#I could also title this erm shes right behind me isn’t she

[wormontwostrings]

Samarie restricting order when

[calpalirwin]

I Think I Like You

Summary: Bucky falls for his best friend’s sister

A/N: I told y’all I wasn’t ready to let them go yet

Word Count: 5k

And away, and away we go!

__

1936

The ache in my knuckles was starting to occupy more and more of my attention as I followed Steve into the apartment complex. “So, this is home, huh?” I asked, flexing out my hands.

“Something like that,” he quipped, digging around in his pocket to produce a key, before letting us into one of the apartments.

I was about to ask what he meant by that, but stepping into the home quickly answered the question for me. There was something… acutely feminine about the place. It was tidy, much tidier than my own apartment down the block. Magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table. In the kitchen, the counters were wiped down. And on the dining table, a vase of flowers. All subtle signs of the home containing a woman’s touch. “Oh?” I said suggestively, taking a seat on the couch.

Steve just rolled his eyes, as he sat down next to me, sighing deeply as he sunk back in the soft cushions. I looked over at him with a smirk. Alright, if he wanted to keep his secrets, he could, I decided. I also wondered if I looked half as bad as he did. His lip was split, and he was already beginning to bruise along the right side of his face. I looked down at my own hands, flexing them again. No doubt they’d bruise too. But that was about the extent of my own injuries compared to my friend.

The door clicked open behind us, and both of us swiveled our heads to look at the woman walking in, a bag of groceries in her hand, and a bag slung over her shoulder with papers all but spilling out of it. She was smartly dressed in a crisp blouse tucked into a black skirt that hugged her small frame tightly. She toed off her heels, blonde curls falling to obscure her face from my view. She didn’t seem to acknowledge my presence as she walked over to the couch, pressing a soft kiss to Steve’s cheek, her face pinching into a frown when he winced. “Oh, Steven, what did you do now?” she asked, moving to set the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, her tone suggesting that she was used to seeing the man this way. She didn’t appear to care for an answer either, as she turned out of the kitchen and disappeared down the hallway, returning a few moments later with a small first-aid kit. Only then did she acknowledge my presence, blue eyes sweeping over me with slight disdain. “Bringing your fights home now, huh?” she asked, tongue clicking in her cheek, as she grabbed his face, examining the damage carefully.

“We were on the same side,” he replied bluntly, sitting still for her while she cleaned up his face.

Her gaze flickered back to me, her tongue clicking again. “For being on the same side, it looks like he got out better than you did.”

“He’s a better fighter,” Steve explained with a shrug.

“And who is he exactly?”

“James Barnes, ma’am,” I told her politely. “Pleased to meet you. Wasn’t aware Steve here had a lady.”

Steve gave a bark of a scoff, “She’s not a lady.”

Her own eyes rolled. “What he meant to say was that I’m his sister. And I’m no ma’am either. It’s ‘miss,’ Mr. Barnes.”

“My apologies, miss.” I bit back my smirk. Not Steve’s lady, and not a ma’am only worked more in my favor. “And would you happen to have a name to accompany your title?”

“That would depend on who’s asking.”

“That would be me.”

“Then, that information would be classified, James.”

I chuckled, definitely toeing a fine line of getting in way over my head, and not caring the slightest bit. “Well, then, I suppose it’s only polite to ask if you prefer ‘sweetheart’ or ‘doll’ then.”

“From you? I’d prefer neither.” She flashed me a sweet smile, releasing Steve’s face, and snapping the first-aid kit shut. Then, she was on her feet, going back into the kitchen, and returning with two ice packs. “Might wanna ice your face and hands there, sluggers,” she said, tossing one to Steve, and the other to me. “It’ll help with the swelling.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a sister, let alone one that was a nurse, and we’ve been friends for how long now?” I questioned Steve, letting the ice pack rest across my knuckles.

“2 years. And she’s not a nurse. Just a nuisance,” he quipped, leaning his head back and placing his ice pack against his face.

“You’re the one who comes in here all bloody and bruised. So who’s the real nuisance here, dear brother?” she retorted.

“That would still be you, by a long shot. I fight bullies. You just like to fight.”

