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xxblackballoonxx · 2 years

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Electric: Chapter 10

Modern John Shelby AU

This fic is being posted simultaneously on FanFiction.net and Ao3. Classy smut warning beginning with Chapter 5.

Chapter 9 J&Gem Chats 9 J&Gem Chats 10 Chapter 11

Electric

Chapter 10: World's End

The Garrison was a different place in daylight, sun glinting off the gilded mirrors and antique light fixtures. John was attempting to keep busy, running through the inventory behind the bar. He tried to focus on the numbers, on how the counting kept his mind in check. A bottle slipped through his fingers and he caught it last minute.

“Fuck.” He muttered, running his hand through his hair, frustrated with himself.

John had been restless for days, his mind wandering and then a memory would appear suddenly. The flash of lights and screaming. The silence as he sat in the hospital in the middle of the night, holding his stillborn son. The look in Martha’s eyes. His heart breaking into a thousand pieces.

He hated the anniversary of the accident. The anxiety in the days before, counting the passing years, it always lurked in the dark. The first few years he’d drink himself into oblivion, but it only dulled the pain. He’d wake up a week later, still hungover, and the pain would be right back where it was.

It’s when he’d started his mantra, to feel the pain and let it wash back out. To process it in the moment, and then let it go. Tommy had his whiskey and work, Arthur would go off the deep end more often than not, Ada held Freddie together. John had a young Finn to look after. It took everything he had to keep the dark wave from taking over, from giving into the desire to drink every bottle of whiskey in The Garrison.

He took a deep breath and regained his focus, finishing up the inventory before going back to his office. No matter that it would be ten years tomorrow, the world still went on, and the business still had to run.

His cell buzzed against the wooden desk and he sighed.

“Hi, Aunt Poll.” John answered, trying to remain upbeat.

“Hi, John. How are you?” Polly responded.

“Oh you know, trying to stay busy and all that.” John replied, knowing exactly why she was calling.

“I know it’s a hard time, darling. Just calling to let you know I’m thinking of you, and if you need me you call me, yes?”

“I will. When do you and Aberama come back? Michael’s wedding is coming up soon now.”

“Couple weeks, we’ll be back for the Eden opening. I’m not sure about this Gina woman, but that’s Michael’s choice. Anna’s raging about it still.”

“Yeah, Anna called me recently to talk about it. Michael’s fully in on Gina, nothing gonna change that until he sees how crazy she is.”

Polly laughed and felt relief when she heard John laugh back.

“Speaking of American girls, heard from Thomas that you’ve been seeing one yourself?”

“Fucking Tommy, he’s more of a gossip than an old granny. Her name is Gemma. And Aunt Poll … it’s the most right anything has ever felt in my life. Maybe even more than Martha. She’s coming down with me for the Eden opening, you’ll get to meet her.”

“I look forward to meeting the girl that’s got my nephew smiling again. I can hear it in your voice.”

John smiled again and listened to Polly tell him about her recent travels, thankful for the distraction from the darkness in his mind.

Gemma smiled at her phone and then got up to throw together an overnight bag. Her and John had already been leaving some basics at each other’s places, which with any other guy would’ve seemed insane. But with John, it was right. And, as he’d pointed out a few nights back, practical. As he told her to leave whatever she wanted over at his house.

There was already a small stack of his clothes on her dresser, and she pulled out a t-shirt, holding it to her face. John’s cologne still lingered on the fabric, and it made her smile. She pulled off her own shirt and put his on, figuring it would brighten his day a bit. He’d been on edge about the anniversary, and she wanted to support him however she could.

John was standing outside her building entrance exactly at 6 pm, and she opened the front door to find him leaning against the brick. He still took her breath away, and honestly she wasn’t sure there would be a time in which he wouldn’t.

“Hi, love.” John said and pulled her into a tight hug.

He dropped his head into her shoulder, and felt some of the anxiety leave as she rubbed the back of his neck. It surprised him daily how open he felt with her, and how she knew what he was feeling without saying anything. It was what he’d needed for the past ten years.

“I got you, J.” Gemma whispered.

John nodded and held onto her for a moment more, before kissing her and taking her bag. They linked hands for the now very familiar walk to the Shelby house, making their way in comfortable silence.

Finn lasted about 5 minutes into dinner before getting grilled good-naturedly about his girl problems.

“So, tell us about this girl you like, Finny.” Gemma said casually, catching Finn off guard.

“You told her already?!” Finn exclaimed, looking at John who laughed.

“You said you wanted Gemma’s help, so I told her, yeah.”

“I’ll need some details, Finn.”

“Her name is Carolyn, we met at after a show a few weeks back. She’s really pretty and nice and works at a bookstore.” Finn said, his face flaming red.

“Have you two been talking at all?” Gemma asked, smiling to herself at how cute Finn looked with his red face.

“I got her number, yeah. She actually, um, texted me a little while ago, asking if I’d want to hang out tonight.”

“And?”

“I haven’t responded back yet, I wasn’t sure, you know, with tomorrow …” Finn trailed off, looking at John.

A heavy silence fell over the room and Gemma looked over at John, taking his hand under the table. He looked up at her, focusing on the look in her eyes, how much she cared about him.

“Live your life, Finn.You like this girl, you should hang out with her. Tomorrow morning, I do need you. Just be home by then.” John finally spoke, squeezing Gemma’s hand back.

Finn smiled and nodded, pulling out his phone to reply to Carolyn’s message. Gemma watched John pick up his fork and close his eyes, breathing slowly. A memory came over him, from years ago, his first date with Martha. How it felt to call her on the phone.

And then the memory of seeing Gemma for the first time in The Garrison, how it felt to kiss her for the first time. The feeling of her hand now on his leg, bringing him back to the present. He opened his eyes to find Gemma watching him, waiting for a beat before returning to her own dinner.

“Now, Finn, I normally give the advice to stay away from musicians, but I guess I have to make an exception for certain Shelby brothers. Just be honest with how you feel, no games. Girls hate games.” Gemma stated as Finn grinned and nodded at her.

John and Gemma cleaned up after dinner so Finn could get ready to go out. It didn’t take long to put all of the dishes and pans into the dishwasher, and John found himself fidgeting with random crumbs on the kitchen island counter. Gemma wiped down the counter, and then boosted herself up, pulling John in front of her. He stood between her legs, her hands on his face.

“Just breathe, John.” Gemma whispered.

John took several slow breaths, focusing on Gemma in front of him. She held his gaze, and he found himself calming down, pulling from the strength he saw in her eyes. The way her thumb gently ran over his cheekbone. How warm her skin felt beneath her jeans, his hands on her thighs.

“I know we talked about tomorrow, and what it means. Whatever you need from me, whether that’s to give you space, or go with you, you decide in the morning. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. You are with me and I am with you.” Gemma said.

John nodded and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in as close as possible. He needed to feel her breath on his neck, her solid presence in his arms, smell her perfume. Gemma kissed his cheek and held his head against her.

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Early the next morning, Gemma lay in bed and felt John shift behind her. He tightened his arm around her side and she could feel the anxiety coming off of him in waves. She felt him pull back and sit up on the side of the bed.

She waited a moment and then turned over, to find John sitting with his back to her, head in his hands. He’d barely slept, and like every year, he was up at dawn on this terrible day. Ready for the day to end but unable to sleep through it, there were things he needed to do.

Gemma wrapped her arms around him, her bare skin against his back as he reached up and took her hand.

“Can’t sleep?” She whispered, resting her face against his shoulder.

John shook his head, tears threatening to spill over. Gemma held him tighter.

“Do you want me to go with you today?” She whispered again.

John nodded and his head fell back down, letting the tears run down his face. Gemma’s heart broke for him, the amount of pain he’d always carry was not something anyone could take away. He would just live with it, forever, and find a way to go on.

“I’ve got you, baby. I’m here.” Gemma whispered a third time.

John’s shoulders shook as he turned around and let Gemma pull him into her, laying back against his pillow.

A few hours later, John, Finn, and Gemma walked slowly through Small Heath, John holding Gemma’s hand firmly. Besides the grief this day always brought him, he also had a heightened fear that something would happen again to someone he cared about. Gemma understood without a word, and let John lead her through the streets, Finn close to her on the other side.

They stopped at Averill’s Flower Shop, where John always bought flowers, several times a year, for his graveyard visits. Mary Averill had been an old friend of the late Margaret Shelby.

John wandered the store aimlessly, unsure of what to buy. The flowers had been taken care of at the funerals, and one of the arrangements had a card from this shop, offering assistance whenever he needed it. And Lord, did he need assistance. What did one buy for their child’s due date anniversary?

“John Shelby, is that you?”

John looked up to find a woman standing in front of him, her face vaguely familiar.

“Yes. Sorry, I don’t know your name, but you look familiar to me?”

“Mary Averill. I was a friend of your mum’s from school, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”

“Oh right, the card you left. Thank you. I need some help.”

Mary gently guided John through his choices, acknowledging his loss sincerely, but not lingering on it. She knew how heavy this particular loss was, and she was tactful in these type of transactions. It was what John needed, someone to guide him, to make his choices easier.

“Good to see you, John.” Mary greeted John as he entered the shop, Finn and Gemma lingering outside.

“You, too, Mary.” John replied.

Mary went around the counter and pulled out his usual order. Three graves to visit, three arrangements.

“10 years it’s been already.” Mary commented softly as she gave John his change.

“Hard to believe. I’ll see you soon, Mary. Thank you.” John said, with sincere gratitude.

Mary smiled and watched as he walked out to his brother and the girl with them. The girl reached for one of the flower arrangements and John took her other hand, leaning into her instinctually. The youngest Shelby brother took another arrangement, and the three of them continued down the road.

In the now ten years that John had been a customer, Mary had never seen him with a woman besides his sister and his aunt. His grief had been overwhelming the first several years, often accompanied by a heavy smell of cigar smoke and whiskey, and slowly over time just the heavy cloak that every parent of a lost child wore.

Margaret, your boy is in love again, finally.

John’s routine was always the same, visiting Greta’s grave first. Gemma handed over the flower arrangement she was carrying and John gently placed it among the others in front of her grave.

“We’re always thinking of you, Greta. I know Tommy is, too. We all miss you.” John said quietly.

The trio lowered their heads in a moment of silence and then moved on to the Shelby family plot. John tightened his grip on Gemma’s hand as the gravestones came into sight. She squeezed back and leaned against him.

Finn placed the arrangement he had in front of Margaret Shelby’s grave. He visited often, sometimes with John, but also on his own.

“Hi, mum. John’s here, too.” Finn spoke aloud, stepping back in line with John.

Finn and Gemma stood back as John turned to the gravestone next to Margaret’s, placing a hand on the white stone. He looked down and his eyes watered, as he spun the signet ring on his finger, trying to keep his breath steady.

“Hey, mate. It’s your Dad. I love you. I’m sorry I couldn’t have done more for you.” John said, his voice shaking, as he dropped down to one knee.

Gemma had already been crying behind him, and she stepped forward to put a hand on his right shoulder. Finn did the same, putting his hand on John’s left shoulder, and they stood there as John sobbed in front of Will Shelby’s grave.

In the distance, Arthur stood leaning against a large tree, drinking from a half empty bottle. He watched his brother break down, and the survivor’s guilt that was always under the surface was fully bubbling up, a dangerous black hole.

“I’m sorry, John boy.” Arthur spoke aloud.

He would’ve given anything to change the circumstances. His own life for his brother’s son.

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It took nearly an hour for Gemma and Finn to walk John home, he leaned against both of them heavily, the exhaustion taking over. They got him to the couch and Gemma went to get a washcloth to wipe his tear stained face.

John watched her with bloodshot eyes as she ran the cool cloth over his skin, and it was so gentle that if he’d been able to cry anymore, he would’ve. She sat down next to him and pulled his head into her lap. Running her hands through his hair, she leaned her head back, fighting back her own urge to cry. The entire morning had been the most heartbreaking thing she’d ever seen.

John closed his eyes, focusing on Gemma’s fingers running against his scalp, her legs beneath his head. He reached up and took one of her hands in his, holding it tightly against his face as he finally slipped into a deep sleep.

Gemma and John woke a few hours later to Finn talking quietly on the phone and pacing in the hallway.

“Yeah, Tommy, I’ll deal with it … I’ll tell him. Call you later.”

“Finn? What’s going on?” John mumbled.

“Shit sorry, was trying to not wake you up. That was Tommy. He, ah, he said he’s thinking of you, and …”

“And what?” John sat up, hearing the veiled worry in Finn’s voice.

“He got a call. Arthur’s at World’s End. Pissed out of his head.” Finn replied quietly.

“Fuck.” John groaned and rubbed his face.

“Arthur, he’s had some drinking problems, especially the past 5 years or so. Today … the guilt he feels, usually kicks it off.” John explained to Gemma.

She nodded and John stood up, checking the time on his phone. It was barely 2 pm, which meant Arthur had started drinking long before the sun was up.

“Well, at least we know where he is this time. Finn, give me 5? We’ll go get him.” John stated.

“I’m coming with you.” Gemma said, standing.

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“Gem, this place is rough. You stay right next to me, yeah? Finn, you stay behind her.” John said sternly as they walked up to the rundown brick building.

Gemma and Finn nodded, both looking up at the ancient sign above the door. “The World’s End. Enter At Your Own Risk.” They looked at each other in concern.

John waited a beat and then opened the door confidently, Gemma’s hand tightly in his, Finn brining up the rear. The sun seemed not reach the inside of The World’s End, it was only dimly lit by a few overhead fixtures. Heads turned in their direction, leering eyes looking at the first girl to enter the place in probably years. Gemma shivered and stuck close to John as he walked past the bar, towards the back.

John breathed a sigh of relief as he caught sight of Arthur slumped in a back booth, empty glasses and coins in front of him on the table. Finn picked up the coins and John shook Arthur until his eyes opened.

“John boy, what’re you doing here?” Arthur slurred, as John pulled him up into a sitting position.

“Here to get you, brother. Come on, this place is one step away from the entrance to hell, what’re you even doing here?” John muttered.

“Drink away, today. Can’t stand this day.” Arthur responded back, barely coherent.

John managed to get his arms underneath Arthur’s and heaved him up onto his feet. Finn turned around, waiting for a terrifying drunk old geezer to pop out any second. John slung Arthur’s arm around his shoulder and then slowly started to make his way to the front, practically dragging Arthur along. Gemma stood between them and Finn, fighting the urge to run.

“Thanks for all the help, you fuckers.” John yelled as they entered back into the sunlit alley.

Finn ran to open the car door for Gemma, making sure she was in before opening the back door. Between him and John, they pushed and pulled Arthur into the backseat, propped up against Finn. John got back in the driver’s seat and looked at Gemma. She started laughing, which made him laugh, then Finn, and Arthur looking at all of them like they were crazy.

“ ‘Thanks for all the help, you fuckers’ oh my God, John, that place was like hell on Earth, and you’re throwing sarcasm back.” Gemma managed to say before laughing again.

Arthur had passed out by the time they got back to the Shelby house, and once out of the car, John hoisted Arthur over his shoulder. They settled Arthur into the sunroom, slouched over in a chair, snoring.

John sat in front of him, feeling immense sadness for his brother. The accident had been just that. A freak accident, in which Arthur had been in no way responsible. But John knew the survivor’s guilt ate away at Arthur. Unable to do anything about Greta dying and Tommy’s grief. About Will dying and how a part of John died with him. About Martha and John never marrying. About the Peaky Blinders never playing a single note together again.

Finn and Gemma stood in the hallway, watching the two brothers across from each other, each in their own misery.

“You hungry?” Gemma asked Finn, who nodded.

“Let’s go pick up some food. John hasn’t eaten anything since last night and I’m hungry, too.”

Gemma stepped into the sunroom and whispered to John that they were going out. He nodded and kissed her cheek, before leaning back in the chair, closing his eyes.

Finn and Gemma walked to the closest takeaway shop available, a pizza place, and both took in the silence with relief. As they waited for the order, Gemma remembered their conversation the night before.

“You haven’t said, how did it go with Carolyn?”

“It went really well.” Finn grinned and Gemma playfully smacked him.

“Details, little Shelby. But not too many, don’t make me ill.”

“We hung out in a park near her house for awhile, and we just talked about music, and books, and what we want to do in the future. She let me walk her home, and we ended up sitting in her back yard for hours. She may have kissed me before I left.”

“See! It worked out for you, that’s great. Just go with the flow, see what happens, you know?”

Finn nodded and contemplated his next words before speaking them.

“You and John, it’s serious, isn’t it?” Finn finally said, so quietly Gemma almost didn’t hear him.

“Honestly? Most serious I’ve ever been about a guy. When it’s right, you just know.” Gemma replied.

“He loves you, I can tell.”

Gemma grinned at Finn, just as their order number was called.

Later that night, John lay on his bed, waiting for Gemma to get out of the shower. Finn had insisted on sitting up with Arthur, and after Gemma forced him to eat a few slices of pizza, John had nearly crawled up to his room, he was so tired.

He closed his eyes, and was almost asleep when he felt the bed dip next to him. He looked up to find Gemma pulling the towel out from under him and pulling the blankets up over him. She hadn’t noticed yet that he was awake, and he took the opportunity to watch as she sat on the corner of the bed, toweling off her hair, her bare back tempting John. If he hadn’t felt like he’d been through battle, he would’ve reached out to her.

Gemma shut off the lamp and crawled into bed, throwing her arm and leg over John, wanting to be as close as possible. The day had been exhausting for her as well. She’d cried quietly in the shower, the sight of John breaking down in front of Will’s grave would never leave her.

John wrapped his arm around Gemma silently acknowledging how grateful he was that she was there. As he felt her slip into sleep, her head on his chest, one word flashed in his mind before he fell asleep as well.

Love.

#john shelby #modern john shelby #john shelby fanfic #joe cole #john shelby imagine #john shelby fanfiction #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #electric #arthur shelby #arthur shelby fanfic #finn shelby #finn shelby fanfic #tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #polly gray #polly gray fanfic #michael gray

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triptuckers · 3 years

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New In Town (part three) - Kaz Brekker

Request: nope Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader Summary: after hearing an interesting conversation in the pub you work at, you're determined to find out more Warnings: none Word count: 2.3K A/N: thinking about a video someone sent me on twitter of freddy saying the quote on bottling inej' laugh..... yea <3 enjoy reading! PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART TAG LIST (all grishaverse fics): @ayushmitadutta @mrs-brekker15@dancingwith-sunflowers @thegirlwiththeimpala @parker-natasha@story-scribbler @romanoffstarkovs@daliareads@meiitanoia @itsnotquimey @sanktaesperanza @whymyparentscheckmyphone @aleksanderwh0r3 @ilovemarvelanne1 @marlenaisnthappy @brekker-zenik @just-deka @Graceknxwlson @the-very-tired-mess TAG LIST (Kaz Brekker): @mufnasa @janesofia7 @stairscortana @parker-natasha @illicitghosts @brick-by-brick553 add yourself to my tag lists here

When all of the customers have piled out of the pub, and you're cleaning the tables, you can't stop thinking over Jesper and Kaz' conversation.

If only you knew what gang they were part of, you could have easily snuck into their main building. You needed to find out exactly when this party was going to take place, if you wanted to steal the necklace.

You tried to think of any other way to find out the date and location of the party. You hadn't heard any other customers talking about it, so you guessed it was a party reserved only for the elite. And Ketterdam's finest didn't come to a somewhat dirty little pub like the one you work in.

You had to be smart about this. Maybe if Jesper or Kaz came back, you could try to follow them. Find out where they were meeting, what gang they are.

And if that didn't work, you'd just have to find some dirt on them and use it to your advantage. You'd done it countless of times before. Though this was an entirely new city, with new potential targets and clients, you are confident you can pull this off.

You have to, if you ever want to be able to rent a clean room, preferably one not directly above a pub.

But it looks like your luck has decided to abandon you. In the next three days, you don't see Jesper or Kaz in the pub. You even take on extra shifts, claiming you just want to earn more money. When in reality, you are on the lookout for either one of them.

They don't show up. And you have no way of telling if the party already took place or not.

On the fourth night, your gaze is fixed on the door again as you're working. Finally, your coworker steps closer to you.

'Did you like those two that much?' she says.

'Huh?' you say. You'd been so lost in your thoughts you hadn't heard her approach you.

'I'll take that as a yes.' she says. 'That tall one was cute. The other one gave me some creepy vibes.'

'What are you talking about?' you ask her.

'Those two that came by a couple of days ago. You kept hovering by their table, and you've been daydreaming ever since.' she says, smirking at you.

You laugh and shove her away. If only she knew the real reason why you had been hovering around their table. You decide to try if maybe she knows about the party. You doubt it, but there's no knowing unless you try.

'Hey, are there any good parties around here?' you say. 'I've yet to explore Ketterdam's night life.'

'Well, there are some.' she says. 'But most of the fancy ones take place at some merchants house. We'd never get in.'

'Sounds like one hell of a party, then.' you say.

'Oh, they're the best. On nights like those, you can see them all dressed up in their best clothes, jewellery all over the place. It's quite impressive.' she says.

'Hmm.' you hum. You hadn't seen a scene like that, so the party probably hadn't taken place yet.

'The merchants' wives have a new gown for every party.' she says.

'Really?' you say, genuinely surprised that they do. Surely you could spend your money on better things than a gown you'd only wear once.

'Uh-huh, they never wear the same thing twice. The other day, I was in one of those expensive stores to pick up an order for my aunt, and one of them was there. She kept raging on about how her dress wasn't going to be ready in time for a party.' she says.

