australian and Middle-Eastern cells have already started supplemental recruitment.”

“That’s great news. Now Percival, I want you to contact some independent agents from our safe-zone and find one who would be willing to run the show. You know the rules,” Merlin noted something in his electric notebook. “From now, Galahad it’s your responsibility to check on, and receive information about the statuses from other Kingsman’s cells on their recruitment. As for you, Lancelot, you’ll be completing a list of candidates for Arthur’s place,” he paused as he looked at each of them. “All right, I believe that’s everything for now. You’re dismissed.”

Eggsy was the first to get up and leave, but just next to the door, he waited for Roxy.

“So have you thought about your candidate?” he asked with a grin.

“Not really, no. But in two days I think, I’ll figure somebody out. And you?” she looked at him as they went on to ground floor.

Their dogs were waiting patiently for them and as J.B. saw his master his tail started moving faster and not long after he was jumping around Eggsy’s legs, while Roxy’s poodle remain still.

“Good job, come here girl,” she called the dog and petted her lovingly. “So? What about your candidate? Do you have one?” Roxy put her eyes on him.

“Yes,” Eggsy answered with wide grin.

“And what? You’re not telling me anything about him or her?” she queried with narrowed eyes.

“All I can tell you is that if my candidate wins, you won’t be the only girl here, Roxy,” Eggsy shrugged.

She looked at him with a gentle smile. That would be a quite surprise if he brought a girl but frankly speaking, like a Galahad Senior, like a Galahad Junior, Eggsy was full of surprises and even though he was following the rules, he was doing it quite differently than the other Kingsman agents.

“What you’re lookin’ at?” Then she realized she was staring at him.

“Nothing Eggsy. I was thinking, maybe we could go and do some shooting training?”

Roxy changed topic with a little blush on her cheeks. She knew he would see it, but was thankful he didn’t make any remarks about that.

“Good idea but if you lose, you’re gonna be my slave for one day!”

She laughed loudly.

“You? Win? Over me? You sure you’re all right? I have better scores at shooting than you, Eggsy. That is no mystery,” Roxy said and let her poodle go onto the grass outside the building, “And I’m terribly sorry to say that but you’re going to be my slave, Eggsy.”

“We’ll see about that…”

He said it with so much confidence that she smiled again. He was a helpless patient with his cheeky temperament.

“C’mon girl, we don’t have all day!” Eggsy shouted as he was running outside to the rifle range. She shook her head and followed him.

***

“Merlin, could you tell me why you are changing the rules?” Percival asked as he was looking through the window.

“Why do you think? I’m just making them more useful,” he shrugged, while reading the letters, “Yes, I perfectly know that I should choose one of the main agents, but Percy that would take just too much time. Anyway three of our agents are heads of cells so I know them,” Merlin continued as he felt the sceptical look he received from Percival.

“That is exceptionally good, Merlin but they’re three out of eleven, except the candidate from headquarters which –“

“Won’t be me, Percival. And you know perfectly well why,” Merlin interrupted his friend looking up from the letters.

Percival stood shocked. He said nothing, as he knew Merlin was stubborn as a hell if he didn’t want to do something. He slighted wearily, checking through the window if Roxy or Eggsy weren’t about to blow up the rifle range, then he moved away.

“Sometimes you’re worse than Cecilia with your stubbornness,” Percival started, carefully choosing his words. ”But the fact is you need to know all the candidates and their abilities so you can make the right decision.” He finished as he took his seat right next to the Merlin, waiting patiently for his response.

“Percy, that’s why cells must send me all documents of the candidate, mission statuses and results of previous missions. Their tests, all of them. I will know everything about them before beginning of the recruitment. There is no need to worry.”

Merlin’s voice was confident and strong but Percival knew he had some doubts. Even though, he hadn’t shown many emotions, Percival knew that Merlin was the one who hadn’t gotten through Harry’s death and Chester’s betrayal. Of course, it was hard for all the agents but Merlin had practically been brought up in this place and Chester had somehow been like a father to him.

“All right, if you say so, but you must remember that on Friday we’ll be voting for the candidate and I’m pretty sure you’re a very serious candidate, Merlin. There’s no doubt about that,” Percival continued his little tirade hoping that he could make Merlin change his mind.