“No, I command respect. Feeble-minded men only view that as liking to fight. And you?” she asked, turning her attention to me. “Steve fights bullies. I fight for respect. What do you fight for, Mr. Barnes?”

“I fight to protect those I care about.”

“Mmm, how noble,” she said, clearly not impressed with my answer.

“And half a lie,” Steve snorted. “Go on, Buck. Tell her what you do at school.”

“Buck?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A nickname,” I brushed past. “And I’m on the wrestling team. So, sure, one could make the argument that I have fighting in my DNA. But as I’ve said, I use the advantage I have in fighting to protect those I care about.”

“Mmm, well maybe next time care a little quicker about my brother, yes?”

“With all due respect, miss, your brother has a tendency of getting himself into fights before I’m around to help get him out of them.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true… Steve, do me a favor, and put up those groceries would you?”

He pulled the ice pack off his face to squint over at her. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

She rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of you being home if you’re not going to be useful?”

He grumbled, but got to his feet to do as she asked anyway. “So, how’s Mother?” he asked her.

“Still dying,” was the answer. “And still asking why you don’t visit.”

Steve sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to visit,” he started.

His sister held up her hand, cutting him off, “I know. Watching her die isn’t exactly pleasant. And she knows you’re busy with school, and stopping by her to help me. Nobody blames you, Steve. But she’s getting worse, so I’d make time if you can. Sooner rather than later. But not too soon. Wait until your face heals a bit. James, has my brother offered you anything to eat or drink? Or is he as bad a host as he is a fighter?”

“We were barely home a minute before you came bursting in, and started chastising us,” he told her.

She ignored his excuse. “James, can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

“A glass of water would be lovely, thank you,” I smiled at her.

“So, safe to assume you’re a friend of Steve’s from college,” she continued to make conversation with me as she filled a glass with water, then came to join me on the couch while Steve finished with the groceries. “Do you prefer to be called James? Or whatever it was he called you? Buck?”

“James. Buck. Bucky,” I shrugged. “Either works. I’m not that picky.”

“Why Buck?”

“Middle name’s Buchanan.”

“Oh, a middle name after a president, just like Steve.”

“Y/N,” Steve said in a warning. “Don’t you have studying to do?”

“Don’t you have a fight to get into?”

“Y/N?” I asked with a slight smile, liking how her name sounded on my tongue.

She glowered at Steve, not liking that he’d given her the one edge she had over me. “Yes,” she said begrudgingly.

“Pretty.”

Over the course of my afternoon spent in the apartment, I learned a great deal about the girl with the pretty name. For one, she wasn’t just Steve’s sister, but actually his twin, and she hated how adamant he was about the fact that he was still technically older. And the chip in her shoulder was just as justified as the one in her brother’s. They had a rough go of it after their father had passed a few years prior, and with the economic situation being what it was, and their mother falling ill herself it was crazy to me that they still had their education as a priority. But as someone who valued education myself, it was a trait I greatly admired.

The longer the afternoon dragged on, the more I liked her, and the more she seemed to warm up to me. Although I was uncertain if she was warming up to me because she was as equally infatuated with me as I was with her, or if it was strictly a means of stirring annoyance in her brother. Either way, I had her attention, and I wasn’t complaining.

And when the evening did draw to a close, while I wasn’t brave enough to ask her out directly, I was brave enough to suggest my interest in her.

“Bucky, can I ask something of you?” she asked, pulling the front door shut behind her to allow for a brief moment of privacy between us.

“Of course,” I asked, trying not to take too much glee in how she said my name.

“Well, I suppose it’s not really a question. But more of a request to take what I said about caring about my brother quicker seriously. He has a strong tendency, as I’m sure you’ve witnessed, of doing what he thinks is right, without stopping to think about the consequences. And he doesn’t have the… erm…” heat colored her cheeks as she fought to find the right words, “physique like you do to defend himself, despite his best intentions. So if you could be a bit quicker with that ‘I protect those I care about’ bit you were mentioning earlier, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Did she just admit she found me attractive? “That would require me to be around your brother a lot more, you know that, right?”

“It’s a good thing you two are friends then, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I meant that it would mean I would probably be around more if I were to do that. Which I can do, no problem. Steve’s a great friend. But I would hate for my presence to ever make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would your presence make me feel uncomfortable?”