This gets your full attention. Maybe this was about the party Jesper and Kaz were talking about.

'Was she really mad?' you say, pressing on.

'Furious.' says your coworker. 'She said that if her dress wasn't ready by Tuesday morning, because the party is that night, she'd never come to the store again.'

'Huh, what an attitude.' you say, trying to hide your gratitude for finally finding out the date of the party. All that was left was the location, and which wife exactly would be wearing the priceless necklace. But at least you got one piece of the puzzle.

'You really should have heard her. She kept yelling she couldn't possibly show up to Christensen manor without a new dress.' she says.

'Christensen manor?' you say, hoping you don't sound too curious. But apparently, your coworker loves gossiping way, as she nods eagerly.

'He's one of the richest merchants around. He's the one hosting the party. Rumour goes the ring he always wears is worth so much money, it could buy half of Ketterdam.' she says.

You snort. 'Half of Ketterdam? That seems a little too much.' you say.

'Oh, you'd be surprised.' she says. 'His family is always nearly sinking to the floor with the amount of jewellery they wear. They like to show everyone just how much money they have.'

'Aren't they afraid it gets stolen?' you say.

She shakes her head. 'They have too much security for that. Even the gangs back in the Barrel wouldn't dare to pull off such a daring stunt.' she says.

You smile to yourself. If only she knew at least five gang members were planning exactly that.

The two of you look up when a bell rings, signalling the end of your shift.

'That's my cue.' you say. 'You sure you're gonna be alright out here?'

'I'll manage. Go and get some rest.' she says.

'Alright, goodnight.' you say.

She waves at you as you walk toward the stairs to go to your room. To her, it seemed like you were just gossiping away. Little did your coworker know she'd given you exactly the information you needed. Maybe working at a pub turned out to be useful after all.

So the party would take place on Tuesday night, at Christensen manor. And his wife would most likely be the one to wear the necklace, if they parade around with their riches so much.

All you had to do was make sure you arrive before Jesper and Kaz do. You'd worked your way through more difficult plans, you could handle this.

When you wake up on Tuesday morning, you get dressed quickly and sneak out of the pub without being seen. You're grateful you bought loose pants with a lot of pockets.

You've hidden your gun in your pants, and your knives are strapped around your thighs. You didn't expect there to be an escalation, but you liked to be prepared.

You arrive at the manor, which looks abandoned. There are no lights on yet, but then again it's barely dawn. The reason why you came here so early is so you could inspect the building.

There are at least four different escape routes you can see. But you didn't know if you woud still have access to them when the manor is swarming with drunk party guests. And guard. And, of course, a few disguised gang members.

You pick out a spot in an alley across from the manor, and wait.

When you first stared doing jobs like this one, you didn't have patience at all. It caused you to be sloppy, to make mistakes and miss opportunities. But over the years, you learned that patience is a valuable ally.

You sit in the alley for hours, eating the food you'd brought with you. You're observing the manor, watching as servants come and go in order to prepare the party that would take place later that day.

When the sun starts to go down, the party guests arrive. Your coworker had been right; they're all dressed in expensive looking clothes in the brightest colours. Jewellery shines on their ears, around their necks, on their fingers and wrists.

You're lucky you're patient. Otherwise you would have simply snatched a less valuable necklace. But you had your eyes set on a prize, and you're determined.

When most of the party guests have entered the manor, you sneak closer and enter through the door the servants had used all day. Luckily, there's no one in the room you enter.

All you have to do is follow the music to the main area, and find the merchant's wife. Easy.

You make your way through the hallways, occasionally stopping to take cover when you hear someone approaching. Finally, you make it to the room where the music is the loudest.

People are laughing, drinking and dancing. You'd love to be part of that life some day. To just spend your days dancing with your friends, playing dress up. But that kind of life would have to wait.

You scan the room from where you are standing, and spot a couple dancing in the middle of the room.

They're dressed in colours so bright they seem to light up the room. The woman is nearly entirely covered in shining gemstones. And on her chest rests a heavy necklace, a large diamond dangling from it.

You look around the room, but don't spot Jesper or Kaz. They aren't here yet, or you just hadn't seen them. You had to be careful. They knew what you looked like. And as soon as they caught sight of you, you didn't doubt they would tell their companions.

Behind you, a servant approaches with a tray laden with glasses of wine. You smile and walk up to him.

'I'll take it from here, Christensen said you could take a break.' you say, holding your hands out to take over the tray.

It surprises you how easily he hands it over to you. Was working at a party really that bad you'd take the first change of getting a break you got?

You don't have time to question it. You have to move quickly if you want to be out before the gang members arrive.

You manoeuvre your way through the crowd, and most people don't even seem to notice you're not wearing a servant's uniform. Maybe they're too drunk to notice. Or maybe they just don't care.

After spotting Christensen and his wife again, you make your way toward them. The music stops just about the same time as you reach them.

Before the next song starts, you make yourself trip, spilling wine all over Christensen's wife.

She lets out a yelp of surprise when the red liquid stains her dress. She furiously turns at you and you're quick to put on a shocked face.

'I am so sorry, my lady.' you say. 'I tripped, oh Saints, I'm so sorry.'

'Watch where you're going!' she says. 'You ruined my dress.'

'I'm sorry, I'll help you clean it up.' you say.

'You better.' says the merchant, Christensen, as he roughly takes a hold of your arm and pushes you to follow his wife out of the room.

You keep your eyes down as you follow her through the halls. She opens door after door, muttering to herself about useless servants. She stops when you've entered a bedroom.

She opens another door to reveal a bathroom. When she sees her dress in the mirror, she glares at you.

'I haven't seen you here before.' she says.

'I'm new.' you say, keeping your eyes on the floor.

'New and clumsy.' she says. 'Wait here while I change.'

She takes off her jewellery and shoes before disappearing in the bathroom, closing the door. You don't know how much time you have, so you move quickly.

You grab a hold of the necklace and shove it into one of your coat pockets. You're debating wether or not you can go back the same way you got here, but then you hear footsteps approaching.

You whirl around, and spot a window. You could climb down and get as far away from the manor as possible.

With three big steps, you make it to the window and open it. You carefully climb through the window and being to work your way down to the street.

Just when your feet hit the ground, you hear the merchant's wife scream.

'Thief!' she screams. 'I've been robbed!'

You smile as you start jogging toward the street, to go back to the pub. When you round the corner of the manor, you see a few people making their way toward it.

Two guards and three people dressed as elaborately as the other guests. For a split second, you wonder why three guests would be accompanied by two guards, but then you remember Jesper and Kaz' hushed conversation.

A grin starts to spread across your face. You'd been fast enough. They'd go in only to discover there was no necklace to steal.

You walk across the street, keeping your head down. In the distance, you hear the woman still screaming. She had made it to the main party room.

'My necklace!' she yells. 'That damned servant took it! Find her!'

You see the small group of people outside the manor stop, and turn to each other. You can tell they're confused as they talk to one another. Probably wondering what the odds were someone else would steal the necklace they had their eyes on.

They're all looking at each other, except for Kaz. You can see even more clearly now he's the leader. Instead of looking at his companions, he's suspiciously looking around, his eyes scanning the dark streets around the manor.

You smile to yourself and disappear into the shadows. If you had it your way, he'd never find out you'd outsmarted him.

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rules Here’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Marit

#kaz brekker #shadow and bone #grishaverse #Kaz Brekker x reader #kaz brekker fanfic #Kaz Brekker fanfiction #Kaz Brekker fanfics #Kaz Brekker fic #Kaz Brekker fics #shadow and bone fics #shadow and bone fanfics #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone fic #shadow and bone fanfiction #new in town

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salazarslytherin · 4 years

Text

happy days (f.w x gn!y/n)

requested: nope! send in your own requests here!

summary: in which fred takes y/n on a special date

cw/tw: like maybe 0.5% angst, 99.5% fluff

word count: 2.9k

🃛 masterlist!

a/n: i'm pretty sure reader is gender neutral in this one! i made sure not to use any pronouns or prominent mentions to y/n's body or anything. i really hope y'all like it, i don't really ever write fluff so i hope it's good! please leave a comment, like or reblog to help boost xx

“Jump!”

“What?! Are you insa-”

⚔︎.

It was probably a bad idea to be doing this. Actually, it was most definitely a bad idea to be doing this. But when has a ‘bad’ idea ever deterred the infamous Fred Weasley? In fact, the thought of anyone calling one of his ideas ‘bad’ just spelt encouragement in Fred’s mind.

You’d learnt that lesson two months into meeting the Weasley twins, and it’s only engrained itself in your mind further since. There’s never been a point to try to dissuade Fred, it’s best to just go along and hope the ride isn’t too bumpy along the way. After dating Fred, these bad ideas had expanded themselves to different categories- risky places to be intimate, weird ways to cheer you up with confessions of love, and dangerously stupid dates.

The last category was where today’s bad idea landed.

⚔︎.

Three days ago, Fred had the “most ingenious, marvellous, uniquely exciting date idea Hogwarts has ever seen!” He’d disappeared in the middle of lunch, dragging George along with him, mumbling to himself, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner!”, leaving you confused, sat alone in the Great Hall.

“Where are they going?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione popped up behind you, seating themselves down in the twins’ now deserted seats.

“I have absolutely no clue.”

⚔︎.

That’s how you found yourself here, two days later. A Saturday, you were all set to go on a Hogsmeade trip with some of your Ravenclaw friends when Fred ambushed you. Popping up out of a closet and scaring the living lights out of you, he dragged you behind him, laughing as you shouted at him.

“Freddie! What are you doing? I’m supposed to go meet Renee and the others right now!”

Regardless of the fact that Fred was making you miss plans you’d already made, you were beaming from ear to ear.

“Georgie’s already told ‘em you can’t make it. Now hurry up

This being your OWLs year, you’d hardly had the time to see Fred this term, busy studying while he went off doing whatever it was he did when you weren’t around. Being a year younger meant he had already studied everything you’d studied, and while he offered to help you a lot, you’d rather he go have fun than sit around revising old material with you.

Combined with the Triwizard Tournament and the fact that the twins saw this as the golden opportunity to sell products to customers other than Hogwarts student, you’d only had three dates in the almost three months since school had started.

“Where in the name of Merlin are you bringing me, Fred!”

“You’ll see soon enough darling!”

⚔︎.

Soon enough turned out to be ten minutes later, the two of you panting as you’d finally made it all the way across to the other side of the castle and up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

The sun was shining brightly down upon the two of you, the tall windows welcoming the late November winds into the room. A chest sat next to one of the ledges, Fred finally letting go of your hand for the first time in ten minutes, reaching down to open it.

He took a piece of cloth out, closing the chest before you could sneak a peek at the contents, tucking the wooden box under his arm.

“Is this the brilliant date idea you were talking about the other day? I’m not going to lie to you Freddie, cloth doesn’t really scream ingenious to me. In fact, it seems like you brought me up here to clean.”

Raising your eyebrows at the ginger, you gestured at the fabric in his hand as he laughed at you, stepping up onto the ledge.

“Fred? What’re you doing?!”

The boy turned towards you, holding out a hand.

“Come up here.”

Your eyes widened.

“No! Are you insane?”

Fred’s hand faltered a bit, arm relaxing against his body as he looked into your eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

Silent, you stepped up next to Fred, clinging onto his hip and arm, knees shaking slightly at the height you were at.

“I trust you with my life.”

Adjusting the chest under his arm, Fred pulled you into his embrace.

“That’s good to hear. Because it’s time.”

He looked down, dropping the piece of cloth, before tilting your head up to look at him, stepping one foot off the ledge and into the skies.

“Jump!”

“What?! Are you insa-”

You were cut off by screams erupting from your mouth as the ground disappeared below you- Fred pulling you with him, laughter bubbling from his chest.

“Oh my God, I’m going to die-”

You reached the ground a lot quicker than you’d thought possible, your eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the imminent death that would come.

Instead, you felt a weird, soft surface, almost like a water bed, rippling under you as you landed on your knees.

“Am I in heaven?”

Your eyes opened slowly, eyes meeting the clouds around you, only for a shadow to cover the sights surrounding you.

“No, but I think I am.”

A kiss landed on your lips as you fell back on the odd surface, Fred falling on top of you.

The kiss was short and sweet, but quickly forgotten as you remembered what had happened moments prior, hitting Fred on the chest as you took in your surroundings.

The surface you had landed on wasn’t a surface at all- in fact it was, a rug? It looked eerily similar to the cloth Fred had thrown off the tower earlier, only, about thirty times bigger, and flying.

You looked at Fred, confused. The tall ginger boy beamed back at you, gesturing grandly.

“Welcome, to your very own magic carpet ride!”

⚔︎.

After lecturing Fred on how incredibly dangerous the start of the date had been, you finally had the chance to process the reality of the date.

“Where are we going, then, on this magic carpet ride?”

The boy hummed, pulling out blankets and a pillow from the, now enlarged, chest, spreading them around the carpet that was hovering near the tip of the Astronomy Tower, awaiting further instruction from the two of you.

“Well first, I was thinking we could stop by Hogsmeade to get some snacks, maybe buy some of the Christmas gifts you wanted to go get today, then we’re flying off to explore Scotland! Well, the part of Scotland we’re in, anyways. Just for a few hours, then we’ll be back to watch the sunset.”

He looked at you for approval, which you granted with a wide smile.

“That sounds beautiful Fred.”

⚔︎.

Walking around Hogsmeade, Fred had shrunk the rug and tucked it into his pocket, the chest shrunk even smaller than it had been the first time you’d seen it.

“Alright, so I think you’ve gotten enough sugar quills to last you a lifetime. Where to next?”

Chewing on a sugar quill, you scrunched your nose in his direction, pulling him into the quaint little jewellery shop you liked to frequent.

The little old lady who owned the place was one you’d become acquainted with over the past five years, Mrs Kingston never minded that you rarely bought anything, understanding that most of her second-hand jewellery was still quite pricey for a student to afford.

Still, you tried your best to save up and buy the pieces you really liked. Recently, you’d been eyeing a necklace, a simple Celtic knot on a thin chain that shone brightly no matter how much light lit up the room. Mrs Kingston explained to you it was an old betrothal necklace, oft seen in pureblood families back in the Victorian era. It’s now seen worn by a lot of the heirs of these old families- in fact, you’d spotted Draco wearing an heirloom similar to it.

“Mrs Kingston!”

“Hello y/n, how are you?”

Fred nodded at the woman as he shuffled around the shop, looking in the display cabinets with vague interest whilst the two of you made small talk.

Your eyes wandered the familiar glass cabinet, landing on the soft velvet that was empty of the familiar Celtic knot, furrowed brows returning to meet Mrs Kingston's clouded eyes.

“The necklace!”

The woman nodded sadly, looking just as dejected as you felt.

“I'm sorry dearie. A boy came in a while ago to buy it. Might've been one of the ones you came with a few weeks back.”

Your head hung low, muttering out a soft 'oh' as she explained to you, nodding in response.

“It's okay Mrs Kingston. I'll see if there's something else I'd like to save up for instead. Thanks, see you next time!”

Thinking back to the last Hogsmeade trip when you'd come down to the shop, your heart lifted a bit, a smile returning to your face as you turned to face Fred.

“Alright, let's head to the bookstore.”

⚔︎.

The ginger's hand clutched yours tightly, the two of you cuddling under the thick blanket as you flew around mountains, pointing out animals, both magical and non-magical, that you'd seen around the place.

Fred looked at you quizzically. Since leaving Mrs Kingston's, you had seemingly forgotten the necklace. Even more, it seemed like you'd gotten happier since finding out someone had gotten the necklace. During the lunch you two had gotten at the Three Broomsticks, the both of you finding Madam Puddifoot's a bit nauseating, you were practically bouncing on your heels as you spoke to some of your friends about the upcoming Christmas celebrations.

“I thought you'd be more upset that the necklace is gone, I remember you talking about how much you liked it last time.”

You shrugged, a wider smile gracing your lips as you looked at him, nuzzling further into his chest.

“I love it! That's why I'm so happy Cedric got it for me. ”

Fred halted, pushing you away from him.

“I-, what! Why would Diggory be getting you a betrothal necklace?!”

You looked up at your boyfriend, furrowing your brows at his outburst.

“What! You know Ced's one of my best friends. Remember when we came to the shop a few weeks back? You, George and Lee were goofing around and then just bolted while I was telling Ced about the necklace. I guess he just came back to get it for me.”

Fred huffed, rolling his eyes as he heard you talk about Cedric, pulling away from you more.

“How could you be this blind!”

You looked at Fred, a bit hurt that he'd lost his temper at you for no reason.

“Why are you getting so worked up over this? It's not like he's proposing to me!”

The boy scoffed, throwing his hands up into the air.

“Well, it's clear that he'd do it without a thought! The boy's in love with you! That's the only reason why anyone would get you something that expensive!”

You laughed frigidly, shaking your head at how irrational your boyfriend was being, pushing the blanket off of you to move away from him.

“What, he can't just have gotten me the necklace because I'm a good friend? Merlin Fred, he's the only one who's actually been with me to go see the necklace, and is the only one who would logically know to get me the necklace.”

You turned to look him in the eye, your jaw clenching as he turned red.

“Besides, Cedric knows me best.”

Fred let out a frustrated 'ugh!', and grabbed the wooden chest that he'd charmed to stay in one corner, grumbling under his breath.

“You think Diggory's the one who knows you best? You think that he's the only one that could have gotten you the bloody necklace?”

A velvet box was brandished from somewhere deep in the chest, Fred propping it open to reveal a dazzling silver necklace, reflecting the afternoon sun into your eyes.

“The. I don't understand. But how?”

Fred snapped the box shut, moving to kneel in front of you.

“As I said just now, I know you best.”

He popped open the box again, this time moving to remove the necklace from the velvet, lifting it fully into the sunlight.

“I was listening when you were talking to Diggory, and even though I'd run away that day, I knew exactly what you wanted.”

He shuffled behind you, unclasping the necklace to bring it around your front.

“I said that he's in love with you, which I still think is true, by the way, and that's the reason why he would have possibly gotten it for you, is because I love you, and that's why I got it for you.”

The chain clipped around your neck, the cool metal contrasting your warm skin as Fred leaned down to press a kiss above the clasp, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Freddie, I had no idea.”

You spun around to face your boyfriend, pressing a deep kiss to his lips, hands landing on his neck to pull him impossibly closer to yourself.

“Clearly. I had this whole plan! All foiled by your cluelessness. I was going to wait until sunset, with the scenery all around us, then surprise you with it and ask you to be my date to the Yule Ball!”

You looked at Fred, your mouth falling open in shock.

“But you just had to bring up Cedric, and how he 'knows you best'. Maybe you should go with him to the Ball.”

You chuckled at the childishness of the Weasley boy in front of you, the pout framing his lips deepening as you laughed at him.

“Well then maybe you should go with Angie, I'm sure she'd be happy to have you.”

Fred gasped loudly, shocked at the audacity of you bringing up his old crush.

“Don't you even dare suggest that.”

⚔︎.

“How did you think of all this?”

The boy shrugged, opening the chest, to pull out a thermos. You were sat above the Black Lake, watching the setting sun on the horizon ahead, red bleeding into orange and blue.

“Honestly, I’m ashamed it took me so long. Remember this summer when you had me ‘round your place and we watched Aladdin with your parents?”

You nodded, fluffing the pillows to make yourself more comfortable, the setting sun casting shadows on the Weasley boy, making him look even more handsome than usual, if that was even possible.

“At that time, I’d already thought that the magic carpet seemed awfully similar to a broom. Then, that day at lunch some firstie was humming that one song they sang when flying the blasted thing, and I thought, blimey! Why didn’t I think to just recreate the bloody thing! So, here we are.”

While talking, Fred spread the thick blanket to cover more of you, pouring hot chocolate out of the thermos he’d brought into mugs that he’d gotten without you knowing, both shaped in little hearts.

“D’you, um, d’you like it?”

Handing the pink mug to you, a sheen of red descended on your boyfriend’s cheeks, not just from the cold, but also fear and embarrassment, scared you didn’t like the date he’d spent the last three days planning.

“I love it!”

You leaned forward, planting a soft kiss on Fred’s lips, leaving traces of cocoa on them.

“But I didn’t love the part where you made me think I was plunging sixty feet to my death!”

The boy groaned playfully, lying back onto the carpet with his head hanging over the edge.

“I know! I’m sorry! I just thought it’d be exciting! A nice surprise! Besides, did you really think I’d let my lovely little Y/N die? I need you around darling.”

You scoffed, sipping on the hot cocoa as you stared at the Astronomy Tower in the distance, your first and now, final destination of the day, a hand creeping towards Fred’s to hold it in a tight grip, unconsciously afraid he’d fall.

“I don’t know! Maybe this was your ultimate prank! Bring us both to heaven to fight God or something.”

Now it was Fred’s turn to scoff, sitting back up to shove his hands under the blanket, squeezing your hand in return.

“First off, if I ever fought God I’d need George there with me. I don’t think that just the two of us could take him. Secondly,”

Fred cupped your chin with his free hand, bringing you in for a deep kiss, catching you by surprise as you braced yourself on his shoulder with your free hand. His tongue teased your lower lip, making a moan slip out while his tongue entered your mouth. Exploring each other, your entangled hands fell apart- his coming to grasp your neck, bringing you closer to him, yours gripping his hip, drawing circles on the bone.

After what seemed like an hour, but also felt like seconds, the two of you fell apart, breathless as you panted, staring into each other’s eyes.

