#Her early childhood is the worst part of the Brick same as the her mother's part...

[lesmisscraper]

How Cosette was treated by the Thenardiers. Volume 2, Book 3, Chapter 2.

Clips from <Il cuore di Cosette>.

[lanzhans]

Zoya fidgets with the necklace at her collar, a thin gold chain that is all she has left of her mother. It is less of a nervous gesture, more anticipation, and it has been years since she has set foot in this old town. It has changed a bit but not to the point of unrecognition. The cobblestoned path remains the same however, and Zoya is pulled into a reminiscence from her high school days, walking down this same path to the coffee shop on Main Street. Her caffeine addiction still remains but she doubts the coffee from the city is nearly as good as the one from here.

Her breath puffs out into a cloud of moisture and Zoya watches it dissipate. She cannot say she has missed the biting cold of this town but she has grown accustomed to it, something she hasn’t lost even though she hasn’t set foot here in years. It is nostalgic, and it brings a soft smile to her face.

It’s been close to ten years but the high school is still the same. A massive red brick building, covered in spray paint from what the school board had deemed “vandalists''.  Zoya thinks the paint is nice, however, unlike the board, who believe it has marred the school’s exterior, when really it is really quite beautiful. There is a mural of a piano and notes flowing from its keys, and one of a locked heart seeped in darkness. It keeps the school alive, in her very respectable opinion. 

She hears a crackling of leaves behind her and turns to meet a very smug grin, one that she has not expected to meet, one she hasn’t seen in years. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Nazyalensky.”

Nikolai Lantsov.

She does not reply, instead glares at him, mustering all of her get-the-hell-out-of-here energy she has. Zoya has not seen her former next-door neighbor since she went to college and she would have very much liked to keep it that way. But Lantsov shows no notion of leaving, instead he leans against the giant oak tree in the courtyard. “I’m hurt, Nazyalensky,” he continues, mock-wounded. The hurt in his voice is so exaggerated it is comical, fitting to his personality. “You come all the way out here and don’t even visit?” 

“And why on Earth would I do that, Lantsov?” She lifts an eyebrow. She hates that she has to look up to him, given that he was very, very tall and Zoya was, well, not short per se, but tiny by comparison.

His hand very dramatically flies to his heart, and she remembers their high school production of Hamlet, starring none other than the blonde-headed idiot in front of her. It is a pity that the death scene had only been an act. “I’m wounded, tsaritsa.”

And there it is- his childhood nickname for her, a name that she has been called over swing sets and over family dinners pretending to be civil. Zoya suppresses the urge to laugh, but Nikolai picks up on it anyway and gives her a grin that would have melted the heart of any other person. It does not melt hers (she has to deny that there was a corner of her heart that twinges in something akin to endearment seeing the look upon his face). She rolls her eyes, and he picks himself off the ground, brushing dirt that has gotten on his trousers. “Why are you so dressed up?” she asks wryly, finally taking note of his gray suit. 

His all-too-familiar smirk reappears. “Why, only for you, Nazyalensky.”

·☾·

Zoya rummages through her suitcase, silently cursing Genya for telling her to wear something “pretty”. The redhead herself is lounging on Zoya’s bed, red-varnished nails glinting in the afternoon sunlight and her large wire-rimmed glasses sitting atop her playfully messy curls. To anyone who didn’t know her, the look would be casual but Zoya knows that every aspect has been carefully done, though the glasses were likely going to go before they met Genya’s fiance David. 

“Why don’t you pick something yourself?” she asks drily. Genya lifts her head to look at her with appraised eyebrows. 

She adjusts her glasses so they are now framing her deep amber eyes perfectly and joins Zoya to look at her suitcase in distaste. “Well, clearly it seems you are unable to function without my help. How ever do you live without me?” Genya huffs playfully. Zoya resists the urge to make a face at her.

“Luckily, that is a circumstance I will never meet,” she says primly instead. 

“You should be grateful for it, my darling Zoya.” Zoya will never admit it, hell, she’ll deny it a thousand times, but she silently agrees. 

·☾·

Zoya has nearly forgotten the taste of good food, food that is not merely edible but food that is enjoying to eat. It is one of the (now that she thinks about it, many) downsides of living in a large city. Perhaps it is the homesickness she has always denied herself, mixed with a little bit of nostalgia, but it feels like the best dinner she has ever eaten. 

They are sitting in the dining room of Lantsov’s house (though it really can’t be called a house, it is so large that Zoya, despite having visited it countless times, still gets lost. She, Genya, and David have dubbed it “The Little Palace”), and the affair is a mix of casual and formal. It serves as an early high school reunion of sorts, although most of the people present have kept in touch. They mingle regardless, and Zoya can hear laughter and the voices blend all into each other until they are nothing but white noise, fading away...away…

And then they are back again, blaring at full volume and it is too loud, too, too loud and her pulse is racing even though she hasn’t exerted herself. The transition is jarring. Her head suddenly feels like it is splitting apart, cracked down the middle and she is having one of the worst headaches of her life. She fumbles for her purse before realizing that she has borrowed one of Genyas’ for tonight, and none of her medication is in it. 

She curses vehemently. 

A part of her manages to pull together, however, and she is able to make it to the porch and sit on the swing hanging from it. A dry part of her notices that even the swing is fancy. Quite expectant of the Lantsovs, having everything in top quality. It was what they were known for, after all, being the richest people in the town. Though perhaps money didn’t buy everything, considering their relationship with Lantsov. 

Her headache, which had previously dulled a bit, is back in full force and distracts her from her thoughts of the Lantsovs. The pain is splitting, and once again the world feels like too much to handle. Voices from the front yard are rattling in her head like pennies in a glass jar, and quite unfortunately, Zoya’s head is the glass jar. She buries her head in her hands to try and dim the sheer volume of it all but it only helps so much.

Then there is a gentle tapping on her shoulder, and she believes the person is also attempting to speak to her but her head is such a mess she does not register the words. Zoya lifts her head and she is met with a pair of wide hazel eyes reflecting a lit chandelier. “Lantsov,” she attempts to grumble but the words are lost in the noise. He seems to understand what she is attempting to say, however, as he grins at her, that same grin she has seen a thousand times before, but it is somewhat charming in the moonlight. She blames it on her state of mind and not in any part on Lantsov himself. 

He sits what is an awkward distance away from her, clearly attempting to give her space while still being able to be there to check up on her. Zoya grudgingly gives him points for the matter. She looks at him, too tired to speak. Lantsov must be feeling exceptionally perceptive today because he understands her once more and gestures towards the Mercedes parked in the exceptionally large driveway. She nods, and he helps her up, albeit a little awkwardly. 

Her head is still fairly hazy but she seems to have recovered most of her senses. Lantsov lets her choose the music (which wins him more points though Zoya refuses to admit it) and his lips quirk up into an amused smile when he hears the heavy metal. “I didn’t think you’d be into this kind of stuff, tsaritsa.” It is the first thing he has said to her tonight and it is lighthearted, teasing. 

She studies him quizzically. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugs, and Zoya arches her eyebrows. 

Lantsov very suddenly starts laughing. His hazel eyes are alight with mirth, and his laughter turns into very high-pitched wheezing. Zoya mutters a very colorful curse. 

“Lantsov for saints’ sake stop laughing, you're going to get us killed! What on Earth is so funny-”

“I just realized….I don’t…..know…..where to….drop you off……” is what he manages to get out in between bursts of laughter. At this, her lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile, and she is holding back inane laughter of her own. 

“Why didn’t you just ask, idiot?” Zoya’s voice is shaky, amusement and a hint of endearment evident in her tone. Lantsov gives her no answer, but a sheepish grin spreads across his face. She shakes her head mock-exasperatedly. “I’m staying at Genya’s.” It is an address familiar to both of them, so many high school days have been spent there. 

With the heavy metal blaring in the background, she lets her mind wander to other things, but her thoughts seem to always circle back to the idiot driving next to her. It is strange, she has not seen him in years yet he remains unchanged, the same irritating person she has grown up with. Though perhaps he has lost a little bit of what made him so irritating because looking at him now, she is feeling a little fond. Zoya can remember when they were children, he could always be found at her aunt’s house because he hated staying at home. She’d barely given him the time of day back then, but most of her childhood had been spent with him nonetheless. 

Reminiscing sends a pang of homesickness through heart even though she is here. Zoya is reminded of how much she loves this town. She wishes she had visited more often, and promises herself that she will visit whenever she can. 

The car stops in the driveway of Genya’s house. The headlights illuminate the door in stark contrast to the pitch-black darkness of the night. Zoya steps out of the car, and before she has the time to really think the invitation to come inside tumbles from her mouth in a breathless rush. “Would you like to come inside for coffee?” 

He grins. “Why, of course I’ll join you, Nazyalensky.” 

Genya, of course, is still at the Lantsov manor so it is just the two of them in the house. The first thing Zoya reaches for after slipping off her jacket is the coffee machine, which she shouldn’t considering that it is so late but it has become habit for her. “I see your caffeine addiction hasn’t left you,” Lantsov remarks, a smile in his voice though she doesn’t look up to check.

She doesn’t reply, being too busy with her coffee so he continues. “You know, I think you single-handedly kept the coffee shop running for two years. Half of what I was paid came from your orders.” To this, Zoya huffs, mock-offended, but she is smiling. 

She brings a cup for him too. It is red, with a small fox painted in gold. He takes it from her gingerly and winces slightly when his fingers come in contact with the surface of the hot mug. Lantsov takes a whiff and his nose wrinkles in distaste. “How on Earth do you drink this stuff?”