“Well, you didn’t seem all that keen on me. And if I’m being honest, I still can’t really figure out what your opinion of me is. I’m hoping it’s favorable.”

“In my defense, I came home to find my brother with a bloody face, and you with bruised knuckles. All the same, I do apologize if my original assumption made me come across as cold. Because it’s become clear to me that my brother holds you in a high regard as his friend, and I’ve never known Steve to be a bad judge of character.”

“Well, if being around Steve more for the sake of getting him out of fights quicker means I can see more of you, consider your request granted. G’night, Y/N.”

“G’night, Bucky.”

~~~

“So my sister, huh?” Steve asked when I saw him a few days later.

“What about her?” I asked, playing dumb.

“You’re smitten with her, aren’t you?”

I sighed, opting for honesty rather than something that would be an obvious lie. “Do I find her to be beautiful and charming? Yes. But would I go so far as to say I’m smitten with her? We barely know each other.”

“But you want to know her?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” was all he said.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“You’re my best friend, and she’s your sister.”

“You’re both adults. And it’s Y/N. She’d go out with you just to spite me if I was stupid enough to warn her away from you. Which I have no reason to do anyway.”

“So if I did want to ask her out, I’d have your blessing?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Buck. I’m simply saying I wouldn’t be mad about it. But if you do ask her out, which I don’t recommend doing anytime soon because she has a lot on her plate as is, she likes roses and dancing.

~~~

I was there when their mother passed away a few months later. I sat with them in the kitchen while they tearfully planned a funeral, offering to make the necessary phone calls that left their own words choked and stuck. And I stood between them when they buried her, one hand resting firmly on Steve’s shoulder, the other hanging limply at my side, fingers begging to stretch out and pull her hand into mine. 

When Steve excused himself to talk with the minister, Y/N sighed deeply next to me. “He’s all I got left,” she murmured with sad finality. “I mean, we always used to joke that it was just me and him. And I knew this would happen eventually. But… I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready for Steve to be the only family I have left.”

“He’s not,” I told her. “You have me, too.”

She blinked up at me. “I do?”

Heat colored my cheeks, and I rubbed at hand at the back of my neck as my nerves kicked in. “Y-yeah. I mean, I’m friends with Steve. I have no interest in ending that friendship. So you can count on me to be around if that’s something you want to count on.”

“Steve, yes. So a relationship with each other via proxy? Seems like quite the investment on your end.”

“Well, I’d hardly say our relationship with each other is strictly via proxy of your brother. I like to think we’ve become at least friendly with each other, if not friends directly.”

“And is that what you would like? A friendship?”

I hesitated. There was no way of answering her without condemning myself one way or another. If I said yes, then that’s all I would ever be to her. But if I answered no, I risked losing her before I had her. Either by her thinking I was insulting her by not wanting a friendship, or scaring her off if she interpreted what I said as being too forward too soon. “I’ve told you that I protect those I care about. Which means if you need me, for anything, I’ll be there.”

“And do you care for me simply because I’m your friend’s sister? Or do you care for me because you genuinely care for me?”

