#teenage girls put up with so much bollocks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theeslytherinslut · 4 years

Text

12 Grimmauld Place (3/?)

Pairings: Sirius Black x reader, Remus Lupin x readers brother

Word Count: 2,072

Warnings: angst, language

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

It was the only room you’d seen thus far that didn’t have peeling layers of dark-colored paints, ranging from deep emeralds to smoky greys and jet blacks. Instead, it was painted likely the lightest shade of grey Sirius could convince his mother to agree to, but looking around, that was probably the only thing she would’ve approved of in this room.

Laughing to yourself quietly, you had a stark, strangely sad realization: this was still a teenager's room. Scantily clad Muggle women postered the walls draped across expensive-looking cars, Gryffindor apparel was strewn everywhere possible, what looked to be a Quidditch banner hung from the ceiling, and various Honeydukes wrappings littered the floor. A large, expensive, very elaborately made chair stood in the corner of the room, buried underneath layers of dark clothing.

“Sorry, probably should’ve cleaned up...wasn’t exactly expecting company though, not that you’re a bother! Merlin, it’s lovely to have someone so love--so...it’s nice to have someone else here.” Sirius finished, as red as the scarlet robes hanging from his canopy bed as he stuttered his way through his explanation.

“This is...this is incredible,” you said, moving through the room to find a picture of Sirius and James with their arms thrown across each other's shoulders, laughing jovially as Remus shook his finger at them in the distance. Chuckling to yourself, you continued to look at the handful of old pictures that littered his dresser.

Another picture nearby showed Sirius sneaking up on James as he very clearly flirted with Lily, her face lighting up with laughter as James jumped up in fright.

“He was always so easy when Lily was around...” Sirius trailed off, smiling sadly at the photos before you. Looking to the other corner of the mirror, you saw three more photos shoved into the cracks.

The first was a picture of the group of them lounged around the Great Lake; you’d guessed Peter was behind the camera because only the four of them smiled up at you. James’ head lay in Lily’s lap, hers rested on Sirius’ shoulder, who waved up cheerily at you. As Lily sat up to meet James halfway for a quick kiss, Sirius stretched out his arm and pulled in a sheepish looking Remus, ruffling the top of his head affectionately. You smiled at the sight of your brother with his friends. The happiness that radiated from this picture was intoxicating, you never wanted to look away.

The next was of them in what must’ve been the Gryffindor common room. Being a Slytherin, you’d never seen the inside of anyone else’s common rooms. Large, comfy furniture was placed strategically around the room, drapings of what you’d assumed to be scarlet and gold draped the walls, an inviting fire dominated the center of the room.

This picture was another of the group of them, but this time a frightened-looking James and a smirking Sirius were evidently getting scolded fiercely by Lily. You laughed upon seeing Remus standing behind Lily in a sort of gesture of good faith but seemingly offered no words to his insolent friends.

“Hexed a fourth year Slytherin,” he explained, you turned to glare playfully at him, and he smiled, “The git tried to stick gum in my hair! I think there might’ve been an incident with myself and a girlfriend of his, though...Anyway, James caught him just before and...well, he was with Madam Pomfrey for a few days, I think. Lily gave us a right good telling off for that one, came close to Minnie’s scoldings,” Sirius sighed wistfully, likely reliving the day in his head.

“Wait...” you trailed off upon seeing the last.

The third picture was in the Great Hall; though many people were in the picture, the center focus seemed to be a group of Slytherin girls standing in the entryway. There, in the center of the photograph, laughing heartily, was you. Your Y/H/C hair was seemingly shining underneath what was likely a very sunny day, your teeth gleaming as you laughed at something someone had said.

“Is that..?” you turned around, looking to find him sheepishly smirking at his feet.

“Yes, I believe it is,” he said. A smile was on his face, but he was scrutinizing yours. “I think I nicked it off Remus at some point.”

“Why?” you shook your head. Surely Sirius Black hadn’t been fawning over you as well? Surely you hadn’t wasted all these years apart because neither one of you had the bollocks. “You could’ve had anybody...”

“Well, I could--and did,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not proud of my whorish boyhood--though it only seems fair having given my recent dating history, funnily enough, a dementor's kiss is not a hot thing.” he broke off when you let out a rip of laughter. “But all that is behind me. I can still hear James suggesting I settle down with a nice girl instead of working my way through the female half of our year. Remus gave up on that idea long ago, I think.”

His smile turned sad at the mention of his friend, and your eyes fell back to the picture of the two of them being scolded by Lily.

“I’m sorry, Sirius,” you said honestly. “The last half of your life...it must’ve been awful. Losing your best mate, your brother essentially, and then being blamed and imprisoned in fucking Azkaban for a decade for it.”

Sirius didn’t answer, merely looked darkly at the floor. You took your cue to steer the conversation in another direction. Tightening your towel around you, you cleared your throat.

“So, this nice girl James wanted you to find, any luck thus far? Do I know her?” you asked, lightening the mood.

“What do you think? This decrepit house isn’t exactly overflowing with options. Unless you count portraits of past, insane, family members, then I’m swimming!” he laughed, skirting around an answer.

“Nothing like a little pureblood incest,” you laughed in return. A draft of cold air blanketed the room, and you shivered. “So, er, I didn’t exactly have time to pack a bag on my way out; you don’t by chance have any clothes you wouldn’t mind me using, do you?”

“Oh, right! Sorry, it’s absolutely freezing in this drafty old house.” Sirius commented, gesturing to your goosebump covered arms. He turned and clapped his hands, flying to his closet.

“Well, I’ve got a bunch of my old school clothes in here...Seems dear old Mum had at least half a heart. This stuff might fit you a tad better,” he murmured, running his hands along the swinging clothes in his old closet. After a moment, he let out a barking laugh. “Here!”

He threw you a maroon hoodie, and you gave him a look, knowing he was teasing you about the housing. Opening the balled up fabric, you smiled despite yourself seeing the front. It was a Gryffindor Quidditch sweatshirt. You grinned giddily as you turned it around and saw Sirius’ last name splayed across the back, complete with his number. What you wouldn’t have given to wear this years ago...

“Did you need pants, too?” Sirius asked, an odd look on his face as you smiled down at his sweatshirt.

“Oh, no. That’s okay. This looks like it should cover everything--I’m a hot sleeper.” you explained sheepishly.

Turning, you padded softly over to the adjoining bathroom and clicked the door shut.

What a turn of events. Standing in Sirius Black’s bathroom, you took stock of the night.

You’d been attacked and almost killed by Fenrir Greyback, only just managing to escape what would have been a horrid death--or worse. After being mended by Madam Pomfrey, Sirius Black was to continue nursing you back to health. Sirius Black, your greatest childhood crush, and the way your heart hammered in your chest even now told you it might not be all the way extinguished. Never once did you think you’d see where he lived, let alone be undressing in his bedroom.

And his bedroom...what a time capsule it was. It made you feel like you were in school again, hoping to catch him in the hallways between classes, always peering through the stacks of books as he and James teased Remus during his studies. And further, it seemed all that time you hadn’t been the only one watching. Sirius Black had been watching you almost as much as you had him in your school years. Evident in that hidden in his bedroom was a photo of you, a photo you didn’t know he snuck. A photo surrounded by the greatest hits of his school years, surrounded by those he considered family.

Trying not to let it all go to your head, you groaned when you slipped the sweatshirt over your head. Though the pain in your body wanted to bring you back to reality, the full, uninhibited scent of Sirius sent you reeling once more. A sickly sweet, smoky scent was the most noticeable. Tobacco, maybe? Suddenly, the image of a young Sirius lounged beneath a tree on the skirts of the Great Lake was brought to mind, smoke rolling from his mouth as he brought his hand down from his lips. Of course, another inherently muggle form of rebellion, a double whammy to his family.

Something woodsy lingered underneath, as if the hoodie had been swaying in the breeze of some forgotten forest for the last twelve years instead of shut up in this abandoned house. Head swimming, you gingerly stepped out into the bedroom before you got lost in your thoughts.

“So, er, about the bed situa...” Sirius said, trailing off as he turned around to see you leaning against his doorway, sweatshirt draped to the tops of your thighs.

“Sorry, shit, I can put something else on if you want...don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything. I mean, we’ve known each other all this time--sort of, anyway. I must be like a sister to you...this is probably super weird. I’ll just fetch a pair of pants,” you nervously rambled. Sirius’ face had not changed since he saw you, and you were beginning to feel incredibly anxious about it all.

“No, no. Seriously, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sirius said, his old playful smile playing on his lips. Rolling your eyes, you damned the blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Here, I found you these," Sirius said, tossing you a pair of thick brown socks. "I remember hearing you whine about your hands being cold all the time, figured the same might apply to your toes in an old drafty house like this.”

“You remember?” you asked him.

“Yes, well, I overheard you whining about it a time or two, and Remus was always mentioning you whining about being cold...I just remembered, that’s all.” Sirius said, his tone becoming oddly choppy.

“Well, you’re right. My toes were positively popsicles, but I didn’t want to be a complainer or anything, though...” you trailed off, pulling the thick socks onto your ice-cold feet.

“Ah yes, get attacked by a murderous werewolf, blast yourself into a wall, shatter a few bones, but lest you complain!” Sirius teased you, smiling once more.

In the next second of silence that occurred, your stomach rumbled loudly, and you smiled sheepishly.

“Bastard got me right in the middle of making dinner,” you explained.

“Well, come on then. I’ll have Kreacher fix us something; what would you like?” Sirius asked, seemingly happy that he could help.

“What’s he good at?” you shrugged, hungry for anything. Winking at you, Sirius barked for Kreacher as he led you down into the kitchen.

“Yes, Master?” Kreacher croaked, bowing so lowly his nose brushed against the dusty floor.

“Fix us some herb dumpling stew, won’t you? And some of those delicious little mince pies you make.” Sirius said, and at once, the elf nodded and stepped over to the stove.

“And some apple pie?” you asked hopefully as you sank into the seat across from Sirius at the long kitchen table.

“Whatever she asks, Kreacher,” Sirius commanded, smiling fondly at your excited state.

“Of course, Master...Kreacher gladly serves those pure of blood...gladly...whatever she asks..” he agreed in his funny speech patterns.

While Kreacher was cooking, Sirius reckoned it was time to alert Remus and the rest of the Order, and you couldn’t find a reason to disagree.Sighing, you watched him disappear to retrieve Remus.

266 notes · View notes

justthehiddleswrites · 4 years

Text

Ocean Eyes | Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Summary: You have been spying a guy in the coffee shop. Fate should bring you together. Little to you realize the guy with the ocean eyes is the one and only Tom Hiddleston.

Warnings: implied smut

7:30 every morning on the dot. Every morning, those dangerously blue eyes come in, order a large coffee and pastry before settling into a small table in the corner. He would leisurely sip the coffee while pulling apart the pastry with his fingers. He would lick the tips of fingers, capturing every crumb.

You spied at him over the top of your laptop. His ginger curls tucked under a ball cap. His workout clothes are high quality but well worn. But most of all, you remember those brilliant blue eyes.

“Pardon me, is this seat taken?” a voice asked you one morning. You pushed your glasses back up on the bridge of your nose to see those eyes you dream about staring at you.

“Huh?” you mumbled, your brain deciding words were not important.

A kind smile spread across his face, the skin crinkling around his eyes in a way that made your stomach flip. “The seat?” he gestured to the chair in front of you. “Is it taken?”

“No!” you responded a bit too eager, earning you a small chuckle from the man. You cleared your throat. “No. Please go right ahead.”

“Thank you. I have never seen this place so crowded.” He commented as he unwrapped his sweet pastry.

You glanced around to see the usually quiet coffee shop bustling with activity.

“Hmm. Weird.” You chewed on your lip as the man popped his thumb into his mouth. Your mind wandered to other places you wanted that mouth to be.

“Excuse my manners,” he wiped his hand on a napkin. “The name’s Tom.” He extended his hand which you shook as you introduced yourself.

You returned your attention to your screen, not wanting to disturb Tom’s schedule.

He tipped his head to spy on your screen. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is this masterpiece you are writing?”

You glanced up to see Tom smiling in anticipation. You laughed at his expression.

“My thesis for my degree.”

“Which is?”

“English literature.”

His blue eyes sparkled at your words.

“I graduated from Cambridge in Classics. What’s the topic?” He leaned in close, scooting his chair around the table to sit next to you. His leg pressed against yours.

“Dickens.” you choked out.

“I adore Dickens. I happen to have read quite a bit of his through my work.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What exactly is your work?”

“I’m an actor. So… Dickens?”

“Yeah. The title is "You Can Be Useful to Us in a Hundred Different Ways”: A Study of Stage and Screen Adaptations of Dickens’s Nicholas Nickleby.”

Tom slapped his leg. “This is fate. I was in a production of Nicholas Nickleby.”

“What company?”

“BBC One.” Tom’s head dropped to his chest.

“Are you shitting me?” Your coffee cup dropped to the floor, spilling the dredges of tea onto the floor and Tom’s leg. “Fuck!”

You grabbed spare napkins and dabbed at the splotches of coffee on Tom’s calf.

“Don’t worry yourself. I have to shower anyway.” Tom snatched the cup off the floor. “Let me buy you a replacement.”

“That’s really…” Tom was already up and in line. “… not necessary.” your voice trailed off at the end.

Tom gave you a smile and wave from the line. Your cheeks heated, and you returned your attention to your screen. A coffee appeared next to you.

“Thank you, T—” You looked up to see a young male employee staring down at you.

“He asked me to give this to you. He apologizes, but he had to leave on a pressing matter.”

Your heart sunk. You had hoped to talk to Tom more. And perhaps learn what other roles he had performed. Maybe even more.

You lifted the cup to your lips, and caught something scrawled on the side. It was too long to be your name. You raised the cup to eye level to read.

Call me to talk about Dickens and more.

Tom

Below was what you could only assume was his mobile number. The smile grew on your face as you entered the number into your phone.

Your confidence from that morning faded by lunchtime. The number now haunted you, taunting you on the screen.

“Pull yourself together.” you muttered as you hit the dial button.

“Hello?” Tom’s voice echoed on the other side.

“Hi!” your voice high pitched with nerves. “You probably don’t recognize my voice—”

Tom called out your name with excitement. “Of course, I recognize your voice. I was worried you wouldn’t get my message. I’m glad you called.”

Your cheeks heated at his voice. “You wanted to talk Dickens?” you stammered out, your voice ended at a half an octave higher than it started.

“Right!” Tom exclaimed. “I am unfortunately tied up for the rest of the day, but how about dinner tomorrow?”

“Yes!” you responded a little too eager. Tom stifled a chuckle. “I mean. Yes, that would be nice.”

The two of you settled on a restaurant within walking distance from your home before Tom had to get off the phone. You hung up the phone and spent the rest of the day with a smile on your face.

“So exactly what do you know about him?” your best friend, Caroline questioned.

“He’s an actor and prefers coffee over tea.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow.

“And he has these amazing blue eyes.” Your eyes glazed over.

“There it is.” she leaned back in her chair. “This is more than just academic. You have feelings for this man.”

You sighed. “You would too if you saw those eyes. They are like the ocean.”

“You get lost in them.” Caroline bantered back.

“And the rest of the package is nice as well.” Your cheeks heated as your mind wandered to the thought of Tom is those running shorts.

Caroline watched as you lose in your thoughts for a moment or two before clearing her throat.

“Did you say something?” you asked as you snapped back to reality.

Caroline giggled into her hand. “No, but now that I have your attention away from Ocean Eyes’s assets. What has he acted in?”

“He was in some BBC One production of Nicholas Nickleby.” You held up a low-cut top. “Too much?”

“Not if you don’t want to make it to the restaurant. Did you look him up on IMDb?”

“What is that?”

Caroline scoffed as she whipped her phone out. “And you call yourself an academic. What’s his last name?”

Your chin dropped. “I didn’t ask.” you mumbled.

“Cripes on a cracker.” Caroline typed furiously on her screen. “Lucky you’re alive is what you are. Tall or short?”

“Hmm? Oh, tall.”

Caroline scrolled and then stopped as her eyes widened. “You have got to be fucking kidding me?!?” she whispered.

“What?”

“You are FUCKING KIDDING ME!” she bellowed. “How do…” Caroline gestured at you “… Gah!”

“Who is he? Someone I should know?” you asked as you attempted to spy her screen.

“You are going on a date… with Tom Hiddleston!” Caroline flipped her screen around and your mouth dropped open.

“It’s not a date, Luke. We are just going to talk Dickens.” Tom explained over the phone.

“Bollocks. Are you or are you not paying for the meal?”

“Of course. I pay for your meal. Does that mean we are dating?” Tom said with a grin.

“You’re not my type and you know it, Thomas. Did you shave?”

“Not yet.”

“But you plan to. The last time you shave for me I believe it was because you lost a bet with Ben.”

“I was robbed.”

“You are such a sore loser. When is this non-date date?”

“Later today.”

“I need to stop by and drop off the contracts.”

“Sounds good, Luke. Just let yourself in.”

Tom had expected Luke to come straight over, but the minutes ticked by and he needed to get ready for tonight. He realized he lied to Luke earlier, but he didn’t care.

Tom had noticed you over the past month in the coffee shop. He spied when you stole glances at him. And he wanted to talk to you for so long but couldn’t find a natural way to start a conversation until that day.

Tom stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the mirror examining the healthy amount of stubble on his jaw.

“A little mood music.” Tom popped on an 80s playlist.

Right as Luke was ready to head out to Tom’s, he received a phone call he had to take. Several hours later, he headed out to the door, contracts in hand.

“What started out as friendship has grown stronger..” flitted through the air to the sound of an 80s power ballad.

Luke headed upstairs and beelined to the bedroom. He put the contracts on the dresser.

“And even as I wander, I'm keeping you in sight.” Tom sang from behind the bathroom door.

Luke couldn’t resist sneaking a peek. Tom stood in front of the mirror, brush in hand, music blaring.

“And I can't fight this feeling anymore.

I've forgotten what I started fighting for.

It's time to bring this ship into the shore.” Tom belted the song with the brush. His hips shook underneath the towel wrapped around his waist.

Luke suppressed a chuckle before yelling out. “Shake it, mate!”

Tom threw the brush into the air as he jumped.

“Not bloody funny, Luke!” Tom gripped the towel in place.

“Didn’t realize I was representing a teenage girl?” Luke laughed.

“Out.” Tom jabbed a finger to the door.

“Did you learn those moves from your sisters? Is this how you get pumped for a big date?” Luke continued.

Tom stomped towards Luke. Luke stumbled backwards.

“Not another word.” Tom flicked his finger in front of Luke’s face.

Luke pressed his lips together and decided, “fuck it.”

“Must be some girl to get the full REO Speedwagon treatment.” Luke ducked as Tom grabbed the contracts and hurled them at his head.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Tom growled.

“Read those tomorrow, mate. Have fun.” Luke ran from Tom’s sight.

Tom’s mood perked up when he stepped into the restaurant and spied you sitting at the bar. And it only got better from there.

Conversation flowed as easily as the wine did at dinner. Before long the waiter came by.

“Last call. We are closing in ten minutes.”

“Oh shit!” you cursed as you shuffled to standing. “I didn’t mean to keep you out this late.”

Tom rose as well and grabbed your hand as you pushed your purse onto your shoulder to leave. His blue eyes sparkled and your heart skipped a beat.

“I didn’t mind the company.” Tom smiled that eye crinkling smile. “If it is not too forward, can I walk you home?” He did not let go of your hand. The connection sent electricity through your arm.

“I would like that very much.” You gave his hand a brief squeeze.

The brisk evening air chilled you. You took full advantage to press close to Tom’s side, who threw his arms around your shoulder. Soon the two of you reached your front door.

“This is me.” you commented, trying to hide the sadness in your voice.

Tom’s eyes dropped for a moment. “I guess this is goodnight.”

“But not goodbye?” you asked, hope in your voice.

“Not on my part. I would very much like to see you again.” Tom turned to face you.

“I would very much like to see you too.”

Tom smiled, and he fidgeted, rocking back on his heels.

“Can I ask you a question?” you muttered.

“I’m not sure…” Tom chuckled. “… can you?”

Your brows furrowed. “Not funny. Why didn’t you tell me you were a famous movie star?”

Tom’s eyes widened. “Honestly, I thought you knew. You kept sneaking glances at me in the shop. I just assume…” his voice trailed off as your face twisted up in confusion. “… was a mistake. You really didn’t know?!”

You shook your head. “My friend looked you up on IMDb.”

“Then why the stares?”

“Your eyes.” Your head dropped to your chest.

“What about my eyes?” Tom stepped closer, his hand reached up to pull your head up.

In the dark evening, Tom’s eyes were dark blue, the streetlights sparkled against them. You bit your lip.

“They remind me of the ocean. Deep and wide. Someone could get lost at sea.”

“Then let me be your anchor.” Tom closed his eyes as he leaned down to press his lips against yours. And you were lost.

You sighed against him, and he pulled you tight against him. Jolts shot through your body and when the two of you parted, you both were breathing heavy.

“Um…” you muttered, biting your lip. “… wow.”

“Yeah.” Tom joined in. “Can I meet you for coffee tomorrow? Our usual place?” He continued to hold you tight.

You tugged on his jacket lapels. “That is one idea or…” you raised an eyebrow. “… we could walk there together from my place.”

Tom’s mouth dropped open before curling into a devilish smile. “What kind of guy do you take me for?”

You tugged him down close to your face by the lapels. You leaned into close. “The kind of guy that does what he wants.”

“Then you are absolutely right.” Tom pulled you into a passionate kiss again.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston fluff #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston imagine

106 notes · View notes

bumbershots · 4 years

Text

A CERTAIN ROMANCE

CHAPTER FIVE: A SPECIAL DAY

Author’s note: Hello! We have finally reached the awaited date between Harry and Alma. I was really excited for this chapter, hopefully you will enjoy it as much as I did, forgive me in advance for any mistakes, my beta reader (my boyfriend) was unavailable, so this is a good time to say that if anyone out there has the time and willingness to beta read any future chapters send me an ask or message to let me know. Enjoy! (:

Story masterlist ** Word count: 2.6K **

Harry wakes up feeling excited, nervous and hungry. He takes care of the latter, decides to make some blueberry pancakes, turns out he can't eat more than two and a cup of coffee. Not that the pancakes weren't great, in fact they were fantastic, he even decides to brag about them on an Instagram story that is published for his close friends only. Nick quickly replies to it with a laughing emoji.

You should take a Tupperware full of them to your date ;)

The reason behind his excitement and nerves make his heart race, he decides to type in a polite 'fuck off' to his mate before heading to the shower. Under the warm spray of water he tries to sort out his thoughts. Harry doesn’t want to think about his upcoming trip to California.

It was necessary for the album or so he thought last week, after going through a box with the very few memories he kept from his ex. He wasn’t in a right state of mind then, he feels pathetic. The only reason why he wanted to spend time in Los Angeles was because everything there —from the pavement to the sky— was tainted by her.