Zoya gives him a scathing look, and he recoils in mock fear. “Don’t you dare disrespect the coffee.”

Lantsov sighs dramatically. “Only for you, tsaritsa, only for you.” He takes a deep breath, plugs his nose (a gesture which Zoya does not appreciate and she glares daggers at him but he only winks in response) and drains it all in one gulp. Which is a mistake since the coffee is burning hot. 

“Idiot,” Zoya mutters but makes no move to help him. He has dragged himself into this situation after all, and she does not clean up the messes of irritating blonde imbeciles. 

His face does, eventually, return to a color that is not as red as the plastic cherries that the bakeries in the city place on their cakes. She has since then finished her own cup, but unlike him, through careful sips that she somehow does not choke on despite the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. 

He stays longer than he should but neither he nor Zoya entertain the fact that it is very, very late. Hours have slipped away, spent reminiscing. It is nice to just sit here and talk and listen. There are an endless number of things that they talk about, ranging from old memories to their respective jobs. 

Zoya will deny it to her grave but she realizes she has missed him. 

She eventually tires, and when she wakes up, she is met with a Genya’s appraised eyebrows. She realizes that she has been sleeping on Lantsov’s shoulder. He has fallen asleep as well but she makes no motion to wake him.

Genya’s eyes gleam in triumph. “David owes me so much money.”

[becasbelt]

now all the world’s asleep (and your eyes are wide open)

Summary: Beca has a very strict set of rules when it comes to sleeping, rules that one Chloe Beale does not follow in the slightest.

Words: 3,046

Rating: T

Notes: For my dearest @bottombeca: I love you, even if you don’t sleep correctly <3

Read on AO3 or below!

Sleep, Beca has decided, is one of life’s true pleasures.

As a teenager, Beca could achieve around twelve hours of sleep a night whenever she got the chance, cradled pleasantly in the comfortable embrace of blissful dreamland.

(Her mother would lecture her about “wasting the day away” by sleeping so long, but Beca would always vehemently protest to that claim. Spending time becoming well rested, she would argue, was never a wasted day.)

All through college was much the same, especially in her freshman year. Kimmy Jin would always leave loud enough in the mornings to make sure she woke Beca up, only to glare at her before slamming the door on her way out, then would make enough noise upon her re-entry hours later to make it clear that she thought it was ridiculous Beca was still asleep.

It was a nice routine, really. One that Beca grew familiar with and almost (not really) looked forward to.

Moving in to the Bellas house pretty much put an end to Beca’s all-day sleep-athons.

Living in the Bellas house meant living in constant noise, for the most part. There were certain hours of the day in which its occupants were either all miraculously asleep or away at classes, but the vast majority of the day was filled with various chatter, laughter, and singing. Which Beca didn’t mind, honestly. It was certainly a far cry from the tense silence of the barely-functioning home she shared with her barely-functioning parents throughout her childhood.

The noise was a welcome change, even if Beca would never admit that to anyone.

That being said, the natural ruckus of the house did cause Beca a few rude awakenings: Flo ranting loudly about something one of her professors said, Stacie squealing about some all-around unremarkable thing, Amy stomping loudly up and down the stairs to their shared attic room.

Luckily those instances of interrupted slumber were fairly few and far in between. Her room was far enough away from the rest of the house that most of the noise didn’t even reach Beca’s sleeping ears, and most of the girls knew better than to wake her up, lest they face her tired wrath for the remainder of the day (or longer, depending on how petty she felt).

Most of the girls knew better than to wake her up, that is.

Chloe Beale did not fall in that category. Which, Beca supposes, wasn’t totally a surprise, seeing as there were many categories of “normal” that she didn’t fall under. After all, most girls would not burst into a stranger’s shower and demand an impromptu duet.

So Chloe wasn’t afraid to wake Beca up, which meant that she would do exactly that.

Often.

So often, in fact, that Beca became surprised on the mornings when she would wake up around noon, not an Amy or Chloe or anyone in sight. Because more often than not Beca would find herself awakened in a panic when a body jumped on top of her own, or when her name was called loudly from beside the bed, or when deft fingers would stroke softly through her hair as a quiet voice gently coaxed her into consciousness.

Actually, that last one didn’t bother Beca all that much, nor did it cause her to wake in a panic. And luckily that seemed to be Chloe’s favorite way to wake Beca up: curled up beside her on the bed, all gentle touches and quiet murmurs making Beca feel not all that mad about being awake at the ungodly hour of 10 AM.

In retrospect it was really no wonder that Beca ended up falling for Chloe in the end, Beca supposes. Not when Chloe was easily every exception to Beca’s rules in life. Not when Chloe had made her way over the brick walls protecting Beca’s heart and settled comfortably inside by the first year of knowing each other. Not when Chloe made Beca feel like she could take on the world without breaking a sweat.

So really, falling in love with Chloe was inevitable for Beca, even if it did take until they were out of college for her to realize it.

And really Chloe is the one who forced her to the realization: they were sitting on the floor of the living room in Beca’s apartment on some odd Thursday night, sharing a cheap pizza and watching some show that really wasn’t as interesting as the way Chloe looked in her large sweater and messy bun, when Chloe turned to Beca and said “I want to kiss you, and if you’re not okay with that you better tell me right now before I do it.”

Beca was pretty quick to realize her feelings when soft lips touched her own.

Where was she going with this? Beca had a point.

Ah yes: Beca loves sleep, and somewhere along the way she ended up loving Chloe as well.

And Beca supposes she could add sex to that list. Especially sex with Chloe.

Maybe that’s the sleepy part of her brain talking, or maybe it’s the three (four?) mind-blowing orgasms that Chloe gave her last night.

And on top of that, Beca’s definitely found her new favorite way of being woken up.

Chloe presses up closer behind Beca, lips trailing leisurely along the length of her neck. Beca stifles her smile, holding as still as possible to maintain the illusion that she’s still asleep, not ready for her bedmate’s ministrations to stop anytime soon. The kisses travel down to Beca’s bare shoulder, and Beca resists the urge to shiver at the feeling of so much smooth skin pressing deliciously against her own.

“You haven’t breathed in a solid minute, I know you’re awake.”

Chloe’s scratchy morning voice speaks up quietly, and Beca releases the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Chloe chuckles from behind her, her arms tightening in their hold around Beca’s middle, and while Beca would normally try to act grumpy at the light teasing so early in the morning, Beca can’t find it within herself to even attempt to be anything but blissfully content at the moment.

Beca smiles and presses her face further into her pillow. “I’m not awake. Try again later.”

Chloe laughs quietly again and, to Beca’s relief, continues her movements from before. Her kisses remain languid and unhurried, Chloe apparently content to lay in bed and do exactly this all day long.

And well, Beca definitely doesn’t have a problem with any of that in the slightest.

She rolls over and catches Chloe’s mouth in a lazy kiss, tongues sliding easily against one another’s as Chloe shifts to lay half on top of Beca, their legs tangling together in a way that makes Beca groan. Chloe hums in reply and deepens the kiss, hand coming up to bury itself in Beca’s hair. Beca’s own hands slide around Chloe’s back, fingertips dragging lightly against smooth skin and causing Chloe to shiver.

Beca grins against Chloe’s lips. Tightens her hold. Feels her heart flutter.

That stupid Disney song might know what it’s talking about. So this is love.

It’s some time later when Beca’s bladder can no longer allow her to keep leisurely making out with Chloe. She (reluctantly) pushes herself away from Chloe’s warmth and rolls out of bed, throwing Chloe’s t-shirt from the previous night on as she gets to her feet. Beca turns to look at Chloe in all her nude glory on the bed as she stretches sleepily, arms raised high above her head, and bites her lip, wondering how the hell last night wasn’t some crazy (and remarkably vivid) dream.

Beca snaps herself out of her ogling and turns to leave the room, but something catches Beca’s eye before she can: Chloe’s feet, sticking out from beneath the untucked covers at the end of the bed.

Beca’s eye nearly twitches at the sight, but she shakes her head and ignores it, choosing instead to head down the hall and slip into the bathroom to do her business.

Really, it wasn’t a big deal. Beca just liked having her blankets properly tucked in at the end of her bed- that was all. Surely they had just become untucked at some point in their activities the previous night, and Chloe stretching in the bed just now happened to put the fact on display.

Beca flushes the toilet and washes her hands. She would simply tuck the covers back the way they were later in the day, easy as that. It was a one-time thing; no need to pay it any extra thought.

Besides, Beca muses with a wry smile as she walks back into the bedroom to see Chloe lounging invitingly in her bed- there were much more important things to be thinking about right now.

* * *

It was not a one-time thing.

The untucked covers, that is. And the sex. Neither was a one-time thing, and Beca was only okay with half of that statement.

And okay, look, it’s not like Beca is some sort of neurotic, controlling, perfectly-made bed freak- she’s not. Sometimes Beca’s too lazy to make her bed in the mornings. Sometimes she doesn’t even get out of her bed at all in a day. She’s not completely crazy over how beds should or shouldn’t be made. Like, she’s not the Aubrey of beds.

But Beca believes that beds are holy places meant for only the most remarkable of activities (sleeping, sex) and should therefore be treated with respect. So it was reasonable, really, that Beca had a few (unwritten, of course) rules when it came to beds: blankets are to remain tucked in at the end at all times, all limbs are to remain on the bed whilst sleeping at all times, and all objects besides blankets, pillows, and girlfriends are to remain off the bed at all times.

They’re simple rules. Rules that any normal person would abide by with little to no trouble at all.