Merlin only cleared his throat in annoyance, because Percival wouldn’t do anything else but literally harass him by talking about it over and over through last month. Merlin swore to himself that if Percival would talk about it one more time, the man would end up on the Moon.

„Good Lord Percy, you’re a pain in the ass…”

“Because I know, you would be a great leader. You’re just a little bit too lazy, my friend,” he quickly moved aside to avoid a pen thrown by Merlin.

“Percy… Get out or I’ll go for more advanced weaponry, and we’ll see who is a little bit too lazy. Because one of the fires is going to burn your ass off, my dear friend.”

Percival chuckled and rose his hands up in surrender. He was aware, Merlin had all the needed abilities to be a leader, to be a damn good leader too, but he needed to stop being so childish when it came to the bloody recruitment. He didn’t tell Merlin, but since the incident he had been talking to other agents and persuading them that Merlin was the best candidate for new Arthur.

***

Cecilia was enjoying a rather peaceful late evening as Alex was asleep and she could rest a little bit with a glass of a Moscato while reading. She stopped when she heard a squeak of the front door.

“Hamish, is that you?” she asked involuntarily when she couldn’t recognise the figure in the darkness and just a second after she realized how stupid that question had been.

Oh yes, because a murderer would come in through the front door, answer the question and even ask you for a cup of tea, you stupid goose, she thought sarcastically.

“Yes. Why are you still awake?” she could sense the exhaustion in his voice.

Cecilia closed the book, putting it aside. “I didn’t feel tired enough, but Alex fell asleep straight away when he got to his bed,” she got up and approached him, “Are you hungry? There’s dinner in oven if you want.”

“No, thank you. I need to rest for a moment and I’m going to sleep. I’ve been having a headache since midday –“ he looked at her for a brief moment, “And yes, I took some pills,” Hamish added after seeing a question in wife’s eyes.

He took off his jacket and hung it on a bannister while going into the living room. As his gaze fell on the Nordic mythology lying on the table, Hamish undid the cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He was dead tired but he saw something unusual and new near the fireplace and his curiosity won over.

“What’s that?” he pointed a small, furry ball on a lair.

“A puppy… My father at his end decided to be a good grandfather and presented Alex with a corgi puppy,” Cecilia sighed wearily and sat on the sofa. She grabbed her glass and finished the wine.

“A puppy? Maybe he’ll learn a little bit about responsibility, but I can see that it’s not entirely about the dog,” he said as he seated himself next to his blonde beauty.

“Hamish, please. Alex is only five and I can already see how he’ll take care of that dog. For the first month maybe, yes, but who will take it to the vet? Walk it? Not to mention that we’re usually at work and Alex is at school so the puppy will be all alone at home,” she said bleakly looking at the puppy as it shuffled it’s paws in its sleep.

“So it’s good thing you’re staying at home as long as your arm gets better as well as the ankle. But is it really about the dog?” he embraced Cecilia and pull her closer until she could rest her head on his shoulder. “I can help Alex with the puppy’s training. It’s not that hard.”

She sighed loudly and closed eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. Maybe the dog wasn’t a bad idea at all. However, her father’s initiative was making her a little bit annoyed. It wasn’t even that he hadn’t asked her or Hamish. She just didn’t want to have anything to do with him, more than usual.

“It’s about my father… I’m constantly surprised by his actions and I have this unpleasant feeling that he wants me to carry on the family business, instead of Matt. No one tells me shit about it and apparently that doesn’t bother my father at all,” she answered after a long pause.

“There can’t be anything wrong, can it?” Hamish felt she tightened her muscles, “Come on, Cissy, there’s nothing you should worry about. Maybe he’ll think about it and change his mind. He’s and old man, they do tend to change their minds quite often…”

“Oh no, that’s not in my father’s style. He’s as stubborn as a mule.”

“Now I can see where you got that from,” Hamish laughed silently when she punched his side.

“The kettle calling the pot black, my dear,” she mumbled, faking being offended. “I don’t want to owe him anything, not since I became independent. He scares me somehow and I can’t recognise the man as my father.”

“Cissy, you can’t speak like that. After all he is your father and he brought you up and took care of you and your brother until you became independent.”