Why would he want to go back to that place where the constant reminder of his pain was literally living in the same neighbourhood? Because it would provide him the cathartic release he was looking for. That’s the line he used after Sarah and Mitch tried to dissuade him from flying across the Atlantic and Harry was so proud of himself when it worked.

That very same day, he got the first text from Alma, it was the address like she promised. ‘In case one of your talents isn’t stumbling upon my work place ;)’ the second text read and Harry had to endure Sarah’s questionnaire about the girl that made him blush with a mere wink emoji. Not that he minded talking about her, he could go on all day.

He usually preferred a shower before breakfast, usually even work out before then but well, hunger clouded his judgement earlier today. Even with that taken care of that dread still niggled him away. Just slightly. So, he decided to pick up his guitar for a moment and strummed. There was no real intention to play seriously, or to write anything down on the journal by his desk. It was more of something he enjoys too much not to do it, a way to keep his hands and mind busy, faffing around with chords. With a bit of luck he might come up with a song, a tune which just worked, that just... clicked.

Contrary to what people might believe, genius didn't strike him here and then. Not like when he'd come up with Sign of the times or Two ghosts. But finding a neat little pattern of chords a good thirty minutes later makes him smile, it's something he can work with. It needs a little polishing from Mitch and company, sure, but it has a good rhythm. He scribbled down some notes on his journal and sent the audio to his fellow musician.

Maybe he will find the words in one of the old notebooks that are somewhere in the other room, perhaps on the ones that are still on his unpacked suitcase from Japan. Silently he also hoped to find the lyrics around London. He had lived in the capital for a few years now, but he had been different then. Now he likes to think that he's a man, no longer the teenager from the boy band or the shiny new solo artist. He has new perspectives, sights, smells in this new home of his. New ideas.

Harry gazes out his bedroom window; the view is not great –mostly of the other houses in the complex. His mind focused on the cloudy sky, confused because he swore it was sunny just a few minutes ago, can bet on his life that he woke up to dazzling sunshine rays of a warm yellow colour peeking through that same window. He puts his guitar away on the bed with care and makes a beeline to his wardrobe. He needs to figure out what to wear, pronto.

Skipping her afternoon kip was not something Alma did, it was a rare occurrence which meant one thing: something special was happening.

Walking down Oxford Street, trying to decide where to get some lunch without a care in the world, that was until the calmness faded, when her schedule for the day hit her.

She had a date with Harry. A date, with Harry Styles. It was weird to go by his full name in her head, she couldn't bring herself to call or think about him as The Harry Styles.

Maybe she'd settle to call him Harry the tube guy.

The clock on her phone showed that it was no longer single figure hours, she needed to get some food now or starve until her shift was over, and then he would have to watch her feast at whatever place he chose. Alma groaned, thought how ridiculous it was to worry about him watching her eat. Harry was a grown man; of course he knows that women eat too, right?

Walking into the nearest Sainsbury's she decided to take a deep breath. He's just some guy, she concluded after paying for her chicken baguette. Nothing to stress about.

Harry showered again, while belting out some classic pop tunes. Namely Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears, something that in the past he'd swear blind you'd misheard and it was actually The Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd. But he'd come to terms that he liked what he liked.

Towel clad in the bedroom, trying to shirk off hypothermia, he was quick to put on some pants and jeans, before throwing on some simple white tee proclaiming some fading band name. He uses a dry clean towel from the closet and attempts to dry his hair, as he styles his flopped mop the thought of a haircut crosses his mind. It was getting a bit long.

One last look at the clock and he is ready to leave. "You'll be fine. Trust me." He quietly speaks to himself before closing the last few buttons of his green parka and fixing the newsboy cap on his head.

When he walks out of Colindale tube station, a little earlier than half past five, he sees the bakery from her instructions just below the large modern building Alma was kind enough to describe. She was right; the bakery is right across the street, he waits for the green man to light up to cross, shoving his hands in his pockets. The huge front windows of the establishment allow Harry to see her behind the till, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. She looks better than she did three weeks ago. He hesitates about going in for a few minutes, but feels it ought to be better than to lurk on the street.

Alma can feel his presence the moment he sets foot into the shop, her eyes are drawn to him and a content close lipped smile is the best greeting he could ask from her. The only customer in the place can feel the shift in the atmosphere when they lock eyes. So, picking up her bag full of baked goods, she steps out and leaves them alone.

"Sorry if I'm too early." He begins while she takes off her apron and hangs it in the back wall.

"You're right on time," Alma says after checking her watch, "I'm off Carlos, see you tomorrow!" She hollers to the employee that is taking a non-allowed nap in the back. Harry holds the door open for her and follows out of the warm store. "Shall we take the tube?" At his affirmative response, she then takes out her Oyster card and leads the way.

The café was not somewhere Alma expected Harry to go, the little shop with soothing music and simple stools full of the scent of organic coffee brewing is dazzling and unique. A bit like him, she thinks. She liked it. It reminded her of the places she used to frequent when she had recently moved into the city.

Harry orders a black coffee at the counter before asking Alma what she'd like.

"A cappuccino, and remember I'm paying for our food," she hands him a tenner that he reluctantly takes from her.

"Absolutely," he iterates the order to the woman behind the counter and adds two salted caramel cupcakes handing over the cash. "If you get a seat, I'll bring it over."

Alma thanks him before scampering across the room to sit at the back two seat table tucked in the corner. It was right beside the large back window, dimly lit. Before she sat, she removed her signature burgundy coat and Harry couldn't help his eyes being drawn to certain aspects of his companion. Nice arse, he remarked with a raise of his brows before the woman behind the counter tells him for the third time that his order is ready, a look of disdain as she probably caught his gaze. Giving her a sheepish smile to appease her, he manages to balance the two plates and mugs in his hands and walk over to the table.

"They asked if you wanted whipped cream or foam and I settled for foam, hope that's not a problem." He plonks himself on the seat across from her, removing his parka in a clumsy manner before hanging it in the back of the chair.

"No problem, I actually despise–

"Whipped cream, yeah, I kind of remembered what you told me about that birthday party of yours," the green eyed lad finishes for her and scratches the back of his neck. "You know with that dare..."

Her eyes flickered down to the cupcakes laid out before them and she started picking the caramel out of one, hoping to hide the nerves his words caused.

"Right enough, yeah... I can't believe you remembered that or that I told you about it." She chuckled nervously at the anecdote she chose to share with him, it was a bit inappropriate due to the amount of vomit around it, literally. But he shrugged with a charming smile. No big deal. "Nice place," she noted.

"I know it's a bit of a strange choice. It doesn't strike me as, you know, the kind of place you put so much effort into for a first date..." Harry stops talking and now his eyes meet the cupcake in front of him. "Bollocks I must have sounded so daft, I'm sorry." Lucky for him, she doesn't laugh, instead she reaches out to stroke his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

"Nothing to be sorry about, I can be quite daft so..."

"I doubt that Miss suave." He gets a laugh out of her then, one that is almost a snort and earns a few glances from other customers.

"I’m far from it! Honestly, I once accidentally stepped on dog shit and didn't notice until my date couldn't bear the stink anymore and checked my shoe, in a very fancy restaurant. Terrible story. Trust me, I can be daft." Alma held up her hands and the musician giggled at her.

"Promise you won't laugh?" he raised an eyebrow at her, pleading. She promised. "Well, I kind of always wanted to have a first date here. It's always one of the first places I visit when I'm back in London, the food is amazing, and service is excellent. Came here completely hung-over after my twenty-first birthday party. I guess it has a lot of good memories." Pinked cheeks gave away Harry's embarrassment, he wanted to relax and for her to be more comfortable around him.

With a sincere smile Alma placed her hand over his resting on the table. "I think that is very sweet." This reply was not what he had expected; she leant in and beckoned him closer. "For your information Harry, this is exactly a great place for a first date." Up close he swore the darkness of her eyes were about to swallow him whole and spit him out to an alternate universe. He swallowed hard and took a sip of his coffee to distract himself a bit. Perhaps caffeine was not a good choice on a day where his heart was speeding so frequently.

"Did you have a good day today at work?" he asks with a familiarity that Alma can get used to.

"Yeah, had a bit of free time to plan my next video blog. It's been ages since I uploaded one." She bashfully admits. "This cupcake was delicious, a great flavour choice." And just like that they fall into easy conversation until their cups are drained. The place is almost empty around quarter to eight and they both know it's almost closing time –the death glances from the employees behind the counter gave it away. They put on their garments again before leaving.

Harry makes his way to the door expecting Alma to follow. Instead she first gathered up their mugs and plates, to place them neatly on the counter and thanked the three workers behind it with a genuine smile. Harry looked surprised; she didn't quite have to do that. She noticed.

"Just being polite," she stated the obvious, before walking under his arm that held open the door. He chose not to comment and fought back a smile.

They stood outside, not really sure of what to do next. Usually he would suggest going back to his place. It was near, but he watched her yawn discreetly and he suddenly remembered that she had a real job, well actually jobs in plural. He broke the silence.

"It was nice to see you again Alma." He meant it and she smiled as she toyed with the buttons of her coat. British summer weather was hardly cold, but today it seemed to be punishingly windy. Harry near gave a shiver, but instead took a deep breath before speaking again. It was now or never. "It'd be quite great, if I could... I'd like to see you again. Please." He shifted on one foot, nearly drowned in the silence that followed.

"I'd quite love to see you again," Harry gave a slight gulp, very slight and got out strength from the words she spoke to take a big risk, the first of today.

He stepped closer and cradled her face in his hands before leaning down and kissing her cheek. It wasn't the full on kiss he wanted to give her. But it is something he'd been dying to do since he first saw her today, something he hoped would make clear how attracted he was to her. Harry smelled like coffee and caramel. God this man's lips are prettier up close, she thought right before he straightened up.

She stayed close to him before speaking again. A low murmur so that the passing London traffic wouldn't steal her words from him.

"This was an amazing date."

Alma walked with him the long distance of one mile to the tube station, their hands brushing against each other. He was desperate to just hold hers, kiss her soft knuckles and ask about the lightning-shaped scar on her little finger. But decided against it, he knew that West Hampstead was not a common area for paparazzi, but he didn't want to risk her. Especially after the splendid afternoon they just shared.

They said their farewells.

"I'll call you," he said again. She warned that he better, before entering the station, he took great delight in watching her walk away from him, his gaze falling once more to her bum now covered by the coat. Harry spun on his heel and walked the short distance to his home.

Surely London could help him find the lyrics for that tune, this city definitely had something.

///

Let me know if you like the story! *** Join the taglist!

///

TAG LIST: @laurxn-robinson @mellamolayla

#harry styles oc #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles series #harry styles imagine #harry styles #harry fluff #harry styles ou #a certain romance #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fandom #harry styles fan fic #harry styles golden

25 notes · View notes

karmathecat · 4 years

Text

Firewhiskey is Not the Best Mixer

The next chapter of my time travel fic is ready!

AO3 | FF

Lily woke before her grandmother the next morning, her teenage grandmother. She shook her head and decided that that train of thought was something she was not going to entertain. Her and her brother were here and there was no use fretting over how weird it was, her dad faced the weirdest of all weird situations when he was her age and younger so she could deal with time travel. Hell, her dad had time traveled too, nothing was new in this family.

Lily slid out of the bed silently and tiptoed to the other side of the room to the bathroom. Once inside she saw another door opposite from the one that she entered through, and presumed this led to the Head Boy’s room. Deciding that her grandfather seeing her in the shower was a level of weird that she could not face, whether he was a teenager or not, she locked both the doors and hopped into the shower.

With the water running through her hair, Lily thought back on the conversation with the other Lily that she had last night, how much she had revealed and she couldn’t make herself feel bad for breaking her one rule when she saw the older girl’s reaction.

“I marry James?” Lily Evans bright green eyes, the same as her brother’s and her dad’s, were wide and staring at Lily in hope. She couldn’t help but giggle, thinking back on the stories her dad had told her, however limited, and realised that Lily disliking her husband when they were teenagers might not have been correct at all.

“You do, you have my dad, who in turn has my brothers and I.” Lily squealed, literally squealed, at the information which took the younger girl by surprise. The two girls giggled together under the covers like twelve year olds as Lily told her granddaughter that she had fancied James for over six months but was scared that he had gotten over his crush on her and they were doomed to be “just friends” forever. When she asked why she had waited so long to act on her feelings, Lily blushed and told her about how she had been so stubborn about her feelings and was so scared that James was simply in it for the chase and not because he actually like her, once she realised her feelings she was so scared of being rejected that she simply hadn’t said anything.

Lily Luna had smiled and made a joke about how she was very certain that James was in it for the end game, and both girls had laughed, Lily Evans beaming until they had both fallen asleep.

Once out of the shower, Lily wrapped a towel securely around herself and reentered the Head Girl’s room holding the clothes she had slept in. At the end of the bed she found a second trunk next to the Head Girl’s. Opening it, she found the basics she would need, a school robe and toiletries along with some socks and underwear, which made her question whether Professor Dumbledore had picked these out for her and seriously hoped he hadn’t.

After putting on the school skirt and shirt, she noticed the tie was missing and guessed that the Headmaster hadn’t wanted to presume their school houses after Lily’s fierce response to Sirius’ questioning of Al the night before. Lily couldn't help but smirking at Al’s reaction to having to put on a red tie if the Headmaster had presumed their houses. Glancing down at James’ borrowed quidditch jersey, she decided to keep the jumper, placing it into the trunk thinking her dad would love to have something of his dad’s, and if a nice thing for her dad could come from this accident then she would ensure it would happen.

Lily opened the door and headed down the steps into the common room. She saw Remus, Sirius and Peter asleep on the coaches and the floor, and smiled that the Marauders had wanted to be together in the face of something so strange happening. She had heard stories about how close the group of friends had been, but to see it with her own eyes was different. Her eyes landed on Peter and she frowned. She remembered asking her dad about him, asking if he was evil or whether he had simply not had a choice, and her dad had replied that everyone always has a choice, there are always more paths than the one in front of you but the one in front of you might simply be the easiest.

Shaking her head, she decided again not to dwell on these things, they weren’t her business, she knew she couldn’t change anything. With that, she left the negativity behind her and skipped over to the spare room door, slamming it open and waking both her brothers in the process. Lily assessed their bleary eyed state as they both reached for their glasses and took a running jump onto the bed, landing on the two of them with a mighty war cry.

Having been woken by the door slamming, the three Marauders that were asleep in the common room, rushed to the spare room to inspect the commotion. They were met with the not unusual view, if they knew the Potter children, of the three brawling on the bed. From what Sirius could tell Lily was actually winning, with the redhead bouncing up and down holding James’ glasses above her head and out of his reach, whilst Al tickled her side in an attempt to get her knee out of his stomach.

“Concede! You know I’ve won this round boys, concede!” Lily continued to shout this as the boys struggled to gain an advantage on the surprise attack. The Marauders started to chuckle at their antics, and Remus questioned just how close these three were if Lily felt comfortable enough to barge into the room whilst the two boys were sleeping.

“What is going on here?” James came down his stairs and into the spare room where the three on the bed froze and looked at him.

“I’m clearly winning a wrestle, is what is happening here.” Lily smiled cheekily at the Head Boy causing him to laugh. In her moment of distraction, Al and James pushed Lily off them causing her to squeal as she fell to the floor.

“Oi! That was rude, and after I woke you up so nicely!” Al rolled his eyes as he got up and James pushed his little sister back to the floor as she stood in retaliation to her cheek.

“If you guys are done abusing each other,” everyone turned to see Lily Evans tying her dressing gown behind Remus, “how about we all get dressed and get breakfast. The majority of people who stay for the holidays don’t go down to breakfast so we should be fine to bring you. Anyway, I think there were only two third years staying for the holidays.”

Lily showered first, followed by each of the Potter boys in turn, while Lily sat in the common room waiting. The other three Marauders made their way to the dorm to shower and then came back to the Heads’ dorm once everyone was ready for breakfast. Both James and Al were also in the basic Hogwarts uniform, a white shirt and trousers and both had jumpers on that the Marauders had given them. Al was sporting a green jumper with stags stitched into the material, whilst James was in a red jumper that stated he was “the dog’s bollocks.” All but Lily Evans had laughed at the inside joke as James pulled the jumper over his head. Lily had been given a sweater from her grandmother this time, a simple blue item that fit her perfectly which was surprising considering how similar she was to her grandmother.

Once they started walking towards the Great Hall, Lily noticed her grandmother linger towards the back of the group as they walked through the halls, and was not surprised at all when James Potter gravitated towards her. Lily couldn’t hear their conversation but from their body language she could tell that the Head Girl was laying it on thick, flirting within an inch of her life, and by the confident walk of her companion, he had no objections.

Lily quickened her step slightly to fall in with Sirius. They had spoken briefly the night before about her using the map, but she knew that her dad had really bonded with Sirius in his youth, so she was going to grasp the opportunity to also know him with both hands.

He looked at her in surprise when she linked her arm in his, and hesitantly returned her smile when she beamed at him.

“So, no one ever told me you were a looker.” Her cheek seemed to put him more at ease, as he barked a laugh, and shook his hair out of his face and gave an exaggerated wink in her direction.

“Well, it is a great disservice that you were unaware of such beauty.”

“Only one elite beauty can exist at once, and I’m afraid I have that covered in my own time so I had no use to know about your beauty. I wonder how people will cope being faced with both of our exquisite faces side by side?” The banter continued all through the journey to the Great Hall, even James and Al joined in- “Um excuse me Lily, we are both beautiful.” “You were cursed with Potter hair, pipe down” - and by the time the group entered for breakfast, Lily and Sirius were chatting like old friends. Sirius marveled at the ability that Lily had to put people at ease, she was so outgoing and confident and it reminded him of how he had immediately clicked with James on the Hogwarts express in their first year.

Entering the Great Hall, Lily saw that it was in fact empty apart from one Slytherin boy who she immediately recognised. Lily knew from her friends that during Christmas the house tables were removed and replaced with a single round table to accommodate the smaller number of students that stayed at Hogwarts instead of going home to their families. Lily had never seen this as she had always delighted in going home to her family and spending her time carrying out the Potter/Weasley festive traditions.

Lily looked over her shoulder at Al and saw that he too had seen Severus Snape sitting at the table eating his breakfast. The marauders were too busy talking with each other to notice the other boy, so Lily and Al made their way to the table, observing the boy they only knew as a painting. The Severus Snape they knew doted on the two of them, spending countless hours entertaining their questions with a patience that surprised their dad. The older man had no patience for Lily’s eldest brother and Lily didn’t think this bothered James all that much as he was always too busy running ragged to sit and ask the portrait any questions anyway.

Before Lily could think of the obvious repercussions to doing so and stopping herself, she sat a seat over from the boy.

“Hi.”

Severus looked up confused and looked at Lily, who was beaming at him. Lily felt Al sit down in the seat next to her and lean to look at his namesake.

“Lily?” Severus looked at her searchingly, noticing the differences in her face and, most noticeably, her hair. This wasn’t his Lily.

“My name is Lily, but I’m not the Lily that you know. This is my brother Al,” Lily gestured to her right where Al waved, “We’re visiting from far away for a few days until we can get back to where we came from.”

Severus frowned, this was obviously some kind of cruel joke. The marauders were notorious for these ridiculous kinds of things, and it was just cruel of Lily to join in his torture.

“I never thought you’d stoop so low as to join in with their stupid schemes,” Snape hissed at Lily taking her aback having never seen this side to her mentor, “I never thought you’d be so cruel. I should have expected it from a stupid mudblood.”

With his biting words Snape abruptly stood away from the table and stormed out the room, not looking back to see the hurt on Lily and Al’s faces from his words. James watched after Severus after he barged past him, and after looking at his siblings’ hurt faces, he surmised what had happened and rushed over to them. He immediately wrapped his arms around his sister and felt her return the hug tightly.

“It’s a different time Lil, he doesn’t know you or the relationship that you’ve built with him. He isn’t the Severus that you know.” James felt Lily nod against his stomach from her seated position, and glanced over at his brother who looked stunned. Catching his eye Al shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know what I expected, I didn’t expect him to be so cruel though. But you’re right it’s a different time.”

Sirius dropped into the seat beside Al and hit him on the back affectionately, “Old Snivellus doesn’t have a nice bone in his body, what did you expect, an invitation to a tea party with his Death Eater buddies?”

James shook his head at Sirius from over Al’s head and took the seat that was recently vacated by the Slytherin boy.

“Hey look Lil, there’s pancakes, your favourite! I have missed Hogwarts food so much, I just can’t seem to replicate it in my flat.” Lily smiled at her brother’s attempt to cheer her up, and piled her plate with pancakes and drowned them in syrup, he was right, they were her favourite.

“You know Snape from your time?” The question was directed at the Potter siblings from Lily Evans, she eyed them inquisitively wondering how a relationship could develop between her childhood friend and the children of a Potter considering the bad blood that she knew ran between the two in her time.

Al shrugged and answered as he reached for his own food, “Kind of.”

Lily wanted to ask more but James placed a hand on her knee and she closed her mouth. She looked at the boy next to him and was reminded of the conversation she had had with her granddaughter last night and blushed when James didn’t move his hand from her knee, she found that she didn’t mind at all.

“So,” everyone turned their attention to Remus who had spoken, “As much as it is a pleasure having you here, how are you planning on getting home?”

“I’m not too sure, there must be a way we can’t stay here forever. I don’t know a whole amount about time travel, it's not needed in my line of work at all.” James looked towards his brother who devoured information in order to take the upcoming unspeakables exam for once he graduated Hogwarts the coming summer.

Al shrugged, “Time travel is weird and not well documented, especially after a lot of time turners were destroyed that time the Department of Mysteries were broken into.” The three Potters exchanged amused glances.

“Time turners aren’t that powerful though,” Sirius spoke up from over his breakfast, “they allow you to travel hours not years, that’s a lot of spinning to get that many years too.”

James nodded, finally taking his hand off the Head Girl’s knee, “if only there was a room where you could request whatever you needed, that would be so useful.”

At James’ words Lily’s head shot up, “yes if only there was a room that gave you anything you required. ”

The weight of her words made her brothers look at her in question.

“A room in the castle that currently isn’t destroyed and will give you anything you ask if the stories were true?”

James and Al lit up with recognition.

“Care to share with the group?” Lily looked over at the Marauders and Lily and nodded thinking how to careful word her answer to not reveal her parentage.

“During their fifth year, all of our parents and their friends found a room that would give you anything you wanted, a place to hide things, a place to train, anything you needed. We might be able to ask for a way to return to our own time. I bet we have to word our request very specifically. We can think about it for sure.”

“How do we not know about this room?” Sirius addressed his question to his fellow Marauders in outrage.

“You guys not knowing about it would explain why it wasn’t on the map actually.”

“Well let’s eat up and see what we can do, I for one want to see this room.”

#harry potter fic #lily luna potter #James Sirius Potter #Albus Severus Potter #time travel fic #next gen fic #next gen time travel #harry potter time travel

25 notes · View notes

nerianasims · 4 years

Text

Billboard #1s 1986

Under the cut.