Except, as stated before, Chloe Beale is no normal person.

Chloe Beale is, without a doubt, the most chaotic sleeper that Beca knows. Untucked blankets, feet hanging over the mattress, and thrown pillows are all common occurrences on the nights they spend together, regardless of whoever’s apartment they happen to be at. The worst of it are the times that Beca will walk in to see Chloe already asleep, completely sideways or upside down on the bed.

On those occasions, Beca seriously considers just taking the couch for the night.

So with all that in mind, if Beca has to watch Chloe purposefully untuck the covers on her bed one more time she is going to go absolutely crazy.

“And I honestly don’t know what Chelsea’s problem is. I mean it’s not like I’m getting any special treatment or anything. I’m doing the work just like everyone else is.”

Beca watches Chloe go about her nighttime routine from the comfort of Chloe’s bed, amused at the little rant that she’s been going on about for the past five minutes. “Please, I’m sure you got that promotion because you work harder than everyone else, Chlo.”

Chloe shoots Beca a grin over her shoulder. “Well, I mean, that’s definitely true. It’s not like anyone else exactly gives their all, you know?” she muses, pulling off her shirt to replace it with a tank top to sleep in. Beca’s eyes are immediately drawn to the copious amount of enticing skin on display in the brief moments in between the clothing swap, teeth sinking in to her bottom lip in the process.

“Bec?”

Beca’s eyes snap back to Chloe’s face to see a teasing glint in clear blue eyes. Beca immediately feels her cheeks heat up, already knowing that she’s been caught. “Like what you see?” Chloe asks coyly.

Beca crosses her arms petulantly and bites the inside of her cheek. “I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chloe hums a little and crawls forward on the bed to reach Beca, leaning in close enough that Beca can smell the familiar scent of her shampoo. Beca gulps and feels a shiver run down her spine at the proximity. “I think you do, but I’ll let you pretend if that’s what you want,” she whispers before pecking Beca quickly on the lips and pushing herself off the bed.

The breath that Beca didn’t even know she’d been holding rushes out of her in a puff of air. She glares at her girlfriend. “You’re an evil woman.”

Chloe laughs from where she stands at the end of the bed. “But you like that, don’t you, baby?” she asks casually, bending down to untuck the blankets at the end of the bed that Beca had meticulously tucked just minutes before.

And Beca didn’t know what she would have responded to that with before, but she certainly doesn’t know what to say now as she stares at the unkemptness that is the end of the bed.

But it’s not a big deal, Beca tells herself. Whether or not the covers are tucked is not a big deal and she should stop worrying about it.

So, Beca grits her teeth and forces a grin on her face, looking up as Chloe moves to turn the lights off in the room. “Yep, you caught me. I really do like the evil act.”

Chloe laughs easily as she slides into place next to Beca under the blankets. “I knew it. I’m surprised you admitted it so easily.”

Beca winces. Yeah, there would definitely be consequences to her off-handed answer later on, but it’s whatever, it’s fine. “I’m going to bed,” she grumbles, burrowing herself under the covers.

Chloe simply chuckles again in response and scoots closer to Beca, arms coming forward to pull her into her body. Beca (of course) allows it, sighing in contentment as she buries her face in Chloe’s shoulder, ignoring how she can just feel the loose blankets around her feet.

It’s a couple minutes later as Beca is just falling asleep that she realizes there’s something digging uncomfortably into her side. She shifts and reaches underneath the covers, only for her hand to meet the shape of something that absolutely should not be in the bed at that moment.

“Chloe,” Beca says, trying to keep her voice even.

“Hmm?” Chloe hums in response, quite obviously nearly asleep.

“What is this?” Beca questions, pulling the item out from under the covers and dangling it in front of Chloe’s face.

“Oh!” Chloe says in surprise, taking the object from Beca’s hand. “My keys! I was wondering where I’d put them…”

Beca’s eye twitches. Something inside of her snaps.

“That’s it,” Beca yells suddenly, body moving in a whirlwind until she’s switched on her bedside lamp and pacing the room. “I can’t sleep like this anymore.”

Chloe sits up and looks at Beca with wide eyes. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“Everything is wrong,” Beca says, running her hands through her hair. “The blankets, the pillows, and now the keys are what’s wrong.”

Chloe presses her lips together. “Beca, I can’t help you out here unless you tell me what’s happening.”

Beca stops her frantic pacing and comes to a stop at the end of the bed, facing Chloe. She sighs. “You are, without a doubt, the most chaotic sleeper I have ever known. And while you might not see anything wrong with the way you sleep, it’s been slowly driving me crazy.” Beca grips the end of the untucked blankets and flips them up so that the end of the mattress is exposed. “You don’t even tuck the blankets in at the end of the bed. I just- I need some order when I sleep.”

Chloe waits to speak until Beca has been quiet for a few seconds. “You done?” she asks, and Beca winces at the tone. She lifts her head, expecting to see anger on Chloe’s face, but what she actually sees is probably closer to amusement.

Beca nods her head, suddenly feeling shy.

“Okay, first of all, I’m sorry about the keys, I really didn’t know I left them in here,” Chloe starts off, setting the very things on her bedside table. “And is this really all about our bed not being tucked in at the end?”

Beca shrugs sheepishly. “I just… I like to have them tucked in.” She pauses for a second before adding, “Are you mad?”

Chloe chuckles kindly, and the sound loosens something in Beca’s chest. She crawls forward until she can kneel in front of where Beca is standing at the foot of the bed and takes Beca’s hands in her own. “No, I’m not mad at this. None of this is that big of a deal, Bec. I literally don’t care about what conditions we sleep in- tucked or untucked covers and all. The only thing I care about is that it’s you that I get to fall asleep with each night.”

A soft blush colors Beca’s cheeks at that. “Oh,” she says simply.

Chloe leans up to place a quick, comforting kiss against Beca’s lips. “So tuck the covers in and get back in bed. I want some grumpy control-freak snuggles.”

And any lingering Beca had felt is blown away by that. All Beca can do is laugh and do exactly what Chloe said to do: she tucks in the end of the bed, flips off her bedside lamp, and sinks right back into her rightful place in Chloe’s arms with a sigh of contentment.

“I love you,” Beca whispers right before falling asleep.

A kiss is pressed to the top of her head, causing Beca to smile. “I love you, too. No matter what.”

* * *

Sleep is one of life’s true pleasures, and Beca has decided that having someone to curl up with while you do it makes that statement even more true.

Chloe may hog the blankets, hang off the side of the bed, and kick the covers away once in a while, but all around Beca really doesn’t mind. They’re only little things, after all, and don’t matter in the grand scheme of the wonders of sleep.

So even if Chloe does leave her headphones or water bottle in between the sheets on occasion, Beca can live with that.

[imagines-mha]

Ma’am, I have been scouring the internet, but I cannot find any BNHA x readers where the READER is the Yandere >:( I was a disappointed bean, but I have decided to turn to you for help. Reader is jealous of ochako’s relationship with Izuku, Yandere murder hijinks ensue? I suck a describing this sorta thing but this would make me a happy bean. Lotsa love for you dear!! 💕💖💞💕💘💗 -Peachy

Omg my LOVE 🥺 ur so right NOONE writes a yandere! reader these days!! I hope this was okay 💖💖

〰️💚 Unhealthy Obsessions 💚〰️

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x yandere! reader

Fic type: Yandere

Warnings: gore, murder, yandere, kidnapping, obsessions, rip uraraka but y/n’s different

Plot: You know what Izuku needs. It’s definitely not Uraraka

Word count: 2079

You knew Izuku Midoriya well.

You knew he wanted to be the next number 1 hero. You knew his childhood nickname from Bakugo Katsuki was Deku. You knew he was born quirkless. You knew his birthday was July 15th. You knew he stood at 5’5. You knew his mother's name was Inko and he wasn’t in contact with his father. You knew he had a hamster back home. You knew his favourite restaurant. You knew he did his laundry on Thursdays and he separated his whites. You knew he got up an hour earlier than everyone else to train in secret. You knew last week he cut his arm from a loose nail in the wall. You knew he mumbled to himself at nights when no one was awake, and you knew he stirred his coffee exactly six times before drinking it.

You knew Izuku Midoriya more than anyone else in the entire world. Unfortunately, Izuku Midoriya barely even knew you existed.

Pity.

You were just another girl in 1-A to him. Your relevance stopped at trading notes whenever he needed something difficult explained. Each time you saw him struggle with a concept, a burning fire erupted in your soul and you scrambled to help him with whatever it was.

His constant gratitude sent shocks of electricity up your veins, too. It tensed your muscles to know that he thought of you as a decent person.

His ignorance on all other fronts did very little to hinder your dedication. You decided that the less he knew about you, the more freedom you had to know more about him without getting caught.

Plus- it wasn’t as though your fluttering eyelashes and sneaky glances would get through his oblivious mind, because he was always preoccupied with his girlfriend, Ochako Uraraka. You always saw her, draped off his arm like a cheap piece of jewellery; squealing his name whenever he stepped foot into the same room as her

You often wondered if her squealing would sound any different if she were being held in a choke-hold…

That's why tonight would be so painstakingly glorious, for you anyway. Because tonight would finally be the night you would reap your victory over the boy that you deserved; that you worked so hard on. You knew the subject of Izuku back and forth, inside out and upside down. You bet Uraraka didn’t even know his ring fingers were only 2 milimetres longer than his pointers

Everyone was dispersed around the bar. You checked your phone to find it was 24 minutes past 10. Since it was a blissful summer’s night, the clouds outside were still lingering over the royal blue sky and the soft chill was only beginning to shake the leaves on the trees.