“I don’t think either of us are making it to heaven darling. Think we’re condemned to hell forever, you and I.”

You looked into his coffee coloured eyes, pupils dilated as he scanned your face, his favourite pastime, memorising every crevice and pore. Your hand found its way to the necklace sitting around your neck, fingering the knot that symbolised eternity in your hands.

“Well if I’m going to burn in hell for an eternity, then I’m glad I’ll be burning with you Freddie.”

#mine #writing #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter oneshot #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #harry potter fluff #fred weasley oneshot #gender neutral reader #fred weasley x gender neutral reader #hp angst #hp imagine #hp oneshot #hp smut #fred weasley smut #fred weasley angst

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wandsandwheezes · 4 years

Text

Fake It | Weasley Twins | CH6

one // two // three // four // five

Warnings | 18+ SMUT, mature themes, fake relationships, secret relationships, love, sex, drama, angst, fluff, masturbation, hate sex, heartbreak, blood

Summary // Fred Weasley has been set up to publicly date Y/N, London’s best Quidditch Seeker in order to drum up some publicity. Y/N however has a different ginger man on her mind; George Weasley.

A/N // thank you to my angst goblin, Lanie @gcdric and my angel Zahra @starlightweasley for helping me get this one out bc otherwise id be STUCK

One new message

The sound of the answer machine rang through Fred’s flat, he was staring out over London and her twinkling lights. His waistcoat was loose, hanging open at his chest - tie discarded the moment he stumbled through the door. He’d pretty much flung the sliding glass door to the balcony open, letting the biter breeze whip through his hair, blowing the once still curtain so that it flew in a way that mimicked the way a superhero’s cape flows.

The night of partying had been a wild but well needed distraction. Fred couldn’t stop the image of your kiss from playing over and over in his head, his fingers ghosted over where the absent feeling of your lips lingered, wishing you were here.

“Freddie…” You breathed down the phone, your words slurred still as the liquor clung to your senses.

“About what happened tonight, I don’t think it was-” His heart began to race at the simple thought, the steamy kiss was crossing his mind once again, He heard you take a moment, a pause for thought and he held his breath with you.

“I just - we need to talk. We- I have something to tell you.” You sighed, he was praying he could just call you back, checking his watch, he knew it was too late. What If he did call, would that be so bad?

“I’m sorry, Fred.” the sound of you putting down the phone echoed in his brain. Sorry. What could you possibly be sorry for? It could possibly be one of the best kisses of his life. He couldn’t deny the electricity that he felt from tip to toe and he knew deep down that you felt it too. So why did he feel a pang of sadness hit his chest, winding him like a dementor was sucking the soul out of his body.

Fred fell asleep that night clutching his pillow as he imagined you in its place. He wasn’t sure what made the tears roll down his cheeks, but shrugged it off as the alcohol getting to him. He was snivelling, contemplating leaving you a text. He needed you to know how he felt, that he was aching for you to be with him. He didn’t want things to just be staged anymore, there was undeniable chemistry there between you, he felt it in the way you looked at him. Surely it would be better if you were his, he could kiss and hold you all he wanted without the need for press or cameras. You could have a beautiful, normal life together. You were one of the last thoughts on his brain as he drifted off, his grip against the plush pillow only growing tighter out of desperation.

Waking to the midday sun shining directly into his eyes wasn’t making the pounding headache rattling around in his skull any better. Fred didn’t remember anything about how or when he got home, only recalling the mellow flow of your voice reverberating around his flat. He managed to drag himself from his bed, searching every unorganised cabinet for the sight of even one lonely ibuprofen, sighing as his head fell to rest on the counter with no luck. He realised the grave mistake he had made when his head started thumping, the room spinning and his sight going hazy. Water, he needed hydration.

Two pints of water later, Fred was still feeling the sour effects of last night’s burning liquor, feeling the burn in his chest with every breath, like all the liquid was ready to come right back up at any moment. He sat himself down at the island counter as he pressed the button to replay the voicemail from last night.

I’m Sorry.

The words wouldn’t leave him, he replayed the voicemail over and over, internalising every single word as it played through the speakers. He sat for hours, sat too long until his feet had gone numb from dangling over the seat. The Great British weather had taken its turn for the worst, a clap of thunder distracting Fred from his thoughts, not knowing how deeply the words were hitting him, until he felt a tear drop against the back of his hand. It was too much for him, realising that he needed to see you, touch you, feel you.

I’m Sorry

His feet dragged him towards your place, he didn’t care that he’d been walking for miles or that the rain was drenching him to his very core. It was desperation that drove him to find you. It was like a sign to him that one lonely red rose grew from a bush he passed, stopping dead in his tracks before turning around to look at it. He plucked it from the bush, holding it up to his nose, breathing in the scent. Rose petals mixed with the cold drizzle and muggy air sent him over the edge. He was walking quicker now so that he could get to you, pace kicking up into a small jog, his shoes slapping against the wet pavement with each step.

One light shone dimly from the confines of your apartment. Fred stood outside, debating how he was going to approach this conversation. He loved you, wanted you to be his and he struggled in that moment to find the appropriate words to express it. You were towel drying your hair, supposedly from the rain as you came into view by the window. You looked like an angel, a pure piece of heaven on earth and his heart beat faster, beginning to move closer to the flat’s entrance. That’s when he spotted another figure coming into view from the window, face covered by the towel as you dried their hair. Whoever it was, had at least a foot on you height wise, their hands snaking around your waist to pull you tight and close to them.

Fred’s heart sunk, like it had fully fallen out of his ass, seeing you in the arms of another man made his stomach churn, his grip on the rose growing tighter as the thorns pierced his skin. He didn’t even feel the pain, just the emptiness in his chest. He watched as you pulled the towel from the figure’s face.

The messy ginger hair, round cheeks and adoring smile were obvious. Fred knew exactly who he was seeing, he was blinking so hard wishing that it was just a terrible nightmare. As George’s lips connected with yours, it was as if it rumbled Zeus himself, a bolt of lightning illuminating the dark sky. It was like watching his whole world come crashing down, watching you chase his brother’s lips desperately, the same way you had done with him last night. He couldn’t help but watch as the kiss deepened, George using his strength to pick you up, watching your legs wrap around his waist, walking out of sight.

It was like watching a glimpse of a life he’d never have, the rose fell to the floor, petals breaking off of the stem. Blood was dripping from his hand to the floor, diluted by the rain as it splashed against the stone. Not a single car drove by your house, not one person was outside but Fred in that moment. Loneliness was the only bitter feeling left, it tasted like hell in his mouth, unable to shake the image of you and George together, only hearing two words in his head over and over like a broken record.

I’m Sorry.

Raindrops danced along Fred’s skin, the soft pitter patter mocking him, everything reminded him of you, even in a moment of heartbreak, the glow of Christmas lights, the thunder or the distant sound of horns beeping at one another, it all reminded him of you in the most ridiculous way. His phone chimed, pulling up the messages he realised that his thoughts had overpowered the importance of the messages.

>> I miss your touch Freddie

>> I can come see you tonight

>> why aren’t you responding Fred?

>> don’t you love me?

‘Maybe this is what I need’ Fred thought, Perhaps he needed the out, the quick fuck to get the aggression out of his system. They say it’s wrong to sleep with your boss, but Cherry wasn’t his boss, she was just the publicist. The publicist you shared. If you could sleep with anyone you wanted, why should he feel guilty about it now? After all, if there was one woman who could help him forget, It would be Cheryl.

<< sorry, doll

<< of course i love you

<< come see me x

>> I won’t be long, i’m so desperate for you, Freddie x

It was wrong for him to say that, especially when he didn’t love cherry. Not one ounce of his body felt a connection deeper than just sex. That's all it was to him with Cherry; mindless, carefree sex. Why he kept going back to her like a lost puppy however, was still up for debate.

Cheryl wasn't an unattractive woman, but she wasn't you. She was taller, accentuated by her constant need to wear heels, not that it mattered much to Fred when he towered above most people he met. She had long blonde hair that was always beach waved and perfectly sun-kissed skin like a Miami model. Fred didn't care too much about superficial looks, but it was undeniable that part of the reason he enjoyed Cherry so much was the way her tits, although obviously fake, would bounce in his face begging to be touched as she sank down onto him or the way her full lips looked as they wrapped around his throbbing cock. Fucking Cheryl from behind was as much fun, he had all the ass he could hold onto before him and a tight cunt that always struggled to take him.

Reaching his home Cherry was already waiting for him. She spun around as soon as his presence behind her was felt, lips attaching to his immediately. The red lipstick she wore while unique to her, was now being transferred to the man's lips as they kissed. He wasn't disappointed to be kissing someone, it was disappointment that it wasn't you. Your kisses were heaven compared to what he was getting now, he found himself picturing you in his arms and that seemed to work.

They wasted no time stripping each other's clothes off, Fred was aching to pound his cock into something, even if it had to be Cherry. When the girl tried to straddle him, he grabbed her hips, throwing her against the mattress, causing a giggle to erupt from her lips. "Hands and knees tonight, Doll."

Being seethed inside Cherry felt amazing. He tried to stretch her out, push as much of himself inside as he could, but she was simply so tight. The pace he set was animalistic, fucking the girl raw against the sheets, he couldn't stand to look at her, closing his eyes and pretending it was the girl he’d been longing for. It wasn't enough, he needed more control. Fred's hand was pushing Cherry's face into the sheets, his thrusts more violent and possessive as he continued fucking her senseless.

Back at your home, George was seethed all the way inside you, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. The way you two fit together was like lock and key, a perfect size for each other. "I'm so deep inside of you princess, can you feel me in your belly?" You were nodding, grabbing his hand to press against your abdomen, his thrusts were slow and purposeful, he was trying to make you cum over and over and over again tonight and you were already waiting for number four. "Yes Georgie, right here, it feels so good when you fill me up." he hummed as he felt the tip of his cock hitting where his hand was pressed with every thrust. His precious girl. All for him.

Fred was on the edge, skin slapping as he chased his orgasm, Not caring much for Cherry's desperate moans, no matter how good he was making her feel. He wanted her to shut up, it sounded so fake, but he was ready to release, pulling out to let his cum drip over the curve of her ass. He flopped on the bed next to her, immediately feeling her hand on his cock, stroking gently. "You're so good, Freddie, So big."

She took him into her mouth with ease, it was the only time he could be fully inside of her. His head was back against the mattress as he pictures your soft lips replacing hers. His hand came up to stroke her hair as she continued sucking him off. Try as he might to cum again, he knew it wasn’t your hand on his cock, or your lips. It was another woman, the thought made him sick to his stomach, forcing him to sit bolt upright, pulling himself away from the naked girl on his bed.

“I can’t do this.” he grumbled, grabbing the boxers he had discarded on the floor, pulling them up. Cherry sighed, running a hand through her hair and pulling it over her shoulder, “Do you want me to stay Freddie?” she smiled, playing with the ends of hair as she watched him walk into his bathroom across the hall. “I don’t care.” he spoke plainly, the hurt in his chest hitting him once again as he slammed the door behind him.

He could still hear the hums and moans you made against his lips. As he leant against the shut door, his hand reached down to start palming himself, feeling himself grow hard again at the thought of you. He was picturing you sprawled out on his bed, begging for him, using your mouth to get him off - He was getting close again as he imagined slamming his hips into you. Just as he reached his peak again, one thought plagued his mind, you moaning his twins name. His heart broke again as he came, sighing as he realised that he was too late. You weren’t his to have.

/// TO BE CONTINUED /// >>>>>> Chapter Seven

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#Fake It Fic #fred weasley #fred weasley fic #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fluff #fred and george #fred weasley smut #gred and forge #george weasley fic #george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley smut #weasley twins #harry potter #harry potter fic #ginger hair #harry potter smut #Smut

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jensengirl83 · 4 years

Text

Unsung Verses Chapter 7

Rockstar!Dean x plus sized reader

Word Count- 4201

Summary-Y/N and Dean have been best friends since high school, in a band together, and dated for a year but decided they were better off friends. They play gig after gig trying to get discovered, but once they sign a record deal, will fame be all it’s cracked up to be? Or will it be too much for their relationship to handle? Join them on their adventure to fame and find out!

Warnings- Angst, Fluff, Language, Smut

A/N- Song in this cahpter is “You’re The One That I Want” by John Travolta and Olivia Newton John from the movie Grease. I hope everyone enjoys!

Lyrics will be in italics.

Thank you to @deanwanddamons for being my beta for this series!

Text dividers made by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist

Series Spotify Playlist

The playlist is a big part of the series!

Y/N’s eyes were beginning to strain as she drove down the interstate. They had been on the road for around ten hours now, and she had been driving the last four. She had made Dean let her take over when she noticed his eyes beginning to droop. She had managed to get a few hours of sleep and wanted to let him rest for a little while. Once the sun was fully risen, the odd lighting of the sky should dissipate and ease the strain on her eyes. At least she hoped it would.

“Where are we?” Dean’s groggy voice interrupted her train of thought.

“About an hour outside of Grand Junction, Colorado,” she laughed when she glanced over and noticed his hair. It was sticking up all over his head.

“That’s pretty much halfway. We’ll stop there and get a room and some food. I could use a shower,” he grumbled, sitting up in the seat.

“You sure? I can keep driving for a little while,”

“I’m sure, babe. You could use a break and food too, I’m sure,” he yawned, still trying to wake up fully.

“Okay. I guess I could eat something when we get there,” she said, smiling at him as he took her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips.

“Yeah, and I know we could both use more sleep,” he stated.

“Not going to argue with you on that one,” she laughed.

They made small talk as Y/N drove them to Grand Junction, discussing subjects like what they wanted to eat and which hotel they should stay in. Dean had been searching Google for which ones were on route. They decided on Motel 6 and the diner across the street from it, agreeing there was no need to be extravagant since they were only there to eat and sleep before they got back on the road.

Y/N sighed in relief as she pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine, needing food and a bathroom. She opened the door and exited the car, stretching her arms over her head to loosen her muscles, Dean laughing at the exaggerated groan that left her. He walked around the front of the Impala and kissed her on the forehead.

“I’ll go get us a room, and you can go ahead to the diner and get us a table, sweetheart,” he said.

“First thing I’m doing when I get to the diner is using their bathroom!” she exclaimed.

“I swear, you have the bladder of a toddler,” Dean huffed with a smile.

“Shut it, Angus!” she groaned in faux annoyance.

“Okay, go pee, and I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he shouted over his shoulder as he walked to the lobby.

He didn’t have to tell her twice. She was across the street and through the door in a matter of seconds, going straight for their facilities. Once she was done and her hands washed, she made her way to a booth, sliding in and looking over the menu as she waited for Dean to join her. She hadn’t been looking at the menu for very long when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Looking up, she saw a man standing by their table, a smirk on his face.

“Hey there. Mind if I join you?”

“Actually, I do. My boyfriend is on his way,” she said, trying to be nice but as firm as she could.

“Come on now. No need to lie to me,” he chuckled, obviously not getting it.

“I’m not lying. Now, could you please leave?” she asked, her tone a lot sharper than before.

“Hey, sweetheart. Who’s this?” Dean questioned, walking up to the booth and sitting across from her.

“No one. I’m leaving,” the man said, turning to walk away briskly.

“Okay...Well, what looks good, Freddie?” Dean asked her like nothing was going on.

“Really? You have nothing to say about that?” she was confused about how he was acting as if no one had been standing there trying to hit on her.

“What do you want me to say? I know there’s no reason for me to be worried about guys trying to pick you up,”

She thought she could physically feel her heart shatter with his words. She knew she was overweight and not the most attractive woman out there, but Dean saying he had nothing to worry about because of it really hurt. Why would he even say something like that to her?

“Where’s the room key?” she asked, her voice trying to break.

“Why? What’s wrong?” his voice laced with concern.

“The key?” she growled, holding her hand out.

“No, not until you tell me what’s going on,” he sighed, confused about what was going on.

“I’m not making a scene in here, Dean. Just give me the damn key!” she glared at him, trying to keep back her tears until she was alone in their room.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I just got here, and you’re pissed at me? What could I have done in two minutes?” he asked, raising his voice a little.

“Dean…”

“Here, there’s the key,” he slid it across the table to her, “I don’t know what happened, but this is ridiculous,”

“Just as ridiculous as dating the unattractive, fat girl that you don’t have to worry about anyone wanting, huh?” she fumed, leaving him sitting at the table with his jaw slack in shock.

She was in tears, choking back sobs as she crossed the street and into the hotel. All she wanted was to get to their room and lock herself in the bathroom. She should have known that a man as attractive as Dean would ever honestly want her or think she was beautiful. Sure, she wasn’t a dog, but she wasn’t a supermodel either.

Her hands shook as she got the door to their room open, dropping the key on the chest of drawers and throwing herself on the bed. She had wanted to hide in the bathroom but couldn’t bring herself to make it that far. She had the key anyway, so it wasn’t like he could get in to bother her. She was so lost in her misery that she didn’t hear the door open and Dean entering the room.

“Y/N, baby, talk to me, please!” he pleaded, laying on the bed and curling up to her back, “Why would you ever think something like that?”

“How did you get in here?” she asked.

“They gave me two keys. Now, talk to me,” he whispered.

“Just leave me alone,” she sobbed, feeling him cuddled to her back, making her even more self-conscious.

“Freddie...Please. Is it because I said I wasn’t jealous?” he begged, running his hand up and down her side.

“You said you didn’t have anything to worry about as if you knew that no one would want me!” she cried.

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s not what I meant. I meant that I trusted you, and I know you would never hurt me like that. I’m crazy jealous! I was trying to hide it because I thought it would make you think I didn’t trust you,” he whispered in her ear, leaving light kisses on her neck and shoulder.

“Really?” she whimpered, turning over to look at him.

“I promise! I’m crazy about you, darlin’. You should know that. I can hardly keep my hands off of you!” he chuckled.

“But why? You could get someone so much better than me,” she sighed.

“Are you kidding me?! You’re all I want. You’re beautiful, smart, caring, and sexy as hell,” he growled, nibbling on her neck.

“Dean…” she moaned, his mouth on her sending heat straight to her core.

“Let me show you how much I want you, Y/N. No other woman has ever turned me on as you do,” he said, moving his lips from her neck to her shoulder and then to her collar bone.

She didn’t answer him, just let him continue his path down her chest, his lips kissing every inch on the way down. Her skin felt like it was on fire anywhere he touched her, a feeling no other man has ever given her. His hands were calloused from playing the guitar and working on the Impala, but so gentle when they were gliding across her skin.

She couldn’t stop the moan that passed her lips as his hands slid under her shirt, running up her sides to cup her breasts and squeeze lightly, thumbing her nipples through her cotton bra. She arched her back into his touch, her core clenching around nothing as he teased her. He lifted her shirt over her breasts and pulled one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking lightly through the fabric, eliciting another moan from her, before removing her shirt to reveal her partially naked chest to him.

“So damn beautiful,” he whispered against her skin, looking up to lock eyes with her, “Always driving me crazy, making me so hard,”

He didn’t wait for a response before reaching behind her and popping the clasp of her bra, throwing it across the room. He kissed his way back up her chest, her neck, and across her jaw, finally making it to her lips. There was no rush in the kiss. His lips were moving with a softness that left her breathless, his tongue caressing hers as if it was the most fragile thing on the earth. His hands were warm and soft against her cheeks as he held her, showing her how much he wanted her without a word spoken.

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” he whispered against her kiss swollen lips, both of them panting with desire, “There will never be another woman for me, sweetheart,”

“I love you…” she moaned as his hand slid under the waistband of her jeans and rubbed over her clothed heat.

His fingers felt so good against her, moving slowly over her panties, pressing against her clit every so often. He removed his hand and popped the button to her jeans, moving down her body to pull them and her panties off in one go. Once he had them off and had disposed of them, he sat back and looked at her with an expression of awe. He would never be able to put into words how beautiful she was and how much she meant to him, but he would never stop trying to show her.

He stood and undressed, his eyes never leaving her, taking in the sight of her panting and wrecked, waiting for him. He didn’t think he had ever been so turned on as he was when he was with her, but it wasn’t just sex when he was with her. He wanted to please her, not even caring about himself.

She watched as he moved in between her legs, his muscular body hovering over her, holding himself up with his forearms. The warmth of his body caused her to shiver, not because she was cold but from the anticipation of feeling him inside her.

“You ready, sweetheart?” He whispered, his forehead pressed against hers.

“Please…” she begged, needing to feel him.

He smiled at the tremor in her voice, knowing she wanted him as much as he did her. Reaching between them, he lined himself up at her entrance and moved his hips enough to slide in just an inch. He pulled and pushed a few times, both groaning as he became fully seated inside her. He buried his face in her neck as he gave them a moment to adjust to each other. Y/N rolled her eyes in ecstasy with how he filled and stretched her in the best of ways.

“Fuck...so tight, baby. Feels so good,”

“Move, Dean. Please…” she moaned, moving her hips against him.

“Patience, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you,” he growled, nibbling on her ear.

He withdrew his hips and moved back in at a slow pace, hitting that spot in her with every thrust. His hips were pushing against her sensitive bud, driving her to the edge faster than she had anticipated. The sound of their wanton moans and skin against skin was all that could be heard as she felt the coil tighten in her belly.

“I-I’m so c-close,” she whined, her body beginning to shake.