Dionne & Friends -- "That's What Friends Are For" -- January 18, 1986

While listening to this song, I think it's a very squishy ballad with a nice sentiment that's not for me but is tolerable. Until a certain point. That point is when Elton John has his big part. Dionne Warwick, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight: Great, amazing, I love them, and though their talents are wasted on a song this slight, they make it listenable. Elton John's talents are not wasted on a song this slight. Couldn't they have brought in someone else? There's no way Prince would do something like this, but what about Paul McCartney? Kenny Loggins? Billy Ocean? I guess George Michael was too young for the song's schtick. But I'd take even Lionel Richie over Elton John.

Whitney Houston -- "How Will I Know" -- February 15, 1986

Whitney Houston was an amazing, phenomenally talented singer. And she oversang. Almost all the time. She didn't have to; she knew how to sing with subtlety and grace. But oversinging was (and is) popular, so that's what she did. It means I don't like most of her songs, including this one.

Mr. Mister -- "Kyrie" -- March 1, 1986

I'm not Christian any more, but one can pull inspiration from anywhere. I love the phrase "kyrie eleison." There's something beautiful about that combination of sounds, and there's also something beautiful about the sentiment. The music does not live up to it, unfortunately, though the opening is gorgeous. It also gets super repetitive at the end. It's pretty good, but I want it to be great, and sadly it is not.

Starship -- "Sara" -- March 15, 1986

I'm going to have to listen to "White Rabbit" a dozen times to cleanse this from my brain. A band that used to do stuff like that devolving into making this garbage is extremely depressing. This song starts with music box tinkling which sounds nice. Then saxophone over it which... okay. Just the sax would have been nice, but over the music box it's a little much, but I can keep going with it. Then they add a harmonica layered over it, and it's like I'm listening to a parody of mid-80s easy listening. And then randomly there's a drum crash and the weak voice of this guy comes in along with massive synth, and I start to wonder if I'm being punked. Are we sure this song wasn't a joke?

Heart -- "These Dreams" -- March 22, 1986

I watched the video probably hundreds of times when I was a kid. (On Betamax!) I adore this song. I got to it and went well, this is gonna win 1986, because there's only so much rational distance I can take from what was my favorite pop song when I was 9 years old. This song didn't start my Romantic sensibility, but it spoke to what was already in bloom. "There's something out there I can't resist." We'll see what else is on the list.

Falco -- "Rock Me Amadeus" -- March 29, 1986

I love the movie Amadeus, even though it constitutes a massive slander against poor Salieri. It gets Mozart pretty spot-on though. And I always loved classical music, was surrounded by it from infancy, so I was glad to see its popularity spread by the movie. (Yes, at age nine. I've always been a huge nerd.) This song is really fun and well-made too, though of course I can't understand any of the German lyrics.

Prince -- "Kiss" -- April 19, 1986

Prince sings this almost entirely in falsetto, so one would guess I would hate it, since falsetto usually sends me running in the other direction. One would be wrong. I adore it. Prince was that kind of artist -- he could get away with anything. He was notoriously arrogant, but was it really arrogance when it was just a proper conception of his own abilities? Anyway,

of course "you don't have to be cool to rule my world" deeply spoke to my experiences. I was the most uncool girl in school. Until high school, when somehow my not giving a damn about being cool (as I'd failed at it my whole life) actually helped me.

Also when Prince drops to a low note on the last "kiss," it is incredibly hot.

Robert Palmer -- "Addicted to Love" -- May 3, 1986

I have no idea what I'd think of this song without the video. The video infuriates me. The clone-looking emotionless women aren't "sexualized." No, you have to be treated like a human being on at least some level for that. They are purely objectified, treated literally as blank interchangeable things, with nothing at all inside them. The song is skeevy anyway, though I guess the music's good. But blech.

Pet Shop Boys -- "West End Girls" -- May 10, 1986

I've never liked this song and I've never really understood why. It's the kind of song I felt I should like. But I've always felt (since I noticed it as a teenager) that there was something missing. Now I know why: According to the Stereogum article about it, the band leader doesn't like rock n'roll, and is a pop critic. Oh. Some rock is exactly what this song needs. Without it, it's too cold and removed, and to me sounds smug. Also how can you be a pop critic and not like rock n' roll? That is a wrongness.

Whitney Houston -- "Greatest Love of All" -- May 17, 1986

Whitney Houston doesn't oversing on this song as much as usual, so that's good. Though she still oversings. What's not good are the music and lyrics. The music is bland as can be. Lyrically, it starts with "I believe the children are our future" and there's a verse about "the beauty they possess inside." Blargh.

Then after the first verse there's a total change in theme, going into how the narrator never found anyone to look up to. And that the "greatest love" is loving yourself and only depending on yourself and no one else. I despise this sentiment deep in my bones. Not of loving yourself -- though the song claims that's "easy to achieve," which is bollocks of the first order. Rather that you should only depend on yourself. That's literally inhuman. We are social creatures; without depending on each other, we are adrift in nothingness. So yeah. I hate this song.

Madonna -- "Live to Tell" -- June 7, 1986

This song gives me chills. The music is gorgeous and perfectly suited to the lyrics. I listened to the "True Blue" tape many, many times from about age 10 until, um. Well, I listened to the album on Spotify the other night. This song is the standout for me on it. I always thought that Madonna was singing about having been emotionally abused as a child herself. That is apparently not it at all; it's a song for a movie soundtrack. But to me it's about familial abuse. And always has been. It felt like she was singing for me. "The light that you could never see/ It shines inside, you can't take that from me."

Patti LaBelle & Michael McDonald -- "On My Own" -- June 14, 1986

Not the Les Miz song, sadly. It's about how the narrators are breaking up. Patti LaBelle is great, but I am so bored. Michael McDonald isn't bad, but he can't match Patti LaBelle, and even she can't stop this song from being deadly dull. It took me like 5 tries to be able to listen to the whole thing.

Billy Ocean -- "There'll Be Sad Songs (To Make You Cry)" -- July 5, 1986

What makes someone decide to put a parenthetical in a song title? Is there a formula? Anyway, he's singing (in his head) to someone he wants to be with. The "sad songs" are not actually supposed to be sad songs, it seems, but love songs that make him think of her. I guess. I don't know. Something about this song is turning my brain to mush. The tinkly parts and the violins are nice I guess. But I'm going to fall asleep at my desk if I try to listen to this song any more.

Simply Red -- "Holding Back the Years" -- July 12, 1986

Just looking at the lyrics, this song should be deeply depressing. He feels that so far his life has been a waste, but somehow he'll "keep holding on." There's a beautiful saxophone part. The song is not depressing -- it's Blues. It's terribly sad and cathartic at the same time. I'm not thrilled with Mick Hucknall's voice though.

Genesis -- "Invisible Touch" -- July 19, 1986

I did not pay attention to any of the lyrics of this song except the chorus until just now. I thought it was about a woman with an "invisible touch" whom people fall for left and right, and that's true. What I did not know was that she was supposed to be doing it on purpose. Which, okay, sort of like "Maneater"? Except no, because "Well I don't really know her, I only know her name." Then how do you know this about her?! He sounds like a stalker. Or this sounds like a first draft. The music is good enough, and the chorus could make for a good song around it lyrically, if they had bothered with that.

Peter Gabriel -- "Sledgehammer" -- July 26, 1986

I used to think this song was meant to be about a guy who was going to basically tank for you (and also have sex with you.) Well, apparently he wants to solve only one of your problems in particular: namely, that of your lacking orgasms. The "sledgehammer" is supposed to be a metaphor for his dick. Ow? Whatever, I'm going with my own interpretation of it. I like the beginning flute part, which is actually from a keyboard demo. It's a fun song, but it gets pretty repetitive.

Peter Cetera -- "Glory of Love" -- August 2, 1986

"We did it all for the glory of love" is a sentiment I usually adore. But this song is a limp dishrag. Did what for the glory of love? Why does she seem to be thinking of leaving him? And Peter Cetera being "the man who will fight for your honor" is a hilarious idea. His voice is nasally and he sounds like a faker. He comes off as someone who only vaguely understands the small-r romance of flowers and chocolates, and not at all as someone who understands the Romance of a castle far away. Bryan Adams did much better with this kind of thing in the 90s.

Madonna -- "Papa Don't Preach" -- August 16, 1986

The article I'm reading about this says there was a controversy over this song regarding abortion somehow, with left-wingers being upset that the narrator didn't consider it and right-wingers praising her for keeping the baby. Maybe in California. That is not what I remember in Michigan, and I do clearly remember a controversy. What I remember is right-wingers being absolutely incensed that Madonna was singing about the pregnancy of an unmarried young woman (or teenager, though I always felt the narrator was college-age) at all. I also remember one on the radio being angry that this working class girl was keeping her baby rather than giving it up to a rich family.

It is a really good song. Actually it is kinda Romantic. The narrator's in a dramatic life-changing situation, she has to choose whether or not to marry a guy before she's sure she's ready, and there are intense violins. Her father disapproves of her boyfriend, but she needs her father's advice. She's also not ashamed. She's in a difficult situation, but there's no guilt. Good. And this is what made so many people so angry with Madonna, and what was so deeply important about Madonna. She refused to even pretend to be guilty about sex in her music, ever.

Steve Winwood -- "Higher Love" -- August 30, 1986

I think this is about wanting to believe in a god. But then there's "I could make the sun shine from pure desire." Maybe it's about Aphrodite. Chaka Khan sings on this song, and she's obviously the best thing about it. It's not great, but it's enjoyable enough.

Bananarama -- "Venus" -- September 6, 1986

Speaking of higher loves. Bananarama are obviously having a wonderful time singing this 80s dance version of this song, and who wouldn't? The "she's got it" of the song of course also means "I've got it", hence "I'm your Venus." And Bananarama leans into that in a really fun way. It's a great version of a great song.

Berlin -- "Take My Breath Away" -- September 13, 1986

This is the big love ballad from Top Gun. I have managed to escape ever seeing Top Gun, though I've picked up some ideas about it. Mainly that it's a commercial for the U.S. air force, that Tom Cruise looks blank in it a lot, and that there's some kind of volleyball scene. Before I knew it was a commercial for the U.S. air force and therefore avoided it, I avoided it because of Tom Cruise. He has always been a total cold shower to me. As I've said since I started noticing these things (which was right around 1986), he reminds me of a Ken doll.

So the song. It sounds more like it belongs with a fantasy movie than in a modern military movie. Though I guess Top Gun is a fantasy too. But not the kind in which people usually look through hourglasses. It's a big, emotional ballad. I like it but I don't love it. If it weren't associated with Top Gun possibly I'd like it more.

Huey Lewis and the News -- "Stuck With You" -- September 20, 1986

This is a middle-aged man singing to his middle-aged wife about how he's "happy to be stuck with you." It's like if dad jokes became sentient and got married. It's cute and bouncy, and honestly pretty true-to-life. You can't be all higher love all the time.

Janet Jackson -- "When I Think of You" -- October 11, 1986

If "Nasty" had gotten to #1, it would have taken my "best of the year" spot. Sadly, it didn't, and this was Janet Jackson's first #1. "When I Think of You" is a really good song though. Janet Jackson is the best of the Jacksons and always was in every way. I think she was even a better dancer than Michael. (I don't know about "is", considering her age, but she's still a better artist.) "When I Think of You" is a very simple love song lyrically. When her "world gets crazy," she thinks of you to calm down. If this were easy listening, it would be unbearable. But it's a dance song, and a fun one. There's some great bass and interesting syncopation.

Cyndi Lauper -- "True Colors" -- October 25, 1986

This is such a beautiful song. It's helped me through some rough times ever since it came out -- the tape it's on was one of my first. It's straightforward in both lyrics and music, so there's not much to say about it besides that it's a great song.

Boston -- "Amanda" -- November 8, 1986

I am listening to this song now, and I don't recognize it. When they get to the chorus near the end it sounds kinda familiar, but I'm not sure that's because I recognize this song in particular, or because it sounds like every song like this in existence was put in a blender and this is the resulting slurry. Either this wasn't played on the radio much where I lived, or I changed the channel as soon as it was. It wants to be a power ballad, but it's an absolute nothing.

The Human League -- "Human" -- November 22, 1986

I guess it's an apology song, but "I'm only human" doesn't sit right with me as a real apology for something truly bad. He cheated on her. Which I do consider forgivable, depending on the circumstances and apology, but his is that she wasn't around so he was driven to cheat on her. And he should forgive her because he's "only human." Then the woman comes in and says she cheated on him too when they were apart, because she's human too. That makes the song tolerable. Maybe they need an open relationship. They still both sound whiny. And I don't like the music. It's boring and repetitive.

Bon Jovi -- "You Give Love a Bad Name" -- November 29, 1986

SHOT THROUGH THE HEART! AND YOU'RE TO BLAME! I love this song. Also I thought Jon Bon Jovi was hot at the time, though nowadays that 80s perm is hilarious. His voice is still hot though (so is he nowadays, grey hair and all, with his more contemporary haircut.) This song got plenty of radio play. Still does. And deserves it. It's technically a heartbreak song I suppose, but the video gets it right: It's Bon Jovi goofing around on stage in front of a joyous crowd. I love the bass, I love the guitars, and I did mention Jon Bon Jovi's voice is hot, right? Voices over looks every time for me, though both together is obviously welcome.

Peter Cetera and Amy Grant -- "The Next Time I Fall" -- December 6, 1986

Christian fundies had a deep and abiding hatred for Peter Cetera. Maybe they still do. I encountered this multiple times online over the years, and finally looked it up -- it's because of this song. Amy Grant used to be a singer of Christian music only. Then she had a pop hit with this dweeb, and certain usual suspects decided she was being corrupted by him.

The only way this song could corrupt anyone is if they started smashing things because they were so bored. The narrators have been heartbroken but are gonna try it again with each other, and it's as passionless as possible. Amy Grant's a better singer than Cetera by a ways, as she does not sing through her nose, but it's not like anyone could elevate this sludge.

Bruce Hornsby and the Range -- "The Way It Is" -- December 13, 1986

People are racist and treat poor people like shit. And people say that's just the way it is, but don't you believe them. This is true. We have come incredibly far, and things change. It's a good sermon, but as a song it's too simplistic for me, both musically and lyrically. I agree with the sentiment, but it's not a song I really want to listen to either.

The Bangles -- "Walk Like an Egyptian" -- December 20, 1986

Of course I loved this song when I was a kid, all the kids did. But I was already a Bangles fan. I had their first tape, which is their best and has the least pop sheen. I would prefer "Hero Takes a Fall" had been a big hit, but oh well. "Walk Like an Egyptian" is still fun.

BEST OF 1986 -- "These Dreams" by Heart WORST OF 1986 -- "Sara" by Starship

#billboard number ones

3 notes · View notes

oneweekobsession · 3 years

Text

alright alright alright some tv history, aka what i insist, *insist*, is the direct or indirect source for jo davidson flashing her badge at the guy who tries to hit on her and kate at the bar:

so between the lines, which ran in the early 90s, is a show about the police complaints investigation bureau; it is, basically, a forerunner of line of duty

the main female police officer on CIB is the excellently bisexual maureen o'connell. in the middle of the second series we get introduced to kate roberts, who will go on to become mo's long term partner.

but before they get together, there's a scene of them coming home from the pub one night, where they get hit on by an obnoxious arsehole who pulls up in his car:

obnoxious arsehole: heeelllooo!

kate: oh no

obnoxious arsehole: alright ladies. saw you were all alone and thought you might like some company

mo: we're not alone

obnoxious arsehole: i meant you don't have any blokes with you.

mo: yeah, i know what you meant

obnoxious arsehole: come on girls, why don't you hop in

mo: why don't you bugger off

obnoxious arsehole: look, how about a tenner each, eh?

mo: i'm warning you

obnoxious arsehole: oh yeah, what are you going to do, call the old bill?

mo, flashing her warrant card: i *am* the old bill

obnoxious arsehole: bollocks [drives off at speed, crashing into some rubbish on his way]

kate, very much enjoying what mo has done: that was brilliant!

so so so i would wager that this is the influence of the scene in LOD ep 2:

kate, to the waiter: two more please

nice guy arsehole: can we get those

jo, flashes warrant card

kate: have a good night guys. [to the waiter] two more please.

jo: sorry, kate. my self pity's blown your chances

kate, very much enjoying what jo has just done: nah, not really my type.

so basically LOD updates the scene: while the 90s show gives us women who are being hit on in the street by obnoxious arseholes who overtly proposition them for sex, the 2020s show gives us women being hit on in a bar by niceguy arseholes who do not overtly proposition them for sex but who, everyone knows, have that as an intended end goal.

and LOD truncates the scene: mo and the obnoxious arsehole work through the whole scenario before she pulls her warrant card; jo cuts through all of that crap, and just pulls her warrant card. she's basically got no time for going through the motions of a scene that has been played out between men and women twelve million times before.

ok, ok, and:

so i have two theories about this.

the first, the most likely, and the most boring: jed watched between the lines, and consciously or unconsciously was recalling the scene when he wrote jo and kate in the bar

the second, the much more interesting and character developpy one, but perhaps the one that's pushing it too far: as a teenager in the early 90s (if she's born in 1979, she'd've been 13 or 14 when between the lines aired in 1993), jo watched between the lines. and it was one of those foundational tv shows which helped her to make sense of herself: here, on the telly, was a woman who liked women, and who was not afraid to show it. this scene, where mo pulls the warrant card on the obnoxious arsehole, to put him off *and* to impress the girl, is a scene which is seared into jo's consciousness. and so it's a move that jo's replicated, at odd times, now and then, and it's a move which does, of course, impress the girl.

and and and i could go further: the fact that a teenage jo had a bit of a crush on anti-corruption's mo means that - even as she got recruited into the police at the behest of the ocg - she has always had a fantasy, at some level, of being rescued by someone like mo - and then, shit, she meets kate, and then, and then, and then. well we all know how that went.

#ok ok we're at that stage of the year #when i start thinking about the imaginary dissertations that i would like to write #'the straight the bent and the queer #in (or and?)#police anti-corruption procedurals 1992-2021'#is basically the working title of this year's imaginary dissertation #anyway anyway i have a lot to say about between the lines as it turns out #stay tuned for more!#it is very 90s #there is *so* much smoking #there are whole scenes about smoking #there is one guy who's primary character trait is smoking #line of duty #between the lines #anyway i know all of this is nonsense #but one of the things that i'm just interested in with jo #is how a 90s coming of age would have shaped her understanding of her own sexuality #yes yes i am projecting a lot here absolutely #also what i didn't mention is that siobhan redmond who plays mo is from glasgow #and there's the whole thing where that - as well as mo being queer - is something that jo might have also #seen and recognised and found herself represented in and through #ok that's enough i need to stop on this now #no-one needs me crying over teenage jo #long post #sorry for filling up your feeds with my indulgent nonsense

1 note · View note

cxmetery-gates · 4 years

Text

SURREPTITIOUS - DRACO MALFOY

CHAPTER TWO: ON THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS

SUMMARY: Leslie catches up with friends on the Hogwarts Express, however a simple reminder ruins everything. WORD COUNT: 2.9k NOTES: I should be studying for midterms, yet here we are. Thank you for reading, lovelies! WARNINGS: mentions of death, panic attack

MASTERLIST

"YOU HEAR ABOUT OLLIVANDER?" AHEAD of Leslie, a boy who still has not grown through his teenage hormones asks, holding a potted plant against his hip. "It's mad. If Gran and I had waited one more day to get a new wand, who knows if I'd still be here."

Neville Longbottom met Leslie last year when Hogwarts fell under the rule of the ghastly Dolores Umbridge, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. When rumors that Lord Voldemort was back began stirring, the Minister of Magic sent her to "monitor" the school's Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. It was bollocks, really, as the old wizard was hardly around at all, which ultimately led to the formation of Dumbledore's Army, a group of students who would meet up in secret to learn real defenses against dark magic. Through lessons and teamwork, Leslie and Neville eventually became friends, the two becoming close over the course of the summer.

While secret teenage rebellion is a fun activity to bring people close, death, on the other hand, brings people close in a different way.

Leslie shifts uncomfortably as they continue to search for a compartment. At the mention of a lost soul, the girl quickly looks through what Neville was thinking, not necessarily needing to but the compelling need was always there. "Yeah. It's terrible. I couldn't stomach going to Diagon Alley. Luckily, my father was already paranoid, decided he would take care of my school materials." Pausing, the girl remembers how scared her father had been for the safety of Leslie, even paying Madam Malkin to come to their home to size Leslie for new school robes. "It's mad out there."

The boy's head slightly shakes, eyes now peeking around behind Leslie to a blonde girl with almost white hair and odd spectacles resting on her nose. "The Quibbler had a good piece, you know."

The blonde looks over the edge of her newspaper, blue eyes meeting two other pairs. Despite being a year younger, Luna Lovegood's quirky and flat-out weird mannerisms paved a way for friendship between two other oddballs. "I'll tell Dad," she responds, her voice is airy and soft, reminding Leslie of a cloud. "Did you see what he wrote about Vidya?" Luna asks Leslie, her voice quieter.

From ahead, Leslie nearly jumps from Neville's thoughts, pictures of him spinning and telling Luna to "shut up about it" flowing through her mind. Of course, Neville would never be the aggressive type so there was no fear of a scene, but the reminder of a friend tagged to the concept that no one should talk to Leslie about "it" created a pit in the witch's stomach.

"Y-Yeah, I did." Leslie remembers when her father mentioned Xenophilius Lovegood wrote a heartfelt piece on the death of Vidya Amin, the awkwardness of the conversation still fresh in Leslie's mind. She ended up reading the column and meant to write to both Lovegoods, but unfortunately never had the effort. "I meant to write, but I was a bit busy this summer. It was great, really. I think she would have liked it."

A silence fell upon the trio, something Leslie was thankful for.

After passing several compartments full of obnoxious boys and hyperactive girls, Neville, Luna, and Leslie are close to giving up on finding an empty one, such being surprising now that the train is beginning to leave the city.

Luckily, Leslie decided to only carry around her knapsack, the small pack only containing her wand, a couple candies, and her robe that would simply be slipped on upon the end of the train ride, the green color standing out against the blue of Luna's and the maroon of Neville's.

The green once meant something foul in the minds of her friends.

At Hogwarts, students are sorted into four separate houses upon their very first arrival: Gryffindor, the house of the brave and chivalrous; Hufflepuff, the house with students who value loyalty and honesty; Ravenclaw, a house full of wizards who admire intelligence and individuality; and finally Slytherin, those who value the arts of cunningness and ambition. Luna was sorted into Ravenclaw and a year before her, Neville was placed in Gryffindor and Leslie in Slytherin. Despite the Houses being pieces of a whole, rivalries exist among students, particularly those in opposing Houses.

Based on stereotypes, the Gryffindor lions and Slytherin serpents always had it bad, their nagging and lack of understanding on both parts feeding into a strong disdain for the other. They are vastly different on basic levels, but they are very alike in other ways. Therefore, Leslie never had friends in the house of lions until her third year, the next batch rolling in two years later, after joining Dumbledore's Army.

"Do you know if D.A. will be back this year?" Neville asks while plucking a Bertie's jellybean from a box in his front pocket. He offers one to Leslie before his face contorts into pure disgust. Giggling, Leslie takes a few. The first one was soap flavored.