“You’re a smart girl, Y/N. Surely you can answer that for yourself.”

~~~

1937

“Steve,” I groaned as he dragged me through the streets of Brooklyn towards his place with a grin on his face. “I told you I didn’t want to do anything for my birthday.”

“I know. And that’s what I told Y/N, but you know she doesn’t listen to me.”

I groaned louder. “What did she do?”

“It’s just cake,” he promised. “So even by Y/N’s terms, this is very tame. But, you have to act surprised because she’ll kill me if she knows I told you.”

“Alright, alright,” I relented with a laugh.

“Close your eyes,” he said as we bounded up the stairs to the apartment.

“Is that part necessary?” I asked, closing my eyes anyway and letting him push me inside.

“Surprise!” both him and Y/N yelled, and I opened my eyes to see a small banner hanging up on the wall with the words “Happy Birthday,” sprawled across it, and a small cake waiting on the kitchen table. “We know it’s not much,” she went on, “but we wanted to do something.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “But you didn’t have to.”

“I know we didn’t have to. But we wanted to. Turning twenty is something special, Bucky.”

“Well again, thank you,” I told her as I took a seat at the table, noticing a small parcel wrapped neatly. “What’s this?”

Her eyes went wide. “That,” she said, snatching it off the table, and hiding it behind her back, “is for later.”

This time, it was Steve who groaned. “Y/N, we agreed on no presents. Now I look like an ass.”

“This is what makes you look like an ass?” she questioned.

“Ha-ha,” he deadpanned humorlessly. “You’re hilarious.”

“Okay, this you really didn’t have to do,” I told her with a chuckle.

“Bucky? Shut up, and make a wish.” With that, she grabbed a small lighter, lighting the candles on the cake.

While she and Steve sang “Happy Birthday” I thought about what wish I wanted to make, no matter how silly the notion seemed. But my mind couldn’t think of anything to wish for. I already had everything I wanted. So ultimately, I decided to wish for things to stay the same as I blew out the candles with a huff of breath.

“Okay,” she said, setting the small parcel in front of me, after we’d eaten the cake and Steve excused himself. “Now, you can have this.”

Carefully I tore at the paper, revealing a hardcover book, the words “The Hobbit” etched across the front cover. “Wow,” I breathed, running my fingers across the cover.

“The lady at the bookstore said it was popular. But if you end up not liking it… Well, I kept the receipt, so we can return it for something you would like,” she offered as explanation, a soft embarrassed mumble

We. “No,” I said quickly. “No, I love it. This is great, thank you,” I smiled at her.

“Happy Birthday, Bucky,” she smiled back. “And uh, if you don’t mind, when you’re finished with it, I’d like to borrow it. Didn’t have enough to buy two copies.”

“Or,” I suggested, a thought coming to me, “we could read it together.”

She tilted her head to the side in confusion. “How would we do that exactly?”

“I could read it to you. We could… make an afternoon of it. Or a few afternoons of it.”

“That sounds suspiciously like you’re proposing a date.”

“And if I was?”

“I think I’d like that.”

I grinned. “How’s Saturday, then?”

~~~

“This is going to sound stupid,” Y/N interjected when I paused in my reading.

“What’s going to sound stupid?” I asked, looking at her over the top of the book. She looked cute, resting on her stomach, her elbows propped up as she cradled her chin in her hands. Her hair blew softly with the light spring breeze, and her eyes held a dreamy look to them. Okay, she looked way more than just cute. 

“I like the way you read,” she said. “Your voice… it’s nice in general. But there’s a certain flow to how you read. Your voice does this thing where it rises and falls with what you’re reading. It’s… animated. Very engaging.”

“Well, I can easily say that’s the first time someone ever complimented my voice,” I said with a chuckle.

Her cheeks turned pink. “I told you it was going to sound stupid.”

I tucked a scrap of paper in the book, marking our spot before setting it aside. “It’s not stupid. It’s a nice compliment. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her eyes flickered from me to the book. “Are we done for the day?”

“No, I can keep reading if you want me to,” I said, picking up the book and opening it.

She smiled up at me, and then, in a move I wasn’t expecting, she rolled over onto her back and then shifted her body perpendicular to mine, resting her head on my outstretched leg. I stiffened at the sudden intimacy of the contact. “Is this okay?” she asked.

“Y-yeah,” I choked out with a cough, forcing myself to relax. “Yeah, it’s, uh, fine.”

She gave a small giggle. “You know, you’re pretty cute when you get shy, Bucky.”

“You’re pretty cute all of the time,” I mumbled back.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said you’re pretty cute all of the time,” I said again, this time without mumbling, but glad I had the book in my hand to block my face from her view.

Her hand gently pulled mine down, the book closing once more. “Bucky, if I ask you something, do you promise to be honest with me?”

“Course,” I nodded.

“Do you like me? Romantically that is.”

I swallowed thickly, nodding. “And if you want the whole truth, it’s the ‘I’m falling in love with you’ kind of like. And that terrifies me.”

“Why does that terrify you?”

“Because it means I have more to lose.”

She let out a soft “oh,” as she pushed herself to sit upwards, a timid hand stroking up the length of my arm. “You’ll never lose me, Bucky.”