“Come for me, beautiful. I’m right behind you,” his voice was wrecked with desire, “I need to feel you let go for me,”

That’s all it took, and she was coming, his name passing her lips in a breathless chant. She wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him deeper into her, causing him to fall over the edge. His thrusts became erratic before he stilled deep, hips pressed against hers, moaning filthy praises in her ear, and came. His body shook as he tried to hold himself above her, not wanting to crush her as he tried to catch his breath.

After a few minutes of light kisses and whispered praises, he moved to stand and walked to the bathroom, coming back out with a washcloth to clean her and then himself. Y/N smiled, feeling loved and content with how he wanted to take care of her. Once he crawled in bed beside her, she rolled to lay her head on his chest, his arm pulling her closer.

“I don’t want you ever thinking that you’re aren’t exactly who I want, Freddie. Do you hear me? I’ve never been as happy as I am when I’m with you,” he whispered, kissing her head.

“I’m sorry. I let my insecurities get to me when I shouldn’t,” she sighed, knowing it was something she had to work on.

“You don’t have to apologize. Just promise me next time you feel this way, you’ll come and talk to me so I can show you just how beautiful you are and how much I love you,” he said, squeezing her against him.

“I promise,” she smiled. How did she ever get so lucky?

“Get some rest, sweetheart. We still have a long drive ahead of us,”

He tilted her chin, so she was looking at him, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. They both were exhausted and needed the rest. Y/N fell asleep in his arms with a smile on her face, never feeling as loved as she did when she was with him, and she was determined to show him just what he meant to her too.

Y/N was loading their overnight bag in the trunk when Dean walked back from the diner, bag of food and coffee in hand. She laughed at the goofy grin on his face as he shook the bag at her, holding it up in the air like a trophy. Granted, they were both starving since breakfast had got ruined earlier.

Dusk was beginning to settle in as the sun sank lower in the sky, both of them agreeing that they enjoyed driving better at night. There was less traffic to deal with, and there was just something so peaceful about driving with the stars in the sky above them. Y/N settled in the passenger’s seat as Dean got in and handed her a cup of coffee, sitting the bag of food between them.

“I just talked to Sam. They will be landing around ten in the morning. I figured with what drive time we have left and a few pit stops, we should make it at the same time,” he told her before taking a bite out of his burger.

“Sounds good. I’ve really enjoyed this trip with you, but I’m ready to get there,” she laughed at Dean’s fake pouting.

“I see how it is. You just can’t wait to get away from me!” he said, clutching his chest in fake hurt.

“Calm down, drama king! You do remember we are going to be living together, right?” she asked with a chuckle.

“Oh, I remember, sweetheart. It’s just going to be you and me. The fun we’re going to have christening that penthouse,” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Is that all you ever think about?” she asked, rolling her eyes but with a smile on her face.

“When I’ve got a woman that looks like you, how am I not supposed to think about it?” he whispered, leaning over to kiss on her neck.

“Okay, Casanova. We have to get on the road,” she giggled, shoving him away by his face.

“Fine, fine. But once we get to L.A., you’re all mine, darlin’,” he winked.

“I’m forever all yours,” she said sweetly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Dean smiled and kissed her with passion, her face cupped in his strong hands. How could she make him fall even more in love with her by the day? It didn’t seem possible, but here he was, absolutely and irrevocably head over heels in love with her. He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as he put Baby in gear and headed for the interstate, ready to get to their new home and to start their new life together.

Y/N felt the relief wash over her as she pulled up in front of their building and turned off the engine. She had been driving the last six hours so Dean could nap, and she was exhausted and ready to rest. Sam and Cas should be getting there at any time, and she knew they still had to unpack their things. She sighed, just wanting to forget it all and go to sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“Dean, we’re here. Wake up,”

“Huh? What? Already?” he grumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes and sitting up to look around.

“Yes, grumpy bear, already,” she laughed at the bitch face he gave her.

“Uhh...We still have to unpack!” he complained, throwing his head back against the seat.

“Yes, we do, so come on, let’s get this over with,” she groaned, getting out of the Impala and walking back to the trailer.

Dean soon joined her, and they began unloading their belongings when Sam, Cas, Meg, and Jess pulled up in the cab they took from the airport. Everyone greeted each other with hugs and pleasantries before Dean started to complain again.

“I’m so tired, and we have to haul all this shit up to the apartment,”

“I’m tired too, but it’s not going to get done if we just stand here and bitch and moan about it,” Y/N huffed.

“Oh, really? You mean you can’t twitch your nose and make it all appear upstairs?” he asked with a smirk.

“Unfortunately, I’m not a witch, but if I were, my first action would be to curse you not to speak,” she sassed, everyone but Dean laughing.

“Are you sure about that?” he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Yes. Your dick would still work if you couldn’t talk,” she quipped.

“So, you’re going to dis little Dean, huh?” he growled.

“You’re the one that just called him little…” she laughed.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough of that. Let’s get this stuff upstairs before you guys kill each other,” Sam chuckled.

“She started it,” Dean whined, picking up a box and walking toward the building.

Everyone laughed at his whining before grabbing a box and following him into the building and to the elevators. It only took a little over an hour to get everything in their penthouse with the others’ help. Y/N and Dean were ecstatic to be done moving everything in. Yes, they still needed to unpack, but they could do that slowly, resting in between. They were both lounging on the couch when he reached over and grabbed her hand, catching her attention.

“Do you really not want me to talk?” he asked with a pout.

“Aww, honey, you know I was joking. You were tired and grumpy. I was just messing with you,” she chuckled, leaning to peck him on the lips.

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise. Are you okay, Dean?” she was puzzled by his sudden questioning.

“I’m okay. I worry I’m not what you want sometimes,” he told her, hanging his head.

“C’mere,” she whispered, gesturing for him to lay his head in her lap.

He gave her a weak smile as he hurried over and laid on the couch, resting his head in her lap and wrapping his arms around her thigh. She began running her fingers through his hair, visibly seeing him relax. She smiled down at him, seeing the exhaustion and insecurity in his eyes. It broke her heart to see him when he got this way. She would never understand how a man that looked like him could ever be insecure about himself.

“Angus, I love you. I know we bicker sometimes, and I can be a little bitchy, but I’ve never been so sure of anything as I am that I want you. So, stop your worrying, and let’s enjoy this new chapter in our lives,” she reassured him.

“How do you know just what to say and do to make me feel better?” he whispered, nuzzling his face into her lower abdomen.

“We’ve known each other for over a decade now. If I didn’t know you by now, then I deserve the worst girlfriend in the world award,” she giggled, him already shaking his head in her lap.

“Nope! No ma’am! That is the last thing you deserve,” he vehemently disagreed.

“Well, thank you, my dear. Now, how about we get some of this stuff unpacked so we can rest more later?” she smiled, hands still in his hair.

“Alright, let’s do it,” he groaned, standing up and reaching for her hand, pulling her up and into a hug.

“Love you too, Freddie,” he declared, kissing her forehead before walking to a box to get started unpacking.

She smiled at his retreating form. She hated to see him go but loved to watch him leave. He had the cutest butt she had ever seen and could stare at it all day. The way his jeans cling to it when he bent over or moved his legs to take a step… She shook her head to get the thoughts out of her head. They had work to do, and she could stare at his ass later. She giggled to herself as she hit shuffle on her phone, needing music to pump her up and get her moving. She cackled at the song that started to play.

“Dean!” she yelled, turning to see a mirrored smile on his face.

“Oh, Freddie, that was the good ole days,” he laughed, wrapping her in his arms and spinning her around, singing the lyrics to her.

I got chills

They're multiplyin'

And I'm losin' control

'Cause the power

You're supplyin'

It's electrifyin'!

She giggled as he continued to sing and spin her around the room. One of their favorite times in high school was when they performed “Grease”. Dean the lead role as Danny, and Y/N as Sandy.

You better shape up,

'Cause I need a man

And my heart is set on you

You better shape up

You better understand

To my heart I must be true

She sang the next verse, doing her best Sandy impression, causing him to laugh now. They were still dancing around the room as they both took a deep breath to sing the next verse together.

You're the one that I want

You, oo, oo, honey

The one that I want

You, oo, oo, honey

The one that I want

You, oo, oo

Are what I need

Oh, yes indeed

They ended the verse in a fit of laughter, reminiscing the great times they had performing musical theater together. He spun her around one last time, pulling her back flush against him. His smile turned into a smirk as he looked at her mouth and licked his lips, leaning in and kissing her hard.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam’s voice broke them apart.

“Yes, you are actually! And have you ever heard of knocking?” Dean huffed.

“I did. You couldn’t hear me over the singing and teenage giggles,” he smirked.

“What do you need, Sam?” she asked sweetly, laying her head on Dean’s chest.

“We’re all going out to get dinner. You want to join us?” he smiled.

“Nah, we’ll order a pizza later,” she declined, “We have things we need to do here,”

“Oh, yes, we do!” Dean moaned into her neck, kissing and nibbling.

“Alright! I’m outta here!” the younger Winchester shouted, letting himself out, shutting the door behind him.

“Now, where were we?” he chuckled, trying to kiss her again, but she stopped him.

“We were unpacking these boxes, Romeo,” she laughed.

“But, sweetheart…” he whined.

“Later. I promise,” she winked, “After we get some things put away and go get dinner,”

“Fine, but you’re getting me pie!” he exclaimed, pointing his finger at her playfully.

“Of course, dear,” she said, rolling her eyes and making her way back to the stack of boxes that weren’t going to unpack themselves.

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years

Text

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.

R E A D P A R T O N E H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?” he answers politely.

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.

“And what can I do for you, madam?”

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly. He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.

He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!” She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams. He looks away,

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.

February 12th, 1953

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.

He only has one painting left. But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.

The paintings leaned against the wall. He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.

And it hits him then, like a collision.

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.

But what choice did he have?

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

February 14th, 1953

Timothée writes a new letter.

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way. Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.

One day at a time.

Yours,

Timothée

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.

1st of Mars, 1953

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet. He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.

“How- how?”

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner. About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.” she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.

“Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.

Nearly.

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy. And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”. “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”. He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness. But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt. “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room. “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully. “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn��t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought. And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?” “In what colour?” “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”. The room goes very still for a moment. “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small. And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back. “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.” You stare at him, taken aback. “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?” Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you. “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time. He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you. He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this. “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver. The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs. He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you. He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs. “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”. “Yes” you moan. He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words. You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven. And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps. * After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever. How do you do something even though it kills you? “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him. “For everything?” “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.” Because it’s the right thing to do.

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown. “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on. And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion.

* “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

* It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”. “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”. And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.” the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.

“My family” “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.

Then you leave. A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England. Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling.

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.

#timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothèe chalamet #timothée x reader #timothée x you #timothée chalamet #timothee imagine #timothee fanfic

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velvetthunder1999 · 4 years

Text

All the time on Earth

Part 12 - The Third Task

Summary: George introduces you to his mum, and comforts you after the third task. Separating for the summer leaves both of you feel quite miserable.

Warnings: Little fluff, little angst, death (Cedric’s)

Word count: 3.5K

George Weasley x Reader

Masterlist

You had already been up for an hour now but you couldn’t move. George was still asleep on top of you, pinning you completely to the bed. He burried his face into your neck, his arms and legs hugging you in his sleep. You were terribly uncomfortable by this time, still wouldn’t move for the world. You were gently stroking his hair while he peacefully rested in your arms.

Yesterday was the last day of your O.W.L. exams. For the last month you were a complete mess, studying day and night, barely sleeping, feeling sick after eating, feeling guilty after you dared to take a break from all the learning. And finally, it was over. You finished with everything, and now you had one wonderful week ahead of you that you could spend at Hogwarts. Last night you, George, Fred and Lee sneaked out and got a bunch of food and drinks from the kitchen, having a small sized party just for yourselves in one corner of the common room. Then, when the other Gryffindors weren’t paying attention, George brought you up to his dormitory and you spent the night with him in his four-poster.

The boy next to you let out a sigh and cuddled even closer to you. You smiled to yourself and gave a small peck onto his hair. He groaned pleasantly and raised his head a little, placing small, sleepy kisses on your neck.

“Morning, love.”

“Morning?” you said, smiling down at him lovingly. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Fred and Lee?”

“Already gone.”

“Mm,” he said, leaning closer. You turned away your head.

“No, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

“Me neither,” he said and kissed you sneakily on the lips. You smiled.

“Such a baby.”

“I know.”

He raised his hand and gently brushed your locks out of your face. “Wish we could always sleep like this.”

“You mean squashed together uncomfortably in a single-sized bed?” you chuckled. “Nice dreams, you have.”

He rolled his eyes and pressed a small kiss on the tip of your nose.

“Witty.”

Your rumbling stomach made him look up again.

“Breakfast?”

“I think we’re a bit late but lunch starts in an hour.”

“Great.”

He pressed a sloppy kiss on your cheek before he got out of bed. You instantly started to miss him.

“You excited?” he asked. The third task was this evening.

“I guess, so,” you said, sitting up. “I think Harry’ll be really happy when it finally ends.”

“Yeah,” he said, opening his trunk, searching for clothes. “And we made nice money. Not much but it’s a start. During summer we can start mass producing some of our stuff.”

“Mm…” you said, not really excited for summer. George looked at you with great concern, then sat down next to you onto the edge of the bed.

“It’s just two weeks. I talk to mum when I get home, Fred and I pass the apparition exam and we’ll take you back to ours.”

“I know,” you said. “I just don’t want to be trouble for your mum. I know she has to… feed a lot of kids already.”

George chuckled.

“Mum’d rather feed a hundred kids than let one have a bad vacation — Hey, look.”

He reached into his trunk and pulled out a red sweater with yellowish lines across it. He examined it with great resentment.

“My quidditch jumper. I really wanted to play this year. Probably won’t even fit anymore.”

He glanced at you.

“Do you want it?”

“What?” you asked, surprised.

“Yeah, I have to buy a new one anyway, this one’s too small. Here, it’s yours.”

You took the jumper from his hand and pulled it over your head. Even if it was too small for George, he was still pretty tall, and the jumper reached way below your waist. You rolled up your sleeves.

“It looks good on you,” said George, taking you all in with glimmering eyes.

“And it smells like you,” you said, kissing him on the cheeks. “That’s a win-win.”

George dressed quickly and you folded the jumper into a nice pack; even though you loved it, it was way too hot today to wear such clothes. You placed it carefully in your trunk, then George took your hand and you went down to the Great Hall.

Ron and Hermione had just finished with their exams, and were about to sit down to the Gryffindor table to Harry. Next to them you saw a tall, long haired man, and with him a kind faced, plumpy woman. You stopped dead in your tracks.

“What?” asked George in concern. Then he looked at the table. “Hey, mum’s here!”

He started walking but you stopped again.

“Y/N, what is it?”

“I wasn’t expecting to meet your mum today!” you hissed nervously. George laughed and kissed your temple softy as Fred and Ginny sat down to the table, too.

“C’mon, love, she’s gonna love you more than Fred and I combined.”

He squeezed your hand and you followed him to the little group.

“Hey, mum! Hey Bill! What’re you doing here?”

“We’re visiting Harry on the third task,” the woman said. “It’s so nice to see the castle again!”

“Uhum,” George said. Then he gently pulled you closer because you were determined to hide behind him. “Mum, this is Y/N.”

You waved nervously. Mrs Weasley looked at you with a kind smile.

“Hello, dear! I didn’t know you were a friend of Fred and George’s!

Fred snorted with laughter.

“Mum! They’re not friends!”

Mrs Weasley gave a confused look at his son. Then she looked at George and you again, finally seeing that he was holding your hand. She froze for a second. Then she jumped up from her seat and pulled George into a tight hug.

“Georgie!!! I can’t believe it! I am so happy, you always just with those pranks, I would’ve never thought…!

“Muuum!” George’s ears went red like a radish. “Stop, you’re choking me…!

“And you!” Mrs Weasley let go of George and now looked at you, pulling you into a warm hug, too. “My dear, I am so glad to meet you!

“It’s really nice to meet you, too, Mrs Weasley,” you said, while Ginny and Fred were holding back their laugh behind their mum’s back.

“How long has this been going on?” she asked.

“Forever,” said Fred, rolling his eyes.

“Y/N just finished with her O.W.L.s, mum,” said George, quickly changing the subject. “Probably gonna get ‘Outstanding’ for everything.”

He looked at you with pride in his eyes. You shook your head, smiling.

“Where do you want to work later, dear?” asked Mrs Weasley.

“Er — I’d like to get accepted to the ‘International Magical Trading Standards Body’ at the Ministry.”

“Trading?”

“Yes, I think I’d be quite… good at that.”

George squeezed your hand and you had to fight a laugh.

“Oh, but that’s the same department as Percy’s!” said Mrs Weasley excitedly. “You know, my other son is working at the Ministry as well. He was Prefect and Head Boy — ”

“You already earned a good point in mum’s eyes,” said Fred, rolling his eyes again. “Percy’s the golden child.”

“Fred!” said Mrs Weasley, scolding.

After that, meeting with Bill was not a big deal; he smiled at you happily, shook your hand and he hit George in the back a few times to congratulate him. Then you all had lunch, like a big family.

After you finished eating, Ron, Hermione and Ginny went on to their next exams, while Harry, Bill and Mrs Weasley decided to go for a walk around the castle. You, George and Fred went down to the lake, throwing pieces of food into the water for the Giant Squid.

You sat down in the grass, leaning sleepily against the trunk of a tree. You were watching the twins as they played with the squid, tickling its tentacles whenever it reached out for them. You smiled to yourself. It was such a nice day.

When dinnertime came the whole school was vibrating from anticipation. When Harry stood up to join the champions, the Gryffindor table cheered with applause. And then everyone started make their way to the maze, the used to be quidditch pitch.

You walked with Ginny, looking for the best place to sit. You both wore a red and gold line of facepaint on your cheeks, not like the twins who wrote everything onto their faces what they could think of.

When Harry and Cedric entered the maze you all cheered, then not much later Krum and Fleur disappeared as well. The crowd fell silent, shivering with anticipation in the setting sun.

“Enjoying the show, ladies?” Fred leaned closer as they sat down with George next to you.

“Yes, it’s amazing, watching bushes for an hour,” said Ginny. You laughed.

“Who do you think it’ll be?” asked George.

“Harry,” said Ginny. You grinned at her and she elbowed you in the ribs.

“Bouncing nougat, Y/N?” said Fred, holding a bag out for you. You shook your head.

“No, thanks. I’d rather eat some popcorn.”

“Really? That’s pretty basic,” he shrugged.

“Excuse me?” you said frowning at him. “What is that suppose to mean?”

“Careful now, Freddie,” said George grinning, not taking his eyes off the maze while chewing on a nougat.

“I’m just saying, muggles tend to stick to the basics.”

“Good thing she’s not a muggle, then,” answered Ginny in a dry voice. Fred shook his head.

“No, that’s not what I meant! Y/N, I know you’re brilliant, I’m just saying sometimes you really can see how they miss magic.”

“Really?” you raised your eyebrows. “Muggles have done many things wizards can’t even dream of doing.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like sending a bloody rocketship to the moon.”

There was a sudden silence from all the three Weasleys. Then George shook his head in denial.

“That’s not true!”

“Yes, it is. Wait — ” you started laughing. “Wait, don’t tell me you didn’t know this! That’s unbelievable!”

“It’s not funny,” said Fred pouting. “It’s not even true, you’re just making this up to tease us!”

“Look!” Ginny, alongside with a handful of people, pointed towards the maze. “Red sparks!”

“Someone must be in trouble,” said George. “Maybe their rocketship has got stuck.”

“Oh, shut up. When I’m home I’m gonna collect the articles and prove it to you.”

“Who do you think it can be?” asked Ginny. Fred shrugged.

“We’re about to see.”

The teachers who flew above the maze on broomsticks were now coming back, helping the dirty clothed, tired Fleur to the ground. The crowd gave her a polite applause.

“That’s four galleons and two sickles to us,” mumbled Fred.

Now it was completely dark, torches alongside the seats and the maze were set up to light the ground. People were more eager by the second. Some already stood up in their seats, ready to be the first who sees the returning champion. For half an hour nothing happened. And then suddenly a blue light was forming in the middle of the grass, the portkey lit up, and there came Harry, with Cedric.

You stood up and started cheering and happily joined the crowd that was rushing down from their seats towards the Hogwarts champions. Everyone seemed to be in awe, trumpets and horns were playing joyful music and every face was just bright with ecstasy…

And then you saw it.

Someone screamed. And the music stopped.

You had no idea what you were seeing, still, you knew exactly what it was. Harry was holding him… it to the ground, reaching for it when Dumbledore tried to pull him away.

“He’s back! He’s back! Voldemort’s back! Cedric, he asked me to bring his body back! I couldn’t leave him. Not there!”

He was sobbing. You stood there, shocked, staring at the empty eyes of the boy who an hour ago was waving to the crowd. You started backing away, bumping into George and stepping on his foot. He put one arm around your chest. You grabbed it tight, unable to think.

“The body must be moved, Dumbledore!” said Fudge. “Too many people…”

And then Amos Diggory started screaming. He ran down the isle, pushed people away as he made his way to his dead son. He kept on wailing in pain like a never ending nightmare.

Moody took Harry away. For minutes you just stood there until you felt someone pulling your arm. You felt yourself walking but couldn’t see where you were going. You were just following the hand leading you.

“ — I have to. Fred, George, take care of Ginny. And Y/N! I visit you as soon as I can! Don’t leave the common room!”

You saw stairs before your eyes. Then you felt yourself climbing them. Loads. Then someone mumbled something, a portrait opened, and you stepped inside the common room.