With her nose scrunched up, she replies, "I don't think so. Harry wrote me that with Dumbledore back, classes would return to normal. And—"

"Hi, Harry!"

Leslie looks over Neville's shoulder to find a lanky boy. The boy of sixteen with messy midnight black hair, bright green eyes, and a lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead looked terribly uncomfortable while standing in the corridor, his circle-rimmed glasses crooked and held together with adhesive tape. "Neville!" Fortunately, the sight of his friends eases his tension, becoming relaxed.

Harry Potter is waved to by his friends and he takes a few steps to meet them in the train car corridor. Leslie senses Harry would rather be with his two best friends but is happy nonetheless with the group he has stumbled upon. Luckily, Leslie was able to cut her mind-reading before it began to dig deeper into Harry's thoughts: she did not want to intrude on the important information he had for Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley.

"Hello, Harry," Both Luna and Leslie spoke, only Leslie offering a kind wave.

"Les, Luna! It's good to see you. How are you, and your summers?" Harry asks. Leslie could tell he was trying to refrain from mentioning the parted. He, too, understands Leslie's pain.

Leslie nods her head. "It was alright."

Clutching the magazines to her chest, Luna also mentioning her nice summer off. "Very well, thank you. The Quibbler is doing well, too. Circulation's well up." The soft-spoken blonde smiles to herself.

"Let's find seats, yeah?"

Neville, Luna, and Leslie unanimously nod. As they moved through the train, Leslie could not help but notice the stares they were getting. Each compartment they passed meant more pairs of eyes watching their every move. No one spoke to the group, it was simply admiration, but not for her.

Last year, when Harry and his friends realized where Voldemort was keeping his defenseless godfather, they escaped Hogwarts and made it to the Ministry of Magic. Leslie, however, stayed behind to keep a group of mean, terrible students from leaving and ensuring they stayed asleep with the magic treats given to them. Thankfully, the group was fine with this, not realizing that Leslie intended to stay far away from Voldemort and Death Eaters alike. She wouldn't willingly put herself in immediate danger, danger which includes going off to fight dark wizards. Preserving herself was an act she had grown to adapt, the art second nature next to saying "please" and "thank you."

Sliding inside an empty compartment that Harry had mentioned seeing, Leslie watches as he tucks something into the shelves above the seat. He sits on one side while Luna and Neville perch themselves next to each other, resorting Leslie to plant herself next to The Chosen One.

"Leslie said you weren't thinking about starting D.A. up again this year— oi, Trevor!" Neville says, placing his plant beside him before diving under the compartment booths where his toad plots another escape. Luna, now wearing odd multicolor spectacles, opens a copy of The Quibbler and begins to read.

"No point now that we've got rid of Umbridge, is there?" Harry remarks.

Neville looks disappointed when he comes out from under the seat. "But still! I liked D.A.! I learned so much from you. You agree with me, right, Leslie?"

Her shoulders awkwardly move upwards. On one hand, she didn't want to stress Harry out more than he already was, no doubt. After all, he has to worry about Voldemort coming for him at all times. But on the other, she didn't want to upset Neville, worried that she may unintentionally imply she did not want to be around them, which could not be farther from the truth. "I mean, Harry's got a point, Neville: with Umbridge gone, there isn't an immediate need. I'm sure Defense Against the Dark Arts will be like D.A. this year."

"I liked the meetings," Luna says, piping into the conversation. "It was like having friends."

Harry, Neville, and Leslie all share a similar look, suddenly remembering how awkward and pitiful some of things Luna says can be. Leslie might have been somewhat awkward herself and a bit of a loner up until last year, but she never had the sense of freedom that Luna has when it comes to speaking what is on her mind. It was sometimes uncomfortable being with Luna, even with other friends present.

Before anyone could respond to the odd statement, there was a rustle and disturbance from outside the door. Craning her neck, Leslie spotted a few girls, all fourth years, whispering and giggling among each other. Leslie turned back to Harry who shared the same look of confusion.

"You ask him!"

"No, you!"

Leslie could have easily chosen to read what these girls were wanting to ask— if she was even given the option— but seeing how it could have been funny in some way, the mind-reader chose to let her gift go dormant. Legilimency is great and all, but sometimes a surprise is welcomed.

A girl with large dark eyes and long black hair began pushing her way through the posse, her prominent chin pointed high in confidence. "I'll do it," she says.

"This ought to be good," Harry murmurs, causing Leslie to hide a smile. She reaches over and takes a copy of the Quibbler, seeing how Luna has nearly twenty in a stack.

Pushing her hair from her face, the girl begins to speak. "Hi, Harry, I'm Romilda, Romilda Vane," she said loudly. "Why don't you join us in our compartment? You don't have to sit with them," she adds in a whisper.

There was no surprise here. Everyone knows how much of an oddball all three students are, no doubt the first years are already aware. Unlike Neville and Luna, Leslie had been fortunate to have never felt the brunt end of bullying. She managed to dodge those who might have had her in their sights, and she is painfully aware of who to aim her thanks towards, whether she liked it or not. While everyone would occasionally think of Leslie, no one in years had the nerve to bombarded her in insults, threats, anything.

So, the bluntness of Vane's words hit Leslie hard, her throat clenching. Is she offended? No, not particularly. The absolute reason why her jaw grew slack and eyes wide was shock due to the pure audacity Romilda Vane had.

"They're friends of mine," Harry replies coldly.

The large eyes of Romilda Vane widen more. "Oh," she mutters. "Oh, okay." And like that, she withdrew, closing the door behind her.

The compartment is engulfed in a silence, before Luna took it upon herself to end it. "People expect you to have cooler friends than us." Leslie stifles a giggle, while partly believing her.

"You are cool," Harry retorts quickly. "None of them was at the Ministry. They didn't fight with me or hold down the fort at Hogwarts."

Leslie would not give herself as much credit as Harry gives her, but the compliment is genuine. She appreciates his kind words, despite her head stinging with the memory of how, when, and why her Legilimency began showing signs of going amok. A solemn look plasters itself on her face momentarily.

"PETRIFICUS TO—"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

A single scream, a single thought, and millions only to follow.

The nightmares were quick to follow. Every night, Leslie would stay up as late as she could just to avoid sleep, forcing herself to the brink of insanity. Terrors crossed her dreams more often than not, so much so that she would rather never give up dreaming entirely than face the piercing cries and screams of agony from Vidya Mehar Nisha Amin.

Would they ever stop? They must, she tells herself, but that thought dwindles more and more with each morning she wakes. There had to be a reason for the haunting. At first, Leslie was convinced the terrors were the offspring of mourning and how she knew Vidya was gone. But months have passed, and nothing was changing. It was torture, a pain so unimaginable that it must be some kind of revenge. What if her friend was not meant to die, rather taking Leslie's place due to an unpredictable change in the universe? As astronomical and unknowing as it may be, Leslie cannot help but question the unknown, begging for a rational reason as to why her friend has terrorized her.

Why her dead best friend won't leave.

A hand touches her shoulder. At first, the feeling is both as hot as coals and chill as frost, her fears running wild. Leslie, half expecting Vidya to appear to haunt her in the real world, is relieved to find Harry. She does not miss the sorrow in his bright emerald eyes, nor does she miss the tear escaping down her pallid cheeks and on to her shirt.

"Les..." he says, a hand still on her shoulder.

The Slytherin girl quickly rubs away at the tears, sniffling back a sad exhale. Luna and Neville both watch as Harry attempts to comfort Leslie, their thoughts penetrating her deteriorating defense. They burst through all at once and Leslie finds herself overwhelmed with not only her intense emotions but the others as well.

Her father might have had the better idea.

Leslie stands, three pairs of eyes following her face. "I-I-I," she stutters. "I was just..."

Luna holds out her hand, her thumb rubbing the back of Leslie's. "You don't have to suffer alone. We're here."

The blonde is right. Leslie doesn't have to suffer alone. She has her friends, three of them together at a moment she needs them most. But she had been alone for so long, until a Ravenclaw befriended her in the library at age eleven. Her first real friend, her best friend, the person she needs above the rest, is gone.

"I need some air," Leslie gasps, lurching herself out of the compartment and down the aisle before anyone could make a comment.

Her head is cast down, not wanting to draw any attention to herself but also to keep her mind from inadvertently reading anyone around her, despite all the voices echoing in her mind already. Leslie has to choke back a sob of discomfort with each carriage she passes, the thoughts of students filtering through her crumbling wall.

Everything is heavy around Leslie. Her heart swells in a panicked pain, air entering her lungs as quickly as it leaves. Her blood pounds through her head. Leslie needs to get away, desperately. But where can she go on a crammed train? The bathroom, perhaps, but how long would she have to wait before the occupant exits? Exposure is the last thing she wants, especially to those who she accidentally headed towards.

Forget it.

There was no option but to keep moving, to keep pushing her feet straight ahead, regardless of the degradation she may face because of her vulnerability. At least it would not matter now, not while her mind is focused so intently on the past. Leslie's hands grow clammy, her forehead now bearing a thin sheer sheet of perspiration, and nausea was un-welcomed in its entrance. And the thoughts did not stop. They never do, and Leslie internally curses and screams as the thoughts, memories, and stories of strangers seep into her skull, the variant echoes reverberating off the walls of her head, the noise only growing louder and louder, drawing close to ear-piercing screams—

Leslie bumps into someone.

And the voices stop entirely.

There is no blood rushing to her head, no laughter from compartments, no steel on tracks. There is nothing.

Peaceful nothingness.

It takes Leslie a good moment to come back down from her enervated state, the dumbfound feeling of the world going quiet putting her in a stunned state of mind. The brown-eyed girl blinks, the remnants of her tears melting away into the void that took her thoughts away.

"Watch where you're going, Greyscale," a voice sneers.

The cold voice is one she has known for far longer than she will care to admit. Despite their long and complicated history, Leslie attempts to glare at the platinum blonde boy, but only a frown meets her request. Her eyes are still soft, fresh with evidence of tears. The boy's attention is grabbed, whether or not he intended to care.

A comment is not uttered, but Leslie pushes by Draco Malfoy, dodging insults from students like him, and not realizing his grey eyes follow her figure until she is out of sight.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

TAGLIST:

@isabellamur

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE ADDED, LET ME KNOW!

#surreptitious #Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco fanfiction #draco x oc #draco x reader #draco malfoy x oc #tom felton #harry potter #hogwarts #chapter 2

5 notes · View notes

war-sword · 5 years

Text

red caps

anonymous said: Ahhhh what should I request! Ehh... could you write something about a girl, who isn’t vulnerable or unable to handle herself, but who gets into some sort of danger which Draco then protects her/saves her. Possibly at the end she gets upset and he comforts her?

pairing: draco x female reader (unspecified house) words: 2.6k a/n: this is set in fourth year, during the time of the triwizard tournament, but it’s honestly only important to some aspects because i don’t mention the other schools. mostly just context. hope it’s not too short for you all! taglist: @accio-rogers @diademofdraco @mayorofzillyhoo @clockworkherondale(please comment on this post or send a message to be added to my overall taglist!) read the rest of my masterlist here

◈

“… And one last warning students, please be careful as you venture to outdoor classes such as Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures this year. Teachers will be waiting to escort students to these classes in an effort to lessen incidents, but I must ask that no one venture to unpaved areas when getting some fresh air. Our groundskeeper is working to fix the problem, but until that time, please exercise extreme caution. That is all!” Dumbledore clapped his hands together, dismissing everyone from the first feast of the school year.

You stepped up from the table with the rest of your housemates and made your way to the dormitories, gossiping about the unnamed threat Dumbledore had mentioned.

“This happens every year! We get here, first day, and get told ‘Don’t go on the third floor west corridor— you’ll be slaughtered!’ ‘Watch your step on the moving staircases, students, portable volcanoes sprouted up over the summer and we’ve yet to remove them. Sorry!’ Honestly, dad never told me it was this bad in his day,” your housemate, Evan, laments.

“We don’t even know what’s outside!” Your best friend Vivian adds. “If we knew, maybe we could be more prepared.”

“True,” you say. “I hope they take care of whatever it is soon. I don’t want to spend all my free periods in the stone courtyard.”

“What’d ya think it is?” Evan asks, poking you with his elbow. “Erklings? Chupacabras?”

“Oh shut up, Evan,” You say, poking him back. “Chupacabras don’t even live in Europe. They’re native to Puerto Rico–“ you trail off as your throat catches, due to your first sight of pale blonde hair.

Evan follows the line of your stare over to Draco and laughs. Vivian just groans. “Please Y/N, I thought you were over this!”

“Sorry!” You huff, crossing your arms as your face heats up. “Not my fault he gets more attractive each summer.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up, I think Malfoy’s nose is too high in the air for him to see you,” Evan jokes. “Didn’t you hex him last year outside Charms? Whatever happened to that?”

“Yes,” you grumble. “Believe me, I’m well aware how annoying he is. I just wish he wasn’t so hot.”

Vivian feigns throwing up. “Please, quit while you’re ahead, Y/N.”

◈◈◈

As it turns out, Erklings end up in your Defense classroom as opposed to the sprawling lawns outside. Professor Moody has a taste for the hands-on that Professor Lupin did, but with a slightly more dangerous twist. Not that you mind, of course. When Professor Moody drops the cage onto the floor of the DADA classroom and asks for a volunteer, your hand is the first one up.

“As usual, Ms. Y/L/N is the only one of you who wants to participate!” His good eye focuses on you in almost a sympathetic way. “Let’s have someone else. Longbottom!”

Poor Neville. He was never ready, Professor Moody should know that by now. You wait patiently as he calls on several other students. Hermione is the most successful with the Erkling so far, using the Melofors jinx to encase it’s head in a pumpkin.

“Well done, Ms. Granger,” Moody says, using the Impirus curse to make the Erkling walk back into its cage. You shiver a bit— you’ve still not gotten used to seeing the former auor use unforgivable curses in classroom settings. “However, if this Erkling were larger, more powerful, it would still be able to sing loud enough to affect you even with its head covered.” His beady eyes scanned the group of you again, fixing on you at last. “Y/L/N, I assume you know the spell I’m looking for?”

You jump to your feet eagerly and head to the center of the classroom. Professor Moody opens the cage again, and out comes the Erkling, singing it’s eerie and hypnotizing song. The Erkling you’re working with is small and you’re old enough that the creature’s voice doesn’t affect you as much as it would a young child, but you feel your thoughts become a bit muffled anyway. You fight the feeling of passing out and put all your energy into casting.

“Pullus!” You whip your wand in an ark and the Erkling transfigures in a pouf of feathers. The cloudiness in your head fades, and you find yourself standing before an ordinary chicken instead of a child-eating elf. You smile as Professor Moody leads the class in hearty applause.

“Well done! You see, Erklings are very susceptible to the Pullus transfiguration. Even if an adult Erkling has a teenager such as yourselves under it’s spell, even a weaker version of the charm will be enough to allow you to gain the upper hand,” Moody explains.

You head back to your seat and ignore Hermione’s calculating stare. Instead you notice Draco watching you with interest. You glow anew, and take your seat next to Vivian. Everyone then takes turns transfiguring the Erkling with the Pullus charm. As Draco walks back to his seat after successfully transfiguring the creature, he catches your eye again. You turn to Evan behind you and tell him maybe Malfoy’s nose isn’t too high to notice you yet.

◈◈◈

In early December, cold rain is pelting the castle walls. The school is abuzz with talk of the Yule Ball, but you were more interested in the baby Kappas that Hagrid had mentioned you would be studying today. The rain was the perfect day for them to be observed swimming in puddles.

You’d almost made it to the alcove where your Creatures class met when you realized you’d left your outdoor rain cloak in your last class. “Bollocks,” you mumble. “Vivi, cover for me? I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

“But you can’t go down the path to the forest alone, Y/N!” Vivian argued. “It’s pouring, you’ll hardly be able to see as it is!”

“I’ll be fine, nothing bad has happened to anyone all term anyway. I’ll be okay walking to one class unsupervised, ” you insist, and sprint back up the stairs two at a time to the Charms classroom.

When you return to the alcove, your class is already gone. You secure your bag and slip your rain cloak on, fastening it tight, then venture out into the torrential rain.

You hate to admit it, but maybe Vivian was a little right. It’s hard to see ahead through the wall of grey the rain creates. Water keeps getting in your eyes despite your hood. You pull your wand from inside your robes and prepare to cast the umbrella charm when something slams into your thigh, knocking you to the ground.

You scramble on the wet grass, trying to right yourself. The next blow lands on your upper back, and you cry out in pain. Your hood falls off and rain flows freely into your eyes, but you squint against it and let out a small growl of determination. Before the next hit can come, you roll to the side and raise your wand, only to feel instantly frozen in fear.

A very wet, and absolutely murderous Red Cap glares down at you, bone club raised and at the ready. You stare helplessly back at it, rain running straight into your wide eyes without you even noticing. You can only look at it’s dark and dirty hat, and think about how your blood is going to saturate it next.

“Titillando!”

The Red Cap collapses into a fit of laughter and falls to the ground, clutching its sides as it’s hit by the tickling hex. You hear another spell cast, and the Red Cap goes flying away from you in the opposite direction. As soon as it’s out of sight, you flop back onto the wet ground, still in shock. Someone comes running from the direction of the castle, and you didn’t think you could feel more surprised than when you see Draco Malfoy’s face hovering over your own.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” The hood of his own rain cloak has fallen back, presumably when he was running. His fine hair is getting soaked and sticking to his forehead, and his hand is on your upper arm, trying to get your attention. “Y/N? Are you listening? Can you stand?"

Instead of answering, you burst into sobs.

“Oh no,” Draco says. He puts his own wand back into his robes and grabs your shoulders to pull you into an upright position. “Y/N, come on, let’s get you back to the castle.”

“B-but the Kappas…” You sniff.

Through your tears and the rain, you barely make out his tiny smile. “The Kappas can wait. I think you’d better skip this class.” Draco finally is able to get you standing, and you lean against him as you continue to sob all the way back inside.

“It’s a good thing I was running late, too. You were the last person I’d expect would need help, though.” Draco says as he sits you on the first bench you come across. “Do you need the hospital wing?”

You shake your head, finally calming down. “No, it only got me twice. Just a bad bruise, I’m guessing.” You pull off your rain cloak and take in your soaked clothes. You take out your wand, intending to charm all the water off, but your hand is shaking too badly. Your hand drops into your lap helplessly, and you sigh.

“Let me,” Draco says gently. He waves his own wand and you feel the water pull off both of your robes, and it collects into a ball that hovers in front of the two of you. Draco flicks his wand and it flows under the crack of the door and back outside.

“Thank you,” you say, suddenly becoming aware of your embarrassing situation.

“Anytime,” Draco replies. “What happened? You’re never one to freeze up in the face of danger.”

You play with the edge of your uniform skirt nervously. “Red Caps are my one fear. They killed my only sister when she was just a baby, while my family was on a camping trip.” You rub your nose. “I was too young to know any magic, and by the time my parents came it was too late to save her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Draco says after a beat. “That must have been very traumatic."

You give a small shrug. “I don’t remember much about her. I always tell myself I can take down any Red Cap I come across, because I can, but the times it’s happened since that day I always get scared and can’t move. It’s just frustrating.”

Draco scoots a little closer to you on the bench as a few more tears roll down your cheeks. “For someone as talented as you in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I’m sure you just need some practice.” He places a warm hand on your bare knee, causing your own palms to start sweating.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go wandering around our Red Cap-infested school grounds after what just happened,” you manage, despite your sudden breathlessness.

“As if I’d let you go alone,” Draco says with a hint of smugness.

Your jaw goes slack. “You’d go with me?”

“Sure,” Draco shrugs. “The two of us should be able to manage with no problem.”

“Um, you are aware even small Red Caps can kill you, right?” You scoff.

“So? I’ve already gotten rid of one with no problem.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Draco had turned your mood around. “Alright. We can go out and hunt the Red Caps if you really think it will help.”

Draco beams a perfect pearly smile. “Wonderful.”

◈◈◈

Two days later, you sprint down the staircase to meet Draco for… whatever you’re doing. This is not how you had imagined finally getting to spend time with Draco, but you’d take what you were handed. Besides, this was a two birds with one stone sort of deal: conquering your worst fear, and hanging out with your crush. Normal stuff.

Today the sun is shining during your shared free afternoon block, and you feel a blush heat your cheeks when Draco takes your hand and leads your outside. After you make sure no teachers have seen you slip out, the two of you head to an open spot of grass.

“I don’t see any,” you observe, scanning the hills. “I can’t see any of their holes, either.”

“Do you reckon they live in the maze?” Draco suggests. “Maybe they’re part of that particular challenge.”

“But then wouldn’t they be magically contained inside the shrub?” You counter. “If the entire grounds are infested so bad we can’t go to classes, they can’t be part of the Tournament. Unless it’s something we don’t know about.” You add.

As you both look out across the empty landscape, the small knot of nervousness that was in your stomach starts to subside. Perhaps there were fewer Red Caps than you had been led to believe, and your attack on the way to Magical Creatures class had just been an unfortunate accident.

Draco suddenly grabs your arm. “There! Look! One is coming now!”

From far down the hill, a tiny red dot emerges from a tuft of grass. It’s lumbering up the slope towards the two of you, and almost instantly the ball of nerves returns. You feel like you’re going to throw up. No, you’re not going to do that in front of Draco. He’s right there, he’ll help you if anything goes wrong.

“I’m ready,” you say, trying to muster up some confidence by readjusting your grip on your wand and taking a deep breath.

The Red Cap disappears behind the curve of the hill. When it comes back into your line of sight, it’s much closer. And there’s about eight more with it, all looking deadly with their bone clubs and dirty clothes.

“Um, Y/N? Maybe we should go…” Draco whispers, his grip on your arm suddenly tighter. “Nine is a lot for just the two of us.”

But while Draco was faltering, you only felt more determined. “Nope, I’m doing it.” You pull free from his grasp and take an offensive stance at the oncoming wave of Red Caps.

“Merlin,” Draco mutters, but he pulls out his own wand and stands beside you.

The first Red Cap starts running, and you hit it with a stun jinx. Draco follows by casting Expelliarmus, and the creature and its club go flying in opposite directions. Once the first Red Cap is down, the others start to charge. You and Draco take down a few more, but there’s still five left and they’re closing in fast.

“Run for it!” Draco drags you away, and together you sprint back towards the castle. You keep looking behind you, throwing jinxes at the remaining Red Caps running after the two of you. One throws it’s club, which narrowly misses Draco’s head.

You stumble up the steps towards the entrance back to the castle, but your toe catches on a wonky stone and sends you flying down the corridor, taking Draco with you. You both land in a heap. As you scramble across the floor to get further away from the grass, you spare a glance over your shoulder. The remaining Red Caps have stopped where the lawn ends, and just stare angrily back.

“Draco, look, they’ve stopped,” you pant.

Draco follows your line of sight, and you watch the Red Caps disperse before collapsing onto the floor on your backs.

“I did it.” You smile to yourself as you stare at the stone arch above you.