Izuku sat with some of your class, luckily those of which you managed to get somewhat close to over the year. Tsuyu Asui welcomed you over with a wave, handing you a fresh drink and kindly including you in the conversation. Your eyes were transfixed on your darling the entire time. Soon he’ll be yours.

But not now.

“Hey y/n!” The rosy voice of Ochako rang like a school bell first thing in the morning. You swallowed what was almost bile to the back of your throat and shot her a smile through pursed lips,

“Hi Uraraka!”

It was as friendly as you could muster, and she seemed to buy it- judging by how quickly the conversation flowed. You used your oh-so-bright, convincing personality to coax everyone into drinking a lot more than they probably should have. Anything to numb his memory, you thought, you couldn’t have your darling in distress for too long

It took a while for them all to drink enough to get up off their seats, and finally you were free to act

You began with the easiest step: the sleeping pills. You used this tactic a lot more than you would ever admit. But it was easy, quick, and the possibilities of you ever getting caught were reduced to almost nothing! What other methods promised such outcomes?

You finished popping them in as many of the cups as you could, managing to avoid any prying questions by Bakugo in the process. You never took him to be such a curious boy, but one time he had caught you rummaging through Izuku’s locker in the early hours before school, and you had carelessly blurted out something about leaving a memory pen there from the day before. You remembered the way he narrowed his eyes at you and stormed off again, muttering on about how careless other students were in comparison to him

You were grateful he ditched the subject after that night, but you never missed the questioning glances he would send your way when you were always first to offer Izuku help with cleaning out his things.

11 minutes past midnight.

You could feel a tornado of nerves spinning around in the pit of your stomach. It rose and fell with every person that slumped into their chairs and let your pills sing them to sleep. If they weren’t outcold, they were aimlessly stumbling around like zombies in the smoked-up strobe lights. Your plan, so far, was working in your favour. All that was left was the core of it.

Spotting your target alone for once curved a smile upward onto your red lips. She was searching for her phone, the one that you had swiped the moment she got up to dance. You had no remorse- she deserved it. Plus, it wasn’t like she’d be using it past today anyway

“Hey ochako!” your modulated voice complemented your bright smile perfectly. Her gaze found yours, and you could notice her distress through her exhausted state. Her eyes opened and shut slowly, and her speech was beginning to slur. Any moment now and she would join an unconscious Tsuyu at the other end of the table

“y/n...m-my..is e-everyone alright..?” she asked in a drowsy tone, sitting down at the end of the booth and gazing up to you hopelessly. You towered above her, full of energy while hers was actively depleting. The feeling itself sent a sugar rush straight to your chest, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing out loud.

“Lie down Ochako…” you feigned worry, removing her hand from balancing her head and aiding her with resting on the table, “i’ll get you some water…”

She feebly nodded and her eyes slowly shut. The only challenge for you now was to hide her unconscious body from the eyes of your peers before they noticed something was wrong. However, judging by the way they were all exactly like her at the moment, that didn’t look at all likely

You blocked her from view until you were certain she was completely knocked out, and then slung her limp arm over your shoulder. She would be knocked out for at least two hours, and your task would take 45 minutes at the most. You basked in your blissful cruelty, ad kicked open one of the back doors of the bar

The cool chill of the June night gave you the intake of oxygen you needed after spending the night in the suffocatingly hot bar. The outdoor’s silence numbed your ears and the fresh smell of rain blessed your nostrils with something other than alcohol.

If you hadn’t have been about to commit murder, this would have passed for a rather peaceful night

You tugged Uraraka away from the back doors and began to tread up the small lane of an alleyway, caved in by bricks and graffiti. It looked like a crime scene just waiting to happen. You used your phone’s flashlight to find a little incision in the alley, and threw her body into it as though you were discarding something disgusting from the bottom of your shoe.

You had to admit. She looked peaceful lying slumped against the wall, with her arms crossed over her stomach to allow her body to squeeze in between the tiny crawl space. If she weren’t the most disgusting, threatening thing you had ever seen, maybe her demise would have been kinder

How tragic

You drew your pointed blade and selfishly let out a laugh; maniacal at worst. Her eyes didn’t budge when you roughly plunged it into her chest, but you could feel the fighting heaves in her chest nonetheless. It gave you a drive to continue slashing, although some of you wished she were awake, to resist you. That way you would feel more accomplished after you slaughtered her

But you can’t have everything, right?

You laughed another remorseless laugh and continued stabbing. Stabbing for every kiss they shared, and for every time they said “i love you”. Stabbing for every stupid gift she gave him, and stabbing for every single time she moaned his name. Stabbing until there was no room left to stab.

When you were certain she was dead, you drew your lighter. You knew only to burn the parts of her skin that you had touched, but you let yourself have a little fun on her face too. That look you always hated was now blistering red. That body you’ve always envied was now burnt to the bone. You could smell sizzling flesh burn it’s way up into your sinuses.

She looked prettier when she was mutilated, you concluded

You chucked the lighter in a nearby dumpster, then slipped your compact knife safely into its sheath and under the bottom of your bra. You returned to the bar, taking a few minutes to dismantle any active security cameras, and headed to the bathroom to change outfits

A few sleeping pills later and you were just as out cold as everyone else. You were as little of a suspect as Izuku himself right now, and that thought alone made you sleep like a baby

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

“Izuku, darling?”

Your voice was like honey. Ever since Uraraka’s ‘tragic murder’ you had stepped in to assist Izuku with his recovery, because you knew more than anyone how much he needed all the love he could get right now

And for him, you had love to spare

“Yeah?” he asked feebly from the bed, where he was all wrapped up tightly in soft, fuzzy blankets and fresh bandages. They clung tightly to his broken wrist: the result of tumbling down the flight of slippery stairs

You almost felt sorry for him when it happened. You were expecting a broken arm at best, and were a little disappointed with the fact it was only his hand, but he whimpered so poorly that night that it put pangs of sadness in your heart. For once, you were grateful he always made a quick recovery

You would just have to make sure you used a stronger substance next time

“Dinner’s ready!” you cooed, appearing in his room with two full plates in your hand. He was bound here for as long as it took for his legs to start working again. Poor little accident prone izuku couldn’t even remember breaking them in the first place because of how strong his concussion was afterwards.

You still had the splatters of blood on your baseball bat in the basement ...

The sweetest sensation in the world was watching his eyes slowly droop while he was eating. You had put four sleeping pills in his food, and they were taking their toll rather quickly- much to your delight. As you said, they did the job better than anything else

“y- y/n… i feel tired…” he mumbled, and you took the fork from his hand to continue feeding him the rest until he was completely passed out.

How adorable was he… looking all too innocent in your filthy mind…

You indulged yourself with taking a few pictures of him for your album. How could you resist, when he looked so helplessly precious? And he was yours; all yours to keep for as long as forever

It took effort hoisting him over your shoulder and climbing up the creaky stairs to the attic.

He barely stirred as you closed the lid of the cardboard box over him and slammed the door shut again, rushing to change and head downstairs. The doorbell rang the moment your foot breached the final step

“Miss l/n? Detective Tsukauchi here, wondering if you could answer a few questions related to the disappearance of Izuku Midoriya?”

[af-answers]

Four Times Artemis Tries to Convince Holly to go with him to Mars and the One Time he Didn’t

The First Time | The Second Time | The Third Time | The One Time he Didn’t

The Fourth Time

The fourth time was during their sting operation to find the Changeling Napper in the American West. Foaly’s e-mail had been the itinerary of a gnome named Rumi Mush, a fungus farmer on the south side of Haven. Agricultural workers received more topside passes than most other professions in the fairy world, because though Haven’s technology was great, there were some things (like fertilizer and new seeds) one had to get from the source. Mush had been to California a week before the kidnappings began, and the surveillance photos showed Mush bringing a large biohazard container topside. It wasn’t uncommon for his trade, but Mush himself didn’t work with biohazards like spores or bacteria. But that wasn’t the smoking gun.

Foaly had done a media sweep of the area. Two days ago, in the same little town where the A5 shoot let out in California, a human child had been abducted from its crib. A wood carving of a human child had been left in its place.

The LEP raided his house on the outskirts of the gnome district and found not only the four missing fairy babes crying in a locked closet, but the human child in a cage in the basement. There were more cages as well: apparently, Mush was putting together a menagerie.

When Holly put out a warrant for his arrest, Mush was on another surface run. They alerted border patrol, but he’d passed them hours before. Giving orders to detain him if he came back through, Commodore Short and a team of LEP Retrieval sprites suited up and took the fastest shuttle to the surface. The sprites complained the cramped quarters wrinkled her wings, and while Holly didn’t dignify them with an answer, she smiled to herself.

When they got to the surface, Mush hadn’t returned. To Holly, this meant either he knew somehow he’s been made and was on the lam, or he’d been caught in the act by humans. Both were worst case scenarios. Using intel about which babies lived nearest the fairy mound, the team split into three pairs, each taking a potential target.

“If you hear sirens, follow them,” she instructed over the comms.

She and her partner approached their assigned house downwind. Gnomes had excellent senses of smell; if their quarry caught a whiff of them, they were done. After all, he had the advantage of being magic-less and so could hide inside the house, not to mention the hostages he could take. She crept up to a window of the one-story brick house. All the windows were dark, but she looked in anyway, turning on her night vision.

“No movement,” she reported. “Check the other windows.”

Just then, a voice call alert flashed in the corner of her helmet, the icon ice blue.

“Not the time, Artemis,” she whispered, side-stepping a tipped over flower pot on the stoop of the porch.