It was like when a bubble pops. You took a sudden breath and looked around, students all around talking, some crying. You turned your head to Ginny; she was already in Fred’s arms, tears running down on her cheeks. You felt shortage of air. You couldn’t breath. You started panting.

“Hey…Shh,” George took you in his arms and held you tightly. He kept whispering in your ears in a quivering voice. “Shh… it’s alright… breathe, Y/N… breathe…”

You raised your head to look him in the eye. His face was pale as winter snow. You needed a few long seconds before you finally were able to inhale enough air to speak. Your voice felt weak and scared.

“What… What did he mean…”

“I don’t know,” he said, fear in his eyes. “I don’t… Mum,” he said looking at Fred. He nodded. “Mum said to wait for her.”

“I want to sit down,” sobbed Ginny and Fred lead her to an armchair in the corner. George took you there as well, sitting down and pulling you in his lap at once. You rested your head on his chest. You couldn’t close your eyes. All you could see was Cedric.

He’s back! He’s back! Voldemort’s back!

You tried to focus on George’s heartbeat and breathe alongside with it. It was extremely difficult.

The four of you were sitting in the corner for a long time, when McGonagall finally appeared. Her face was pale, lips in a thin line, her voice shaky when she spoke. The common room went quiet at once. “Mr Potter is alright and now resting in the hospital wing. There is nothing much we can do today about… about Mr Diggory’s death. Professor Dumbledore will share further information later. Now, please…” her face changed expression, almost looked like a worrying mother as she looked at her students. “Please, try and get some sleep. We will give you further notice in the morning.”

And she left. Ginny was now not crying, she was sitting still, staring at the people in the room. You locked eyes with Fred who was sitting on Ginny’s armrest. You had never seen his face like this. He stared at you for a bit then he said in a kind tone, “How’s it hanging, Y/N?”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You did a weird gesture which was inbetween a headshake and a nod, and you leaned back onto George’s chest. He was gently massaging your wrist.

People started to take McGonagall’s advice. Fewer and fewer stayed at the tables, but you four were holding on. Mrs Weasley said to wait for her, so you did. Ginny closed her eyes, you weren’t sure if she was sleeping or not. You also drifted away a few times, waking up suddenly. After two in the morning Fred and George started talking in a low whisper. It was half past three when the Fat Lady swung open and Mrs Weasley stepped in.

All four of you looked at her in great anticipation. It was only you in the common room now.

“How’s Harry?” asked George.

“He’s sleeping. Ron and Hermione stays with him. I’ll go back, too, I just need to say a few things first.”

“What’s gonna happen, mum?” asked Fred.

Mrs Weasley took a deep breath, ignored the question and started saying something else.

“Now, listen to me. What I say now is going to stay strictly between us. From now on, your safety is more important than ever. Because… Because He Who Must Not Be Named is back.”

Ginny’s lip trembled. Mrs Weasley continued.

“Now, certain things will be handled during the summer. But we’ll talk about that when the time comes. Now I want you all to take care of each other, and don’t listen to anything anyone but Dumbledore says. We need to be careful. It seems as the Ministry is not on our side.”

You felt as though it was just a horrible dream. A terrifying, sickening dream.

“I need to leave tomorrow, but I’ll pick you up at King’s Cross, as ususal. Y/N” she looked at you. “You are more than welcome to spend the summer with us. Hermione’s coming, too.” She looked back at her kids. “We’re going to sort everything out with your father when I’m home.”

She stood up, kissing Ginny and hugging Fred. Then she patted your hand.

“Go up and sleep. All of you. I need to go. And take care of each other!”

And with that she left the four of you alone.

——

After the memorial for Cedric you had nothing else to do than packing your trunk and saying goodbye to your four-poster for another two months. On the train back home you sticked closely to George and Fred, not wasting a minute that you could still spend with the twins. You were in the same compartment with Harry, Ron and Hermione and played cards all the way to King’s Cross. The twins even told them the story of Bagman, who now was apparently on the run because of his huge debt.

When the train stopped, you prepared yourself to leave to the muggle world, but every step felt as heavy as a mountain. The twins quickly caught up to you after talking with Harry about something. Your stomach hurt with anxiety as you walked through the barrier.

You weren’t looking for him just yet; first you went to Mrs Weasley who hugged you and told you again how she was looking forward to have you over the summer. You thanked her and managed to force a smile on your lips.

“Are they picking you up, dear?” she asked. You nodded, finally glancing over the crowd, looking for that specific face, that specific frown, that specific scornful expression.

You spotted it and your stomach dropped.

“Well… I guess I’ll see you, Mrs Weasley.”

“Goodbye, my dear.”

“Bye Y/N,” Fred hugged you quickly, nothing much, nothing over the top. He grinned at you. “See you soon.”

“Come here,” said George while everyone said goodbye to Harry and Hermione. “Write me as soon as you’re home. And tomorrow. And after that. And…”

“After that?” you laughed weakly. “I only have one owl, you know.”

Peanut was looking at you from his cage. George shrugged.

“I guess I have to write back to you every single day, then.”

He gave a small peck onto your hand, then placed a tender kiss on your lips as well.

You knew if you had to look at him again, you’d never be able to leave. You turned away, waved to Ginny and pulled your trunk towards your father who was waiting by the entrance. He was just standing there, watching you approaching him. He looked like a statue.

“Good afternoon,” you said. You got a grunt in return.

“Let’s go, girl. I’m not carrying the bird.”

“I know.”

He started walking and you followed him to the car. You opened the trunk and put all your stuff inside except the cage. Just about when your father was getting in the car, you heard footsteps on the pavement.

“Y/N!”

You jerked your head towards George in fear.

“I forgot to give you my…”

Your father looked at the boy and his wand hanging out from his pocket.

“…adresss,” he finished in an uncertain tone. You stepped forward quickly and snatched the piece of parchment out of his hand.

“Thank you,” you said quickly and pushed him away. “Now go. Please.”

You did everything so that your father would not cause a scene in the middle of the street. George looked at you, confused. Then he saw your father, too.

“George, please, go,” you begged him, whisper-shouting. “I’ll write, please, go!”

He backed away slowly, now giving a sly eye to your father. Then he turned away and you finally were able to sit into the car.

“Foul people,” your father said as he started the engine.

You pressed your lips together and looked out the window, fighting your tears.

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jayankles · 4 years

Text

Not your Bacon

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Y/N makes a split second decision to save Dean on a hunt. When she wakes up in the hospital Dean professes his love for her but she fears that it’s coming from the wrong place.

Squares filled: Little box of memories / the bunker

Written for: @goodthingshappenbingo / @spndeanbingo

Word Count:1507

@kittycat-cas said: Oooh, what I want to see is hurt and comfort, super comforting Dean who is in awe of why this woman would have risked her life so selflessly - just lots of fluff - maybe some angst too if she is really hurt.

Warnings: A little angst, hospitals

It was a split second decision. You couldn’t stand there and do nothing. The werewolf growled from the other side of the warehouse, your body moved on its own accord. Jumping in front of Dean was the only thing you could think of doing. Nothing else mattered if you were going to die instead of a Winchester then you were happy to take their place.

Screaming at the top of your lungs, you felt the excruciating pain tearing through your chest. Their claws shredding through your clothes before ripping through your skin. When you thought you would hit the floor your mind went blank, a fuzzy feeling grew in your chest but you welcomed the darkness that followed.

The wind was knocked out of your body, blood spilling from your mouth as well as your chest. This is it, this is how you die. And you would either die a hero, saving the great Dean Winchester or die out of pure recklessness and it was all for nothing. Either way pretty cool death, especially because you got to save a Winchester.

Dean paced the waiting room of the hospital. Everything was much too white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, the uniform. Nothing smelt right either.

Deciding against his better judgment, Dean went back to the reception and asked if there were any updates on your condition.

“Sorry hun, no changes since the last time you asked. But I can assure you that we have the best doctors and they are going to do their best to help her, okay? I can’t offer you any more assurance than that.”

Dean apologised for his continuous question. He was just the little kid that wanted to know if he had reached his destination. He just wanted to know whether you were safe or not and he wanted to know now. It was eating him alive not knowing what condition you were in.

Returning back to an unoccupied seat, his leg bounced in place, unable to keep his anxiety at bay. There was no hiding it. Hours had passed and there was still no news. It wasn’t until he was shaken awake that he realised he had fallen asleep in one of the chairs. Even if they were uncomfortable, he was exhausted and he couldn’t help but succumb to the dreaded sleep. Dean was told that you were in critical condition but they had managed to stop the bleeding and somehow keep you steady.

He was able to see you but the doctor had told him that you wouldn’t be awake. All he could do was sit and wait, wait and see if you would wake soon, but again sleep overtook him.

You grunted awake. Urgh, you would know that smell from anywhere - hospital - but suddenly it was drowned out by one of the smells that you loved the most. Pure and unadulterated Dean.

In a dizzy haze, you patted the bed beside him before you accidentally smacked Dean’s head a little too hard and woke him up. You grunted again, more on the sorrowful side this time as opposed to the hurting one.

“M’sorry.” You groaned, almost whined but it soon disappeared when the nurse came in and did her rounds. She noticed that you were awake, checked your folder and asked how much pain you were in on a scale of 1 to 10. “9, I’m saving my 10 for when I’m dead.”

“Y/N, come on, you know that’s not funny.” Dean argued, his voice stern, you couldn’t help it. You were in pain but you hadn’t lost your sense of humour. “Oh, wow that is some good shit. Wow.”

“Morphine tends to do that to people.” The nurse winked and added the dosage to the chart. “We’ll keep monitoring her but with time and care, those wounds should heal up. It’ll be a pretty cool story to tell in the future.”

“Yeah, I got attacked by a werewolf!” You giggled as your eyelids became heavy, you missed the way Dean’s widened in panic.

Dean cleared his throat, before he feigned a laugh, trying to shrug it off in front of the nurse. “Damn, morphine makes people talk shit out of their ass, huh?

“Oh yeah. Werewolf isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve heard. We’ve had ghosts, vampires, and my favourite, a man made out of cotton candy but I watched the second Scooby Doo movie. I’ll leave you be.”

“Thank you nurse.”

“No problem. Just call out if you need me.”

Dean nodded, as soon as she left he almost smacked you on your leg but he fell back into the chair with a huff. He sighed when he saw your eyes closed. “You stupid woman. Why would you do that? Why would you jump in front of me? It’s my job to take care of the ones I love most and I couldn’t stand it if you were to die because of me. You know why? Because I am crazy in love with you. You can’t die, not for me, I won’t let you.”

With a bowed head, Dean missed the tear that fell from your eye. You softly sniffled and turned away. “I don’t want to be your bacon.”

“What?”

“It’s from ‘iCarly’ Freddie saves Carly then Carly kisses Freddie and Sam tells Freddie about the time that Sam thought she was in love with a guy because he bought her Canadian bacon. Anyway, the point is, I don’t want to be your bacon or your Freddie. They thought they were in love with someone because they did something nice or saved their live.How do I know this just is out of pity?”

Dean didn’t know what to say at first. He had no idea what you were talking about until you explained it. Dean grabbed your left hand in his and rubbed his other one over your head before leaning forward, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m so glad to be home.” Of course, you weren’t exactly at your home, you were at the bunker but it was close enough and the boys wanted you in close proximity just as you were healing, just until you got better.

You took short steps. Any big ones you took hurt like hell, maybe you needed to be a little less reckless as Dean as said. (Multiple times in the hospital and many times on the way home.) Sam and Cas had made their own rounds in the hospital, continuously checking up on you to see what progress you had made when it came to stitches and wounds.

Sam had immediately offered you a hot beverage, one that you gratefully accepted. One that you missed so much. You had to admit you were a tea snob, and the hospital’s tea didn’t really come up to par with your standards. Castiel followed suit, tugging on a string that exploded confetti. He was still dumbfounded by this contraption and the confused look on his face made you smile even more. The party popper was definitely an idea to behold. He then went on to offer you your favourite dessert and every other dessert under the sun. It seemed he had a good time with baking whilst his angel juice was down.

Much to your surprise, Dean left your side as soon as you were seated. Maybe you were his bacon or his Freddie after all. Just someone who saved his life and when you were starting to heal, that was it. You were disappointed to say the least but really you couldn’t have expected anything from Dean anyway. Maybe some shut eye would help you. Surely, that was all you needed, more sleep. Sleep was the answer to everything these days.

Dean came into your room a few moments later, except he wasn’t empty handed, he was carrying a shoe box and a sandwich on a plate. “I thought you could use some actual food and not and not just dessert as soon as you come back. You must be hungry.”

He set the plate down on your nightstand and sat next to you on your bed. You had your eyes on the box, you noticed that it had your name on it, after a while he opened the lid and set it aside. “Here are my most valued possessions, ones that include the two of us. There’s photos-”

“Movie tickets? Theatre tickets?” You interrupted when you took a peek in the box. “That’s so cool. What are those pieces of paper?”

Dean was reluctant, he never planned to show you this box let alone the things inside. “I never wanted to show you this way, there could have been better circumstances but you just think you’re my bacon or my Freddie but you’re my Y/N.”

Dean left the box with you, kissing the top of your head and leaving you to read or look through all the things that he collected throughout the years.

I guess you weren’t his bacon after all.

Forevers: @super100012 @lupine-princess @plaid-lover-bay25 @atc74 @growningupgeek @sophiebobzz @docharleythegeekqueen @poukothenerd @grace-for-sale @mrswhozeewhatsis @jesspfly @supernaturallymarvellous @sammysgirl1997 @roxyspearing @mogaruke @be-amaziing @deanandsamsbitch @frankiea1998 @hennessy0274-blog @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @iwantthedean @capsheadquaters @emoryhemsworth @notmoose45 @essie1876 @cassieraider @brewsthespirit-blog @its-my-perky-nipples @riversong-sam @jotink78 @captainradicalpassion @jadalecki-jackles @spnbaby-67 @holyfuckloueh @gh0stgurl @alyssa6marie @esoltis280 @bumber-car-s @alexwinchester23 @x-waywardaf-x @thisismysecrethappyplace @randomparanoid @kellianz

Dean: @kenmen02 @ain-t-bovvered @deans-baby-momma @ericaprice2008 @shamelesslydean @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @wingedcatninja @mayasmedberg @kurosaki224-new-blog @valerieshubin @milo-winchester-4ever @sandlee44 @ruprecht0420 @akshi8278 @smoothdogsgirl @dslocum89 @plaidstiel-wormstache @ria132love @welldonebeca @iamabeautifulperson18 @starry-chaos @deans-treasure @larajadeschmidt13 @nyxveracity @dean-winchesters-bacon @adoptdontshoppets

#goodthingshappenbingo #spngenrebingo #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean angst #dean x reader angst #dean fluff #dean x reader fluff #jayankles #jayankles writes #bailey writes

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stovetuna · 5 years

Note

Imagine Steve/Avengers walking in to Tony entertaining two soldiers in the common room and being really confused because Tony??? Despises the military??? But then find out that those two soldiers are actually from the “fun-vee” way back in IM 1 and Tony’s fitting them with prosthetics.

ahhh this has been stuck in my head for DAYS anon! I don’t necessarily agree with the assessment that Tony hates the military, per se (doing business with the military and the military industrial complex, however, and all that that toxic shit entails, definitely yes), BUT it’s such a heartbreaking/warming concept I had to run with it! I think I got it right with Air Force vs Army, but the movie was kinda vague—I’m going off of the fact that the driver said “I’m an airman,” which you would not say if you were in the Army.

and since the airmen (and woman) Tony was traveling with in the Fun-Vee are canonically deceased, I thought I’d have Tony do something…well, Extremely Tony™ to compensate…

(::whispers:: also we’re just gonna pretend that the Bucky-killed-Tony’s-parents-revelations of Cap 2/3 aren’t a thing in this vaguely alternate MCU universe. la-di-da, la-di-da…)

***

It’s not surprising to walk into the Avengers common area and see Tony Stark working on something no one can quite comprehend. That’s par for the course, really, as commonplace as days that end in Y. Machines, phones, tablets, watches, the toaster after Hulk pressed the cancel button a little too hard—they’ve seen Tony futzing with just about everything that exists in the Tower (and some things that don’t—couldn’t—exist anywhere else except where Tony is).

What the team isn’t expecting when the elevator doors open onto the communal floor that sunny Tuesday afternoon is a living room scattered with men and women in various states of modest undress, all of whom immediately pivot in place to take stock of the new arrivals. Three men, one woman, and in the middle of their protective circle is Tony, eyes blazing with the same thrill of invention he often gets in the lab, a pair of needle-nose pliers clenched in his teeth.

Steve in particular notices the way Tony looks, because he’s developed a bad habit of doing that over the past year and change, and he’s kind of helpless at this point. Tony’s backlit by the afternoon sun, preoccupied with whatever he’s doing with the strange woman’s arm to distraction, and Steve can’t be judged too harshly—anyone with eyes would drag theirs over the exposed muscles of Tony’s arms, the shift and flex of his shoulders, the firm taper of his waist, the pronounced curve of his a—

“Are we, uh, interrupting something?” Clint has to shout to be heard above the music blasting from all corners of the room.

Tony looks up from his work and waves his free hand, the one that isn’t wrist-deep in what looks remarkably like a prosthetic arm. He makes a ‘cut it off’ motion to his neck before taking the pliers out of his mouth while FRIDAY lowers the rock music to a dull background hum.

“Hey! Sorry, I tried to keep it to the lab, but these guys wanted to see where the Avengers hang out, and I couldn’t say no.”

Steve tears his eyes away from Tony (who should really work the sweaty-and-disheveled-mechanic look more often) to take in the others in the room with him. It’s a panorama of people, and the first thing Steve notices, besides their more obvious differences, is how comfortable they all are with each other, to the point that walking in on this moment feels invasive, almost rude.

The four are all of remarkably different builds and backgrounds, not a similarity between them: an African American man, no taller than Steve was before the serum, sits on the couch; a white man, thin as a rake and twice as tall, is reaching for a glass of water on the coffee table; an Asian American man, whose shoulders are somehow even broader than Steve’s, stands rigidly next to Tony, arms folded across his chest; and the lone woman, whose glossy black hair is wound tightly in a bun at the back of her head. Steve notes the beautifully elaborate Native American tattoo covering the expanse of her shoulders and upper back.

Then Steve notices the high-and-tights, the form-fitting, drab beige shirts they’re all wearing, the combat boots lined up behind the loveseat, and he realizes, much like he did with Sam that morning in DC, oh—these are my people.

“Ah, well, welcome to the octagon!” Clint says with an easy smile, stepping forward to shake hands and say hello like a normal human being. Natasha gives Steve one of her looks before she and Sam follow him into the living room—I don’t know any more than you do.

Bruce, Wanda, and Vision stay behind with Steve to let the first wave through. Steve watches his teammates greet the airmen without fanfare, welcoming strangers into their private midst like it’s routine.

“Didn’t know y’all would be around, else we would’ve stayed outta sight.”

Sam laughs, clapping the sitting man on the shoulder. “Dude, if Tony told us you were here, I would have come downstairs and bugged you, myself.”

“Sure, PJ—you just wanted to see what real Air Force muscle looks like,” the man grins, flexing his barrel chest hard enough to strain his shirt. Sam guffaws and gives him a friendly punch to the shoulder, which the man returns in kind with a fist to the kidney.

Clint is already deep in conversation with the redheaded beanpole, who talks so fast it’s dizzying; Natasha is standing next to the third man, keeping her eyes forward, and together they watch Tony disappear back into his work, muttering things back and forth to each other, so quiet even Steve can’t hear.

“I think all is clear,” Vision says smoothly, drifting forward with Wanda, who is visibly fascinated by the woman’s tattoo until she steps into the throng and sees something that makes her face fall.

Steve moves forward, curious and worried in equal measure. Bruce is hot on his heels.

“—I mean it’s crazy right? It’s crazy, Tony Stark, Tony Stark calls us up out of the blue one day and says ‘You’ll be waiting six months to a year for a decent repair job, let alone a complete replacement, and I owe you guys, come on by Avengers Tower—”

Redhead is gabbing excitedly, gesticulating like Tony does when he’s in the mad depths of an invention binge. Steve sees the glint of metal and hears the whir of mechanisms working smoothly together in tandem and realizes both of the man’s hands are prosthetic.

“Oh man! Oh, man! Captain, sir, wow, it’s—fuck, shit, my mama would kill me for swearing in front of you, fucking—shit, sorry, fuck—ah, damn it!”

Steve smiles and introduces himself—Corporal Bill Levee, apparently, is just as talkative up close. For all that his hand is made of metal, his grip feels remarkably, tangibly real.

While Bill goes back to talking compound bows with Hawkeye, Steve looks at the man on the couch. Sam and Vision are now sitting on either side of him: both of his legs end at mid-thigh, and in their place are what look like brand-new metal limbs, designed to match his proportions exactly. The metal is dark, shiny, beautiful. He looks thrilled. He looks even more excited when Steve approaches, leaps to his feet and doesn’t even balk at the fact that Steve is a head and change taller than him and a superhero—he just steps right up to Steve and jabs him once in the shoulder with a grin.

“Captain Rogers,” he says, and sticks out his hand. Steve shakes it. The man points a thumb at himself: “Captain Freddy Harrison. A little after your time, sir, but an honor to meet you regardless.”

Bill is still talking a mile a minute behind him; Freddy sits back down on the couch and lets Steve continue his “Captain America Meet-and-Greet” but makes him promise to come back and swap stories, which Steve does, happily, even as his mind whirls. How does Tony know these people? Why are they here? Where did these prosthetics come from?