Draco turns his head to look at you and you do the same. He gives you that same breathtaking smile from two days ago. “You did! Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You can’t help but giggle, and Draco joins you. “Honestly, it really could have gone much worse!” You admit.

“Do you feel better?” Draco asks.

You think on it for a moment, lost in his pale blue eyes. “Yeah, I think I do.”

#draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy imagine #my writing #draco malfoy #hp fanfic #requested

334 notes · View notes

kittenshift-17 · 5 years

Note

👀

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?” Molly Weasley screeched from the kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, startling Hermione Jean Granger so badly that she slipped sideways out of her stool to sprawl on the floor, her book clutched tightly in one hand and her eyes wide with terror.

“There’s really no need to shout, Molly,” Professor Albus Dumbledore sighed, eyeing her disapprovingly.

“Hermione, are you alright?” Remus asked, leaning out of his chair and offering her a hand to get back to her feet.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, frowning even as she took Remus’s hand, letting him pull her up before she slipped back into her seat, glancing around at the apparently hostile participants in the discussion.

She’d been invited into the Order meeting this evening, but she hadn’t been paying a lick of attention. Dumbledore had slipped her a book as he’d entered the kitchen, one about the uses of polyandric covens throughout the Middle Ages that focused more specifically on Morgana and her rise to power. She’d become immediately engrossed and had lost the thread of discussion carrying on around her.

“No need to shout?” Molly bristled. “Albus, SHE’S A CHILD!”

Hermione winced at the shriek that rent the air, surely doing damage to Molly’s voice box. Her face was red, and the plump witch was on her feet, her face screwed up with concentration and hostility as she glared furiously at Professor Dumbledore. The woman looked ready to commit murder and Hermione frowned, never one to enjoy not knowing what was going on.

“You have to admit, Albus, it’s a truly despicable idea,” Professor Minerva spoke up, her expression shrewd and pinched, not at all pleased.

“She’s of age and she is magically the most gifted witch born in Britain since either of you two delightful women,” Dumbledore replied, unsettlingly calm in the face of the rage both women seemed intent on throwing at him.

“Thanks, Dumbles,” Tonks grunted from the end of the table. “You really know how to make a girl feel appreciated.”

“Begging your pardon, Nymphadora, but much of your power is harnessed by your ability to metamorph,” Dumbledore smile kindly.

“Albus, she’s just a girl,” Arthur Weasley spoke up and Hermione blinked, shocked to see Arthur disagreeing with the Headmaster.

“She’s of age,” Dumbledore repeated.

“BARELY!” Molly exploded again. “IF YOU THINK I’M GOING TO LET YOU SACRIFICE THAT GIRL OR HER VRTUE FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR TWISTED ENDEAVOUR TO OVERTHROW VOLDEMORT, YOU CAN JUST THINK AGAIN!”

“Bloody hell, she doesn’t even shout at us at that pitch,” Fred Weasley muttered to his twin on Hermione’s other side, his face paling and making his freckles stand out when faced with his mother in such a fury. Hermione supposed he had a point. She’d never seen Molly so livid. Not when they’d tried to expel Harry. Not when Fleur had fallen for Bill. Not even when Fred and George had dropped out of school.

“What’s she so angry about?” Hermione asked of Remus, leaning toward the werewolf sitting on her left, tucking her book away onto her lap for continued perusal later.

“You don’t have a choice, Molly,” Dumbledore informed her. “It’s not a decision for you to make.”

“Dumbledore’s got a twisted idea about how to better harness the power of the Order for the sake of taking down Voldemort,” Remus muttered to her, glancing at her out the corner of her eyes before his cheeks cut red.

Hermione felt a sense of bone-chilling dread crawl down her spine. She glanced at the book upon her lap before looking up as Molly pointed a threatening finger at Dumbledore, just daring him to push the issue. Most of the male members of the Order were avoiding eye contact with her.

“You think a nineteen-year-old girl has the maturity to understand what something like this would do to her?” Molly challenged. “You and I both know what kind of sacrifice you would be asking for, instigating such a thing. What’s worse is that you know that if it’s you who does the asking, she’ll agree to it because it’s all for the Greater Good, spun into a pretty web of bravery, purpose, and a sense of helpfulness should such a thing actually work. But what of her reputation, Albus? What of her future? What of the effect such a thing would have on her body? On her magical core? Are you going to be there when she ends up pregnant out of wedlock and has no idea who the father is? Are you going to hold her when she cries because the entire wizarding population calls her a villainous snake? A tart? A treacherous vixen? When they call her a whore, are you going to assure her that it’s alright, it was all for the Great Good?”

Hermione felt the colour drain from her face and she blinked when from across the table, Sirius Black lifted his head, his stormy grey eyes holding hers steadily. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes assessing her reaction; her stance; her body. Hermione felt her stomach twist uncomfortably as she looked away, the book on her lap suddenly feeling not like an engaging tool for learning, but a prison sentence.

“Do you have another option to offer, Molly?” Dumbledore asked mildly. “How many more Order members must we lose before you see that Tom is winning this war? How many becomes too many before we take action and strike back?”

“And just who do you propose would be helping me ‘strike back’?” Hermione asked, her voice whipping out over the din of the arguing members, stilling everyone’s tongues instantly.

Hermione rose to her feet, setting the book Dumbledore had given her on the table and lifting her brown eyes to level a stern glare at the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He looked away from Molly and her condemning finger to meet Hermione’s gaze.

“That choice would be yours, Miss Granger,” he answered evenly.

Hermione snorted.

“If that’s not a cop out, then I don’t know what is,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Professor, but the lads don’t exactly flock to my door begging for my attention. How do you propose I go about luring men to my bed for the sake of harvesting their magical power when I can’t even get horny teenage boys to look sideways at me? Maybe you’ve imagined some silly fantasy or believed the lies Rita Skeeter likes to publish about me in the Daily Prophet, but I assure you that the only person putting their hands up my skirt is me when I’m trying to fish out my wedgie.”

George snorted on a laugh, trying to cover it with a cough, and Hermione almost glanced at the twins, knowing they’d be desperately trying to choke back their laughter and failing miserably.

“And so, I’m wondering, sir, how we might enact your little plan to whore me for the Greater Good when no one’s stuck their hand up to volunteer at crawling between my thighs?” Hermione went on, knowing she sounded crass and blunt and more than a little waspish, but unable to conceal her fury that the man would suggest such a thing for her.

It wasn’t that she was a prude, or that she didn’t like sex, she’d simply not had a lot of offers. The sound of someone clearing their throat from across the table drew her glare and Hermione sighed when Viktor Krum raised his eyebrows at her, his lips pursed and his expression a challenge.

“Right. Yes,” Hermione muttered. “We were dumb kids and it was a long time ago, and you’re married to someone else now, so don’t give me that look. My point is that no one else has been trying to get into my knickers, and forgive me, but they’re not going to start now.”

Viktor’s lips twitched on a smile at her annoyance, always too happy to remind her what they’d had.

“Now, to be fair,” Fred spoke up from beside her and Hermione turned to him, eyebrows raised. “George and I have been trying to talk our way into your knickers for years, love. You just keep rolling your eyes at our offers.”

“You mean your offers when you’ve had a few pints and you sling your arm around me and try to insist what laugh it would be if I fell into bed with both of you. Usually when I’m reading something, and you’ve already hit on every other witch in the room?” Hermione challenged.

“Oi,” George protested. “It takes a bit of liquid courage and some bloody big bollocks to risk asking you out, Hermione.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips, her eyes darting between the twins, waiting for the punchline. When none was immediately apparent, she frowned.

Someone else coughed and Hermione turned her eyes to glare at Sirius, who was doing a poor job of hiding his smirk.

“I did warn you that you’re a tad unapproachable, Treasure,” he told her in an oh-so-annoying I-told-you-so tone. “Of course, you ignored me and went back to your book.”

“Sirius Black, I did not just hear you admitting to flirting with or attempting to seduce Miss Granger,” Minerva McGonagall hissed, narrowing her eyes dangerously.

Sirius avoided her eyes.

Hermione turned her attention back to Dumbledore. “Apparent cowardice on behalf of any who might have shown an interest aside, I hardly think you mean to suggest that I just go hopping into bed with people. I do have a little dignity.”

“Too much, if you ask me,” Sirius muttered from across the table before taking a swig of his whiskey.

“And I don’t think I need to point out that not only would engaging this idea label me a trollop, it would be short lived. No one wants to ride the broom everyone’s had a go of. Especially when they know they’re being used.”

“Exactly,” Molly harrumphed, crossing her arms over her ample bosom.

“How much of that book have you currently read, Miss Granger?” Professor Dumbledore asked her, nodding at the book he’d given her. The one about the effects of polyandry on a witch’s magical core.

“Enough to know why you’re making the suggestion,” Hermione replied curtly. “And enough to know that unlike Morgana, I’m not bent on overcoming my enemies via nefarious means.”

“Nothing nefarious about getting laid, Treasure,” Sirius grunted, and Hermione glared at him.

“Have you commenced chapter fifteen?” Dumbledore asked, and Hermione frowned.

“Not yet,” she confessed.

“Read it now, if you wouldn’t mind, Miss Granger.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes before picking up the book. She flipped to the correct pages and began to read, noting the complete silence around the table. Everyone seemed to be silently waiting and Hermione scanned the passage with her eyes, frowning as she read. It was apparently a section taken directly from a diary or writing by Morgana herself.

Perhaps the most useful side-effect of this type of coupling is the release of tension and the service it provides to those among my throng. The rush of sex itself is, naturally, delightful, but there is more to it. I have seen within each member of my throng that there is something inside of them that unknots as a result of our coupling. In the beginning, I thought merely that the rush of magic and power was as we’ve always expected sex to induce; a release of pent up energy. Now, I think it is more than that.

Throughout the coupling, as I harvest the energy and feel it unlocking parts of my own magical core that I surely could never have dreamed of unlocking alone, there is something to their release that feels profound. They grow more powerful, too. I feel it in the amount of magic I am able to harvest with each coupling. As they give unto me, I unlock in them the same power. It worries me, for I fear that if they knew their own growing power they would surely seek to claim the power for themselves. They come to me willingly, and they support my cause, but there can be no denying that as all beings surely do, they seek power. Knowing that I am giving it to them, and that they are bound to me is both a relief and a bother.

Soon, I am certain, I will have harvested enough to bring about the climax of my campaign. I can feel it thickening in my blood and I can taste it on my tongue. I taste their power, too, as it grows. They grow closer, it seems. In the beginning many resented the idea of sharing me, but now, despite not often joining in group sex, they seem more at peace with one another. Perhaps it is the bond binding them to me in this quest. Perhaps it is some magical link, the likes of which will surely bring about my rule. I know not.

Hermione looked up at Dumbledore.

“Your point of that would be…what, exactly?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. In her opinion, the Order tended to get along well enough on their own. She doubted that having a number of them all shagging her silly would somehow bring them closer. Outside of comparing notes and gossiping over whatever undignified thing she might do in the throes of passion, anyway.

“Camaraderie is important, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said softly. “It also suggests an ability to sway certain individuals from one master, to focus more fully on something more rewarding.”

Hermione dropped the book, listening to it snap shut while her eyes went wide.

“Albus, if you’re implying…” Minerva began heatedly but Dumbledore held up his hands, stilling her tongue. His eyes never left Hermione’s and she knew without a doubt what it was he wanted.

“What if it didn’t work?” she asked. “You undoubtedly know the effects the ritual would have. On all participants. Luring loyal Death Eaters from Voldemort’s side would be hard enough. What would you do if they took the boon of power and returned to their master all the stronger?”

“You didn’t read the entire passage,” Dumbledore said softly.

“Luring Death Eaters?” Molly hissed, her face paling. “Albus, no! I drew the line at members of the Order. You cannot ask anyone to lie down with Death Eaters, no matter the cause.”

“The ritual is binding?” Hermione guessed, raising her eyebrows, her hands beginning to shake. Both she and Dumbledore ignoring Molly for the time being, staring at one another. “But I… there would be no way to undo…. And then they’d be….”

Dumbledore nodded slowly.

“With the combination of the power it would bring to the Order, in addition to depriving Tom his subjects, he would finally be overcome,” Dumbledore murmured, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

Hermione felt ill at the thought of what he was suggesting she do in order to bring about such an outcome. Death Eaters. He expected her to shag Death Eaters. It was inconceivable. It was horrible. She didn't think she could even manage with the idea of shagging certain Order members. There were just some things that she’d never imagined herself doing, and shagging a Death Eater was pretty high on that list. If she was honest, she hadn’t really envisioned herself shagging anyone. Not since…. Hermione shook her head to clear it before the painful thoughts could set in.

"So much for it being my choice," Hermione muttered, sinking slowly into her seat while every eye of the gathered members remained fixed upon her, watching her for her reaction. She wondered how Dumbledore had pitched the idea to them all that thus far only Molly, Arthur and Minerva had objected. She wondered what he’d said, knowing from the look on Arthur’s face, and the slightly pained one on Minerva’s, that it must’ve been convincing. The three of them had only objected out of love for her, she could tell. All three of them loved her like they were her very own parents, she knew that, and she was grateful. But Hermione could see upon even their faces that for all their objections over her dignity, her honour, and her safety and wellbeing they, too, could see the appeal of Dumbledore’s plan.

Having read even just the first few chapters of the book that the crafty old wizard had given her, Hermione could see the merit of the idea. The rituals involved in achieving such a thing were difficult and binding, not to mention dangerous, but the amount of power she would harness would likely be enough to bring down Voldemort, prophecies be damned. But was the cost too much? She might personally gain an incredible amount of magical power, but she would do it by leeching some of the power from the men she shagged. It wasn’t an easy process. Some small amount of magic and energy was transferred during any sexual contact, naturally, but this would be more than that.

Like a succubus right off the pages of her Magical Creatures books, she would leech the magical energy of her bed-partners and wield the resulting power as she saw fit. The catch was that doing so was dark magic, and that one had to create a bond with the partner in order for it to work. Anyone she considered this idea with would be bound to her, and her to him, as surely as anyone was bound in marriage or by blood.

"Albus, she's a child. Powerful or not, Hermione is a child. You can't ask this type of sacrifice of her. The effect on her magical core, alone, is enough reason not to consider it. Forming that kind of bond with one person in marriage is dangerous enough, to consider it with multiple partners without the protective enchantments of a marriage ceremony could kill her!" Molly protested once more.

Hermione felt the way Remus shifted slightly in his chair beside her almost as though he meant to put his hand on her shoulder in silent support before he thought better of it, his hand twitching on the table before he stilled once more. Her mind was racing as she listened to Molly trying to talk Professor Dumbledore out of this idea. A treacherous part of her wondered if the woman wasn’t somehow hanging onto the notion that if she remained unattached and untouched long enough, it might somehow bring Ginny back, or rouse Ron and Harry from their cursed and unconscious states.

The thought of Harry, Ron, and Ginny lanced her heart and Hermione’s fists clenched. She ached with the pain of missing them, and she suffered daily knowing that neither Ron, nor Harry, would sit idly by, as she did, were their places reversed. She’d done all she could to research the curses that affected both boys, and she’d done what she could to heal them, but some things were beyond the ability to heal and only the magical strength of each boy would save him.

Not that they’d wake to a happily ever after with Ginny gone. It had been a bad year, Hermione supposed, her nails biting into her palms and leaving half-crescents. The quest to claim the Horcruxes had cost them more dearly than they could ever have dreamed and Hermione knew that much of Molly’s protectiveness stemmed from a failure to protect her only daughter and her youngest son from the terrible fates that had befallen them.

"I stopped being a child when I got my Hogwarts letter, Mrs Weasley," she said quietly before the woman could continue and end up breaking down in tears once more over things she couldn’t change. "This isn't a question of relative maturity or of the appropriateness of the notion. This is... Professor Dumbledore while I'm certain you don't comprehend the gravity of your request, I'm wondering if you've looked past the potential benefits to see the drawbacks. This would be a big ask of the Order members even before considering the notion of using this to sway Death Eaters, too. And you're not just asking me, you know? You're asking many of the wizards in this room to contribute to this idea, too. They would have to have sex with me in order for this plan to work and, as I've mentioned, there's been little interest from most of them up until now. But let's set that aside for a moment to examine the less appealing side of this request. You want me to shag Death Eaters. You somehow expect that men who are so entrenched in blood supremacy that they joined up with a megalomaniac to persecute us, will inexplicably turn on their Dark Lord for the sake of one little mudblood.”

“Don’t use that term,” several people around the table hissed and Hermione scoffed.

“You can’t even stand to stomach the term they use to describe people like me and you think they’re going to want to touch me? To crawl between my legs and do unspeakable things to me?” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Please. I’m sorry, Professor, I’ve read enough of the book to understand why you thought this would be feasible in theory, but in practice your asking men who think I’m a boring, frumpy bookworm and men who think I’m a wretched, dirty mudblood to bind themselves to me and shag me on a regular basis. It’s not going to happen.”

“Just as you might consider doing this for the greater good, others might too, Miss Granger,” Albus Dumbledore said quietly. “A good many people in this world do things they might ordinarily not enjoy for the sake of something bigger than themselves.”

“Albus, she doesn’t want to do it and I don’t blame her,” Augusta Longbottom spoke up. “The poor girl has already been through enough, don’t you think? Cursed and almost killed in her fifth year by a Death Eater; fighting a war in the corridors of Hogwarts in her sixth and on the run from the Ministry and the Death Eaters in her seventh year. To make matters worse she’s endured the death of a girl as close to a sister as she’s ever had, and the aching loss of her two closest friends comatose and cursed for months, still unresponsive. She’s sacrificed her parent’s memories and a good deal of her own blood and bone to this cause already. Do not ask the girl for her virtue, and do not try to guilt her into agreeing just because there are others who’ve sacrificed more.”

Hermione smiled ruefully at the stern woman that Neville called ‘Gran’. She was certainly an impressive and powerful witch, Hermione could tell. Neville’s lips twitched where he sat next to his grandmother and Hermione’s eyes met his when he lifted his head. He held her gaze steadily, no longer the stammering, forgetful lump of a boy she’d helped in class when he was too scared of Professor Snape to concentrate. He’d grown lean over the past few months, having been right there alongside her, Harry, Ron, Ginny and Luna when they’d been hunting Horcruxes. He’d been there holding her while Ginny died in Hermione’s arms and he’d been there to help her get Harry and Ron back to the Order, back someplace safe.

He’d been her rock and he’d grown from friend who relied on her for help with his homework, to close friend whom she’d entrust with her life in a heartbeat.

“Harry and Ron would be screaming bloody murder if they could hear this discussion,” she told him softly, ignoring everyone else for the moment, speaking directly to Neville.

“They would,” he agreed, one corner of his mouth pulling upward. “Might be, if you go through with it, that they’ll snap out of their comas just to screech at you.”

Hermione’s chest tightened, and her eyes stung with the urge to cry all over again.

“You know what Ginny would say?” she asked softly.

Neville’s smile grew rueful and he shrugged.

“She’d be shouting whilst being frog-marched from the room,” Hermione told the boy. “Thinking about passing up the chance to shag a whole swath of wizards and getting away with it for the sake of the Greater Good? She’d be calling me three kinds of stupid for a smart girl.”

Neville snorted, and Fred chuckled softly beside her. Molly’s indrawn breath was shaky, and Hermione knew the mention of her daughter and the accurate projection of what she’d likely have said, were she there, had silenced any more of her protests.

“She’d be asking for pictures,” Luna’s soft-spoken and slightly dreamy voice came from beside Neville and Hermione met the blonde girl’s gaze. She wore a little smile, her eyes distant. “She’d be telling you to stop hesitating and commanding that you get her pictures to giggle over and drool over whilst asking for explicit details. And you’d be blushing and stammering and telling her it was none of her business, which would only make her tease you all the more.”

A tear trickled down Hermione’s cheek as she nodded, recalling the way Ginny had teased her mercilessly about Viktor when she’d been shagging him. Molly turned her face into Arthur’s chest when her tears spilled over, and around the table everyone looked rueful as they recalled the vivacious young woman who’d sacrificed her life for the cause.

She knew in her heart that she was going to do it. What was her dignity, her pride, or her reputation compared to the sacrifice of Ginny’s life?

“Who did you have in mind, Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione asked, turning her gaze back to the man who led the Order with a cunning that most people underestimated.

“Would you like a list of those I think would be most beneficial?” he asked seriously, raising his eyebrows.

Hermione nodded.

“You’re going to do it, then?” Sirius asked from across the table.

Hermione shrugged, getting to her feet and picking up the book Dumbledore had given her.

“I’m going to think about it,” she said. “And study how it works. And consider whether it’s madness or brilliance.”

“The two often go hand in hand,” Luna said quietly.

She pushed away from the table and strode around the people gathered in their chairs. When she reached Dumbledore, she held out her hand expectantly, awaiting a list of those he thought she should be shagging for the sake of creating a harem for herself.

“Actually, I rather meant to introduce you to those whom I….” Dumbledore began, handing her a rolled-up scroll of parchment that glowed for a moment, his own magic creating the list without quills or ink.

Hermione didn’t wait for him to finish. She couldn’t. The longer she stayed the more she was going to feel pressured to do it for the sake of the Order and the harder it would be to say no. She didn’t want to agree if she didn’t think she could handle shagging those he hoped she’d shag and she didn’t want to listen to Molly crying anymore, the woman’s tears always setting off her own grief.

She took the scroll and she strode for the door, her wand in one hand, the book under her arm, and the parchment in the other. She used magic to unlock the door, though why they bothered warding it when everyone was inside the kitchen for the meeting was beyond Hermione. There weren’t any children to be kept out of the meeting anymore.

She was halfway into the entrance hall before she realised that she wasn’t alone and Hermione’s wand arm snapped to attention, her body dropping into a duelling stance instinctively when she found herself surrounded by Death Eaters.

31 notes · View notes

theoeclipse · 5 years

Text

Les Roses

Pairing: Lena Oxton x Amelie Lacroix

Disclaimer: Characters are the intellectual property of Blizzard.

Summary: Lena has been mysteriously receiving roses at the fashion magazine where she works. When she discovers who is sending them, however, her life is turned upside down.

Note: This started off as a little prompt that was supposed to be short. It quickly turned into almost 7k words. Sorry not sorry.

You can also read this on AO3 here.

Lena exhaled as she looked at the monitor in front of her. She had just finished editing the last article for this week’s edition of Couture, five minutes ahead of schedule even. Which meant-

“Home time!” she chippered to herself, cracking her knuckles and standing from her stiff office chair. She pressed her hands into her lower back, bending until she felt it crack and let out a little grunt of relief.

Just as she was about to leave her office however, hand poised over the door handle, her desk phone rang.

Eyes narrowing, she considered it briefly. If she answered it and it was the boss, she could probably expect to be staying late with no way to get out of it. However there was always the possibility it could be a serious request that could cost her arse if she ducked out before answering it.

Resigning herself to this fate, she walked back to her desk and picked it up.

“Yello?”

“Good afternoon Lena, it’s Sandra from front desk. I wanted to let you know there’s a delivery down here for you to pick up on your way out.”

Brow crinkling, she wondered if it was the same person that had been sending her roses for the past few weeks.