“On the contrary, Commodore,” the Irish accent sounded even more pretentious over the phone, “you’ll want to hear what I have to say for once. The house you’re investigating is devoid of human occupants. Ms. Gregston won a all-expenses paid trip to the Bahamas this weekend, and she’s left her infant daughter with her parents.”

“How fortunate,” she snarked, straightening as the tension melted off her. “So I’m guessing Mush isn’t here either?”

“Oh,” she could practically hear his smirk stretch into a grin. “I wouldn’t say that. Look in the front window.”

Holly peeked over the cracking paint of the window sill into the front room. There, hog-tied inside a ring of candles, was Rumi Mush. Outside of the wax circle was a note, written in a woman’s hand,

“Come on in.”

“I’ll see you at the fairy mound,” Artemis said, then hung up the phone.

As her team escorted a handcuffed Mush into a police shuttle, Holly slipped into the woods to meet the hulking figure in the shadows.

“Hide and seek was never your game, eh big man?” she joked, tapping Butler on the thigh with her first.

“I was quite good at being ‘it’,” he said with a grin.

Holly turned her gaze on Artemis, who looked entirely too smug.

“What were you thinking, interfering with LEP business like this?”

The grin shrunk a few teeth. “If I hadn’t interfered, you would have had a hostage situation on your hands!”

“I’m not complaining,” she pointed out. “I’m asking what were you thinking. Why this case? Why now?” It had been less than forty-eight hours since their lunch conversation, but the boy— no, man— looked different now. Emotionally. Though he smiled and his shoulders were sloped back in a relaxed stance, her helmet sensors showed an elevated blood pressure and too-even breathing. Like he was regulating it manually.

She took off her helmet, tucking it under her arm before taking his hand. “What’s happened, Artemis?”

He looked up at his oldest friend, who coughed into one gargantuan fist. “I’ll go— wait by those trees. You know the ones.”

When he’d gone, Artemis sighed, his smile now tired. “I can’t beat Foaly’s sensors, can I?”

“Why would you try?” She activated her wings so she could hover at his eye level. “Does it have something to do with the space thing? Why are you so hung up on this Artemis? Why are you in such a hurry—“

“Hurry? I’ve been building this ship for four years!”

“And you can’t wait a little longer? You’re still young, your brothers are still young. If you leave now, you’ll miss most of their childhood.”

“All the more reason to leave now,” he joked.

“This all seems very reactionary for you, Arty. I’ve never known you to make such a big decision so flippantly.”

“Apparently I’m supposed to be flippant. Flippant is normal.”

Artemis ran his free hand through his hair— a rare gesture for him, as it mussed his quaff— and pursed his lips to keep himself from talking further (another rarity).

But that last word was all Holly needed. It was a word Artemis seldom used unless he talked about one specific person. “It’s your mother.”

Holly led him to the coffee house in the shuttle terminal. They got a lot of sideways glances, but Artemis had been on multiple Haven talk shows since his rebirth, so there was no outright alarm.

“It didn’t begin when I resurrected,” he said as she set a earthenware cup of hickory coffee in front of him. “It didn't even start after Hybras, it was well before then. I think Mother has considered herself a failure as a parent since Father’s return, and she’s been trying to rectify the problem— me— ever since.” He wrapped his hands around the cup, but didn’t lift it to drink. “First her behaviors were what I considered to be typical for a mother: buying me clothes I didn’t like, disapproving of my language, wanting me to socialize with people my own age. But when Myles showed signs of taking after me, it changed. Escalated.” He sighed deeply, and Holly realized this was hard for him, that he most likely had never voiced these thoughts aloud. She covered his hands with hers, but remained silent.

He took another breath, then went on. “She was already going to university for psychology and mental biology, so she took up some child psych classes. After her first class, she sent the twins to a private boarding school on the other side of Dublin. I know part of her reason was so the twins would be more socialized than I am. A noble goal to be sure.” He stared at their joined hands, a crease forming between his brows. “When the twins were suspended for criminal recklessness, I’ve never seen Mother so upset. Not only with the twins, but me as well. She would never accuse me of corrupting my brothers, of course, but after that she monitored me constantly. Every day she asked me probing questions, and I could feel her diagnosing me, trying to suss out how I was broken.” He pressed his eyes shut. “Do you know what it feels like, to have someone you love and admire try to change the fundamentals of who you are? To have someone make you question if you’re sensible or even real?”

Now Holly did speak. “Yes,” she said, squeezing his hands. When he opened his eyes to look at her, they were watery, the ice in his blue irises melting. “In my early days as an officer, Commander Root and my coworkers challenged every decision I made. If I showed emotion, I was acting like a girl. If I did something right, I was finally ‘thinking like a man.’”

“The commander said that to you?” Artemis asked, angry on her behalf.

She shrugged. “It was the way at the time. He apologized later, and no one on the force would dare make those comments now, but back then I was jeered at for acting like a woman, but rejected if I bucked gender roles. It was wrong of them to treat me as if my differences were flaws.” She said the next words gently, but firmly. “And it’s wrong of Angeline, too.”

He shook his head. “Your colleagues were prejudiced against your biology. I made horrible choices in the past, and Mother believes it’s her job to pick up the pieces.”

“You wearing Armani suits everyday and calling her ‘Mother’ doesn’t make you an evil dictator, Artemis,” she argued. “Your mother is upset because you are who you are independent of her influence. You took care of her when you were ten years old. You were saving the planet by fourteen. If she can’t see the amazing man you’ve become, it’s her who needs a shrink.”

The human blinked, then smiled, one side of his mouth pulling up higher than the other. “See? This is why I need you to come to Mars with me. Who else would put me in my place?”

She withdrew her hands and frowned. Her stomach fell like she’d eaten a meal of lead. “Wait. Was this all a ploy to convince me to go to Mars?”

He tilted his head at her, then laughed when he processed her question. “No, no it’s all sadly true. I must still have a way to go if you believe I’d tell such an egregious lie to trick you into running away with me. Or perhaps, you’re simply arrogant.”

Holly shared his laugh, her stomach light again. “Even though we shouldn’t change who we are to match someone else’s expectations, there's always room for personal growth.”

He finally took a drink of coffee, then winced when he found it was room temperature. “In all seriousness, the offer still stands. If there’s even a part of you that doubts, please think on it.” He produced a fairy credit chip to pay for their drinks, and Holly didn’t bother asking where he’d gotten it. He stood, still smiling sadly at her. The emotion was become a constant for him, and she didn’t like it. “The launch is scheduled for two weeks from tomorrow. Please let me know by then.”

She nodded numbly, her brain scrabbling to answer the unspoken question of whether she did doubt, when her thoughts finally snagged on two vital words.

“Two weeks?”

[fromthadiningtable]

BEST OF LUCK

(Set in an AU with Victorian era! Harry) You love another from afar, but your hand is already promised to a very snarky and at times, pompous Mr. Styles. Your mother and father are rooting for the relationship wholeheartedly while you pine for some distant, beautiful creature. Will you condemn yourself to love someone who’s affections you can’t reciprocate? Or will you finally admit the truth and live your life as you’d wish?

Warnings: angst ??

A thick fog covered the ground, hovering in a ghostly fashion like some restless spirit waiting to be seen. The sun was just breaking into the morning sky but the fog and the blanket of clouds blocked it from coming out into full view, casting a faint yellow glow in its place in the eastern sky. The birds in their respective trees on the edge of the expansive land in front of you, sang their tune, letting you know that the day was finally beginning. Though empty, the glittering fields standing in between the woodlands held some sort of story, a past that needed recollecting. You’d recall playing with your cousins, tumbling down the small hills and getting dried grass all over your clothes and in your hair. The woods held all of your secrets and magic that you had created in your childhood, and they’d never utter a word.

Your family’s home stood behind you nearly two hundred yards away, each soul still sound asleep in their bedrooms. The brick farmhouse was beginning to show its age, the once deep red hue was now a peach color and the black shutters were beginning to chip away from the many storms and years that plagued it. The glass in the windows was even aging, apparent from the ripple-like appearance it had. The roof had patches of shingles that were either missing or disheveled. The chickens in the coop behind the house were clucking and like the birds in the trees, were ready for the day to start. The grass beneath you was damp with dew, you let your feet relish in the feeling, squelching every time you dared move them. You looked down and saw the dirt and grass clippings caked to your feet, knowing your mother would have something to say when you decided to meander back to the house. But for now, in your white nightgown and your hair tied back with some string, you would be one with the ground and the sky that threatened to brighten at any moment. When you had these little meetings with the earth in the early morning, you felt invincible like nothing could tear you away from it.

That was true until she came.

To others, she may have just been a passing figure like a ship in the middle of the sea when all is quiet and dark. To you, she was always present in your mind, never ignored. Your heartbeat quickened when she came around the side of the house, carrying feed for the chickens that were still continuing on with their noise. Her golden hair cascaded down her back in waves, tied back much like yours was but with a white ribbon. Simple accents like this always drew your attention for the fact that that it seemed so effortless on her part. A ribbon, a different colored garment or even a slight blush on her cheeks, it always causes you to take notice.

As she neared the chicken coop, her eyes never met yours. Desperation was all you could feel, desperation for her to look up and see you sitting in the grass almost like a child, for her to meet your eyes and smile. Only on two occasions could you remember her smiling at you, a genuine smile, not those smiles she would exchange when she passed you in the house or when you swapped pleasantries throughout the day. A real smile was what you longed for. The type of smile that would send you over the moon if she dared let her guard down for even just a moment.