Bruce has joined Natasha, standing apart from the rest to talk to her and her new friend. Steve stops to say hello, as is only right, waiting until he’s entered the man’s line of sight to do so. Only then does he realize that the man has no line of sight, because both of his eyes are prosthetic.

“I’m not completely blind, Captain,” he says, voice low but good-humored. Next to him, Natasha smothers a smile behind her hand.

“Steve, this is Sergeant Daniel Kwon,” Bruce offers. The sergeant smirks and extends a hand—the eyes in his sockets look incredibly lifelike, but don’t move even a fraction of a millimeter. They gleam, still, with an uncanny sense of knowing. Steve has a sneaking suspicion they see more than enough and match his original eyes perfectly.

“I’ll still make an exception in your case, Sergeant Kwon,” Steve replies, shaking his hand, “for not saluting a ranking officer.”

Dan chuckles under his breath.

“Let’s see your battlefield commission and then we’ll talk rank, sir,” he says.

“Ugh, men.”

Steve turns around, and there’s Tony, flipping shut a panel high on the woman’s left arm with a smile. He pockets the pliers and drags the back of his forearm across his glistening forehead. Somewhere in the back of Steve’s mind, a saxophone is blaring.

Honestly, the intrusive thoughts he could deal with, but the fact that Tony looks this good after hours of hard labor really isn’t fair.

“Seriously, barely two minutes in and you military guys are at it like frat bros at a kegger.” Tony looks sidelong at the woman, who rolls her shoulders with a pop and a groan. “How do you manage?”

“Easy,” she says, “I let them drink until they pass out and then I run back to the women’s barracks with all their clothes so they have to walk across the TOC butt-naked.”

“I think we need to compare our respective strategies,” Natasha says, taking Wanda’s arm on her way to greet the other woman. “This is Wanda; I’m Natasha.”

The woman turns to face them. Her features are striking in a way that makes Steve think of old friends from the war, men he met on those rare occasions he had leave. He’d listen to Native American Code Talkers tell stories of land and legacy and home, stories older than anything Steve had ever known. He’d never been so humbled.

“Delores,” she replies, shaking their hands. “But please, call me Del, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Steve looks at Tony, who giggles—giggles—and mouths ‘Umbridge.’ Del must have ears like a bat, because she smacks him smartly with her prosthetic arm and Tony yelps before devolving into outright laughter. Steve could watch and listen to Tony laugh—that big, gut-wrenching cackle Tony thinks is unattractive but Steve thinks makes Tony look like happiness personified—all day.

The conversation devolves quickly from there, and within a couple of excitable minutes, the airmen are eager to get a look at the Avengers’ game room. They pile into the elevator, talking animatedly over each others’ heads, placing bets and picking teams as the doors close.

In their wake, Steve’s ears are buzzing, and he realizes with a jolt that he’s now alone. With Tony.

It happens often enough that the fact itself isn’t jarring, but something about being alone with disheveled-frazzled-happy-sweaty Tony sets Steve’s nerves on high alert. Tony is loose-limbed and relaxed, moving in and out of Steve’s space as he picks his way around the living room barefoot, looking for discarded tools.

“There you are,” he coos at a tiny device that looks remarkably like a laser pointer. Knowing Tony, it’s probably a real laser. He pockets it, assumably to put away later (or fish out of the laundry at the last minute).

“Who are those people, Tony?”

“Friends of friends,” Tony replies. Steve also knows Tony well enough to recognize his I am being deliberately vague voice when he hears it.

“Uh-huh.” Steve sits on the arm of the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. “And who are they really?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Me,” Steve says gently, scratching his palms with dulled fingernails. “They’re strangers, and they’re in our home. I think if you were in my shoes you’d want to know.”

Tony stoops to pick up and pocket what looks like a dissected nine-volt battery. Steve kind of wants to ask, but he’s too distracted by Tony’s ass in those black Levis to ask any cogent questions. Seriously, he wonders, are those painted on?

Only when Tony sighs, and quite heavily, that Steve realizes this was more than just a friendly house call (of sorts) on Tony’s part. He watches Tony stand up, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows bright with the glow of sunset, and admires the way Tony suits the view so perfectly. He looks good all the time, but like this—skin burnished gold, brown eyes honeyed by the light—he’s something else. Someone Steve wants, desperately, but like most things in his life, knows he’s not allowed to have. Tony Stark is beyond him in so many ways. Reaching for him seems futile, so Steve stays on the ground, and looks.

Tony fidgets nervously with a mini Phillips Head screwdriver, twiddling it in his long, clever fingers as he stares out the windows at the city sprawled out beneath them.

“They’re from the same company as the guys in the convoy I was with when I—when they—” his voice sputters out before he can say the words. Steve doesn’t push. He doesn’t say anything. He just waits for Tony to gather himself. It’s one of the hardest lessons he’s had to learn about Tony Stark—sometimes it’s better to let him get a handle on himself, rather than jump in and try to handle Tony for him. It doesn’t change the fact that Steve wants nothing more than to hold his hand, now that it’s hanging at his side like its string was just cut. “A while back I dug into Air Force records, talked to Rhodey, got some names. Five people died in the hit that was meant for me. I figured, the least I could do was find five of their closest buddies who needed help.”

Tony glances back at Steve—the little smile on his lips could break Steve’s heart if he let it.

“And I’ve heard you talk about how convoluted the VA is when it comes to services and benefits and whatnot. I figured, my tech probably took their limbs, I should cut out the middle man and give them new ones, myself.”

Something in Steve’s heart shifts irrevocably before kicking into a whole new gear. By the end of the sentence, Steve knows he’s going to do something incredibly rash, the only question is when.

Funny—ten minutes ago he was coming back from a team exercise, prepared to give Tony a friendly but firm talking-to about missing it, and instead here he is, breathless, heart racing, sitting and listening to Tony talk humbly about fixing people because he knows it’s the right thing to do. Because it’s the least he can do. And isn’t that the wildest understatement Steve’s ever heard?

As if anything about Tony Stark could ever possibly be least.

“You built them all those prosthetics?”

“Top of the line!” Tony smirks, saluting Steve with his Phillips Head. “Nothing more high tech in any of them than a heart rate monitor and some other odds and ends—no rocket launcher eyes, don’t worry. I kept my baser urges in check with these.”

“It’s good,” Steve blurts out, too loud and too fast. Tony inhales sharply, fingers clenching around the screwdriver hard enough his knuckles go white. Steve feels his face go hot and groans. “I mean, what you did—what you’re doing—is good, Tony. It’s really generous of you to do that for those guys.”

Steve crosses his arms across his chest to make himself feel safer, more contained. If he doesn’t, who knows where these ridiculous feelings might go. He feels silly enough as it is, blushing and stammering while dressed in his uniform, sans helmet. Even Tony’s probably wondering why he’s wasting his time talking to a red-white-and-blue fossil when he could be downstairs destroying Clint and the others at pool or showing the airmen around the tower, giving them the bells-and-whistles tour.

Tony looks at the floor, away from Steve. Steve feels it like a physical thing, Tony pulling away, retreating, wanting to hide. Amazing, how a man who almost literally wears his heart on his sleeve still thinks he doesn’t have one.

“Yeah, well,” Tony mutters, “it’s good practice, anyways.”

Steve’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“Practice for what?”

Tony starts moving around, shuffling back and forth across the living room floor, looking for something that probably isn’t there. Steve knows when Tony is avoiding eye contact with him—it happens often enough.

“Just a pet project, nothing major. Hey, have you seen my cable knife anywhere?”

“Did you leave it on the floor? Tony…”

“I know, I know, the only thing worse is Legos, but I was busy! You can’t blame me for—OW FUCK!”

Like a shot, Steve is up and holding on to Tony so he doesn’t hop backwards into the glass coffee table. One arm wrapped around his back and the other hand on his bicep, Steve steadies Tony as Tony searches underfoot for whatever hurt him.

He comes up with a magnet the size of a dime.

“Ha,” Tony wheezes. “Speaking of Legos.” He drops it into his pocket along with the laser pointer and whatever else is in there and hangs his head. Rubbing his brow, Tony says: “God. I could sleep for a week after today.”

Steve keeps holding Tony. He should let go, but opportunities like this so rarely present themselves. Plus, Tony feels so good under his hands, strong and warm and just small enough to envelope in a hug if Steve let himself, if Tony wanted him to, and Tony does look dead on his (adorable, bare) feet…

“What else have you been working on today? This pet project?”

“Hah?” Tony breathes, still wincing slightly from stepping on the magnet. “Oh yeah. For Bucky, when you find him. Ow, motherfucker, that hurt…”

The thing about being in Tony Stark’s presence is, it’s so easy to lose the plot. Tony’s mind moves faster than Steve could ever hope to match, mentally or physically; he’s always one pace behind, catching up. It’s fine, though; he actually kind of likes it, being challenged the way Tony challenges him, delighting in the push-pull of their banter and debates, the way Tony teaches him about science and tech and the 21st century without being condescending. Steve gets to a point where he thinks he knows Tony, how he operates, how his brain works—then moments like this happen, and it’s like he’s sprinted smack into a brick wall.

“What?”

“Bucky, you said—are you designing a new arm? For Bucky?”

Tony seems to notice their position at that exact moment. Steve feels him blaze with heat where his hands are touching Tony’s bare skin.

“Uh. Maybe?” At Steve’s look, Tony bites his lip and sighs. “Fine. Yeah, I am. Can you blame me? The thought of Sputnik wandering around the tower with that Cold War-era paperweight hanging off him when I’ve got brand-spanking-new, finely-tuned StarkTech all but ready to go? Perish, Steve, perish the thought.”

Tony is smiling up at him from his place in Steve’s arms, relaxed now, almost leaning into him, and all Steve can think is, he belongs here.

“What’s that face?” Tony asks, curious but still smiling. He pokes Steve in the middle of the forehead with a cheeky grin. “Keep frowning like that, your face’ll stick.”

When, apparently, is right now.

When Steve reaches up and takes Tony’s hand, he gets to watch Tony’s thoughts run into the wall, for once.

When he weaves their fingers together, he gets to watch Tony’s mouth click shut and his eyes go wide. Super-hearing means he can count the beats of Tony’s racing heart without having to feel them. Steve’s telegraphing every movement, every feeling, as much as he possibly can now that words seem to have escaped him.

He must manage okay, because the look that passes over Tony’s face is the same one Steve’s seen in the mirror a thousand times since the day he realized he was halfway in love with Tony Stark: wonder, one part lost, one part found.

When he leans down, slowly, Steve gets to watch Tony’s beautiful eyes flicker and shut. He counts the dark lashes where they rest on Tony’s high cheekbones, breathes in his smell and listens to the shudder in his exhale before drawing him in for a kiss that draws everything else to a quiet, blissful blank.

When Tony pushes his fingers up into Steve’s hair, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck, Steve drops his arms around Tony’s waist and pulls him in close with a soft groan. He’s warm and messy and still holding that damn screwdriver, but he kisses Steve soft and eager like it’s the only thing he wants to do for the rest of his life, folds himself into Steve’s embrace like he wants to build a home right there in his arms.

One day Steve will tell him he already did, a long time ago, and it wasn’t the least of anything.

***

more fics on AO3!

#rachel writes fic #I really should slow it down but this one would NOT leave me alone!#tony stark #steve rogers #stevetony #superhusbands #stony #stony fic #stovetuna #prompt fill #this is EXTREMELY SOFT #hopefully it makes up for the angst of the last one ;____;#also lol @ myself thinking ‘this one will be shorter’!!#UGH I FORGOT AIR FORCE RANKS ARE DIFFERENT DAMN IT!#blame my late night brain

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papermoonloveslucy · 3 years

Text

VACATION TIME

April 29, 1949

“Vacation Time” (aka “Trailer Vacation to Goosegrease Lake”) is episode #41 of the radio series MY FAVORITE HUSBAND broadcast on April 29, 1949 on the CBS radio network.

Synopsis ~ It's vacation time, and Liz and George have decidedly different plans. He wants to go camping with a trailer he borrowed from a friend, while she's set on a glamorous vacation at Moosehead Lodge.

This episode later partly inspired the premise of “Liz Learns To Swim” aired on June 11, 1950.

“My Favorite Husband” was based on the novels Mr. and Mrs. Cugat, the Record of a Happy Marriage (1940) and Outside Eden (1945) by Isabel Scott Rorick, which had previously been adapted into the film Are Husbands Necessary? (1942). “My Favorite Husband” was first broadcast as a one-time special on July 5, 1948. Lucille Ball and Lee Bowman played the characters of Liz and George Cugat, and a positive response to this broadcast convinced CBS to launch “My Favorite Husband” as a series. Bowman was not available Richard Denning was cast as George. On January 7, 1949, confusion with bandleader Xavier Cugat prompted a name change to Cooper. On this same episode Jell-O became its sponsor. A total of 124 episodes of the program aired from July 23, 1948 through March 31, 1951. After about ten episodes had been written, writers Fox and Davenport departed and three new writers took over – Bob Carroll, Jr., Madelyn Pugh, and head writer/producer Jess Oppenheimer. In March 1949 Gale Gordon took over the existing role of George’s boss, Rudolph Atterbury, and Bea Benaderet was added as his wife, Iris. CBS brought “My Favorite Husband” to television in 1953, starring Joan Caulfield and Barry Nelson as Liz and George Cooper. The television version ran two-and-a-half seasons, from September 1953 through December 1955, running concurrently with “I Love Lucy.” It was produced live at CBS Television City for most of its run, until switching to film for a truncated third season filmed (ironically) at Desilu and recasting Liz Cooper with Vanessa Brown.

MAIN CAST

Lucille Ball (Liz Cooper) was born on August 6, 1911 in Jamestown, New York. She began her screen career in 1933 and was known in Hollywood as ‘Queen of the B’s’ due to her many appearances in ‘B’ movies. With Richard Denning, she starred in a radio program titled “My Favorite Husband” which eventually led to the creation of “I Love Lucy,” a television situation comedy in which she co-starred with her real-life husband, Latin bandleader Desi Arnaz. The program was phenomenally successful, allowing the couple to purchase what was once RKO Studios, re-naming it Desilu. When the show ended in 1960 (in an hour-long format known as “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour”) so did Lucy and Desi’s marriage. In 1962, hoping to keep Desilu financially solvent, Lucy returned to the sitcom format with “The Lucy Show,” which lasted six seasons. She followed that with a similar sitcom “Here’s Lucy” co-starring with her real-life children, Lucie and Desi Jr., as well as Gale Gordon, who had joined the cast of “The Lucy Show” during season two. Before her death in 1989, Lucy made one more attempt at a sitcom with “Life With Lucy,” also with Gordon.

Richard Denning (George Cooper) was born Louis Albert Heindrich Denninger Jr., in Poughkeepsie, New York. When he was 18 months old, his family moved to Los Angeles. Plans called for him to take over his father’s garment manufacturing business, but he developed an interest in acting. Denning enlisted in the US Navy during World War II. He is best known for his roles in various science fiction and horror films of the 1950s. Although he teamed with Lucille Ball on radio in “My Favorite Husband,” the two never acted together on screen. While “I Love Lucy” was on the air, he was seen on another CBS TV series, “Mr. & Mrs. North.” From 1968 to 1980 he played the Governor on “Hawaii 5-0″, his final role. He died in 1998 at age 84.

Bea Benadaret (Iris Atterbury) and Gale Gordon (Rudolph Atterbury) do not appear in this episode.

Ruth Perrott (Katie, the Maid) was also later seen on “I Love Lucy.” She first played Mrs. Pomerantz (above right), a member of the surprise investigating committee for the Society Matrons League in “Pioneer Women” (ILL S1;E25), as one of the member of the Wednesday Afternoon Fine Arts League in “Lucy and Ethel Buy the Same Dress” (ILL S3;E3), and also played a nurse when “Lucy Goes to the Hospital” (ILL S2;E16). She died in 1996 at the age of 96.

Bob LeMond (Announcer) also served as the announcer for the pilot episode of “I Love Lucy”. When the long-lost pilot was finally discovered in 1990, a few moments of the opening narration were damaged and lost, so LeMond – fifty years later – recreated the narration for the CBS special and subsequent DVD release.

GUEST CAST

Frank Nelson (Policeman) was born on May 6, 1911 (three months before Lucille Ball) in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He started working as a radio announcer at the age of 15. He later appeared on such popular radio shows as “The Great Gildersleeve,” “Burns and Allen,” and “Fibber McGee & Molly”. This is one of his 11 performances on “My Favorite Husband.” On “I Love Lucy” he holds the distinction of being the only actor to play two recurring roles: Freddie Fillmore and Ralph Ramsey, as well as six one-off characters, including the frazzled train conductor in “The Great Train Robbery” (ILL S5;E5), a character he repeated on “The Lucy Show.” Aside from Lucille Ball, Nelson is perhaps most associated with Jack Benny and was a fifteen-year regular on his radio and television programs.

Wally Maher (Joe Risley) was born on August 4, 1908 in Cincinnati, Ohio. He was known for Mystery Street (1950), The Reformer and the Redhead (1950) and Hollywood Hotel (1937). He was heard with Lucille Ball in the Lux Radio Theatre version of “The Dark Corner” (1947), taking the role originated on film by William Bendix. He died on December 27, 1951.

Milton Stark (Filling Station Attendant) was a theatre actor and director, who also appeared on radio and television, although usually in supporting roles. He also worked as a dialogue coach and acting teacher. At UCLA a scholarship was established in his name. He lived to the age of 103.

EPISODE

ANNOUNCER: “As we look in on the Coopers, it is a cold rainy afternoon, but Liz is in her bedroom standing in front of the mirror wearing a back-less, strapless sun dress.”

Liz calls Katie in to show off her sun dress, but Katie is disapproving that is so revealing. Liz has shopped for summer vacation clothes. Liz’s bathing suit cost’s forty dollars.

KATIE: “That’s a lot of money for two doilies and a diaper.”

Liz says that husbands only approve of scanty swimsuits when they are on any woman but their wives.

LIZ: “I want to look good for George. He’s going to see a lot of me this summer.” KATIE: “He’s not the only one!”

The topic of revealing bathing suits was later also mined for comedy on “I Love Lucy.” In “Off To Florida” (ILL S6;E6) Ricky thinks Lucy’s new skimpy new swimsuit is for Little Ricky! Lucy also buys a swimsuit that Ricky feels is too skimpy when shopping for their California trip in “Getting Ready” (ILL S4;E11)

Liz says they are going to Moosehead Lodge on Lake Okeechobee. Liz calls it a real swanky place. Katie reminds Liz that George prefers more rugged vacations. Liz says she will suggest it to George at dinner.

Lake Okeechobee is a real place, located in central Florida, although it is far more conducive to George’s type of vacation than Liz’s, highlighting nature through fishing and nature.

Although there are places called Moosehead Lodge in America, it unlikely that a moose would be associated with central Florida and that it would be an upscale resort of the type Liz is describing.

At the bank, George talks to his co-worker Joe about scheduling vacations. Joe says that his ideal vacation is in a trailer. If George likes the idea, he will lend the Coopers his trailer. George will suggest it to Liz at dinner.

After dinner, both Liz and George get cozy with the idea of easing the other into going on their dream destination. Liz ‘just happened’ to hear about a place that she vaguely remembers.

LIZ: “I did hear of some place called Moosehead Lodge. It’s probably situated in groves of stately pines, on the shores of an emerald green lake, its rustic beauty enhanced by lawns and flower beds. Each luxurious room is furnished with clean, comfortable box spring beds, modern bathroom and shower. Ten dollars a day, American plan. Oh, George, let’s go there. We can relax and enjoy a continual round of glorious entertainment, sports, good food, and true fellowship, see your travel agent for details.”

George realizes that Liz has been plotting a vacation. George says he has a better idea - two weeks in a trailer. Liz is less than keen. George says that they can borrow Joe Risley’s trailer!

LIZ: “Keen with mud on it.”

Liz is worried that nobody will see her new vacation wardrobe if they are cooped up in a trailer. They are at an impasse. Liz suggests they go on separate vacations. When George reluctantly agrees, she breaks down in tears.

Liz moans to Katie that she already misses George, and the vacation doesn’t begin for two months. George phones from work to talk to Liz. George offers a compromise. They will take a trial weekend trip in the trailer, and if she doesn’t like it, he will go to Moosehead Lodge!

Vacationing in a trailer was explored by Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz in their 1953 comedy MGM’s The Long Long Trailer. The film mines a lot of physical comedy from the trailer’s unwieldy movement and how Lucy’s character Tacy Bolton copes with it.

ANNOUNCER: “George is just driving up with the trailer hooked up to the back of the car.”

Liz remarks how small the trailer is.

GEORGE: “Keep an open mind.” LIZ: “I’ll have to close it or it won’t fit in that trailer.”

They tour the inside, which is smaller than Liz thought. Just then, a knock at the trailer door and there’s a policeman (Frank Nelson) issuing them a parking ticket! Forty bucks for parking illegally!

The next morning George and Liz get an early start on their trial trailer trip. Liz has brought along a little light reading for the trip: “Inside Moosehead Lodge” by Liz Gunther.

Motoring along the highway, George is enjoying the drive.

LIZ: “Travel is great. I wouldn’t go anywhere without it.”

George says it is so smooth, you wouldn’t even know the trailer is back there. Liz notices that it isn’t! George forgot to hook it on! Finally, they are off (again) to Goosegrease Lake. Liz reads one of those sequential signs along the roadside: “If Your Whiskers... Won’t Behave... Take a Tip Use....” Liz goes silent.