“Righto, I’m on my way down now anyway, thanks.” She placed the phone down and turned, making her way out.

No one from the floor noticed as she left. Not that it was really any of their business what she did or where she went, this whole magazine would be stuffed without her writing and editing for the company. Her articles alone were 40% of the readership, probably more.

So yeah, definitely wasn’t a secret admirer here at the office, that she was sure of. But that just made it even more of a mystery. She didn’t really have many friends, at least no gay ones. And she was fairly certain her mum wouldn’t go setting her up with a mystery woman.

Still, she’d figure it out eventually, that much she was sure of.

As she stepped off the elevator and approached the front desk, Sandra met her with a bright smile. She could see the roses just sitting there in a little black bucket, a note tucked neatly into them.

“Nother one huh?” she asked, approaching where they sat on the counter and reaching out, cupping one of the red roses and bringing it to her nose. It smelled soft, floral and delicious. Whoever bought these- and there was at least two dozen- had money to spare. And then some.

“Someone likes you,” Sandra replied, tilting her head at the roses and wiggling her eyebrows.

Lena scoffed.

“And lemme guess, you got no clue who they are either?” Lena asked, plucking the note from the stems and unfolding it.

Sandra looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging her shoulders.

“Whoever it is they’re bringing them in themselves. And let me tell you, she is probably the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. And I'm straight.”

That piqued Lena’s interest, an eyebrow cocking.

“Gorgeous woman you say?”

“Mhmm.” Sandra nodded, holding up a finger as the phone beside her rang and she went into customer service mode.

Lena turned away, bringing the note up to read it.

“Two lovers adrift- cast from their caste- find their own way back to land.”

She peered at it in confusion. The words seemed oddly familiar.

Grabbing the pot of roses, she gave a small wave to Sandra and left the building. She had at least a five block walk home to ponder over the message, but it wasn’t until she placed the flowers down gently on her coffee table that a light bulb went off in her head.

“Bollocks!”

It was actually a line from a page she edited- the reader’s submitted poetry- that came out on the shelves last week. She’d liked that line, particularly so. She’d put that poem at the top of the column and even bolded that first sentence.

So, whoever it was sending her these gifts most certainly also read the magazine she worked on.

Tapping her chin thoughtfully, she paced back and forth. Still, no one she could think of. But maybe.... maybe if she just asked Sandra to hold them up the next time they brought flowers, call her with a code word or something, then she could run down and catch the ‘hot delivery girl’ in action.

She grinned to herself. It was a brilliant idea, if she said so herself.

And so planned the ambush with Sandra. She’d give her a call pretending to ‘need to call her boss about something’ and stay on the phone until Lena got down there. After all, she couldn’t accept the delivery until she got off the phone, and the ‘hot delivery girl’ would be none the wiser. It was perfect.

So another week went by, every day Lena waiting anxiously for the end of the day to come and for her mysterious rose girl to show up. Of course it was silly to expect her so soon, but she couldn’t help it. It was keeping her on edge and she needed to know.

When that call finally came however, she could barely contain her excitement. She practically ran through the office to the elevator, much to the other employees disdain. Not that it bothered her, she was about to meet her mystery woman, caught red handed. This is definitely the most interesting thing that had happened to her all year.

Her expression dropped as the elevator doors opened at the ground floor, every part of her body tensing up as she spotted the very CEO of the competing fashion magazine to the company she worked for standing in the foyer. She had been following her on her social media for a long time now, and had always admired her passion and determination in a cut-throat industry.

Did she also mention she was bloody gorgeous? Like, fall over your own feet and walk into a street pole at the sight of her gorgeous? Because well... she was.

Their eyes met and there was a moment of panic she saw in the taller woman’s features. That was when she noticed what she was holding.

“Nice roses,” Lena managed to whimper out without sounding like too much of an awe struck teenager. As the French woman’s eyes bore into hers and a shade of pink touched her cheeks, Lena cleared her throat.

“Sorry, ‘m Lena. Lena Oxton. I’m editor in chief for Couture magazine, you’re Ms. Lacroix right?” she queried, straightening her posture and forcing herself to act at least a little bit professional. She looked over and noticed Sandra behind the desk making a frantic pointing motion in the direction of Ms. Lacroix as she stood there holding the roses. No. There’s no way.

“I know who you are, Miss Oxton,” her voice came out like silk, her gorgeous amber eyes sparkling with just a hint of mischief. “I am a fan of your work, it is written with passion and ferocity.”

A smile crept over Ms. Lacroix’s face, causing a flush to reach Lena’s cheekbones.

“I also enjoy reading your lifestyle blog online. It is... interesting, to say the least.”

Oh god, she read her lifestyle blog. Of all the bloody things. That website was nothing but a big mess of mostly lesbian content, a few fiction romance stories, interviews and reviews on LGBT+ media. Generally it was something that only really appealed to people from her own community, why would she be reading it?

“Gee, thank you so much Ms. Lacroix, I’m flattered, truly,” Lena paused, scratching at the nape of her neck as she tried to avoid those intense eyes. “Who’s the roses for anyways? Y’got someone ya meeting up with here or-”

At that, the French woman stepped forwards, holding the bucket out towards her.

“Apologies, these are for you,” Ms. Lacroix spoke rapidly, suddenly seeming self conscious in the moment, keeping her gaze locked onto the flowers in question.

Lena stared at them for a few moments, truly baffled and simultaneously very flattered and very very gay. She stammered.

“For me? But I don’t-”

“I was having your receptionist take the delivery, I’m sorry I wasn’t more forward Miss Oxton. I-” The French woman looked away, inhaling a deep breath before turning her head back and giving Lena a soft, wonderful smile.

Oh, that’s nice.

“I wanted to ask you to allow me to take you out for dinner some time.”

Lena almost dropped the flowers at that, her eyebrows lifting in surprise as she looked for any hint that she was being taken for a ride.

“D-dinner? Like... like dinner dinner? Like a date dinner? Not like... just business dinner?” her hope was welling up in her chest and she didn’t want it to die, not when this gorgeous woman was looking at her like that; looking at her like she was the most interesting person in the world and then some.

A soft chuckle that sounded very French indeed- if that was even possible- escaped Ms. Lacroix’s lips and it was a most heavenly sound indeed.

“Oui, like a date dinner. Perhaps with just a side of business, if that suits you.”

Lena couldn’t help herself from erupting into a hopeful giggle; she was all too aware of the stupid, love struck grin now blossoming on her lips.

“Suits me just fine love,” she paused, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Speaking of, do I wear a suit or...”

Her voice trailed off, and there was another one of those heavenly laughs.

“Non, nothing so formal. You could just wear a blouse and jeans if it’s what you wish,” she waved a dismissive hand, even that motion being elegant.

She was liking this woman more and more by the minute, and she’d already liked her to begin with.

At that, Ms. Lacroix reached into the inner pocket of her suit, a subtle dark grey tone that was cropped just along the bottom of her rib cage. She pulled out her phone, handing it to Lena.

Juggling the roses so that she could hold them with one arm, she took the phone and gave the French woman an inquisitive look. All she got was a cheeky smile in return.

“Your number, if you’d be so kind,” she elaborated, and Lena proceeded to enter herself into the woman’s contacts. “Thursday evening, 7pm. I will text you the address beforehand.”

Lena nodded and handed her the phone back, appreciating the small smile Ms. Lacroix had as she made sure the details were all there.

“Right, Thursday. 7pm,” Lena repeated, shrugging her shoulders. “Thanks for the roses by the way, they’re gorgeous.”

Ms. Lacroix made a small humming noise, obviously pleased that her gift was suitable.

“I’m glad you like them,” she replied, lifting her arm she pulled her sleeve back and looked at her watch. Lena couldn’t help but notice it was what appeared to be gold with many little encrusted diamonds around the face. Bloody ‘ell was this woman well off. “I have a meeting I must get to, but I look forward to dinner with you, Miss Oxton.”

“Lena,” she corrected her quickly, in one sharp breath. “Please, just Lena’s fine.”

The French woman smiled, a sparkle in her eyes.

“Very well, Lena,” and the name practically rolled off her tongue. “Then please, call me Amelie.”

“Amelie,” Lena repeated, a little quietly in fear of stuffing up the pronunciation, but Amelie nodded appreciatively in return.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Lena,” Ms. Lacroix spoke, also giving a small nod of farewell to the receptionist before turning on her heel to leave.

“You too!” Lena called out after her, smiling to herself. She must have stayed that way for some time even after Amelie had left, as it took Sandra calling her name twice before she turned to her.

“Really Lena? The CEO of our competing company?” she looked both a combination of exasperated and amused.

Lena could only rub at her neck sheepishly, then pretending to look at her wrist despite not even wearing a watch at all.

“Gee will you look at the time? Gotta fly! Later Sandra!”

And with that she left the building before she could get in any more trouble.

Thursday couldn't come fast enough, yet when the time actually came, Lena couldn't help but suddenly wish she had more time.

Yes, Amelie said she could dress casual, but she hardly felt that would be fitting, especially considering that once she'd been texted the name of the restaurant she knew instantly she should at least try to dress up.

Of course it was a French restaurant. Of course it was fine dining. Jesus bloody hell this woman was rich, it wasn't like she was going to take her out for a luke warm cheeseburger.

The pile of clothes on her bed was growing, and as she stood in wearing black dress pants and a bra in front of her closet she finally decided that a simple blouse would have to do. It was form fitting, white and plain with three-quarter sleeves. Nothing fancy, but acceptable attire nonetheless.

She'd spent too much time fussing over clothes already so she decided to forgo the makeup except for a little touch of eyeliner and some neutral eye shadow. With that settled, she checked the time.

“Bugger!” noticing she only had 30 minutes to be at the restaurant, she hurried to grab her handbag, tucking her phone into it and heading out the door. She was lucky enough to be down the road from the metro, and if she jogged down to the station she'd just make it in time for the train and would- according to the timetable- reach her destination with a few minutes to spare.

And she did, her phone reading 6:58pm as she reached the door of the restaurant and made her way in. A man in suit and tie immediately greeted her with a charming smile and a soft 'bonjour', asking her for her reservation. She totally didn't feel nerves well up in the pit of her stomach, nope, none at all.

“Lena Oxton, I'm here for dinner with Ms. Amelie Lacroix.”

His eyes widened at the name and he began beaming, bowing and motioning with his hand for her to follow him.

“Ah yes, Miss Oxton, of course! Ms. Lacroix is waiting for you in the private dining room. Please, if you will follow me,” he spoke in the most formal of tones, his French accent just making him sound all the more posh.

Lena couldn't help but look around her at all the rich and well dressed people sitting at their tables, holding crystal glasses filled with red wine and dining on what she could only describe as Gordon Ramsay level cooking. If this was the 'public' dining area, she could only imagine what the 'private' dining area was like.

Following him through, he led her to a wide hallway curtained off from the public. He lifted the curtain back for her and motioned for her to walk through. She did so, nervous trepidation now rising into her throat. The hall was lined with oil paintings that looked both very old and very expensive. She could see the textures of the paint and the strokes from the paintbrushes. They were not prints.

At the end of the hall was a set of swinging double doors with curtains hung over their windows. For added privacy, Lena assumed.

He swung one of the doors open, smiling at her and motioning for her to enter.

“Have a lovely evening, madam,” he spoke politely, leaving and letting the door swing shut behind him.

As she turned back around, Lena couldn't help but gape at the room. It was massive, unnecessarily so. There was a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, speakers in each corner of the room emitting relaxing, hypnotic electronic music. The table was lined with a gorgeous purple satin tablecloth and set with every piece of cutlery and glass type you could think of.

There was also a gas powered fireplace that stretched almost six-feet wide along the back wall, emitting a comfortable amount of heat.

But perhaps the most beautiful thing in the room by far was the radiant woman sitting on the left of the table, reclining with her legs crossed and a sly smile on her face. Her eyes popped even more in this lighting, surrounded by an immaculate smokey eye and winged eyeliner. Her lips were coated in a shimmering lipstick a dark shade of purple that almost appeared black, glistening in the overhead light.

She was wearing a black dress that cut low through the middle, revealing the inner curve of her breasts and just about touching her belly button. A slice down the right side of the dress revealed her thighs almost all the way up to her panty line.

Oh, she was staring. She was definitely staring.

“See something you like?” Amelie teased, quite obviously aware of the effect she was having on her guest.

“I uh... um. That is-” Lena suddenly felt incredibly warm, and her clothing felt far too tight. She reached up and pulled at the collar of her blouse, attempting to loosen it. Amelie laughed, her eyes lighting up.

“Please, relax. I don't bite,” Amelie spoke, motioning to the chair that was beside her, but about two feet away. It certainly seemed more intimate of a dining arrangement than your regular setup.

Lena let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, moving around the table and seating herself to Amelie's left. She gave the French woman an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, 'aven't been on a date in a long time. I'm a little rusty at this.”

Amelie shook her head, her long black hair like tresses of silk tied up into a professional bun.

“I find it hard to believe someone such as yourself has trouble finding dates,” Amelie argued, taking a moment to eye her up and down, humming softly as though in approval. Lena felt her cheeks redden.

“Don't really get the time. I work at the office and I work when I get home. Sometimes I'm up 'til the early hours of the morning, don't get much sleep.”

Her dining partner clicked her tongue disapprovingly at this, her smile fading to be replaced by the most adorable crinkled brow Lena had ever seen.

“That is unacceptable, non that will not do at all,” she spoke tersely, shaking her head as she plucked her phone from the table and started typing something into it. Lena wasn't sure if she was texting someone or taking notes, but after a few moments, she placed her phone back down and looked at her with a very serious expression.

“Lena, I will not lie to you. There is another reason I brought you here tonight,” Amelie paused, taking a deep breath. Lena suddenly felt her nerves rattle. “I wanted to ask you to come and work for me. Be my second in command. Everything would have to be approved by you on my behalf, and all editing work would be done by those of your choosing. No more late nights, no weekend work, you would get to attend all the fashion events by my side or in my place.”

The amount of information being thrown at her almost knocked her for six, and she felt herself staring back at Amelie like a fish out of water. A smile crept onto Amelie's features.

“And of course, I would pay you handsomely. It would make your current paycheck look like mere pocket money.”

Okay, this all sounded far too good to be true. Yet she knew this industry was cut throat and those that had the skill and potential to go far were worth their weight in gold. Amelie had obviously been scouting her for some time, but did that mean that the date was all a ruse?

Shifting uncomfortably, she chewed on her lower lip. The woman beside her looked at her expectantly.

“So does that mean this isn't a date then?”

She could already feel the disappointment, the let down, that gaping maw opening up in her stomach and preparing to swallow her whole. The offer was amazing, and she'd be a fool to not accept it, but she'd truly been hoping to just enjoy a wonderful date and maybe something more with this mysterious woman.

Realising what she must have sounded like, Amelie instantly looked apologetic, leaning closer to her and resting her hand on Lena's thighs.

“Cherie, I brought you here for a date, that I promise you,” she squeezed Lena's thigh, giving her a reassuring smile. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, I just thought it best to get business out of the way first before pleasure. Wouldn't you agree?”

Ahh, there was her nerves from earlier making a second appearance. Lena chuckled softly, feeling adventurous enough to reach down and let her hand rest atop Amelie's. It was a bit cooler to the touch than she'd expected, but still pleasant. Her skin was so soft and she just couldn't help herself but to run her thumb over the back of her knuckles.

This little moment of tenderness seemed to catch the French woman off-guard, her cheeks darkening and a hint of something else behind her eyes.

“Yes, I agree,” Lena spoke with all the bravery she could muster. She took a deep breath before continuing. “And I'd love to come and work for ya', Amelie.”

“With me,” Amelie corrected, giving her thigh one last squeeze before taking her hand back and returning to her relaxed posture. “You will be working with me, and I promise you cherie you will enjoy every minute of it.”

That she didn't doubt for a second. A pleased smile crossed Amelie's face as she adjusted her dress, somehow managing to reveal even more of her thighs.

“Now, are you hungry?”

She was hungry, but not just for food, that was for sure. Instead of making a fool out of her love starved self however, she settled for nodding in reply.

Amelie called for the waiter and they ordered their meals.

It was a comfortable atmosphere, the two of them talking light business while waiting and then while eating. Amelie seemed especially interested in Lena's lifestyle blog and suggested she could even have a similar article running weekly in her own magazine. Of course she agreed to it, more positive LGBT+ representation in the mainstream media could go a long way.

They talked about themselves. Lena learned that Amelie's prior marriage had been loveless and purely for business; the two had separated amicably once she had established herself in the industry with his help. It had been a well kept secret- the French woman's sexuality- but being the fashion giant that she was now she no longer felt the need to hide who she was.

It was something Lena understood, having herself dated men off and on when she was younger and in college. Even once she discovered that her lack of excitement in those relationships was due to the fact that they were men and not women, she still approached her love life with trepidation. A secret girlfriend here, a fling there. Nothing substantial. Work had ended up taking priority in her life, something she absolutely didn't regret having gotten to where she had in that time.

Now here she was, enjoying a wonderful date with an equally as wonderful woman. One who laughed at her jokes or listened to her intently when she shared a story. They finished their meals and the waiter brought out a bottle of wine for them, pouring two glasses and leaving the bottle behind.

Usually Lena wasn't big on drinking wine, but in good company it wasn't so bad, and she found herself loosening up the more she sipped at the crimson liquid. At some point Amelie had shifted her chair closer, almost touching, swishing her wine delicately in its glass while listening to Lena babble on about a movie she'd seen a few weeks ago.

It was as her head started to buzz that she looked over at her companions wrist watch, just barely making out that the hour hand was touching on the 10, the minute hand a little bit past the 12.

“Oh bollocks, is it that late already? I'm sorry I musta' been babbling on for ages, you must be bored outta' ya mind,” she started to panic, feeling self conscious of herself and her ability to prattle on about just about anything.

Amelie however only smiled at her, eyebrows lowering and her chin resting in the palm of her hand, propped up by the arm of her chair.

“Bored? Oh my darling, I've sit through more arduous meetings than I care to count. You are a breath of fresh air, though it is wonderfully sweet of you to be concerned.”

Darling? That was new. And... nice.

She took another mouthful of wine. Amelie noticed.

“If you wish to head home I would be more than glad to have my driver escort you there. I would hate for you to be out there alone at this time of night,” one of her eyebrows cocked playfully, earning a swarm of butterflies in Lena's stomach. “Or we could return to my home. I would so love to enjoy your company further.”

I'm bloody sure you would too, you French seductress. There was a part of her that was tempted to pass her up on that offer, if only because she was well aware of what they could get up to. But the part of her inhibition that had been loosened up from the alcohol would not let her turn it down in a million years.

“Y'know, think I'll take ya up on that, if only so that you can show me 'round your fancy digs,” Lena replied, looking thoughtful. This seemed to please Amelie greatly, a musical laugh escaping her lips and sending a warmth throughout her. Or maybe that was the alcohol at this point.

“Whatever you wish, cherie,” she replied, reaching for her handbag and pulling out what appeared to be a chequebook and pen. Lena watched with mild interest as Amelie filled out a cheque; she couldn't quite make out the numbers, but there was most definitely several zeros.

The cheque was placed in a small dish in the centre of the table and she tucked the book back into her handbag, beginning to push her chair from the table. Okay, Lena could at least do this one little to thing to prove she had at least a little bit of culture.

“Oh, here let me,” she rushed, jumping out of her own chair to her companion's surprise, standing off to the side and offering her hand in assistance. Amelie smiled, taking the hand and allowing herself to be helped out of her chair.

“Mmm, how chivalrous of you, cherie.”

Lena grinned, now offering her elbow. “Shall we?”

Amelie gave her an admiring smile before looping her arm through the offered elbow, allowing herself to be escorted out.

“Lead the way.”

They got quite a few intrigued stares on their way out, but Lena was blissfully happy enough that she didn't care to notice them. If anything she stood straighter, giving that one balding, grey haired dude the 'yeah, this is my date, what are you gonna do about it?' glare when he looked like he'd swallowed a bag of marbles at the sight of her arm in arm with another woman.

Once outside a cool breeze touched her skin, ruffling her brown tresses of hair that she had styled almost immaculately. The valet nodded to her, assuring her their ride was on its way.

No more than three minutes later, a limousine pulled up. It was the darkest of blacks, tinted windows, shined so thoroughly that Lena could almost make out her reflection in it. The valet stepped forwards, opening the rear door and bowing graciously to them as Amelie tugged her towards the vehicle.

This was all... quite a lot. Even as she buckled in and admired the spacious cabin around her, she couldn't help but wonder what the point of all this was, other than making a grand impression. They engaged in quiet conversation, Lena mostly just enjoying the scenic route they took through the city, lights flashing as they drove past, over the bridge freeway where a few boats were spotted around the harbour. She barely even noticed the time passing until she felt the limo slowing to a stop, peering outside to see they'd pulled up in front of a mansion sized beach house.

The driver got out, opening the door for them. Lena thanked him, standing and looking up at the size of the building. It had to be at least three stories, with huge open plan windows looking out over the harbour and the shoreline.

“I promise you, it's much more beautiful inside,” Amelie teased, her voice a warm whisper against her ear that took her by surprise. She turned her head, meeting the taller woman's gaze, her amber eyes burning playfully and a smile pulling at her lips.

“Right, sorry. It's just so...” Lena paused, looking back up at the building before formulating her response. “Big.”

A finger played at the collar of her blouse, tracing over the fabric. She swallowed.

“Size is not everything, I assure you,” came the warm response, the French woman's voice just a little lower, and not so much playful as it was making promises she intended to keep.

Lena laughed awkwardly, scrubbing at the back of her hair and not able to make eye contact. She could already feel her stupid ears burning with a blush, but she was grateful for the dim lighting for hopefully hiding it.

“Come, let me show you around,” Amelie spoke, her voice a more normal tone now as she took Lena by the hand and guided her up the steps and into her home.

Amelie pressed a key card against a scanner, the locks on her front door clicking and sliding open. On entering, Lena looked around her in awe. She vaguely heard Amelie telling her it was the foyer, pointing to various items she had on display including a statue of an elegant naked woman that seemed to be calling the viewer towards her.

In a stupor she merely followed her guide around, being shown a music room, a theatre, living room, kitchen and bathrooms. She allowed herself to be guided upstairs, all the way to the third floor. Apparently the second floor was mainly guest rooms and a second entertaining area.

When they reached the third floor landing it opened up into an expansive living area. Another one of those gas powered fire places was set into the far wall lined with cobblestones. There was a steel grey faux rug sprawled in front of it, a few mauve recliners with thick feet that were probably carved out of very expensive wood. Off to the side was a bar, not too dissimilar to the kind found in clubs, just a little smaller.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Amelie offered, turning to face her guest with enquiring eyes. Lena nodded in reply, her head still spinning as she tried to take in the fact that she was in what she could only imagine was a multi-million dollar mansion overlooking the beach, with a very rich, very charming, very gorgeous and very French woman. One- she noted- that seemed to be the most unlikely thing of all; interested in her.

The French woman walked behind the bar, pulling out two scotch glasses. Looking up, she caught Lena's attention.