She rolled her eyes with a bored face.

“Hamish, I’m begging you, do not start this tirade again. I should be grateful for my parents. I am grateful for them but since my father’s illness he has changed unbelievably and I can’t recognise him,” how could she possibly be grateful for the double-faced man who was her father?, she thought ”He scares me sometimes…” she added with hesitation.

“Please woman. You and your brother are the last living relatives, especially as long as your mother has been missing since the incident,” he said irritated by her complaining. He was tired after long day at Kingsman’s facilities dealing with its shit and he didn’t have the energy or will to hear her complaints, although, he knew he should show some support. “Anyway, you’re aware he won’t live for long with such high state of his heart illness…” Cecilia looked incensed at him, “Don’t do that. I said something obvious and have known for long time. Of course that incident just made his state even worse.”

“God, I hate when you’re so direct,” she said angrily as she decided not to give him the satisfaction of admitting that he was right. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Oh, thank God!” he accidentally blurted out.

“Sometimes you act worse than Alex… Do you still have a headache?”

Hamish nodded. Despite taking a quite impressive number of painkillers, his head was still killing him. She suddenly started to fidget to free herself from his arms. Only when was she successful at her doings she sat on his lap and took of his glasses.

“Cecilia what are you up to?” he looked at her with half-open eyes and he had to admit she looked very appealing in semidarkness.

“Old, granny way to get rid of headache. Relax and close your eyes.”

He did as she said without hesitation, waiting for her next move. Within moments he felt her thumbs gently massaging and squeezing his temples. He give out a sigh of relief when he felt pain subsided. Fingers moved on to his forehead, massaging it with circular moves.

“Is it any better?” Cecilia asked tenderly.

“Absolutely, you’ve some magical skills,” he murmured with closed eyes.

“But you know if it’s still killing you there’s another way to deal with it,” Hamish raised eyebrow on that words.

“Don’t you say…” he smiled and opened one eye, as he got suspicious about her intentions.

She leaned closer to her husband with roguish smirk.”Mmhmm… It’s very effective when it comes to ladies headaches and I think it can also be effective on men’s headaches, don’t you think?”

Before he noticed it, Cecilia was in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt with one hand while in the other she held his tie. She bit her lip lovingly when he slowly slid his hands along her thighs pulling her skirt up higher and higher.

“Come here.”

As she leaned her head over his, Hamish kissed her, as if he couldn’t breathe without her lips. He could swore that her bright blue eyes became dark of lust and he couldn’t blame her. His hands wandering on her body and slowly exploring it all over again. He never had enough of it. Every single moan of pleasure he caused, he enjoyed twice as much as her fingers gently stroking his neck giving him the shivers.

„Mish, come here with your hands,” she traced them onto her hip and waist and eventually onto her breast.

“With pleasure”

Hamish whispered with husky voice while unbuttoning her shirt, under which he found a nice piece of lacy lingerie. With tender kisses Hamish traced path from her lips to soft skin between her breasts. He could feel like her body was melting under his touch and hear how much she enjoyed it.

“Perfect timing, Merlin…” he paused terrified.

“What?” Max looked at Cecilia, both surprised and petrified with wild thoughts crossing his mind that she somehow had found out about the truth.

“The dog, puppy is awake,” she said miserably.

“Could you please repeat the dog’s name?” he just noticed the little furry ball, which was trying to get on the sofa.

“Merlin. Alex named it like that. He has been quite obsessed with Arthurian legends since I started reading them to him. Everything is all right?”

Eggsy must know nothing. Under no circumstances , he thought as he nodded to Cecilia’s question. In that right moment he was close to the heart attack caused by his own son but realized it wouldn’t be that bad with such beautiful sight. Hamish looked at the unfortunate dog and he knew that it needed to go out to its business immediately otherwise there would be a catastrophe on the floor. He moved again, looked at his wife and with much regard he kissed the spot between her breasts, buttoned her shirt up and sighed. That stupid dog interrupted such a beautiful moment and that nearly made him cry.

“I’ll go out with him. I’ll be back just in a minute, my beauty,” he kissed her passionately.

“I’ll be waiting in the bedroom,” she said between kisses.