GEORGE: “Use what?” LIZ: “The last sign’s torn down. Now we’ll never know.”

Almost everyone in the audience knew it was Burma-Shave. From 1926 until 1963 the ‘brushless’ shaving cream company dotted the American highways with small red signs, each containing a line of a short rhyme that the driver could read without slowing down as they drove by. At one time, there were over 600 different rhymes on signs!

The idea was given a nod on a 1955 “I Love Lucy” episode “First Stop” (ILL S4;E14) with the roadside signs for Aunt Polly’s Pecan Pralines.

LUCY: Fifty miles to Aunt Sally’s Pecan Pralines. later... LUCY: 300 yards to Aunt Sally’s! ETHEL: 200 yards! FRED: 100 yards! RICKY: Just around the bend! LUCY: You have just passed Aunt Sally’s.

Liz is quite sure that George’s shortcut has gotten them lost. They stop to ask directions from a laid back filling station attendant (Milton Stark) who tells them they don’t want to go to Goosegrease Lake. He suggests they go to the hot springs, instead.

Oops! Milton Stark has trouble pronouncing ‘Goosegrease’ and the audience is aware of his flub. When he asks Lucille Ball “What ya gonna do there?” She deliberately says “We’re gonna goose a grease”, instead of “grease a goose”, which causes more giggles from the cast and gales of laughter from the audience.

FILLING STATION ATTENDANT: “You can’t get there from here!”

Next morning Liz wakes up and looks around. She sees beautiful green grass and a little flag with the number 18 on it! A golf ball comes crashing through the window. The policeman from who ticketed them earlier knocks on the trailer door. They have illegally camped out on the 18th green of the municipal golf course - only two miles from home! Liz said they didn’t know where they were going.

POLICEMAN: “Do you know where you’re going now?” LIZ: “Yes! To Moosehead Lodge!” POLICEMAN: “No, to the city jail! Come on!”

End of Episode

#My Favorite Husband #Lucille Ball #Richard Denning #Ruth Perrott #Bob LeMond #Frank Nelson #Wally Maher #Milton Stark #Lake Okeechobee #The Long Long Trailer #I love Lucy #Burma-Shave #1949 #CBS Radio

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giingers · 5 years

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About Time (part one)

Request: Angsty protective tommy imagine!!!

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

I hope you like it! This is a two part one since it started to get a little long.

The double doors of the betting shop were closed with a loud bang, and as Aunt Pol turned to face you her irritated actions were followed by an eye roll. The silence that followed was immediate- no longer could you hear the shouts of Tommy to John and the exasperated confrontation of betters. Ada sniggered a little from where she sat beside you at the table, a tea cup held in her elegant hands and her eyes peering at her Aunt from over its rim.

“Sorry my dear” Aunt Pol began as she placed herself onto the chair she had frequented moments before she had gotten herself into an irritated flurry at her nephews loudness “start from the beginning, you were telling me about this chap of yours”

“Well he’s not my chap” you blushed a little, running a hand through your hair.

“Well, not yet” Ada nudged you in the arm softly, and gave you that flirty romantic look that made you think of the days when you and Ada would sit in her room and talk nonsense and giggle about boys from school and men you saw in the black and white pictures that used to hang outside the theatres. If only Ada knew how when you’d talk of boys you only ever wanted to gush about one boy in particular. Ada’s brother Tommy.

You still harboured a crush on him, and over the years the school girl fantasies about him had turned into deep feelings, and now being in your twenties it seemed that you were full on in love with him. But alas, you knew Tommy thought of you as a friend, even a little sister perhaps and those feelings of yours would have to remain harboured.

“How did you meet him?” Aunt Pol asked you and all thoughts of Tommy went to the back of your mind as you focused your attention on her.

“Actually Ada introduced us, he’s a friend of Freddie” you tried not to notice how the sparkle in Aunt Pol’s eyes dimmed. You knew exactly what she’d say if Ada wasn’t there. Any friend of Freddie’s must be trouble. But she stayed tight lipped and held her tea cup firmly as she leaned her elbows on the table.

“That’s nice, dear” Aunt Pol smiled at you but you could see her lips remained taut and that her grin wasn’t as wide as normal. Deep down, and unknown to you, she had always wanted you and Tommy to end up falling in love and having a myriad of children, but just like your own thoughts they had remained unspoken and hidden. Meddling into situations that not ought to be trifled with was something she tried to stand by, so she had never voiced her opinion to anyone. Tommy was a stubborn lad at the best of times, god knows he’d never admit his feelings for you (if he had any) to his Aunt.

Like the devil himself that manifests from peoples thoughts, Tommy Shelby appeared through the double doors of the betting shop like an incarnate of a fallen angel. He had that rogue look that he always had, crystalline blue eyes scanning his surroundings and when they landed on you he gave you a nod, bringing a cigarette to his mouth and lighting it. Just like always, whenever you were graced with the presence of Tommy Shelby you became a shaking mess that resulted in you using fidgeting movements as a means to hide how nervous you’d suddenly become.

You picked up your tea cup and stood up from the table, walking over and putting it in the sink just to do anything other than sit under the weight of his gaze. You could feel him shift closer to where you now stood as John walked into the now already crowded area, the aroma of tobacco and cologne that radiated from him making you sigh contently. Thankfully the din that entered from the open door John had walked through covered up your wistful noise.

“Lord above, can we women not have a conversation in peace?” Aunt Pol said exasperatedly just as Arthur barged in the door clumsily. From where he stood beside you, plump lips wrapped around a cigarette, Tommy sniggered casually.

“Come on Pol, what could you be talking about that’s so important?” he asked his aunt with a sly and playful grin, but it was Ada who spoke back to him and her words brought a round of silence to the room.

“We were actually talking about y/n’s date tonight”

Arthur who had been stirring a cup of tea stopped his actions with a dramatic clink of the spoon and John stopped lighting the cigarette that now hung limply from his mouth, his match burning away in his other hand as he held it in mid air. Each man had their eyes on you with the same incredulous look burning in them, and you folded your arms around your waist defensively.

“Jesus Christ, is it that unbelievable that someone would want to take me out?” you huffed, trying not to focus on how Tommy stood over you with those blue eyes boring into your face.

“Why haven’t we met this chap yet, eh?” Arthur stood up straighter, that tough stance taking over his body “any man that wants to take out one of our girls we need to meet them first”

As endearing as it was that Arthur felt the need to treat you as if you were a sister, it was a little annoying that he still looked at you as if you were a child. You weren’t a child anymore. You were a woman, a woman who wasn’t going to sit around and live in a fantasy world where Tommy Shelby would one day propose his love. You were going on a date with someone who you hoped would turn out to be a respectable man, and you didn’t need a Shelby’s approval.

“Who is it? Where’s he from? Does he work?” John seemed to barrage you with questions but before you could answer Ada brushed them off with a wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes.

“Oh hush boys, leave our y/n be. It’s her business and no one else’s. She’s going out with a man and it is none of your concerns” she said, but you didn’t miss how her eyes flashed to Tommy’s, a look of warning in them. She stood then and it seemed the men had heeded her statement, both Arthur and John staying tight lipped but giving you looks that made you feel fidgety. Tommy who had remained mostly quiet throughout the exchange shifted his cigarette from one hand to the other every few seconds and kept leaning against the counter top and then standing up straight. It seemed he was almost as unnerved as you.

“Alright I’m heading upstairs to find that dress I was telling you about” Ada told you, and you nodded from where you stood.

“I’ll follow you up in a minute” you said, walking over to the table and clearing a plate that had hosted a scone you had eaten. As you brought it over to the small sink Tommy stood even closer to you, his eyes darting across your face. Over in the corner the two other men and Aunt Pol had slipped into a conversation about the days work, her dark eyes skipping over her nephews frames and to where you stood every few seconds.

“So you’re heading out, eh?” he asked you, voice deep and rough and your eyes left the plate you were washing and went to his face. God must have made him in his own image, because you were certain there was no other explanation as to how he was so beautiful. The evening shadow that flitted in through the window set itself against his face while the last remnants of golden sun glinted off his blue eyes. He awaited your answer patiently as he stared back at you, but your mind was lost when he brought a calloused and rough hand to his mouth, the now stub of his cigarette being wedged between his plump lips.

“Um…..yeah. Yeah, I’m heading out” you almost whispered, not trusting that your voice would shake like a leaf under the weight of his gaze. He took a longer drag this time and didn’t let the white cloud of smoke escape past his lips for nearly a minute.

“With who?” he was sure he had not meant to ask the question so venomously but it came out sharp and cold. He watched as you threw down the cloth you had in your hands and stood up straighter, all romanticism blown from your eyes.

“Did you not listen to your sister? It’s no one’s business” you tried to sound challenging but it came out breathless, your eyes darting to see if the other three in the room were listening. They looked to be immersed in their own conversation.

“You think that I’d let Ada go out with a man before knowing about him first? To hell I would” Tommy threatened with his voice low “you’re no different”

There it was. Like a punch to the gut, or a bullet to the chest. The devastating fact that Thomas Shelby categorised you with his own sister. You’re no different, he had said, and the words replayed in your head as you looked at him dumbly. That’s all you were to him, just another little sister to look after and protect. You’d been involved in their lives since you’d moved to Birmingham at seven and had always been Ada’s friend, but perhaps deep down you wanted him to look at you differently. To one day realise he loved you back.

But now the revelation had materialised itself in the tiny kitchen and you could feel the air get denser. Foolish little girl, you wanted to tell yourself, of course he’d never love you back.

“His name is William, and he’s a friend of Freddie’s. Ada introduced us. He’s taking me to dinner and then for a drink at The Garrison” you gritted through your teeth with your eyes narrowed on his “you happy?”

“Fucking ecstatic” he seethed back, his shoulders straight and his eyes boring into yours.

You were more annoyed at the fact that had just arose and not at him, but your emotions couldn’t categorise themselves currently so you were left throwing your irritation his way instead of harbouring it. You were embarrassed at yourself that you had ever held that secret infatuation that maybe, just maybe he loved you too.

Without another word, you turned away from him and walked up the stairs, completely oblivious to the fact that Tommy never took his eyes of you. When you were gone, your footsteps upstairs getting fainter, he turned to face his brothers.

“Eh, boys” he called, watching as they turned their attention to him “fancy a drink at the Garrison later?”

“I thought you said we’d business to take care of later?” Arthur answered confusedly, his mind whirring with Tommy’s earlier statement of meeting with a few new coppers on the payroll later that evening. John nodded in agreement with Arthur’s question but Tommy just gave him a pointed look, your face coming to the forefront of his mind where it normally resided.

“The Garrison. Later. Drinks” he sarcastically simplified for his brothers, taking the last drag of his cigarette and snatching up his overcoat from where it had hung on the back of a chair “meet me there at eight”

And then in a flurry of black, just like a shadow, he was gone.

“What’s wrong with him?” Arthur questioned with an annoyed look. He could never keep up with his brother’s ever changing mood.

“I think our Tommy just realised he’s in love” Aunt Pol answered with a smirk, her dark eyes fixated on the place her nephew had been moments before. Perhaps, she thought, all those dreams she’d had of you and Tommy marrying had not been fickle after all.

Tag list: @peachyblinderss @crazyonesarethebest

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders fic

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

A Perfect Day for Bananafish

J. D. Salinger (1948)

THERE WERE ninety-seven New York advertising men in the hotel, and, the way they were monopolizing the long-distance lines, the girl in 507 had to wait from noon till almost two-thirty to get her call through. She used the time, though. She read an article in a women's pocket-size magazine, called "Sex Is Fun-or Hell." She washed her comb and brush. She took the spot out of the skirt of her beige suit. She moved the button on her Saks blouse. She tweezed out two freshly surfaced hairs in her mole. When the operator finally rang her room, she was sitting on the window seat and had almost finished putting lacquer on the nails of her left hand.

She was a girl who for a ringing phone dropped exactly nothing. She looked as if her phone had been ringing continually ever since she had reached puberty.

With her little lacquer brush, while the phone was ringing, she went over the nail of her little finger, accentuating the line of the moon. She then replaced the cap on the bottle of lacquer and, standing up, passed her left--the wet--hand back and forth through the air. With her dry hand, she picked up a congested ashtray from the window seat and carried it with her over to the night table, on which the phone stood. She sat down on one of the made-up twin beds and--it was the fifth or sixth ring--picked up the phone.

"Hello," she said, keeping the fingers of her left hand outstretched and away from her white silk dressing gown, which was all that she was wearing, except mules--her rings were in the bathroom.

"I have your call to New York now, Mrs. Glass," the operator said.

"Thank you," said the girl, and made room on the night table for the ashtray.

A woman's voice came through. "Muriel? Is that you?"

The girl turned the receiver slightly away from her ear. "Yes, Mother. How are you?" she said.

"I've been worried to death about you. Why haven't you phoned? Are you all right?"

"I tried to get you last night and the night before. The phone here's been--"

"Are you all right, Muriel?"

The girl increased the angle between the receiver and her ear. "I'm fine. I'm hot. This is the hottest day they've had in Florida in--"

"Why haven't you called me? I've been worried to--"

"Mother, darling, don't yell at me. I can hear you beautifully," said the girl. "I called you twice last night. Once just after--"

"I told your father you'd probably call last night. But, no, he had to-Are you all right, Muriel? Tell me the truth."

"I'm fine. Stop asking me that, please." "When did you get there?"

"I don't know. Wednesday morning, early." "Who drove?"

"He did," said the girl. "And don't get excited. He drove very nicely. I was amazed."

"He drove? Muriel, you gave me your word of--"

"Mother," the girl interrupted, "I just told you. He drove very nicely. Under fifty the whole way, as a matter of fact."

"Did he try any of that funny business with the trees?"

"I said he drove very nicely, Mother. Now, please. I asked him to stay close to the white line, and all, and he knew what I meant, and he did. He was even trying not to look at the trees-you could tell. Did Daddy get the car fixed, incidentally?"

"Not yet. They want four hundred dollars, just to--"

"Mother, Seymour told Daddy that he'd pay for it. There's no reason for--"

"Well, we'll see. How did he behave--in the car and all?"

"All right," said the girl.

"Did he keep calling you that awful--" "No. He has something new now." "What?"

"Oh, what's the difference, Mother?" "Muriel, I want to know. Your father--"

"All right, all right. He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948," the girl said, and giggled.

"It isn't funny, Muriel. It isn't funny at all. It's horrible. It's sad, actually. When I think how--"

"Mother," the girl interrupted, "listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know--those German poems. What'd I do with it? I've been racking my--"

"You have it."

"Are you sure?" said the girl.

"Certainly. That is, I have it. It's in Freddy's room. You left it here and I didn't have room for it in the--Why? Does he want it?"

"No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I'd read it."

"It was in German!"

"Yes, dear. That doesn't make any difference," said the girl, crossing her legs. "He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should've bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please."

"Awful. Awful. It's sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night--"

"Just a second, Mother," the girl said. She went over to the window seat for her cigarettes, lit one, and returned to her seat on the bed. "Mother?" she said, exhaling smoke.

"Muriel. Now, listen to me." "I'm listening."

"Your father talked to Dr. Sivetski."

"Oh?" said the girl.

"He told him everything. At least, he said he did--you know your father. The trees. That business with the window. Those horrible things he said to Granny about her plans for passing away. What he did with all those lovely pictures from Bermuda--everything."

"Well?" said the girl.

"Well. In the first place, he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the hospital--my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there's a chance--a very great chance, he said--that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of honor."

"There's a psychiatrist here at the hotel," said the girl.

"Who? What's his name?"

"I don't know. Rieser or something. He's supposed to be very good."

"Never heard of him."

"Well, he's supposed to be very good, anyway."

"Muriel, don't be fresh, please. We're very worried about you. Your father wanted to wire you last night to come home, as a matter of f--"

"I'm not coming home right now, Mother. So relax."

"Muriel. My word of honor. Dr. Sivetski said Seymour may completely lose contr--"

"I just got here, Mother. This is the first vacation I've had in years, and I'm not going to just pack everything and come home," said the girl. "I couldn't travel now anyway. I'm so sunburned I can hardly move."

"You're badly sunburned? Didn't you use that jar of Bronze I put in your bag? I put it right--"

"I used it. I'm burned anyway."

"That's terrible. Where are you burned?" "All over, dear, all over."

"That's terrible." "I'll live."

"Tell me, did you talk to this psychiatrist?" "Well, sort of," said the girl.

"What'd he say? Where was Seymour when you talked to him?"

"In the Ocean Room, playing the piano. He's played the piano both nights we've been here."

"Well, what'd he say?"

"Oh, nothing much. He spoke to me first. I was sitting next to him at Bingo last night, and he asked me if that wasn't my husband playing the piano in the other room. I said yes, it was, and he asked me if Seymour's been sick or something. So I said--"

"Why'd he ask that?"

"I don't know, Mother. I guess because he's so pale and all," said the girl. "Anyway, after Bingo he and his wife asked me if I wouldn't like to join them for a drink. So I did. His wife was horrible. You remember that awful dinner dress we saw in Bonwit's window? The one you said you'd have to have a tiny, tiny--"

"The green?"

"She had it on. And all hips. She kept asking me if Seymour's related to that Suzanne Glass that has that place on Madison Avenue--the millinery."

"What'd he say, though? The doctor."

"Oh. Well, nothing much, really. I mean we were in the bar and all. It was terribly noisy."

"Yes, but did--did you tell him what he tried to do with Granny's chair?"

"No, Mother. I didn't go into details very much," said the girl. "I'll probably get a chance to talk to him again. He's in the bar all day long."

"Did he say he thought there was a chance he might get--you know--funny or anything? Do something to you!"

"Not exactly," said the girl. "He had to have more facts, Mother. They have to know about your childhood--all that stuff. I told you, we could hardly talk, it was so noisy in there."

"Well. How's your blue coat?"

"All right. I had some of the padding taken out."

"How are the clothes this year?"

"Terrible. But out of this world. You see sequins-- everything," said the girl.

"How's your room?"

"All right. Just all right, though. We couldn't get the room we had before the war," said the girl. "The people are awful this year. You should see what sits next to us in the dining room. At the next table. They look as if they drove down in a truck."

"Well, it's that way all over. How's your ballerina?"

"It's too long. I told you it was too long."

"Muriel, I'm only going to ask you once more-- are you really all right?"

"Yes, Mother," said the girl. "For the ninetieth time."

"And you don't want to come home?" "No, Mother."

"Your father said last night that he'd be more than willing to pay for it if you'd go away someplace by yourself and think things over. You could take a lovely cruise. We both thought--"

"No, thanks," said the girl, and uncrossed her legs. "Mother, this call is costing a for--"

"When I think of how you waited for that boy all through the war-I mean when you think of all those crazy little wives who--"

"Mother," said the girl, "we'd better hang up. Seymour may come in any minute."

"Where is he?"

"On the beach."

"On the beach? By himself? Does he behave himself on the beach?"

"Mother," said the girl, "you talk about him as though he were a raving maniac--"

"I said nothing of the kind, Muriel."

"Well, you sound that way. I mean all he does is lie there. He won't take his bathrobe off."

"He won't take his bathrobe off? Why not?" "I don't know. I guess because he's so pale."

"My goodness, he needs the sun. Can't you make him?

"You know Seymour," said the girl, and crossed her legs again. "He says he doesn't want a lot of fools looking at his tattoo."

"He doesn't have any tattoo! Did he get one in the Army?"

"No, Mother. No, dear," said the girl, and stood up. "Listen, I'll call you tomorrow, maybe."

"Muriel. Now, listen to me."

"Yes, Mother," said the girl, putting her weight on her right leg.

"Call me the instant he does, or says, anything at all funny--you know what I mean. Do you hear me?"

"Mother, I'm not afraid of Seymour." "Muriel, I want you to promise me."

"All right, I promise. Goodbye, Mother," said the girl. "My love to Daddy." She hung up.

"See more glass," said Sybil Carpenter, who was staying at the hotel with her mother. "Did you see more glass?"

"Pussycat, stop saying that. It's driving Mommy absolutely crazy. Hold still, please."

Mrs. Carpenter was putting sun-tan oil on Sybil's shoulders, spreading it down over the delicate, winglike blades of her back. Sybil was sitting insecurely on a huge, inflated beach ball, facing the ocean. She was wearing a canary- yellow two-piece bathing suit, one piece of which she would not actually be needing for another nine or ten years.

"It was really just an ordinary silk handkerchief-- you could see when you got up close," said the woman in the beach chair beside Mrs. Carpenter's. "I wish I knew how she tied it. It was really darling."

"It sounds darling," Mrs. Carpenter agreed. "Sybil, hold still, pussy."

"Did you see more glass?" said Sybil.

Mrs. Carpenter sighed. "All right," she said. She replaced the cap on the sun-tan oil bottle. "Now run and play, pussy. Mommy's going up to the hotel and have a Martini with Mrs. Hubbel. I'll bring you the olive."

Set loose, Sybil immediately ran down to the flat part of the beach and began to walk in the direction of Fisherman's Pavilion. Stopping only to sink a foot in a soggy, collapsed castle, she was soon out of the area reserved for guests of the hotel.

She walked for about a quarter of a mile and then suddenly broke into an oblique run up the soft part of the beach. She stopped short when she reached the place where a young man was lying on his back.

"Are you going in the water, see more glass?" she said.

The young man started, his right hand going to the lapels of his terry-cloth robe. He turned over on his stomach, letting a sausaged towel fall away from his eyes, and squinted up at Sybil.