“Liquor?” she inquired.

“I'd love to-” Lena mumbled, realising at that second she'd said 'liquor' and not 'lick her'. She shook her head, rubbing at her arms. “Rum. I'd love a rum thanks.”

Amelie nodded appreciatively, turning to look at her shelves and running her fingers along all the bottles she had until it came to rest on one. Like everything else around here, it looked expensive.

She popped the cork and poured out two glasses, adding some ice to both drinks. Grabbing the glasses, she motioned towards the love seat that sat adjacent to the fireplace.

“Come, sit with me,” she offered, giving a warm smile.

Lena obliged, following her over. She sat first, watching as Amelie sat right beside her and close enough that their thighs were almost touching. The dark-haired woman handed her her drink, and Lena was all too ready to accept, drinking down several mouthfuls of the liquid courage right there and then. Amelie quirked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything about it.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, looking at Lena with expectant eyes.

A few moments passed, with her chewing on her lip as she tried to formulate a reply.

“It's...” Lena looked around again, trying to really take in everything now. It smelled feminine, soft, a little bit floral. “A lot, not gonna' lie love.”

Amelie tilted her head, eyeing Lena over her glass of rum as she brought it to her lips. “How so?”

Struggling for the right words, the brunette shuffled around a bit, took another swig of the rum. She savoured the way it burned down the back of her throat, but much smoother than the stuff she usually drank. It was good. She stared into her lap.

“Look, you're bloody amazing. I can't believe someone like you would even want someone like me, but we're here. You're here. This place... it's amazing. But it's a world away from what I'm used to. I live in a tiny one bedroom apartment, I eat leftover Chinese and pizza,” Lena paused briefly, starting to feel a little more warm from the rum. Growing a little courage, she met Amelie's eyes. “My bloody toaster broke the other day y'know. I only bought the damn thing a few months ago. How does a toaster even break? I don't just have money to throw around at toasters!”

The woman beside her laughed softly, taking a sip of her drink as she waited for her guest to continue.

“And some kid spilled his juice on me on the train Monday morning. On the way to work, o'course,” she huffed at the memory and having to excuse the big orange patch on her white jeans when she got into the office. She shook her head. “I'm not used to this rich lifestyle, or being pampered in any way really.”

Raising an eyebrow, Amelie placed her free arm along the back of the love seat, her fingers tentatively teasing at the base of Lena's hair.

“And you don't think someone like me would want someone like you?” the French woman enquired, her voice low but warm. The brunette shivered at the light touch playing with her hair.

“Why would ya?”

The fingers slipped from her hair and she suddenly missed the sensation, but watched as Amelie took her drink from her hand, placing it with her own on the small table in front of them. Turning back, the French woman took both her hands in her own, squeezing them gently.

“Cherie, you are more amazing than you know. You are smart, talented, funny. You have a true eye for fashion, but you are not like everyone else in this industry, non. You have a heart, I've seen it in your writing, your articles and your blogs,” she paused, her fiery eyes boring into hers with a strength of passion. “You have a way about everything you publish that shows the world your compassion, your truth.”

Lena couldn't hold the gaze, the intensity burning inside of her chest as she took in every word. Looking down, she admired how their hands looked together; at some point they had become intertwined, locked together.

“It gets awfully lonely at the top, Lena. No amount of money can change that,” Amelie spoke softly, a hint of sadness in her voice, a sadness that made her look up again. There was a small smile, a wistful one, and a soft laugh.

“You know, when I was a child, I always thought it was so strange when the Princesses in movies always ended up with the Prince. How could they want to be with such a man when there is a gorgeous woman in front of her?”

A laugh escaped Lena at that, memories of her own returning to when she was a clueless young girl with pictures of female pop stars on her wall while all her female friends had men on theirs.

“We all start off as clueless baby gays, then we grow up inta' adult gays who got no clue how to flirt with ladies,” Lena added, nodding her head as she thought about it. Amelie hummed in agreement.

“Or business gets in the way of what we truly want. What we need.”

The French woman squeezed her hands, shuffling closer. Lena met her eyes, glad to see the sadness from before had dissipated but noting there was something else there. There was trepidation, nervousness. Was she... afraid?

“Love, if there's something you wanna ask me I'm all ears.”

Taking the encouragement, Amelie sat up a little straighter, her eyes flitting back and forth as she tried to gauge the situation.

“Lena I-” she stopped, her mouth poised as though to say something else before thinking better of it, taking a steadying breath, then continuing. “I'd very much like to get to know you further in person. To... date you. If you would have me?”

It was such a soft, genuine question that all Lena could do was start grinning like an idiot, a giggle erupting from her throat without her permission.

“Ya' askin' me to be ya' girlfriend?”

Amelie's lips turned up into a shy smile, her cheeks colouring scarlet as she now looked down at their hands as Lena had before. She found it so endearing that someone so powerful, so strong and terrifying in the fashion industry was turning into an unsure, nervous school girl before her.

“Oui,” there was a moment of silence, the dark-haired woman finally gaining a little courage to look up again as her blush subsided. There was a subtle happiness on her face now, and it just made her look even more radiant than she already did.

“I'd like the chance to show you what you've been missing out on all these years,” she added, the corner of her lip turning up into a cheeky smile. Lena caught the teasing, wiggling her eyebrows in response and daring to lean forward a few inches.

“Oh yeah? Why don't ya' show me then.”

Amelie let out a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff, slowly moving in towards Lena, drawn in like a magnet until the very heat of her lips was against her own.

It was such a simple motion, but it sent her head spinning. All her fears and emotions that might have been left over in the back of her mind that Amelie didn't want her seemed to drift away as their mouths pressed against each other more insistently. They were both tentative but eager to explore, equal measures of gentle and firm. Her hands were already roaming the expanse of Amelie's waistline, much to the taller woman's delight, soft airy moans singing from her throat while her body leant into the touch.

She let out a sound of displeasure as her partner moved away from her, but a soothing hand ran through her short hair in a promise that she wasn't going anywhere.

“Stay the night?” Amelie inquired, her voice low and husky, her pupils dilated and her lips full and shimmering from their kissing. Lena had to stop herself from grinning like the cat who got the canary.

“Sure, but I gotta' warn ya', I'm a blanket hog.”

A chuckle escaped the French woman's lips, and she leant in to press another kiss to Lena's mouth.

“Then you'll just have to make sure you keep me warm, hmm?” Amelie ran her thumb across Lena's lower lip, pleased when the smaller woman kissed her digit.

“I think I can manage that,” Lena took a few moments to just enjoy this closeness, bumping their noses together before claiming her lips again in a delicious kiss.

She kept her promise, not once did Amelie go cold throughout the night.

#writing #femslash #f/f #widowmaker #tracer #amelie lacroix #lena oxton #widowtracer #tracemaker #widowmaker x tracer #overwatch #fanfic #fanfiction #write-it-motherfuckers #fashion AU #AU

58 notes · View notes

hitchell-mope · 5 years

Text

(First film. Prologue. Instead of an iPad activated by Mal, Jay is in a white void room dressed for the coronation his hands are glowing brightest gold with magic)

Jay: once upon a time, well, two decades ago. The town loony’s daughter. Married the accursed beast. Of course he wasn’t a beast when they tied the knot (his magic creates images of the story as he tells it) true loves kiss solves everything. They had no honeymoon. Instead. Adam brought the kingdoms together and became the king of the United States of Auradon. And guess what he did? (Chuckles darkly) the overly shaved bastard pooled together his resources and magic. And engaged in necromancy, bringing back all the villains (passing by a line of said villains) you know the usual suspects, crown head, dragon lady, the psychotic furrier and my father. The mad genie. (He pauses in front of Jafar’s frozen form). Along with many many others who died in their stories. The “heroes”, for want of a better word, brought them all back. Along with the sidekicks and basically anyone who didntbfir in their perfect widdle bubble. To add insult to injury. The barrier they put up around the prison prevented them leaving even though the god of the dead were among the throngs punished. Can’t get out with out the fairy godmothers wand you see. There’s also no WiFi. So the days and nights are positively tedious. So it left them with nothing to do but procreate. How did they think villains would tear their own offspring when they’ve tried to murder innocents on multiple occasions. Needless to say their absolutely shit as parents. So we try to stay away as much as we can. Form gangs. Safety in numbers. It helps when you can turn some creepy old man who’s looking at your friend inside out with a snap of your fingers. You’ll meet more of us soon. But for now (he walks up to Ben’s portrait) you get to see the oh so handsome prince fight on our behalf against his nimrod of a father to give us basic human rights. See you soon

(His body glows completely gold and he disappears in a flash of light. Ben’s portrait is zoomed in on and changes to him rushing down a hallway with Doug)

Ben: oh darn we’re late

Doug: it’s alright. It’s not like they can start the meeting without you. You did call it after all

Ben: good point. Ohhhh if this doesn’t work I swear I’m holing myself up in my room with teenage dirtbag on repeat for a week

Doug: it’ll work

Ben: oh I hope so

(They burst into the meeting room. Several adults turn to look at him. Ben looks like he might pass out)

Ben: heh hhhhhhhhi heh heh

(He falls backwards but Doug catches him)

Doug: sorry about that but it was a long walk

Belle: it’s ok Doug. There was more then enough tea.

Adam: son.

Ben: mom. Pop. Uhhhh

Leah: Benjamin will this take long. I’m sure Audrey is waiting for you

Ben: pardon.

Leah: I’ve set reservations at a What was it Aurora?

Aurora: Burger King mommie. I suggested it.

Leah: why?

Belle (every fibre of her being fighting to not roll her eyes): anyway. Ben. What is it you wanted to talk to us about.

Ben: uh. Heh heh. As you all know I’m going to be king in a few months.

Adam: and we couldn’t be prouder

Leah: Audrey is so looking forward to your coronation then there’s the cotillion and we all know what comes after.

Snow: your majesty’s. Please. Let Ben speak. The poor child looks as though he might faint. Hello Doug dear

Doug: hi aunt Snow.

Snow: carry on Ben dear

Ben (slightly less nervous now): thank you your highness. As I was saying. I’m going to be king in a few months and I needed to decide on my first proclamation. And I’ve finally thought of one-hang on. Where are mr and Mrs Dearly

Beast: who?

Snow: the ones with all the delightful doggies

Leah: mutts. They are mutts. Who need to be shot

Aurora: I’m sorry for her. She’s recently been taken ill and hasn’t been quite the same since

Belle: she broke a leg coming back from a hunting trip. That is no excuse for her god awful behaviour

Leah: whatever do you mean?

Belle: I’d tell you. But then we’d be here forever

(Ben stays standing there unsure of what to do)

Doug: I think it may be time for Ben to say his piece yes?

Belle, Aurora and Snow: yes.

Doug: thank you. Carry on Ben

Adam: why are you here.

Doug: pardon?

Leah: yes Adam. I would like to know as well. Why are you here. Whoever you are

Doug: ah ha ooh boy. I’m Doug. Ben’s future major-domo. I’ve been in his class since pre-K.

(Leah just stares blankly at him)

Doug (long suffering sigh): my father is dopey the dwarf. Diamond miner. Made Audrey’s tennis bracelet

Leah: oh yes. So why are you in a meeting meant for royalty

Ben: IWANTTOBRINGCHILDRENOVERFROMTHEISLANDOFTHELOST

(All adults are silent. The the Dearly’s burst in)

Anita: we are so sorry we’re late. BB-8 got hold of my patent leather pumps and why does it feel like death warmed up

Belle: Ben. I’m. I’m

Leah: appalled. And so is everyone else. You have have something to do with this don’t you dwarf?

Doug (under his breath): that didn’t take long

Adam: this. Really. This is your first proclamation? Of all things

Leah (damn near hysterical): why not just tax the rich!

Aladdin: oh shut up you old bitch. Go on Ben

Ben: thank you. Al

Leah: you will address the sultan by his proper title you little bollocks

Belle: ok that’s it. Get out you psychotic old biddy

(Leah gasps dramatically)

Belle: Lumiere would you please?

Lumiere: of course ma’am

(He physically drags Leah from the room)

Jasmine: I’m assuming that us being here has something to do with what children you are picking

Ben: I

Doug (not willing to let Ben take the blame if it all goes wrong): we

Ben (immensely grateful): we, thank you Doug, looked through records and dossiers and found the first four, of many, we’d like to bring over.

Belle (encouragingly): go on dear

Ben (more firmly): the children of, Jafar, Cruella De Vil, Queen Grimhilde. And Maleficent

(From the hallway Leah lets out a hysterical screech. Belle throws a stress ball at the door to shut her up. The rest remain silent)

Roger: they, they uh. Oh my god.

Adam (trying to regain control of the situation): Dearly calm down. It’s not as bad as you believe

Anita (laughing hollowly): not bad. N. Not bad. How can it not be bad. Cruella De Vil has a child!

Aurora: oh those poor dears

Snow: stepmother has a baby? I’m a sister. No. Wait. They wouldn’t be fathers.

Phillip: how old are they.

Adam: it matters not how old they are

Aladdin, Roger and Phillip: THE HELL IT DOESN’T

Phillip: TWENTY YEARS. I SLAYED THE DRAGON. YOU BROUGHT HER BACK. AND NOW WE FIND OUT SHE HAS A CHILD. Oh my god!

Snow: I feel sick.

Adam: now look what you’ve done Ben.

Aurora: Ben didn’t engage in necromancy and bring people who have hurt us back from the dead, dump them on an island that we can all see from our windows. And leave them to raise children. I for one commend him on wanting to try and do what’s right by those that we have left to squander.

Ben: thank you Aurora

Belle: when do you plan on bringing them over dear?

Ben: about that.

(Aladdin laughs. Well. Cackles is more like it)

Jasmine: today?

Ben: yes. At least. I hope so.

Anita: pardon dear?

Doug: we don’t know what their parents are like. If they are like the sultan and her husband or if they are like

Phillip (looking directly at Adam): I completely understand. It’s just

Aurora: we’re going on vacation to Malta. Right after this meeting in fact. So

Ben: no matter how much you want to meet Maleficent’s child. You can’t.

Aurora: if it helps. Audrey will be here I’m sure she’ll support you in your des... (Belle gives her a withering stare) yeah I know.

Ben: I told her last month, when I came up with the idea in fact

Phillip: and

Ben: she laughed me off. Then made me take her shopping.

Doug: if it helps Lonnie Jane fairy godmother and I are 100% behind him king Phillip

Phillip: it does actually Doug. Thank you

Ben: dad. Just hear me out. Every time I look out there over the water I feel like we abandoned them.

Adam: then close the drapes

Leah (from the hallway): hear hear

Belle: SHUDDIT

Aladdin: I for one love the idea. I look forward to meeting them.

Ben: thank you sir

Belle: when do we expect them

Ben: this afternoon. Hopefully.

Belle: and I’m assuming you’ve had this set up for a while

Doug: fairy godmother had helps us get everything ready.

Belle: that’s good. I suggest we adjourn this meeting so Ben can put the finishing touches on the task.

(Everyone leaves the room. Ben and Doug stay behind with Belle)

Ben: thanks mom

Doug: thank you your majesty

Belle: you’re welcome boys. Remember. My door is always open

(All three leave and go their separate ways. The boys head to Ben’s room where two girls are waiting)

Lonnie: well?

Ben: mom’s on board

Lonnie: and your dad?

Doug: who gives a shit what he thinks?

Lonnie: true.

Ben: thank you. All three of you. I couldn’t have done it without you all

Jane: you didn’t need me.

Ben: I did. Your my friends. I can hardly do anything without you guys

Lonnie: well there are a couple of things you need to do with our us. Exams for instance

Doug: thank god you said exams

Jane: uh oh

Ben: what?

Jane: 3...2...1...

(Another girl throws open the door and walks in like she owns the place)

Doug (aside to Jane): you have to teach me that

Jane: it’s magic. You can’t learn it. I don’t even want it.

Audrey: of course you don’t

#disney descendants #zendaya!mal #jay son of jafar #ben florian #anti leah descendants #belle descendants #anti beast descendants #snow white descendants

53 notes · View notes

lesbianathene · 4 years

Note

Hi ik it's old but theres an ask in your hp tag where you say you dislike Hermione and that you might make a list of harry essays for ppl to read and I would love to see more about both?

ooo yes! i was going to but it slipped my mind completely!!

okay so i made a post of all my fav hp essay (more will probably come as i find them)

and now why i dislike hermione: (putting under a readmore for those who dislike negativity)

imma split this into three catagories: book hermione, movie hermione, and the fandom.

book hermione (ive been doing a rereading of the series including higlighting and comments and tabs to keep track of my thoughts so)

she presents herself as being right all the time. that her opinion is the only one that matters. she consistantly ignores both harry’s and ron’s instincts and opinions in favour of one that she can believe. this does go down as the series progresses i’ll admit.

her dismissal of ron and his understanding of the wizarding world (especially as he was the one to actually grow up within it) and her belief that anything written in book is gospel is bewildering to me. like if you were truely passionate about learning then you would gather as many differing sources as possible and not just go ‘well i read it in a book so there.’

her treatment of luna. dear god, her treatment of luna. teenage girls are catty, believe me i know, but she ridicules luna for her beliefs. when luna mentions the creatures she believes to exist (nargles, etc) hermione of scoffs or batters luna with ‘how can you possibly believe that they exist??’. it reminds me very much of the militant atheism that the internet used to be so fond of. it’s just cruel and unnesissary

the whole house elf situation. i mean it’s disturbing the whole happiness in slavery thing jkr had going on i’ll say that first. but within the narrative hermione was so adament about prove she is in the right and everyone should do as she says that she blatently ignores the wishes of the ones she is trying to help.

theres probably more but thats all that comes to mind rn

movie hermione

okay so i’m not a fan emma w*tson anyway. i think shes way too overhyped and imo shes not a particularly talented actress either. but thats just my opinion so y’know don’t sue me (also she aint that hot ngl)

movie hermione could ‘do no wrong’. she was always the one with the answers; regardless of it actually being more plausable that it would have been anothers idea, or the fact that it was originally anothers idea in the books like???

this ‘do no wrong’ attitude towards her character by the writers and directors and w/e meant that harry and all of his characterisation was thrown out the window and he basically became a 2D character and don’t get me started on ron. ron barely existed in the films but was crucial to harry in the books - moreso than hermione

fandom

god the fandom just kills me sometimes. everybody loves hermione cause shes a bOokwoRm~ like us~~!!!! i’m sorry but bollocks to that. hermione may be someone who reads but she’s not interested in what learning truely is - which is exactly why shes not and will never be a ravenclaw - shes more interested in reading to justify what she already thinks.

her and harry wouldn’t make a good couple. i’ll have to find the meta that explains this better but she spends a lot of time in the books doing exactly what harry doesn’t need, whereas ginny is perfect for harry as she actually compliments his behaviour than contrasts it. when harry has outbursts, hermione cries and is afraid (unhelpful and doesn’t benefit either of them), whereas ginny challenges harry back and engages with him (helpful! makes harry more mindful of his surroundings)

shes romanticised more in the fandom than in the movies (which is impressive, truely). the fandom almost believes that everyone should be like hermione. shes the best!1! shes better and smarter and the only one who matters!1!!! and im sick of it

dr*mione. just that. like are you willfully ignoring all the slurs and hatred in the books?? what?? i just???

#hp #rachel responds #i'm not good at formulating my arguments sorry #roamingreenwoods

2 notes · View notes

metaphoricallyroger · 6 years

Text

With Love, From Me to You - ii of iv [R.T.]

Summary: One-hundred ways to say ‘I love you’ over twenty-seven years.

Words: 3,511

Warnings: Implied smut. Swearing. Vomit mentions.

Note: This follows both Bohemian Rhapsody’s and real-life events (generally for dates, minor plot etc.), picture whichever Roger you fancy! The title is taken from ‘From Me To You’ by The Beatles.

26. (1971):

“How’d he work out?”

You’re swept into a hug that lifts you off your feet as you’re spun around by Roger, who’s buzzing with excitement after Queen’s first gig with John.

“I could kiss you you’re that brilliant!”

“Don’t get too excited there! I take it I was right?” You grin knowingly, having watched the performance yourself.

27. (1972):

Roger almost couldn’t believe the lecture he was getting from John. Having feelings for you? Him? You’ve been best friends since you were fifteen, weren’t these things supposed to crop up in your teenage years rather than punch you in the face in your twenties?

“Don’t worry, it’ll go away soon.” Roger sniffs and looks away from where he’s been staring at you talking to some shaggy-haired Jim Morrison knock-off. What did Morrison have that Roger doesn’t? Oh yeah, Roger thinks, a successful band with numerous albums, and he wrote like a poet. Who wouldn’t be in love with him?

“If you say so,” Deacy replies in a honeyed tone, not looking so convinced.

“Oh God,” Roger continues, ignoring John, “she makes me crazy all the time, I can’t stop thinking about her, even when I don’t think I’m thinking about her, guess what? I still am!”

“Yeah, so you like her, Roger.”

28. (1972):

Roger sits and waits outside your flat, growing more anxious as the night wears on and you still aren’t home. He knows he should have called, should have made himself open up, but the only thing he can focus on is how he let your relationship become so strained.

“Roger? What are you doing here?” You weren’t expecting to see him tonight, the blonde man sitting, hunched on the stairs in the cold.

Roger has been distant for the past few weeks. You haven’t seen him as much as you normally would and you put it down to band stress, but for him to not even call? There had to be something else going on.

“I’m not going to let our friendship fail just because I’ve been an arse these past few weeks.”

“An arse,” you scoff, “that’s putting it lightly. Why have you been ignoring me?”

“I’ve been going through some stuff.”

“Girl stuff?” You don’t want to assume, but Roger does like women.

“Yeah. That’s not an excuse to avoid you, I can’t do that to you. Our friendship matters too much to me to do that.”

“I’m glad you came,” you whisper and pull him into a hug that makes your heart flip.

29. (1972):

“All we’ve got is an almost empty box of Corn Flakes.” Your stomach growls at the idea of not getting anything to eat.

“You eat it. You’ve got to start recording an album, you’ll want all your strength.” You get a bowl out of the cupboard and set it down in front of him.

“We can share.”

30. (1972):

You sit on the lounge in the control room with Mary and the new friend Roger has brought along. The band is trying to record tracks for their first album, and are using all of their allotted late-night time to the best of their advantage.

You enjoy the way Roger looks when he’s focused on his creative processes, the small crease between his brow, the tapping of his fingers. You can’t take your eyes off of him.

“He’s really something isn’t he?” The girl, Emma, says. You watch as Roger uses spoons to play a beat on pots and kettles he’s borrowed from who-knows-where.

“Yeah,” you agree, “he is.”

Mary watches the exchange with a knowing pair of eyes, too wise beyond her years.

31. (1973):

In the bathroom of the crappy flat that all of the boys share, you help Roger with smoking his eyeliner out.

It is Freddie’s idea that they should all try out eyeliner to ‘spiff’ up their boring looks, as he so delicately put.

“There. Very beautiful.” You wipe your finger on a piece of toilet paper to get rid of the remaining dark stains.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” you grin as Roger preens over himself in the mirror, fiddling with his blonde locks. The darkness of the eyeliner brings his blue eyes out so that they look like liquid silver.