He watched her getting up with that specific smile, with messy hair and not properly buttoned shirt. Hamish followed his wife with his eyes until she got to the stairs.

“And what should I do about you? This house is not big enough to have two Merlin’s in it,” he said to the puppy, which was quite lively running around excited by its surroundings. “Come on, boy.”

He led the animal to the door and let it go into the garden. For a moment, Hamish observed how excited the dog was. It barked at a bird flying by, sniffed some bushes and eventually came back to him, putting its paws on his leg.

“What should I do about you, little one? I can’t call you Merlin, that would be strange…” he stood in silence thinking intensively what to call this little creature. A small smirk appeared on his lips when he came to the solution.

“The lady of my heart isn’t particularly patient. We need to go… Junior…”

[isabelguerra]

you ran the wizard au right? i remembered i used to love the worldbuilding!!!! and the fic series (both if them) were sooo fun, if you ever wrote more i know id read it 👉👈…. so um i know there was a triwiz tournament year, did u ever come up with outfits for the yule ball? i love fashion and am really interested in hearing what you’d have everyone wear haha. thank you for answering!!!

SIGH. yeah that was me i ran the hogwarts au. i cannot run from my past i just gotta embrace it. anyway im super touched to hear u liked my au… my feelings around it are super conflicted but even though i dont talk abt it much it was really sweet hearing how much you liked it. so yes. yes i did come up with yule ball outfits, for the triwizard tournament arc in their 6th year, which i will share for u bc u asked so sweet 

first off: my biggest gripe with yule in canon was how boring it was. these are fucking wizards. i was not going to let that shit get away with black robed suits and prom dresses i wanted full ass met gala-level Extra, while still staying faithful to the characters tastes and personalities. so i ended up looking at a bunch of runway couture! heres what i came up with: 

isabel, as the heir to the prestigious guerra family name, quidditch captain, brightest witch of their year, and max (hogwarts champion)’s date (they went together for appearances as bffs and bc neither of them got actual dates), had a lot of pressure on her shoulders socially. i wanted her 2 have something she could feel natural in but a little restricted by, as she likely had her dress chosen for her rather than chose it herself. so she likes it but it reflects her wizarding world status more than her actual personality. it also goes 2 be said that the night before yule she stayed up hand folding a bunch of paper cranes and butterflies for her dress that would fly around her all night. loved Teuta Matoshi, Joanne Flemming bridal, and vintage Costarellos designs 4 her

max was hogwarts champion that year obviously which means he had to have the most swag out of anyone. obviously. i was super into butch lesbian max when i made this so his inspos were primarily womens suits. he was the only one i let have a black outfit bc i cant see him being super fashionably flashy. vibe i went for was ‘shiny goth swag’, which Isabel Marant SS2020 and D&G pre-Fall 2020 really hit the nail on the head

ed was probably the most fun+ easiest. i just dressed them weird. also idk if i mentioned this but ed and rj went to yule together lol? #nonbinaryswag. my fav look for them was #1, D&G Spring RTW 2020. i love that shiny suit. i do also think he’d fuck it up in the dress at the end though

isaac i went so ridiculous with isaac you know he’d be so extra. Balmain FW2016 really pulled through with the velvet fabrics, squared shoulders, and gold accents. my other looks were Louis Vuitton Fall 2020, which were a bit sillier but i still loved for him

spender fucks it up in a chadwick boseman met gala 2018. he does not pull it off as well but what can u do 

EXTRAS bc idk if u just meant outfits for Just the main cast or for everyone. so here’s some bonus outfits for other cast members :-)

johnny is one of the few muggle-born wizards i chose from the cast, so his outfit would’ve reflected that slight displacement and more attunement to the human world. i loved 2 joke w my friends that getting johnny in ANY fancy outfit would be hard, and even if u could get him in one he’s still wear his iconic ratty leather jacket over his nice clothes anyway. so johnny got two pics: one from Balenciaga Spring 2018 (love the dorky high waisted pants and patterned red dress shirt combo), and another from Coach Spring 2017 (love the jacket). he also deffo charmed his hair to Literally Be On Fire until one of the professors told him to put it out. he also let loose a racoon in the venue while nobody was looking.

stephen 100% hamish bowles met gala no further comment

rj showed up w/ ed looking like this