She never wavered though. She always kept about her business and didn’t give you a second thought, at least that was what it felt like. You knew in the deepest parts of your heart that even if she did happen to glance up one day and acknowledge your existence, you might just die on the spot which could be even more damaging than the fact that she was in her own world without you. The longing you felt to be under her skin, to smell her hair and meld your bodies together, it drove you insane.

Her name, was Elle. Elle didn’t come from a prominent or wealthy family, you weren’t even sure she had a family at all. There always seemed to be a loneliness buried under her warm exterior but you couldn’t be sure. If she was lonely, her demeanor never let on.

She tip toed around the chicken coop, being careful not to step on any of the birds running underneath her feet, spreading the feed around and letting it run through her fingers. She smiled to herself and your heart fluttered inside of its cage — did she know you were watching? Or did the thought of another cross her mind and cause this look of delight?

After spreading the rest of the chicken’s breakfast around the ground, she wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist and looked up to the sky. Her nostrils flared as she took in a deep inhale and shifted her body from side to side, allowing the farm air along with the forest scent fill her nose. You stared unashamedly — mesmerized by every movement and facial expression she made. Elle was a beautiful girl, there was no doubt about that but it was more so her elegance even while doing the most trivial jobs, that had you wrapped around her finger. There was an innocence about her and worldliness all in one. It seemed like nothing bad could touch her while at the same time, daunting things had been seen by those bright blue eyes of hers. Of course, this was merely an assumption made due to lack of conversation and even eye contact for that matter.

“Y/N!” You nearly jumped out of your skin at the shrill voice that came from your right side. You clutched your heart and immediately turned to see your mother standing over you, already dressed for the day and probably disapproving of your nightgown clad body.

“Mother!” You said quickly, secretly terrified that she had read your mind or even worse — saw you staring at Elle. You scrambled up to get off of the ground and brush the earth off of you.

“What in God’s name are you doing out here again? I mean goodness child, it’s barely dawn and you’ll catch a chill.” You loved your mother dearly but the nagging was incessant. You knew it was all an act of love but sometimes you just wished you could communicate with her in only looks rather than words. It sure would save a lot of time.

“I was just —“ you tried to defend yourself but got interrupted.

“Ah ah — none of your excuses. Harry is on his way and we must be hasty to get you ready by the time the carriage arrives.” She granted you a look of disapproval as she grasped your wrist, not too forcefully but firmly. Your heart sank at the sound of his name. Harry. The man your father had hand picked for you to marry, the man you could stand for a mere five minutes until your blood was boiling and you would have to flee the room. A good man, your mother would always remind you and you suspected she was trying to convince herself rather than you. Really, he wasn’t a terrible human being, but you had other predelictions and those didn’t happen to include Harry. He was agreeable at times, but had a bad habit of making passive comments that had hints of poison hidden behind them.

“Pardon me mother but Harry, really? On such short notice I — “ for a second time, but it wouldn’t be the last, she cut you off.

“Yes, child, today! We discussed this earlier in the week, your father and I, and you as we sat and ate dinner the other day. You seemed very partial to it. Why the sudden change?” She rambled on. The truth was, you really didn’t remember the conversation she spoke of at all. This happened often, you’d be off deep in some day dream, a long reverie and your mother would be going on. However you wouldn’t hear it, her words were muffled as you sunk deeper into your fantasy. You would simply nod and act like you’d hung on to every word she said.

“No change mother,” You squeaked out, snapped out of your trance, fearful of being found out again. “I’m actually quite looking forward to it.” You lied right through your teeth, your jaw aching from clenching it tight.

Guiltily, you followed your mother up the path to the front of the house. Walking by the garden in the back, you took one last glance at Elle. She was checking the vegetable patch for any tomatoes or peppers that may have sprung up over night. You held your gaze until you rounded the corner of the house, the orange brick nearly swiping your arm as you lacked attention to it.

“Come on!” Your mother grabbed your hand, apparently you weren’t walking fast enough for her taste. The scene would probably appear ridiculous to an onlooker, a grown woman being dragged to the house by her mother to force her to dress for a man she would never love. Such was your life as of now though, and there didn’t seem to be anyway to change it.

The giant slate shaded front door stood in front of the two of you as you came around the house. Your mother let go of your hand and looked down the gravel curved driveway for what you assumed must be Harry.

“Is he coming soon?” You asked, praying the answer was no and that he’d arrive later or hopefully never, you thought privately.

“Y/N I didn’t startle you out of your daydreams for my health, yes he’ll be here within hours — maybe minutes!” Your mother rolled her eyes at your question. She was a loving woman really, she just had a patience as thin as freshly, frozen ice and her neuroticism seemed to grow with age.

Your stomach began to turn at the thought of your soon-to-be-betrothed arriving at any second. The anxious feeling would always begin in your hands, a slight tingle and then your chest would begin to ache. It would start to course throughout your veins and always affect your stomach the worst — not necessarily nausea but a butterfly sensation that would cause feelings of impending doom. It wasn’t necessarily the man himself who caused this panic inside of you but rather the thought of never having Elle and forcing a feeling towards someone, no matter how incorrigible the person might be. None of it seemed fair but then again, your father always told you nothing ever would be.

Your mother pulled open the large door and waved you inside, heading straight for the staircase in the foyer to get you upstairs and dressed.

“Mother really, I can do it myself,” You huffed, not wanting her to think this was disrespect but rather an attempt at some alone time with your imagination.

“Nonsense, you never pick out anything proper.”

You wanted to scream. In some ways, she wanted you to be independent but in many others, she was suffocating. You’d been alive for two decades and some change and had enough sense to pick out your own outfit for meeting a suitor. You knew she would never let up though, so letting her have her way was easier than the alternative.

She frantically rummaged through your closet and chest of drawers, a desperate attempt to find something to make your second meeting with the man perfect. You almost scoffed to yourself at the thought of any interaction between the two of you being perfect.

“Try this one,” Your mother chose a light baby blue frock, practically tossing it behind her and almost hitting your face. You glanced up towards the ceiling, asking whatever god there was to please rescue you from this entire day.

“The color’s too much,” you had to admit, holding the dress up to you in the mirror and frowning at its garish flare against your skin.

“Alright, well — lets see,” she continued to throw around every item of clothing in the room frantically. After a few minutes of waiting on another piece of fabric to come flying at your head, you decided to take a seat on your bed. You sighed as your body sunk into the mattress, the dull ache in your gut still nagging at you.

“Now I think this one will definitely do,” she carried a cream dress out of the closet, smiling at the item of clothing like it was your matrimonial garb. You did have to admit that it was a simple but pretty gown that seemed to pair with your skin tone and wasn’t too gaudy. You rose up from the bed and reached a hand out to touch the fabric softly. You rubbed some of the cotton in between two of your fingers, your mother staring at you, waiting on approval.

“Well go on, try it on,” handing the dress to you, she began to pick up some of the others and return them to their proper place in the room.

You removed your clothes, never ashamed of your mother being in the room as you had an unspoken bond regardless of the bickering and nagging. Once stripped, you slipped into the creamy colored linen and turned to your mirror against the wall. You couldn’t be sure but you swore the woman in the mirror was almost smiling and had a twinge of confidence gleaming in her eyes. This dress would do.

Your mother turned to you, and smiled broadly. She spread her arms out and approached you, embracing you fully.

“You look absolutely beautiful, how is he going to resist?” She giggled and gave your cheek a quick peck.

“Now let’s do something with that hair.” She fussed, and you laughed to yourself, knowing that her comments always followed with another gouge at you. However, this was just how the two of you operated and it would probably always be this way. It wasn’t conventional but nothing in your life even closely resembled conventionality anymore.

———

You took a deep breath while doing one more look over yourself in the mirror. Your anxiety had been a small seed at first but grew quickly driven by the incessantness of your mother and the earlier sighting of Elle. Now your trepidation had exceeded itself and you found yourself constantly checking the window to see that black and gold ornate carriage rolling down the gravel past the forestry on both sides of the house in a familiar fashion. You’d seen many carriages coming down the road, whether it be family or close friends of your parents and even friends from your schooling in earlier childhood years, but those visits had never caused such a frantic and confused feeling inside of you before.

You’d been pacing the room for some time and decided to take a seat in the chair beside your window, grabbing a book by your bed that you’d been working on finishing. As you got sucked into the story, you didn’t even notice that the carriage had come crunching down the gravel road and was nearly halfway to your door.

“Darling! Y/N!” You faintly heard your mother call from downstairs. Your head fell into your hands and you realized it was finally time, time to face the music and begin this silly charade. After resting your head for a moment and trying to gain some courage, you looked outside with a short glance. The carriage was still coming down the gravel driveway and stopped just before the front door of your quaint little home. The driver halted the horses and stepped down off of his seat to open the door for the man of the hour. You’d only met him once before at a gathering in town, however the meeting was short lived and hadn’t gone well. You hadn’t really given him much thought until your parents had decided he would be your husband.

You saw one black boot step out of the carriage, and then a full body followed. His large green overcoat seemed too heavy for the weather and his curls were in a wild arrangement all over his head. He was brushing something off of his coat and you prayed he wouldn’t look up and see you peeking out of the window, spying from a distance. A white ruffled blouse was popping out from under the coat and his pants were perfect with no wrinkles in sight. This was a well put together man and you had no idea why he’d agree to marry you, a girl who couldn’t even make up her mind half of the time. He was speaking to the driver, probably giving instructions, and then your mother yelled more shrilly from the first story again.

“Y/N! Are you deaf?!”