Try as I might, I couldn’t hold back. I shifted to lean towards her, my hands going to cradle her face. And then my lips were on hers, and it was sweet and powerful. And my thumbs were brushing along her cheek bones as the rest of my fingers bunched up in her hair. And her own hands were looping around my neck, her fingers tugging lightly at my hair. The air came rushing out of my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe but I didn’t dare break the kiss, savoring every sensation. 

There was a sharp intake of air and I wasn’t sure which one of us had done it, because our lips stayed locked, and I had to drop one of my hands to brace myself as the kiss grew hungry and she moved in closer, practically on top of me. I moved the hand that was still holding her face to wrap tightly around her back, needing her more than I’d ever needed anybody else before.

~~~

1939

“Whoa, slow down there, doll,” I chuckled, pulling the glass away from her lips.

“But it tastes like juice!” she told me, her eyes big with excitement.

“I know, but those drinks have a lot more alcohol in them. And if I bring you home drunk, Steve will kill me.”

“He can try,” she scoffed, grabbing the glass from me and taking another big drink. “And neither one of you can get mad at me drinking, because you both do it too,” she half sang.

“Again, your drinks have a lot more alcohol in them than our drinks do. And for another, I’m a lot bigger than you. My body can handle more.”

She set the glass down, scowling over the rim at me. “You’re no fun.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t have your drink, doll. I’m just asking you to slow down.”

“Well, can you order me another one? This one’s almost empty.”

“Of course,” I said, kissing her forehead before going back over to the bar to get us each another drink. I could feel the eyes of other girls on me as I drummed my fingers across the tabletop of the bar while I waited, but they didn’t bother me. I already had the girl I wanted staring at me like they did, and she did a whole lot more than just stare. When I turned with the drinks, I saw the way other guys in the bar were looking at Y/N back in the booth. Now, that made my skin prickle. So I squared my shoulders and slid in next to her placing a heated and heavy kiss on her cheek, smirking in triumphant as the looks dropped. “A-are you growling?” I asked with another chuckle, becoming aware of the low rumble in her throat.

“I hate the way they stare at you,” she whispered with disdain.

“Jealous?” I teased lightheartedly.

She scoffed into her drink. “Me? Jealous? Please…”

“Good. Because if anyone should be jealous, it’s me. You have the attention of every man in this bar.”

She scoffed more. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“You,” I said, kissing her cheek again. “Are the most beautiful girl in here, and everyone knows it. And I’m the lucky son of a gun that gets to take you home.”

Her eyes went wide, and a grin broke out across her face. “Take me home, Bucky.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I held her steady as I let her into my apartment, and she blinked in her surroundings. “This isn’t… Where are we?”

“We’re at my place. Steve would kill me if I brought you home like this.”

“I-” her face flushed. “Bucky, I’ve never…”

“We’re not,” I said softly. “I’m going to help you into bed, and then sleep on the couch.”

“Oh.” It was a simple utterance both of understanding and… was that disappointment that nothing would come of the night besides her safely sleeping her intoxicated state away?

I gave her one of my shirts to sleep in, turning my back to give her privacy, before helping her into bed. “G’night, doll,” I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”

“Wait,” she whispered, her hand reaching out to grab me by my shirt. “Can you stay?”

I looked down at her, the blanket pulled up tightly around her. My bed had never looked more inviting. And what was the harm in sleeping? I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can stay.” I stepped out of my pants before joining her on the bed, but staying on top of the covers. “G’night, doll,” I whispered, clicking off the light.

“You don’t want to marry me, do you?” she asked me, her voice filled with sorrow.

“What gave you that idea?”

“You can’t even share the covers with me!” was the wailed explanation of despair.

“I-” I sputtered, shocked at whatever had caused this outburst. “C’mere,” I coaxed, lifting up my arm for her to curl into me. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“So you want me?”

“Of course I want you, doll.”

“Then how come you haven’t asked me to marry you?”

“I- You’re the most independent woman I know. I didn’t know you wanted to become a wife.”

“I don’t want to become a wife. I want to become your wife.”

“You’re gonna need to give me time to buy a ring.”

“But you’ll ask?”

“Until I’m blue in the face,” I promised.

“And we can have a house, and kids? Not an obnoxiously big house, but not a tiny one either.”

“We can have a medium-sized house, and fill it with as many kids as you want. And you can teach, and Steve and I can open up a mechanic shop. And every night,” I said, shifting to get under the blankets and pull her closer, “we can fall asleep just like this.”

“I love you, James Buchanan Barnes,” she breathed in content.

“I love you too, Y/N Y/M/N Rogers.”

“It’s Rogers-Barnes.”