"Hey. Hello, Sybil."

"Are you going in the water?"

"I was waiting for you," said the young man. "What's new?"

"What?" said Sybil.

"What's new? What's on the program?"

"My daddy's coming tomorr ow on a nairiplane," Sybil said, kicking sand.

"Not in my face, baby," the young man said, putting his hand on Sybil's ankle. "Well, it's about time he got here, your daddy. I've been expecting him hourly. Hourly."

"Where's the lady?" Sybil said.

"The lady?" the young man brushed some sand out of his thin hair. "That's hard to say, Sybil. She may be in any one of a thousand places. At the hairdresser's. Having her hair dyed mink. Or making dolls for poor children, in her room." Lying prone now, he made two fists, set one on top of the other, and rested his chin on the top one. "Ask me something else, Sybil," he said. "That's a fine bathing suit you have on. If there's one thing I like, it's a blue bathing suit."

Sybil stared at him, then looked down at her protruding stomach. "This is a yellow," she said. "This is a yellow."

"It is? Come a little closer." Sybil took a step forward. "You're absolutely right. What a fool I am."

"Are you going in the water?" Sybil said.

"I'm seriously considering it. I'm giving it plenty of thought, Sybil, you'll be glad to know."

Sybil prodded the rubber float that the young man sometimes used as a head-rest. "It needs air," she said.

"You're right. It needs more air than I'm willing to admit." He took away his fists and let his chin rest on the sand. "Sybil," he said, "you're looking fine. It's good to see you. Tell me about yourself." He reached in front of him and took both of Sybil's ankles in his hands. "I'm Capricorn," he said. "What are you?"

"Sharon Lipschutz said you let her sit on the piano seat with you," Sybil said.

"Sharon Lipschutz said that?" Sybil nodded vigorously.

He let go of her ankles, drew in his hands, and laid the side of his face on his right forearm. "Well," he said, "you know how those things happen, Sybil. I was sitting there, playing. And you were nowhere in sight. And Sharon Lipschutz came over and sat down next to me. I couldn't push her off, could I?"

"Yes."

"Oh, no. No. I couldn't do that," said the young man. "I'll tell you what I did do, though."

"What?"

"I pretended she was you."

Sybil immediately stooped and began to dig in the sand. "Let's go in the water," she said.

"All right," said the young man. "I think I can work it in."

"Next time, push her off," Sybil said. "Push who off?"

"Sharon Lipschutz."

"Ah, Sharon Lipschutz," said the young man. "How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire." He suddenly got to his feet. He looked at the ocean. "Sybil," he said, "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll see if we can catch a bananafish."

"A what?"

"A bananafish," he said, and undid the belt of his robe. He took off the robe. His shoulders were white and narrow, and his trunks were royal blue. He folded the robe, first lengthwise, then in thirds. He unrolled the towel he had used over his eyes, spread it out on the sand, and then laid the folded robe on top of it. He bent over, picked up the float, and secured it under his right arm. Then, with his left hand, he took Sybil's hand.

The two started to walk down to the ocean.

"I imagine you've seen quite a few bananafish in your day," the young man said.

Sybil shook her head.

"You haven't? Where do you live, anyway?" "I don't know," said Sybil.

"Sure you know. You must know. Sharon Lipschutz knows where she lives and she's only three and a half."

Sybil stopped walking and yanked her hand away from him. She picked up an ordinary beach shell and looked at it with elaborate interest. She threw it down. "Whirly Wood, Connecticut," she said, and resumed walking, stomach foremost.

"Whirly Wood, Connecticut," said the young man. "Is that anywhere near Whirly Wood, Connecticut, by any chance?"

Sybil looked at him. "That's where I live," she said impatiently. "I live in Whirly Wood, Connecticut." She ran a few steps ahead of him, caught up her left foot in her left hand, and hopped two or three times.

"You have no idea how clear that makes everything," the young man said.

Sybil released her foot. "Did you read `Little Black Sambo'?" she said.

"It's very funny you ask me that," he said. "It so happens I just finished reading it last night." He reached down and took back Sybil's hand. "What did you think of it?" he asked her.

"Did the tigers run all around that tree?"

"I thought they'd never stop. I never saw so many tigers."

"There were only six," Sybil said.

"Only six!" said the young man. "Do you call that only?"

"Do you like wax?" Sybil asked.

"Do I like what?" asked the young man. "Wax." "Very much. Don't you?"

Sybil nodded. "Do you like olives?" she asked.

"Olives--yes. Olives and wax. I never go anyplace without 'em."

"Do you like Sharon Lipschutz?" Sybil asked.

"Yes. Yes, I do," said the young man. "What I like particularly about her is that she never does anything mean to little dogs in the lobby of the hotel. That little toy bull that belongs to that lady from Canada, for instance. You probably won't believe this, but some little girls like to poke that little dog with balloon sticks. Sharon doesn't. She's never mean or unkind. That's why I like her so much."

Sybil was silent.

"I like to chew candles," she said finally.

"Who doesn't?" said the young man, getting his feet wet. "Wow! It's cold." He dropped the rubber float on its back. "No, wait just a second, Sybil. Wait'll we get out a little bit."

They waded out till the water was up to Sybil's waist. Then the young man picked her up and laid her down on her stomach on the float.

"Don't you ever wear a bathing cap or anything?" he asked.

"Don't let go," Sybil ordered. "You hold me, now."

"Miss Carpenter. Please. I know my business," the young man said. "You just keep your eyes open for any bananafish. This is a perfect day for bananafish."

"I don't see any," Sybil said.

"That's understandable. Their habits are very peculiar." He kept pushing the float. The water was not quite up to his chest. "They lead a very tragic life," he said. "You know what they do, Sybil?"

She shook her head.

"Well, they swim into a hole where there's a lot of bananas. They're very ordinary-looking fish when they swim in. But once they get in, they behave like pigs. Why, I've known some bananafish to swim into a banana hole and eat as many as seventy-eight bananas." He edged the float and its passenger a foot closer to the horizon. "Naturally, after that they're so fat they can't get out of the hole again. Can't fit through the door."

"Not too far out," Sybil said. "What happens to them?"

"What happens to who?" "The bananafish."

"Oh, you mean after they eat so many bananas they can't get out of the banana hole?"

"Yes," said Sybil.

"Well, I hate to tell you, Sybil. They die." "Why?" asked Sybil.

"Well, they get banana fever. It's a terrible disease."

"Here comes a wave," Sybil said nervously.

"We'll ignore it. We'll snub it," said the young man. "Two snobs." He took Sybil's ankles in his hands and pressed down and forward. The float nosed over the top of the wave. The water soaked Sybil's blond hair, but her scream was full of pleasure.

With her hand, when the float was level again, she wiped away a flat, wet band of hair from her eyes, and reported, "I just saw one."

"Saw what, my love?" "A bananafish."

"My God, no!" said the young man. "Did he have any bananas in his mouth?"

"Yes," said Sybil. "Six."

The young man suddenly picked up one of Sybil's wet feet, which were drooping over the end of the float, and kissed the arch.

"Hey!" said the owner of the foot, turning around.

"Hey, yourself We're going in now. You had enough?"

"No!"

"Sorry," he said, and pushed the float toward shore until Sybil got off it. He carried it the rest of the way.

"Goodbye," said Sybil, and ran without regret in the direction of the hotel.

The young man put on his robe, closed the lapels tight, and jammed his towel into his pocket. He picked up the slimy wet, cumbersome float and put it under his arm. He plodded alone through the soft, hot sand toward the hotel.

On the sub-main floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator with the young man.

"I see you're looking at my feet," he said to her when the car was in motion.

"I beg your pardon?" said the woman. "I said I see you're looking at my feet."

"I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor," said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.

"If you want to look at my feet, say so," said the young man. "But don't be a God-damned sneak about it."

"Let me out here, please," the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.

The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.

"I have two normal feet and I can't see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them," said the young man. "Five, please." He took his room key out of his robe pocket.

He got off at the fifth floor, walked down the hall, and let himself into 507. The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.

He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the twin beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies calibre 7.65 automatic. He released the magazine, looked at it, then reinserted it. He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.

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johnnydoe69 · 5 years

Text

Shedding the Old Skin

Timothy sat on his boyfriend’s couch exhausted. His head throbbed, his pits stank, and sweat continued to pour down his face and neck. Timothy had spent the last four hours handing out Kevin Thompson re-election flyers in the sticky New York City heat. A pile of untaken flyers mocked him from the coffee table with the profile of Kevin Thompson seeming to glare at him.

Meanwhile, Timothy’s boyfriend, Freddie, strolled around his kitchen in nothing but a pair of stained underwear, grabbing bags of chips and a bong. Timothy wasn’t the biggest fan of smoking pot, but he was afraid that Freddie already saw him as a pussy and he didn’t want Freddie’s opinion of him to sink any lower than it already was.

Not that it seemed to matter. Timothy figured it was only a matter of time before Freddie left him for someone more confident and more open about their queerness. Freddie had come out as a trans guy at 16 and gay at 24, while at 28 Timothy was still in the closet. He didn’t even want to hold hands with Freddie in public, let alone do any of the reckless shit Freddie wanted to do like fuck on a park bench or giving each other hickies on the subway.

Timothy was constantly aware of straight people’s opinions of him as he went about his life and he did everything in his power to hide from them. He made sure his voice was low and masculine whenever he spoke in public. He only wore button-up shirts and khaki pants, he kept his blonde hair short and trim, and he made himself as quiet and small as humanly possible to avoid attention.

Freddie plopped himself on the couch next to Timothy, spilling the bags of chips on the coffee table, and once he got comfortable, lighting his bong with a rainbow lighter. Once he had smoked enough for a good buzz, Freddie passed the bong over to Timothy who took a quick whiff and coughed out most of it. Freddie laughed, his voice deep and melodious, “I can’t believe you're in your twenties and you smoke like you’re 15.”

Timothy shook his head sheepishly and said, “I only started smoking when I met you. You can’t expect me to be an expert at this already.”

He handed the bong back to Freddie, the both of them knowing he wouldn’t take a second whiff until it was almost empty. Freddie took another inhale when he noticed the huge stack of flyers underneath the bags of chips on the coffee table. He put the bong down and picked up one of the flyers. Plastered across its design was a smiling man in a suit and tie, surrounded in a semi-circle by a group of working-class people looking to him with awe.

“Please tell me you didn’t spend 4 hours handing out flyers for this choad,” Freddie said, turning to Timothy with a crumpled expression.

“It really wasn’t that bad. I grew up in the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I’m used to standing in the hot sun trying to save people from themselves.” Timothy said, suddenly deciding he needed to take another hit from. Taking Freddie’s lighter, he lit the bong and inhaled as much weed as he could, desperately trying to ignore the worried expression on his boyfriend’s face. Freddie crumpled up the flyer and dropped it to the floor.

“Timmy, I’m fucking worried about you. You let people walk all over you and you end up working yourself to death. Did they even give you water to drink? Or breaks? Or Hell, a motherfucking chair to sit in?”

Timothy kept silent, knowing the answers to Freddie’s questions would make him more upset. Freddie shook his head and looked away, his fists clenched and his head-turning red. With his sharp yellow mohawk, he looked like a phoenix ready to tear into Kevin Thompson’s perfectly manicured face.

“Change requires sacrifices. If we want our political machine to change we have to be willing to put up with some unpleasantness.” He didn’t want to add the next part, but he was too exhausted and annoyed at Freddie to hold it in, “You don’t want real change. You dress like a thug and think the masses will come flocking to you. It’s pathetic.”

Timothy gazed at his boyfriend’s strong muscular back as it clenched up like a fist. He realized that he might have said the wrong thing, but at that point, he was exhausted and unwilling to put up with whatever huff Freddie got himself into.

“At least I’m honest with who I am and what I want,” Freddie said in a quiet voice. He spun around and stared directly into Timothy’s eyes, making Timothy reflexively move away from him on the couch.

“When I go outside with my dyed hair and leather jacket and I say and do whatever the fuck I want, I get to know that I do that on my terms. If people want to stare, call me a faggot, fine, fuck them I can take it. What I can’t do is hide in thirty different layers of respectability and delude myself into thinking that makes me better than everyone else.”

Freddie got up from the couch and paced around the cramped living room, kicking furniture and clothes out of the way to make room.

Freddie couldn’t make sense of his boyfriend. When they had first met, Timmy had practically shoved his hand down his pants. It was at one of those seedy gay bars where the lighting was so bad it was hard to see even in the middle of the day. He didn’t remember what he had first said to Timmy, but soon they were making out in his van. Timmy’s warm, thick tongue sliding down the back of Freddie’s throat.

By the time he was able to peel himself away from Timmy’s mouth to drive them to his apartment, Timmy was half-naked, having shed most of his clothes in the car. Timmy tore off Freddie’s clothes as they struggled into the apartment, Timmy ripping them to shreds to get at him. When they collapsed on his bed, Timmy let out an ear-piercing roar as he let Freddie enter him.

“You like that baby,” Timmy cooed as he ground himself on Freddie’s dick and all Freddie could do was nod in awe at this sexy and intimidating presence that had ended up in his life. Timmy howled with an intensity Freddie had never heard in another man before. His kisses sucked the life from Freddie’s throat, leaving him gasping for air and begging for more. Timmy clawed at Freddie’s skin like a wild animal, the trickle of blood going down Freddie’s back and arms turning him on even more. During sex, Freddie swore that Timmy’s eyes blazed red as they deeply stared into his, making him think that he was high, dead, or fucking a demon.

When they finally finished it was the best orgasm Freddie had ever experienced in his life. Both Timmy and Freddie collapsed together in a heap on the bed, snuggling until Freddie lost consciousness. When he woke up, his blankets on the floor, bed torn apart, bong smashed to pieces, he found Timmy fidgeting with the broken stove in the kitchen.

Freddie just wanted Timmy to be happy and he never saw him as carefree and as willing to enjoy himself than that first night they had sex. He knew that wild beast that lurked in Timothy’s heart was there, he just had no idea how to release it from the bedroom.

He stopped pacing and looked at Timmy, almost passed out on the couch at this point. His dazed eyes staring at the ceiling with a sleepy smile on his face. Freddie knew that like most of their fights, they would end up snuggling on the couch before Timothy went to the bathroom and cried his heart out in the bathroom sink.

Freddie sighed, he knew of one way Timmy could be happy, but it came at a cost.

Timmy noticed Freddie had started to stare at him and whimpered, “Babe, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m only trying to help people in my own way. I wish I could be like you, dressed in leather and punching cops in the face, but I just can’t.”

Freddie shook his head and took Timmy’s hands in his. “Okay, I know of a guy who can help you. His name is Johnny Cocksucker. He’s a prophet of sorts in the queer punk scene.”

“Do I have to let him blow me or something?” Timothy asked.

“Just buy him a pack of cigarettes and he’ll help you find what you need.”

Later that day, after Timothy had sobered up and had a good cry he walked over to the 7/11 parking lot Johnny Cocksucker hung around. In the lot, Timothy saw around three people sitting on the hood of someone’s truck. Two men and one woman dressed in leather with wild colored hair shared a bottle of liquor someone stored in a brown paper bag.

Timothy wasn’t sure what to expect. Was Johnny going to give him some kinda pep talk or was this some weird initiation thing where Timmy would get beat up in an alley somewhere? Would Freddie do something like that to him?

He came to the three punks and waited until one of them noticed him. At first, they ignored him making Timothy stand there awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. Eventually, the girl noticed him and asked, “The fuck do you want?”

“Hi, I’m looking for a guy named Johnny Cocksucker. I was told he could help me.`` Timothy stammered. The three punks glaring at him made him feel like he was going to shit himself.

Then one of the men smiled, “My name’s Johnny Cocksucker. You want a tarot reading or something more?”

Timothy hesitated, he wasn’t sure what Freddie meant by Johnny helping him find himself, but Timothy trusted Freddie and he did want to know himself whatever that meant. So Timothy said, “I want something more. My boyfriend, Freddie, said you could help me find myself.”

“You got me a pack of smokes?” Johnny asked, leaning back on the truck hood.

Timothy nodded, supplying a box of cigarettes from his sweatshirt pocket, “Marlboro, right?”

Johnny nodded, got off the truck, and swaggered over to Timothy.

“Alright, sweetie. Let’s do this.” He took Timothy by the hand and him across the street into a dark alley. It was narrow and cold, but Timothy found himself getting turned on by Johnny. His dick got a little hard and if he wasn’t with Freddie he would have gladly given or received head from this man.

Once they were out of earshot, Timothy started talking. “I got into a fight with Freddie and I know I’m not super great at communicating my feelings and I was kinda condescending to him, but I’m just not comfortable-”

Johnny put a finger to Timothy’s lips. “Honey, I’m not your fucking therapist. Do you want to know what you want or not?”

Timothy nodded eagerly.

Johnny lit a cigarette and blew some smoke in Timothy’s face. Timothy wheezed, but noticing Johnny’s eyes he suddenly stopped. Timothy felt rooted to the spot, Johnny’s brown eyes drawing all his attention.

Johnny smiled, “you love him don’t you?” “Yes.” Timothy replied, “I love him a lot.” Timothy felt a strange heat coming from his dick, it prickled and burned. “And you want to help people, instead of pussyfooting around with shitheads who don’t give a flying fuck about you?” Johnny Cocksucker asked, dangling the cigarette from his mouth as he pressed his hands on Timothy’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t call it pussyfooting rather attempting to engage the electorate-” “Do you want to help people or not?” “Yes.” Timothy agreed again. Timothy’s erection pressed up against his pants, making it too painful to keep on. He undid his belt and dropped his pants to the floor with a deep moan.

“That’s it, bitch. That’s it.” Johnny Cocksucker said, nodding at Timothy’s progress. Cocksucker continued, “And you want to live as yourself and not what everybody wants you to be?”

“Yes, please,” Timothy moaned, his dick was so hard he had to take his boxer briefs off, leaving his hard six-inch dick out in the breeze.

Cocksucker spit into his hands and rubbed them viciously before putting his hands on Timmy’s cock. His hands were calloused and hard but in a satisfying way. The odd bumps and dry skin against his dick only made Timothy harder.

Cocksucker got on his knees and placed Timothy’s dick in his mouth, his soft lips massaging Timothy’s throbbing cock. With every thrust of Johnny's head on his cock, Timothy felt layers of himself getting peeled away.

No more working with politicians, no more canvassing, stickers, and plastic straw boycotts. He would fight and do shit that helped people now, not maybe four years down the road. He would organize with Freddie and fight against police oppression. The rage that had been building inside of him his entire life was forcing its way through. He would no longer be held back by fear.

Timothy growled and moaned as Johnny worked his magic on Timothy’s dick. Timothy’s fear and layers of respectability heading into his dick. As Timothy’s mind changed, so did his appearance. His lanky frame that served him well in avoiding public scrutiny was filling up with muscle. His button-up shirt was replaced with a ripped t-shirt and a leather jacket, his khaki pants and boxer briefs replaced with stained jeans and filthy red boxer shorts. Two solid black boots replaced his polished brown oxfords.

His short blonde hair grew and became spiked, turning a dark shade of green. Black nail polish appeared on his fingernails and silver rings materialized on his two middle fingers. Then sharp pinpricks of pain stabbed through his ears, mouth, and nose making him let out a small scream. Piercings were ripping through Timothy’s flesh until his entire face was coated with them. With his new look and personality came a new name, Viper. It was a name that intimidated the right people, but for Freddie, it would always mean his thick now nine-inch dick.

He cummed in Cocksucker’s mouth. His old life and insecurities disappearing down Johnny Cocksucker’s throat.

Needing to take a breath, Viper leaned his head against a brick wall. Johnny Cocksucker stood up and wiped his mouth.

“You good?” Johnny asked, taking out a cigarette.

Viper nodded in a daze, “I have to find my boyfriend.”

Johnny smiled and patted him on the shoulder. Viper stumbled a few steps forward when Johnny said, “Hey, pull your pants up. You got your dick hanging out.”

Viper looked down at his thick nine-inch dick hanging in the air and he chuckled.

“Still a little fucked up, I guess,” Viper said, pulling up his pants and underwear. Then he staggered out of the alleyway, his dick still hard, as Johnny Cocksucker took out a cigarette and watched. “Freddie owes me big time for that shit,” Johnny said, lighting his cigarette. The taste of cum and Timmy’s fear still hanging in the back of his throat.

Viper struggled to make his way to Freddie. He had an insatiable desire to fuck Freddie just the way he wanted. Rough and intense, like the time they first fucked, only this time Viper wasn’t going to freeze up every time after they had sex. It was going to be crazy and uninhibited the whole way. the way that he had never been fucked before. It felt like miles before Viper ended up outside an old theatre. In the haze of Viper’s mind, he knew that Freddie had a gig there tonight.

That’s when he realized it was dark out. Had six hours passed that quickly? Then Viper watched as a bunch of roadies with band equipment were leaving the venue, including Freddie.

Freddie looked over and saw a man waiting for him. He didn’t know why, but he had the sudden feeling that the green-haired punk was his boyfriend.

He dropped what he was doing and ran over to him. Viper jumped up and wrapped his legs around Freddie’s waist kissing him on the mouth.

“I know Johnny did a number on you, but holy shit you’re hot,” Freddie said in-between kisses.

“Can you faggots get off the sidewalk?” an old man screeched at them.

Viper flipped the old fucker off and lost himself in Freddie’s passionate embrace. He would never take a straight person’s bullshit ever again.

#dick growth #reality change #punk transformation

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