You muttered curses to yourself and finally stood up, walking towards the door like it was the gallows and you were being marched towards your death. You felt a hard lump in your throat as you swallowed and sweat began to pool under your arms and near your forehead. You heard a firm knock at the front door and braced yourself for your mother to be overly zealous.

“Mr. Styles! What a pleasant day we’re having, made even better by your arrival.” She spoke calmly but you could sense the excitement she was holding back.

You took the stairs step by step, painfully slow, an act of self torture.

“It’s lovely to see you Mrs. Y/L/N, my day is already pleasant seeing you as well.” His English drawl was thick and he allowed every word to practically drip out of his mouth like honey. He didn’t enunciate but every word he spoke was clear, he was thoughtful with his speech.

You only had a few more steps left but you dared not look up from them. You feared you might fall or worse, your eyes would meet his and he’d have delusions of grandeur about the two of you together. You knew your mother was waiting for this to be a fairytale, for you and Harry to exchange only a glance and fall in love, having the perfect wedding and a child following soon after. It was embarrassing that she had this much hope, but only you felt this because your secret was still safe.

At the bottom of the stairs, you allowed yourself to glance up but never make eye contact at first. Luckily, Harry and your mother were still in conversation about the weather and catching up about their whereabouts like old friends. You had to admit, he did look quite dashing. His hair, wild but tamed in certain places and his dimples deepening into his cheek as he smiled at your mother’s pleasantries. His eyes gleamed and his teeth were almost blinding, and that jawline could slice any young woman’s heart in half. You felt like you had betrayed Elle by thinking of him like this, and a pang or guilt surged throughout you. You shook it off to be in the moment and not seem distant.

“Well might I say, you look stunning.” Harry turned from your mother to you, your cheeks instantly felt hot as you noticed his eyes wandering your entire body until he eventually met your gaze.

You tried your best to force out a smile and nodded your head slightly towards his direction. “Thank you, Mr. Styles. Lovely to see you.” You said curtly, the less conversation — the better.

“Y/N here has been elated since finding out you were coming to visit.” You could’ve slapped your mother for saying such a thing, she had to know that was a lie.

“Is that so?” He put his arms behind his back and turned on one heel to face you better. A fire grew within your belly when you noticed the triumphant smirk on his face, thinking he had you like putty in his hands.

You paused for a moment and decided now was the time to put on the sarcasm. Your first meeting with Harry had been quite the back and forth and it seemed it was going to be just the same this time. You suspected he knew this marriage wasn’t ideal in your eyes but for some reason he took some sick joy in the fact that you weren’t happy about it.

“Oh yes, elated doesn’t even begin to cover it.” You charged back at his smirk with your words. You both held each other’s stare for a few seconds, seeing who would break first.

Your mother looked back and forth between the two of you, gradually growing uncomfortable at this unspoken challenge. “Well I’ll leave you two to it then,” she said, too cheerily. She gave your back one pat and smiled at you quickly before going off into another part of the house. Now it was just and you Harry, staring each other down and allowing the silence to say more than you could.

“Is there any particular reason you’re not fond of me, Miss Y/L/N?” He finally asked, his eyes like laser beams directed right at you. His stare wasn’t harsh though, he did have soft eyes and expressions most of the time but a curiosity was burning behind those green, almost sea glass colored eyes. Most women must find him perfectly charming and handsome, a perfect match but you weren’t budging.

“No particular reason...besides all of them,” you smirked this time at your quip and absent mindedly shrugged, trying your very best to irritate the man and then maybe, just maybe, he’d leave.

Harry filled the air around you with a click of his tongue. “Such a shame.” You waited for a second part to his reverb but only received more intense eye contact, the two of you locking eyes, almost grappling, to see who would gain the upper hand.

“What’s the shame?” You shifted your feet slightly, growing tired of standing in the same position.

“That you’re not fond of me,” he boldly took one step closer to you. You stuck your chin out and raised an eyebrow to signal for him to elaborate.

“Well Miss Y/L/N, it’s just that...I’m quite fond of you so,” his smirk returned this time, the deep dimple dipping back into his cheek once more. He shuffled slightly, coat swinging behind him, trying to get closer to you.

You cleared your throat. “That is a shame Mr. Styles. I’m afraid however it’s really arranged marriages I’m not fond of, rather than you.”

“Arranged marriages are what the people of this world thrive on. My parent’s for example have had a happy arranged marriage fo’ twenty-five years.”

“Well good for them, I just don’t foresee the same for myself. Love is what truly counts in my eyes.” You crossed your arms, letting him know you were hard pressed and not budging on the subject.

He scoffed, saw your eyes widen and then tried to play it off as a cough. His smugness aggravated your nerves, you could feel it like a prickle on the back of your neck.

“You don’t share the same sentiment?” Your voice was edgy.

“Not exactly, no,” all the while he spoke, he was still looking you over and hiding a smile, which was still more of a snigger.

“Hmph, well to each his own I suppose,” you sighed deeply and rolled your eyes, not giving any inclination that you were worried about him noticing.

“Shall we go to the parlor?” He stepped back away from you and gestured to the room off to the left of the foyer. You didn’t respond with words but simply just nodded, it seemed conversation wouldn’t be conducive for the two of you today. The sound of your walking towards the parlor reminded you of the dreaded ticking of a clock, letting you know that time is slipping right through your fingers. Once in the room, your eyes flitted to the family paintings on the dark wooden walls. Staring back at you was your great-grandfather, a war hero, and aunt Sophia, who had been a midwife for nearly all her life. Your grandmother was above the fireplace, giving you a tight lipped smile. Your heart always softened at her portrait, you were close with her when she was alive and shared many fond memories together. Though grandmother was a stubborn woman, set in her quirky ways, she understood you and you wondered if you could have ever opened up to her about Elle and this marriage you opposed.

Harry was also looking around at the paintings and treasures on the shelves, walking slowly throughout the room and running his hand along the back of chaise opposite you. Your eyes fixated on his slender fingers and pondered what it might feel like to have them running down your back softly or tucking a stray hair behind your hair. Again, you shook those type of pleasant thoughts about him away. You’d only ever felt that way about Elle’s beautiful fingers, not quite as long as Harry’s, but dainty and gentle.

“The dress looks lovely on you, if I hadn’t reiterated that before.” Harry came around the side of the chaise, taking his green coat off and laying it beside him as he took a seat on the striped cushion. You tried not to let your expression change as you noticed his chest peeking out from under the white ruffled blouse. He had some kind of necklace on, a long silver chain you could barely see. His collarbones were noticeable as well as a few tiny chest hairs near his sternum.

“Thank you, nice of you to say,” you said, now smoothing away wrinkles of your dress in your lap.

“You say that as if I don’t always have nice things to say Y/N.” His expression was still one of complacent joy, a small smile on his face showing his front teeth slightly.

“You don’t seem to recall our first meeting, do you?” You remained standing, leaning on a matching striped high backed chair.

“I thought we got on quite well if my memory serves me correctly.” He sat up straight, getting ready to defend himself. You laughed, amused at his statement.

“I think our memories serve us in different ways, Harry.” You were more calm this time, getting used to the back and forth between the two of you.

“My apologies if your memories of me aren’t pleasant, I’ve been told I can be —“

“Difficult?” You interrupted, because whatever adjective he had in mind would be much too self serving. He laughed at this, a genuine, hearty laugh that filled the room all the way up to the ceiling.

“Was that amusing to you?” You asked him, genuinely confused.

Harry stood up now and began to take another lap around the room.

“Everything about you just confuses me Y/N, and yes, amuses me as well.” His hands were behind his back again as he inspected an old manuscript of the Bible on a bookshelf near the far window.

“Hm, good.” That was all you could manage to get out but this pleased you as it would confuse him even further. You were glad he wasn’t under the illusion you felt the same way and that you puzzled him. You’d rather be a mystery than understood.

“It’s not good,” this time he looked at you but his brow was furrowed and he seemed defeated. “It’s frustrating.”

“I’m sorry I...” You trailed off, realizing after saying it that you weren’t really apologetic. Frustrated? You thought, perfect.

“No....no, you’re not.” He pulled himself away from the shelves and looked deeply into your eyes, trying to decipher your code. Slowly, he began to walk toward you.

“But that’s what I like about you, you don’t seem to care.” His mouth was halfway turned into a smile, not in a smirk but more so in a satisfied manner.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, you thought. When you acted interested, he loved it and when you pushed away, the reaction was the same. How could you ever win?

He was now standing in front of you, towering like a giant in fairytales you’d read as a girl. There was a foot or two between your bodies but you knew he would want to close that gap in a matter of minutes. Your breath hitched in your throat at the thought of close contact, thinking of his fingers once more. Heat rose to your face, embarrassed of the thoughts you were having about him once again. Would he know you were thinking about him? Would Elle look in through the window and never see you in a different light like you so desperately wanted?

Goosebumps began to rise all over your arms and a shiver tumbled down your spine as he lifted a hand to your face, curling his index finger under your chin as you looked down at the wooden floor. A lump lodged itself into your throat as your anticipation grew. Gently, he tipped your face to look up at his. His eyes twinkled and the dimple nearly did you in, that knowing smile having you almost in pieces on the floor.

“You will love me one day Y/N,” he leaned down closer so you could feel his breath on your cheek. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but when you finally do, best of luck.” You were at a complete loss for words. His boldness terrified you and had you under a spell simultaneously. You cleared your throat to break through the tension in the air and clear both of your heads of whatever thoughts you were having. He removed his hand from your skin and you felt a longing to know what his touch felt like again. Stop this, you scolded yourself.