~~~

1943

“Why do you keep fiddling with your pockets?” Y/N asked as we walked through Central Park, one of her hands holding mine, the other clutched holding a picnic basket with the flowers I’d bought her poking out the top.

“I’m not,” I lied, feeling the small box drop as I pulled my hand out of my pocket and waved it in her face. “See?”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re plotting something.”

“If by plotting, you mean enjoying a nice picnic with you, then ya got me. And it’s hardly plotting if you already knew.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, as we came to a stop underneath a large tree by the lake’s edge. “And what are we reading today?” she asked as I busied myself with laying out the blanket for us.

“Steinbeck.”

“Oh, I love him,” she marveled, kneeling on the blanket and pulling out our lunch.

“I know you do.”

With her head resting in my lap, and between bites of sandwich, I read from the small paperback novel. Our lazy Saturday tradition that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I only stopped reading when I heard the soft sigh as she started to doze off like she usually did. “You still with me?” I asked with a small laugh, tracing her cheek with one of my thumbs.

“Mhm,” she murmured like she always did, keeping her eyes closed. “Just thinking.”

I frowned. Her normal answer was “Keep reading.” “What are you thinking about?”

“How much I’m gonna miss this when you’re gone. How much I’m gonna miss you.”

My heart sank as I thought about the draft papers sitting on my kitchen table. “It’s just basic training. Couple weeks and I’ll be back. And I’ll only be in Jersey.”

“Ugh… Jersey…” She opened her eyes to roll them.

“I’ll be so bad at being a soldier, my sergeant will yell at me and ship me back home to you,” I laughed.

“You will do no such thing. You’ll do what you have to at camp, and then you’ll come home to me,” she told me, sitting up. “And then…” Her voice broke off, not wanting to finish the rest. After camp came Europe. And that was more than either of us were willing to think about. Camp. Camp was first. Camp had clear dates we could work with. 3 measly months. And what came after didn’t matter.

“And then,” I said, slowly pulling the box out of my pocket.

“No!” she interrupted, sternly. “James Buchanan Barnes, if you say one damned word about Europe, I will drown you in the lake,” came the threat.

“Y/N!” I laughed. “Can I tell you what happens after I get back from camp, or not?”

“Bucky…” she whined.

“Please? I really think you’re gonna like it.”

“What could I possibly like about what you coming back from camp means?”

“Because it means you’ll be my wife,” I told her, presenting her the box, snapping the top open to reveal a small gold band. “Marry me, doll.”

__

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[chudleycanonficfest]

Vino

Day 25, Post #1 by @thedistantdusk

Title: Vino Author/Artist: TheDistantDusk Pairing: Harry/Ginny Prompt: In Vino Veritas Rating: E (to be safe) for smutty references.    Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Drinking (everyone of legal age). Frank discussion of sex acts. 

They started drinking at 1 PM. 

It seemed the best way to spend the day together before the Hogsmeade day — not weekend, much to Harry’s disappointment— reached its untimely conclusion. He had to cancel the upstairs room he rented for them, too, which he’s still not chuffed about, and not just because they’d definitely have shagged.

Because with Ginny, It’s more than just physical. It’s always been more than just physical. He misses her… deeply, hollowly misses her. It’s a constant ache in the pit of his stomach, like there’s always part of him that’s somewhere else. They had to settle for a heated snog behind the Three Broomsticks before heading in to escape the cold, but that hadn’t been enough. For either of them.

Of course, on the surface he pretended to understand the sudden change of events. It’s a particularly cold February, so cold that McGonagall was close to canceling the Hogsmeade visit altogether. According to Ginny, she only settled for an early dismissal instead when the student body threatened to mutiny. So Ginny’s due back at 6 now, which truly is shit, but anything is better than not seeing her at all.