32. (1973):

You sneak up on Roger who’s sitting on his flats outside stairs, smoking. Brian has banned all smoking indoors and you haven’t heard the last of it from Roger since that battle.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

“What?” He turns to look at you but you push his head back to the front.

“Just do it.”

An odd-shaped bundle lands on his palms and he immediately opens his eyes, not wanting to wait to see what you got him.

“You bought me flowers?”

You bounce lightly on your toes as you gesticulate in an excited manner.

“Yes! You bought me some when I got my first job, so I wanted to return the favour for your first album!”

“Well, thank you. They smell nice.” You can see that he does sincerely mean his thanks, but you know it wasn’t what he wanted.

You sit down next to him.

“Don’t worry I also got you a bottle of wine,” you purr, “you can give the flowers to Brian.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

33. (1973):

“This is bollocks and I can’t understand why I need to dress up,” Roger whines as he adjusts his blazer in the mirror.

“Probably because this party is to celebrate your first album and being signed for the first time? I think they need the whole band there, not just three-quarters. You look very nice, this is your night, and you should enjoy it.” You smile, knowing you can win him around.

“I don’t even have hairspray left. There. I can’t go now,” he huffs.

“You can use mine.”

“Why are you suggesting things that will actually get us there quicker?!” Roger physically refuses the hairspray so you spray it all over his blonde mane for him, causing him to grumble under his breath.

34. (1973):

“Oh fuck, oh no,” you drag out.

“It’s alright, Y/N.” Mary tries her best to console you by rubbing your back where you’re hunched over on her and Freddie’s lounge.

“Maybe you should talk with one another? You’re best friends, you should be able to talk to one another about this stuff.”

“Best friends shouldn’t get feelings for each other, Mary!” You can’t help but yell.

“What does he mean to you, Y/N?” Despite you yelling at her, Mary replies in a calming, loving voice.

“He means the world to me. Like he was made just for me. To be the best thing.”

“I think you’ve got your answer,” she smiles gently.

35. (1974):

On one of your rare days off from the small publishing firm you work at, you sit on the lounge next to Roger in the space Queen had rented to practice in. The band are preparing to travel to America for their first international stint thanks to John Reid.

“Are you excited about going to America?”

“Course, we get to support a great band and bring our music to the American fans.” You glance at Brian where he sits on top of his amp, watching his curls bounce as he agrees with his bandmate.

“You aren’t excited to meet all the American ladies?”

“Did I not mention that was the only reason I’m going?” You dig your elbow into his rib cage and he jolts before settling down again.

You both fall into a comfortable silence and you shift on the lounge, leather creaking with age. You’re jostled due to your close proximity as Roger sits up straight and begins to fiddle with his shirt buttons.

“I want you to have this.” He hands you the necklace you’ve seen around his neck since he was eighteen that looks like a medallion from the Olympic Games.

“But, you love this necklace!”

“Consider it a memento, so you don’t forget about me.” He winks and crinkles his nose.

“I don’t think I could forget about you even if I tried.”

The necklace sits against your chest as you see Roger and the rest of the boys off at the airport the next week.

36. (1974):

The phone connection isn’t great, and you struggle to pick up on the story Roger is telling you.

“Wait, so you’re coming back early?”

“Brian’s sick, think he picked something up from a needle.” You hear him stammer and know that it can’t be something as mere as a cold. Not if they cancelled their openings for Mott the Hoople.

“How are you all getting home?”

“Dunno, we’ll have to work that out once we get here. Got to get Brian to the hospital first, that is if we get through immigration. He’s bright yellow.”

You nibble at your lip before speaking. “I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” You both say a quiet goodbye after that and lie back on beds in rooms encased in early sunlight and late darkness.

37. (1974):

It’s not a particularly romantic atmosphere, a hospital, that is, to think about kissing someone. You stand with Roger as he smokes after visiting with Brian, who is finally starting to look his normal, still pale, colour.

“Can I kiss you?” You swallow constantly and try to avoid eye contact, wanting to shrink under the inevitable shattering of a friendship.

It’s something you’ve been thinking about a lot in the recent months, especially since he gave you his necklace. That gesture made you think he might have feelings for you too. Your wildest thoughts could not have prepared you for his answer.

Roger answers you with a kiss of his own.

38. (1974):

“I’m sorry it was such a shit date.” The restaurant was terrible and the movie even worse, but this is your first date with Roger, and that made it perfect overall.

“It wasn’t all shit.”

“It wasn’t?” A bashful smile graces his features and he stops rubbing his fingers along the bleached pocket of his jeans.

“No, you were with me, remember?”

39. (1974):

You don’t want to rush into things with Roger. After having been friends for almost ten years, this next step in your now-relationship seemed almost too intimate.

“I’m scared.”

“Why are you scared? It’s just me.” His eyebrows crease, worrying that he has done something unintentionally to scare you.

“That’s it. It’s you. I never thought this would happen in a million years.”

Your eyes shift around the room, trying to focus on anything except for the angelic features of the man in front of you.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to. I really want to.”

“Are you sure?” His hand timidly traces your sternum where the priceless necklace lies. It’s as if he’s trying to imprint it to your skin. An angel’s kiss.

“Yes. Just be gentle?”

You share one small kiss and pull away. A moment passes, a flicker of the eyes before you’re devouring each other.

40. (1975):

“So, we’re together,” Roger states, gripping your hand tightly should the band have a bad reaction. You both agreed, that after being in a relationship for months, it was high time to tell the people Roger (and you to an extent) considers himself closest to.

“We know,” John says in that deadpan way you wouldn’t expect from the often-quiet man.

“What do you mean ‘we know’?”

“It’s glaringly obvious, darlings.” Freddie also pipes up, not pausing his motions as he plays a nameless tune which seems to boost the mood of the room.

“But we tried so hard to hide it.”

“That was the problem, geniuses, neither of you are subtle.” It’s also Brian’s turn to add his two quid apparently.

“Anyways,” John continues, ignoring Brian, “we’re happy for you, Roger.”

“I’m happy too,” his lips curl into a beatific smile.

41. (1975):

“Are you enjoying Japan?”

You talk quietly into the receiver behind your desk at work. Although it was your lunch break, you didn’t want to go to a telephone box where the connection wouldn’t be so great and you’d have to keep feeding a machine to ensure you get to talk to your boyfriend. Talking quietly was to ensure the gossiping women around you didn’t overhear.

“It’s very overwhelming, but exciting, you know? We have to keep leaving the hotel through the kitchens!”

“Why are you doing that?” You laugh.

“People keep coming into the hotels looking for us!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! People were even waiting for us at the airport with pictures and signs all screaming their heads off.” You know the boys are used to a moderate amount of success in England, but hearing about their reception in Japan sounds like what The Beatles experienced when they first went to America.

“Well, Mr Rock Star, I can’t wait to see you,” you purr.

“I’ll see you soon, okay? I’ll try to get you a present if I can escape the hotel prison.” He yawns through his last sentence.

“Go to sleep, Roger.”

“Go back to work, Y/N.” You can hear him grin over the connection.

42. (1975):

You and Roger were enjoying the peace and quiet that came with a bubble bath. He rests between your legs and swirls his hands through the bubbles, sometimes giving himself a beard with them and turning around just to hear you laugh. Said peace and quiet were interrupted by your boyfriend’s bandmates who’ve still yet to grasp the concept of privacy.

“Jesus, Brian!” You huddle yourself against Roger’s back to protect your modesty.

When Brian starts talking, he pointedly stares over the tops of both your heads, trying not to make eye contact that could make social interactions with you awkward for the rest of your lives.

“You weren’t answering your phone, Rog.”

“You don’t possibly think there was a reason for that, Brian?” Roger also adjusts himself and brings his arms back to wrap around your waist.

“We’ve got a meeting with Ray Foster again in an hour.”

“Can’t you see we’re a bit busy here, mate?” Roger gestures to the shampoo still in his hair where you were pampering him with a scalp massage.

“Yes,” Freddie now sweeps into the bathroom, “we can all see that you’re busy grooming each other, but time doesn’t stop for Roger Taylor. Let’s go.” He claps his hands together.

“Why are you so excited?” Roger scrunches his face, glaring at Freddie.

“Because my stroke of genius is going to get us another hit, darling.”

43. (1975):

“Recording studio?” Roger looks at the rooster that parades itself across the wall and the mud that’s seeping into the bottom of his jeans.

“Well, the idea was to get away from all distractions.”

Roger turns from Paul to look at you with a scowl on his face.

“Good thing I’m not a distraction then.” You grin and share a secretive kiss with Roger once all the other boys have gone inside.

44. (1975):

Sickness has made its way around the band and whilst Freddie and Brian were getting over their flu, Roger seems to have caught something else.

You sit backstage on the cracking lounge with Roger as he sips from a cup of water rather than beer, subconsciously letting you know how poorly he’s feeling.

“How are you feeling?”

He doesn’t respond and instead burrows himself into your side with a groan.

When they’re moments away from taking to the stage, Roger looks like he’s about to lose what little food he has consumed and you watch as he swallows heavily before walking on stage.

You watch the show with trepidation, but Roger’s adrenaline seems to be working as he doesn’t look ill enough that the audience will be able to tell.

However, when the lights go down, Roger is the first one backstage and heads straight for the nearest rubbish bin where you follow and pull his hair back from his face just in time.

“Here. Drink this,” you hand him your water, “it’ll make you feel better.”

45. (1976):

“Roger, you’re snoring,” you groan into the darkness.

“Huh?”

“You’re snoring, I can’t sleep.” The pillow you’ve placed over your face is removed and blonde hair swims in your vision.

“I’ll go sleep on the lounge,” he yawns out whilst you roll over to go back to sleep too tired to understand what he’s saying.

You aren’t asleep for long before you wake up cold and take your pillow to the lounge with Roger, who accepts you into his arms without waking up.

46. (1976):

You break up over something so incredibly mundane, you can’t believe it. You leave after Roger suggests you should move into a house together. It’s not that you aren’t ready, because you are, you just had a momentary panic. And broke up with your boyfriend in the process.

“I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot!” You turn up at his bedsit in the early hours of the morning, panting hard. You can barely look him the eyes as you continued your frantic ranting.

He pulls you inside and moves you over to his lounge, trying to get you to stop shaking.

“What? Don’t call yourself that, you aren’t ready to move in, it’s totally fine!”

“But I am,” you groan and put your face in your hands, “I don’t know why I broke up with you, I freaked out.”

“You broke up with me? I didn’t think I spooked you that much.” You take your head away from your hands and blink to get rid of the red spots in your vision. He’s grinning at you.

“Stop, I’m trying to get you to be in a relationship with me again.”

“Consider it done, on one condition.” He holds your hands, kissing the tops of them softly.

“That is?”

“You tell me when you’re ready to move in with me.” You look into his eyes and see such sincerity that you know he’d wait forever to live with you.

“I am so, so ready to move in with you, Roger Taylor.”

He kisses you gently and picks you up, carrying you off to his bed.

47. (1976):

“I’m really cold.” Roger’s teeth clattering are deafening in the dark, silent bedroom.

“That’s because you’re sick.”

In the first week of living together in your newly bought house (if it could be called that), Roger has unfortunately caught himself a nasty cold.

“Y/N,” he whines, “can you come closer?”

You roll your eyes and shuffle over to the man already buried under a mountain of sheets. He didn’t have a fever, you made sure of that, he was just cold.

“Do you want me to get you another jumper?”

“No, I’ve got you to keep me warm.” He wraps himself around you and nuzzles against your chest, snuffling slightly to make himself comfortable.

48. (1976):

Roger wakes up to fingertips dancing across his features.

“What’re you doing?�� He whispers in his deep morning voice, without opening his eyes. He feels your hand tenderly withdraw before they ghost down his shoulder, tracing the veins of his forearm and the lines in his palms.

“Looking at you.”

“Why?” He forces himself to open his eyes with a yawn and looks up at your smiling face.

“Just because you’re pretty.”

49. (1977):

“I know,” Roger sighs, ready for the third degree as he makes his way into the restaurant.

“Only an hour and a half late,” You nod. You receive a kiss so deep that you’re surprised no one has noticed the rockstars entrance.

“I’m so sorry, the plane got held on the runway,” he whispers. “Did I miss the cake?”

You roll your eyes and slide a piece of your friends birthday cake across the table as her husband gives a speech about how proud he is of her thirty years on earth.

“I saved you a piece, aren’t I sweet?”

“You are, without a doubt, the best thing that’s happened to me.” Your eyes nearly get stuck in the back of your head from their rolling as you smile with that soft one reserved only for Roger.

50. (1977):

“What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

Without saying hello to Roger, you immediately blurt out the first thing that comes to mind when you see his new appearance.

“Hello to you too, love.”

“Why-why did you cut it?” Shock glimmers in your eyes as you stutter in your state.

“Because I can? Everyone else has too!”

“Brian still has the same hair!” You point at the tall man stood off to the side, who still has the same hair as when you met him.

“Brian is a ninety-year-old in a thirty-year-olds body. I can’t expect him to look after himself.”

You hear Brian’s groan of protest and grumble under your breath as Roger moulds himself to your side.

“Do you hate it?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak out on you.” You pause for a moment and quietly stare at his hair.

“I think it’s growing on me.” You run your hand through his hair and enjoy its new softness.

#roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x reader #bohemian rhapsody imagine

264 notes · View notes

noa-halevy · 5 years

Text

THIS WILL END IN TEARS [1 / 4]

All right, so this is the start of a series of self paras that all tie into each other. They’re not being posted in chronological order, so make sure to take note of the dates they happened. The information in this self para will spread through the Organization quickly (and the second part of this half will be coming shortly) so there will be plenty for the Frenchies to react to and chat about. Let’s crank up the drama.

Date: August 6th, 2019. Warnings: None.

“I really wish they’d hit you somewhere other than your face. Can’t you tell them to aim for your personality next time?”

When the walking wounded had slapped her ass in response to the barb, Noa had jumped so much she’d accidentally needle poked him in a good bit of skin. Luckily enough, Dan had been wasting no time when it came to the pain killing. He was already too drunk on the cheap bottle that hung loosely from his grip to notice she could’ve taken his eye out.

“Think it’ll scar?”

“Well, I’m not a surgeon, honey, and I’m down a finger, so probably…”

The man huffed out a laugh at that, but Noa did not return her husband’s casual sentiment. Steady as her hands were, there was only so much she could do for his ego with DIY sutures and some white rum. Judging by the state of him—which had resulted in the absolute bollocking he’d received when he finally stumbled through the door at ridiculous o’clock that morning—it seemed unlikely that he could manage the hospital without answering more questions than was safe.

The French Organization didn’t need any more police scrutiny right now.

Their kitchen had transformed into accident and emergency not long after that debate had ended.

“I wish you wouldn’t go out on your own like this,” Noa scolded. After what felt like hours of struggling, she reached out for a cotton pad in an attempt to clean up the blood that was still, much to her concern, leaking from an eyebrow that would most definitely scar. As much as she laughed it off like she always did when he came home like this, the thoughts of how things could’ve ended far differently were already plaguing an anxious mind. Things were different for them now. “What if they’d knocked you out?”

“I’m fine. Ce n’est pas grave...”

This time she glared. Given that his jaw seemed to be so injured he could hardly spit out the words, she was inclined to think he might be lying about that.

“You shouldn’t go without me.”

“You’re not going anywhere. Besides, I wasn’t alone,” he quickly cut in, sounding so laidback about his predicament that she would have rather enjoyed hitting him in the face again. After a moment, he let out an apologetic sigh that for the most part seemed genuine. His arm wrapped around her waist in an attempt to soothe her concerns, and whilst the new angle made stitching up what was left of the gash on his forehead far more difficult than it needed to be, she wasn’t about to push him away. “I was with Varden.”

Well, he certainly hadn’t mentioned that until now.

“You said Laurent, not Varden.”

Varden Lefebvre: the crazy fucking assassin who had come out of retirement just to set the world on fire. What could go wrong if those two got together, huh?

“That literally makes it worse, Dan.”

“Babe, it’s fine…”

Noa didn’t speak again; concentration wholly focused on tying off the end of the stitching and not biting his head off. Thankfully enough for her—and perhaps Dan too, given how poor a job she had done in her state of exhaustion—the rest of his face, whilst wounded, mostly sported bruises and cuts that would heal of their own accord. She had done all she could. Eventually wriggling out of his grip once more, she started to gather up the bloodied cotton, needles and what remained of the rum they had been using to sterilise everything in silence.

Even though she’d heard him sigh out again, this time in frustration, she hadn’t turned until he spoke.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

It was enough to pique her attention, at least.

They didn’t often discuss the details of their solo ventures. Even though Dan had never said it out loud, she suspected he held back on the finer points of his own hunts because he didn’t want her to know what he was capable of. Before she’d met him—before he’d finally settled into his cushy role as a Commandant—his reputation had been similar enough to Varden’s that they’d teamed up on several occasions. Noa wouldn’t have minded if he’d set their entire island on fire, but she thought it too sweet that he was so concerned. She wouldn’t push. When it came to her, however, details were best left omitted because of his tendency toward being overprotective.

Dan knew that she could look after herself, and had never once questioned her abilities. He just preferred to be there holding them down whilst she was kicking shit out of their skulls…

It was rare that he would offer up the information so freely.

Maybe it had something to do with that shit eating grin he hadn’t been able to shake from the moment he’d walked into their Camden home. What did he know that she didn’t? How had he had his face fucking brutalised, only to look so damn smug about it?

“All right,” she said, starting toward him once more. “I’ll bite. What happened?”

Or maybe, the more important question was: who?

He looked like a teenage girl settling in, getting ready to spill the gossip.

God fucking help her.

“All right. So, like I told you, the original plan was to spend all night at AU. Yusuf even got some new cognac in that I definitely would have brought home for you if it wasn’t for Tzof. Sorry, babe. Anyway, everything was relatively uneventful until we took a break to go and get food, right?” Well, that explained why he’d taken to the shit in the bottle so quickly. Noa was about to shout at him for fighting drunk, again, before he cut her off once more. “So we headed to some weird fucking Halal place and Mo and I ended up fighting about it again because I can’t fucking eat Halal.”

“Wait, you were fighting Mo again?”

“Wait n—”

“You two are literally a fucking stereotype. Mo is crazy. Can you stop—”

“Noa, I wasn’t fighting Mo. We’re good. We’re friends again. We don’t need to steal his gold. The point is he doesn’t shut the fuck up about the best Halal food being in Haringey, right? So he gets us an Uber to Wood Green, and complains the whole way that we’re making him pay for it, even though there’s no chance I’m paying to get to that shit hole or to eat Halal food—”

Noa was beginning to remember why she always made sure they had other company when her husband was drunk.

So she didn’t have to fucking talk to him.

Pressing her fingers into her forehead, she closed her eyes.

“Point noted. No to the Halal,” she breathed. “So who were you fighting?”

“Well if you let me finish?”

“Have you heard the way you tell stories? If I don’t interrupt you, you will literally never finish.”

“Wait, what?” His eyebrows had pulled together in an offended frown. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with the way I tell stories?”

“I swear I’m going to hit you myself. Who were you fighting?”

Much to her despair, a moment later, he had burst into laughter once more.

Had the injury to his head knocked his fucking brain out of his skull?

“So I’m waiting outside the restaurant, and out of the blue, I spot this familiar face across the road from me. I mean, I had to do a double take, Noa…” It looked as though he was about to explode. For some reason, she already felt as though she wasn’t going to seem as pleased as he did by the time his explanation was finished. Dan seemed to be pausing for dramatic effect…until he sensed she really wasn’t joking about the hitting him part. “It was Ivanna.”

Just like that, she was frozen to the spot.

Ivanna?

It might well have been a common name amongst those Russian hooker sluts, but the way he was looking at her meant it could only be one of them.

“What?”

“In the flesh,” he assured. “It was fucking Ivanna. They’re in Haringey.”

The response she gave whenever the Russians were mentioned was absolutely reflexive. All Noa ever wanted was to make as many of them bleed as was physically possible and her bones fucking ached for it now more than ever. The pay was damn good, but the satisfaction of removing another threat to her family from the streets far surpassed any materialistic reward for her loyalty. Honestly, Noa hadn’t even realised she’d gone to pull away from him until her husband’s grip carefully, but firmly, brought her back to the table.

Noa needed to go; to put on her coat, grab the biggest damn knife she owned, and get to Haringey before they lost them again.

“No. Absolutely not,” he protested, his grip on her wrist tightening. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Noa was seeing red. No rational thought had crossed her mind since she’d heard the name.

“Babe, stop.”

Until she felt his other hand at her stomach…

“Yael,” he reminded with a frown, pulling her close enough that she could smell the blood and the alcohol. “No Russian is worth it. Not even Aviv.”

It was the name they had settled on for their daughter immediately after finding out the sex. Noa had expected an argument; that they would need the rest of her pregnancy to ever actually agree on something. Instead, it had hit them both immediately, and now, hearing it was the one thing that could pull her back to centre, even when he brought up the name of a woman that she wouldn’t be shocked to see floating in the Thames tomorrow.

Fucking Ivanna.

All Noa could do was nod.

It was a rarity for him, but he was right. She would never risk their daughter.

“Is she dead?” It was hard to figure out where to begin. “Where is she?”

“Well, when I was finished with her, she was pretty close to it. Laurent let me see her again when he was done asking questions. Apparently she said a lot…”

For the first time since he’d arrived home, his smile faded slightly.

It was personal, and although he wouldn’t mention it, she could see behind his eyes that the reason he was so damn smug wasn’t because they’d made headway with the Russians. It was because he’d finally managed to let out some rage about what’d happened to his wife.

“But Varden was still there when I left.”

Well, it seemed unlikely she’d be alive after that.

Noa let her eyes trace over his wound, reaching out the hand he’d finally released to gently brush away the hair just above. It was harder than she’d been expecting to summarise how she felt. Even though nobody would dare say it aloud, she knew there were still some in the lower ranks that didn’t really believe the Russians were in London; at least not in any significant capacity, anyway. This would put those rumours to rest, and remind the French that she wasn’t fucking insane. It was also a solid step in the right direction in terms of fighting them. To know where they were calling home, where they were planning on setting up business…it gave them something to actively fight against. They could spend their time planning instead of chasing shadows and blood trails.

So why did she feel no relief?

“If they’re really all here, we both need to start being more careful…”

“I know,” he murmured, reaching his hand up to rest on hers. Noa believed him. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, I promise.”

They remained silent for a moment, in mutual understanding.

“Well, I’m assuming she didn’t do this to your face,” she breathed, leaning her head down slightly to press her lips to the corner of her mouth. It was times like these she begrudged letting him go again. “So how many did you get, then? At least three? You’ve got some catching up to do.”

When his hand finally found the back of her head, ready to pull her in for a real kiss in spite of his discomfort, they were both grinning.

“Lo. Chamesh.”

Noa chuckled against his lips. “Pas assez.”

#if u can't translate the french y r u here #lo chamesh: no five #self para #not even a real title #just a prophecy

9 notes · View notes