He stepped away from you, you felt like all of the air had been sucked out of your lungs. Anger and excitement coursed through your bloodstream. The triumphant grin on his face said it all, he was going to get his way. The question of all would be, would you let him?

Harry stopped in the door frame and turned to you for the last time that day.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Miss Y/L/N, I must cut our visit short for today. Just trust, I’ll be back.” his back was to you once more and you felt your eyebrows knit back together. His words weren’t threatening but rather an assurance on his part that he wasn’t going anywhere. You could be mysterious and off putting but he’d still come back time after time, and that frightened you. You walked over to the window and saw Elle, picking flowers in one of the fields beside the house. Her back was facing you, bent down picking your favorite wildflowers that always popped up in the pastures this time of year. She reached up to tuck a stray hair back into the ribbon holding it together, then wiped her brow. What I would give to know what she’s thinking, you thought. On the other hand, you didn’t even have to know what Harry was thinking at all. There was a strange comfort in that.

Suddenly, your mother appeared behind the chaise, watching you stare out of the window. You cleared your throat again to break up the awkward silence, hoping she wouldn’t notice Elle in your line of vision.

“Don’t mean to interrupt dear, did everything go alright with Harry?” She said, messing with the necklace she had chosen to wear today.

“Swimmingly,” You meant for it to come off as sarcasm but she wouldn’t take it as such.

“How lovely! Listen dear, I need you to come help the new caretaker and show her the upstairs rooms. Come on now,” she was already heading into the foyer, not even looking back to see if you followed.

“New caretaker?” You called to her, feeling as if your heart had sunken into the deepest places of you, sorrow was coming.

“Oh yes, I forgot to mention. Elle’s mother is very ill, she’ll be leaving us tonight after supper.”

“Oh,” The only monosyllabic utterance you could manage to force out at this news. As you heard your mother scurry away to another room, you sank down onto the floor. You wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and never peek out, even for your favorite meal. Elle was leaving and Harry had no intention of ever doing the same, and you had no control over any of it.

(Please leave me some comments/feedback!! I would love to know what you guys think of Victorian era!Harry and yes, there will be more parts and they will be longer including flashbacks!! Hope you guys enjoyed x)

[lesmisscraper]

Vol. 2, Book 3, Chapter 2.

Clips from <Il cuore di Cosette>.

[unusuallyzealousburgette]

Frank & Alice (draco/neville)

Summary: Neville's parents have never been 'okay', but now that their conditions have worsened significantly he needs someone to be there with him. Draco just happens to be the one.

Words: 1799

(read on Ao3)

Draco sat thumping his foot to the upbeat muggle song that played as he waited outside of the Leaky Cauldron. Sun beat down on the rusty car and shone through the windshield; it was Neville’s car, as he was supposed to be driving the man to see his parents after work in twenty minutes. He wanted to find some calm before they arrived. There weren't often pleasant visits, but he bore it all for Neville.

As the radio landed on yet another empty, buzzing station, Draco noticed Neville sprinting towards the car. At first, he couldn't figure out what had sparked his excitement, but then he noticed a panicked look on his face and his haphazard steps.

“Drive!” Neville shouted. Draco jumped as the man slipped inside.

“What the bloody fuck, Neville, what’s happened? You're early- and where's all your stuff?”

“Draco, I need you to drive! We have to go – they're in intensive treatment!”

Draco couldn't move for a moment as the static roared in his ears, before he pushed his own frothing emotions aside and thought of his friend. He turned the key and shoved his foot onto the gas pedal, barely pausing to signal before entering the stream of London traffic. The car moaned as he drove it through the muggle streets – but the traffic was unavoidable; lanes clogged with congestion, vehicles stuck hood-to-tailpipe in clouds of smoky exhaust.

Neville sat gazing out the window with his teeth clamped down on the tip of his thumb, leg fidgeting unconsciously.

“Did they floo you?” Draco asked, trying to hide the overwhelming pain and worry in his voice, and failing, a slight waver evident in his words.

“No,” Neville’s voice mimicked that of a scared child. “They called, said Mum and Dad were in the ER and that they were taking care of him. Said they couldn't bloody well tell me anything over the phone either.” The man sniffed and scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his starched shirt.

“Oh.” Draco only felt more guilty now for bringing it up.

“Yeah.”

He pretended not to notice the way that dust swirled on the dashboard in front of Neville, as if at his command, or the how the radio kept switching between a fuzzy mariachi band and an infomercial selling sobriety pills.

The song cutting through the crackling noise caught Draco by the pliant ear and pulled him back in time. In his mind he could see airy red and green fabrics flapping in the wind, the day that they'd taken Alice and Frank out, back when they weren't getting worse. They’d visited a Cinco de Mayo festival one Saturday, in celebration of Alice’s birthday, which happened to fall around the same date of Alice’s birthday. There were colorful decorations all around, and the savory aroma of cooked beef wafted through the air as large-skirted women danced and the most beautiful sounding bands played.

Draco remembered the unwavering smile on Neville’s face as Draco danced with his parents, following an intricate step, and the way that Alice had leaned into his ear and told him something he would never forget. She said she was thankful for that day and for him, even though she didn't know him. She told him that she was glad her son had someone like him because she couldn't be there for him herself. Then she lost all coherence and went back to spinning in circles with a man on stilts.

Those words had kicked something up in him; a realization that, as he watched Neville with that gorgeous smile on his face as he wiped powdered cheese from his lips, he felt something deeper for him. Some man had taken Neville by the arm and asked him to dance, and the sweet taste in his mouth turned sour, and he'd realized. Just realized.

But after that their conditions had only gotten worse, they knew they were meant to but kept hoping tbey would somehow end up fixed. Maybe that was why the nurses had let them take them out.

Draco was drawn back to the present moment as Neville began shouting at the impatient woman behind them, and he wanted nothing more than to take him into his arms and comfort him, but, as a friend, that just wasn't his place. He kept driving.

When they arrived at hospital, there was no panic or rushing gurneys – it was hauntingly unaffected.

Apparently, Alice was under intensive care for numerous injuries, but still no one knew what had happened to Frank, and all tests had proven futile. Frank had simply become angry that morning to the point of violence and attacked his own wife. The nurses and doctors had sedated him as soon as they had arrived on the scene and taken him from the ward immediately for testing and confinement as Alice was put under. Draco half wondered if the staff were starting to consider whether it was even worth it to keep them alive at this point.

They were taken to Alice’s room first. Neville leaned over his mother’s bed and caressed the red-purple scars across the frail woman’s face with a feather-light gentleness upon seeing her. He looked away as tears shone in his eyesonce more. His pain was so evident, it was difficult for Draco to standby and watch.

Her eyes were frozen open. Draco could imagine Neville, in the cloudy eyes of his mother, seeing his parents the way that he’d seen them throughout youth, the way he’d told Draco of – with hollow eyes that stared right through him; lost souls drifting somewhere in empty shells of human beings who used to be. Apparitions.

The doctor chattered behind them thoughtlessly, unheard, “She had a number of open scratch wounds on her face and still more up her arms that we disinfected stitched up, but those were the worst of her injurys. The bruises take time to heal, ain't nothing we can do ‘bout that.”

Neville stepped away from the bedside, saying in a flat voice, “I want to see my father.”

Frank Longbottom’s condition was much more serious than it appeared when they first saw him asleep in bed, his grey hair plastered across his damp forehead. Without much closer inspection, thick purple veins pulsed through pale, crepe paper skin under the flouresent lights.

"You're allowed to touch him, but gently, so you don't wake him,” said the nurse, wringing her hands gently against her chest.

Neville turned with a questioning expression.

“He's not unconscious,” the doctor chimed in. “Just ‘sleep under a few sedatives.”

As the nurse and doctor left them alone, and Neville drew further into the room.

“Dad?” he whispered, voice cracking. The lines on Frank’s heart monitor rising and falling like the slopes of mountains.

When Frank didn’t stir, Neville repeated himself, louder, his desperation spilling thorugh, “Dad?”

Frank’s eyes parted like half-moons at this, and he shuddered awake, reaching an unhappy consciousness. As sentience hit him like a brick, he bucked wildly in the creaking hospital bed, and spit sprayed from his lips.

Never before had Draco ever seen Longbottom act this way in the many times they'd come to visit. He was like a wild animal caught in cage, so full of raw anger; and Neville just stood there, tears running down his face. He willingly took the insults that spewed from his father's mouth.

“Get out! Get out, you horrible monster! You disgusting disgrace!” he shouted. “Die! Bloody die!”

“Dad,” Neville croaked.

“You bloody, filthy-”

“Dad!” he shrieked, sobbing violently, a dam broken inside of him. “Dad, it's me! I'm your son!”

Draco’s heart clenched, and he called out, “Nurse!” Disregarding his better judgement, Draco rushed forward and wrapped his arms firmly around Neville, holding him close as the man sobbed.

The nurse and doctor swept into the room, wands aloft. The first man hit Frank with a temporary stunner as the nurse filled a syringe and stuck it into Frank’s pulse point. The crazed man’s eyes glossed over, and all that could be heard in the room was a low, rhythmic beat.

Neville turned in Draco’s arms to plant his face in the crook of his neck, hot tears streaming down his face. Draco just held him, rubbing slow circles into his shuddering back. He met the doctor and nurse’s gazes defiantly, as if daring them to comment.

The mediwizard wiped a hand down his face. “I'm real sorry - I thought it would be safe.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Draco asked.

“We’ll try the best we can to try an’ improve his condition."

It sounded more like a question.

(read the rest on Ao3)