Harry blinks at his beautiful girlfriend across the table and wonders why she’s been withdrawn today. Distant. At first, he chalked this up to school stress. After all, she is quidditch captain. He knows firsthand how stressful that can be— and while he’d held the captaincy, NEWTS hadn’t even been on the horizon yet. He also hadn’t dealt with a castle full of ghosts and sadness and distorted memories. 

After the drinks started flowing, though, it became clear that school stress wasn’t the issue. Or at least not the biggest one. When she finished her first pint, she started sending him these fleeting looks of puzzlement in between updating him on the Hogwarts gossip. Her second and third pints brought even greater looks of scrutiny.  Now that she’s midway through her fourth pint, she’s full-on staring at him. For the past twenty minutes, he’s felt a bit like an animal in a zoo. Harry hasn’t known what to do about that, really. As much as he loves her, Ginny’s not known for her subtlety. Or patience. She’s always come outright with any concerns or problems, always addressed them head-on. So this constant look of confusion has been… well, confusing. Harry handled the last twenty minutes the best way he knows how: drinking more, holding her hand across the table, and waiting for her to take the lead. He offers a tiny smile and reaches for his pint. He’s content to wait as long as she needs, for whatever she needs.  As it turns out, though, he decides to take a drink at the worst possible moment. Had he been looking, he would’ve seen her cock her head and open her mouth as she reached some sort of internal breaking point. Unfortunately, he just brings his pint glass to his lips instead. So for better or worse, all he hears is the question itself.  “Why do you go down on me so much?” Harry immediately chokes on his beer. It splatters down his front, coating the table in amber specks. He apologizes through a cough and grapples with a napkin, but Ginny remains unfazed. “I… erm.” He coughs again, shaking his head. “Sorry. Wasn't expecting—” “And I’m not complaining,” she says quickly, resting her chin on her palm. “I mean, obviously.”  Oh? He relishes the blush that creeps up her neck. “Then what are—” “It’s just…” She sighs, peering down at her pint glass. “I’ve spoken to Luna about it, and as much as she—"

“You’ve… you’ve spoken to Luna about this?” he asks weakly, head spinning. “Who else—?”

  Ginny plows on as if she hasn’t heard him. “I just figured, I guess, that when we properly started shagging you’d do it less. But you erm… haven’t. So.”

  There’s a pause as the blush from before creeps over her entire face. 

  Harry takes another cautious sip of his pint as a raucous peal of laughter erupts behind him. A firm reminder that they’re very much in public. He squints at the woodgrain on the table. Why is that turning him on even more?

  “Erm… what exactly do you want to know?” he asks after a minute, surprised at how graveled his voice sounds. 

  Ginny sighs, still holding her face in her hands. “Just that, really,” she murmurs, tongue coming out to wet her lips. Fuck. He grips his glass even tighter. “I just… I want to know. Why do you do it so much?” 

  “Erm…” Harry winces. He realizes he’s been saying that a lot.

Ginny’s hand comes up to rest on his, and it’s only when she speaks again that he realizes how drunk she truly is. “Take as long as you need,” she slurs sagely, peering into his eyes. “I’ve been waiting to hear these words for a long time, Harry.” 

And he’d laugh, probably, if this entire concept didn’t terrify him a bit to explain. 

  Bloody words. 

  He twists his pint glass, watching as foam overlaps its white-capped ring. Words have never been his strong suit. How, exactly, is he meant to convert this string of images and feelings into something resembling an explanation? 

  But it’s clearly something she wants answered. Something that’s probably bothered her for longer than she wants to admit. So Harry shuts his eyes, trying to remember, trying to think. 

  He honestly hadn’t given the concept much thought until sixth year. He knew that… general activity… happened before they started dating— obviously. The twins (perhaps deliberately) left enough moving magazines around the Burrow to leave little to the imagination. So he’d seen wizards doing it. They seemed to enjoy it almost as much as the witches splayed out in front of them. Harry just hadn’t considered, really, that he’d ever do it for any reason other than paying his dues. It seemed a simple act of reciprocity. Something one did out of expectation rather than genuine interest. 

  A wry smile creeps across his lips when he thinks about that particular misconception. Because that’s the furthest from the truth, isn’t it? Their relationship flashes through his mind like a film reel. The first time his thigh slipped between her legs as they snogged on the lawn. The pride that swelled in his chest as she wrapped her thighs around it, clutching it as close to her center as she could as she rocked, rocked, rocked. 

  Fuck, how he’d cherished the trousers he wore that day, too. For over a year, they were the closest thing he had to her knickers— and even then, he stole that first pair of knickers right off her. Though perhaps “stole” was the wrong word, because that implied some degree of secrecy… and there was nothing secret about it. He just winked at her as he pulled those blue knickers down her thighs and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. Ginny stared down at him, her chest flushed and heaving. He felt like the most powerful person alive before he even started, and when he actually did… 

  Fuck.

  He returns to the present and adjusts himself beneath the table. 

  “I… erm,” he starts, clearing his throat. “I guess I’m… well, I’ve never been good at….” He makes a broad gesture. “Touch. Yeah?”

  Ginny blinks. “Touch?”

  Harry nods, biting inside his cheek. “Erm. When I kissed you in the common room in sixth year, that was the first time I really understood I could, you know, touch you. To make you happy. To…” He huffs out a sigh, his thoughts growing more sluggish. He sifts through them for a few seconds before reaching the answer he’s searched for all along. 

  “I erm. I figured out pretty quickly that I could use touch to turn you on,” he admits to the woodgrain. “And erm… for someone who wasn’t used to touching, that was pretty… nice. To learn I had that power.” 

  His whole face feels red-hot, like it might combust at any second, but he takes her silence as a cue to continue. 

  “Anyway. As soon as we started snogging, I really wanted to do it, but obviously we didn’t get the chance at school. So instead I thought about it. Wanked about it. For months.” He lets out a slow breath through his nose and focuses on a wood beam above their heads. 

  Has he ever admitted to a specific wanking fantasy before? He doesn’t think so. 

  “Continue.” Ginny’s voice warbles through his thoughts. 

  He swallows and tilts his head down to face her again, pleased to see that confusion has evaporated from her face entirely. Now she’s looking… uncomfortable… for entirely different reasons. 

  Harry smirks; he’s liking this whole opening-up thing more than he thought. But what else to tell her… hmm.

  “Well, we both know I wasn’t great at first, of course,” he says, shrugging. “But you were erm. A good teacher.” He bites his lip again and remembers those early, awkward days when she still needed to shift against his face, to direct him where he needed to go.

Even back then, she lost all sense of decorum pretty fast; that was always his favorite part, really… when she started in with the deep moans, commanding him to add more fingers, to keep them in place, to crook them against her. There was no sense of accomplishment greater than the way she gripped his ears, his hair, his shoulders, her thighs clenching around his entire face as she choked out his name. Being surrounded by her— pressing his tongue against the final pulses of her clit as she rhythmically clenched against his fingers— made him feel more complete than anything else. It left her dazed and gasping; it left him feeling not only useful, but powerful. Necessary. 

  The whole ordeal's made him come in his trousers, actually. More than once. And speaking of trousers…

  Harry clears his throat. “You could’ve asked a while ago, you know,” he says as casually as he can with a raging hard-on. “Back when I took your knickers, even. I want you to tell me if you have a question about anything. Ok?” He swallows, finally blinking up at her.

  Shit. 

  If she looked distracted before, it’s nothing compared to now. She’s just peering at him with lips parted, chest heaving, eyes unfocused. One hand is balled into a fist on the table top, the other gripping on her thigh.

  Ginny eventually rips her eyes away with an annoyed whimper. “Fucking fuck,” she mutters, rubbing her temples. “I’m so fucking turned on.” 

  Harry laughs and finishes his pint, his chest bubbling with pride. “I guess that’s a yes.” 

[littlemisslipbalm]

Little Border Town Pt. 3

Summary: It begins with a man and a woman, as it always seems to. One lives in France and the other lives in Italy, technically, but they’re also neighbors. Various issues arise between these two and they can’t ever seem to see eye to eye on anything. Will they ever move past their petty fighting or is the little town they live in doomed to only gossip about what Harry and Y/N are fighting about today? 

Part 3: the one with the boat and the beginning of a storm

IT’S BEEN AGESSSS I AM SO SO SORRY I LOVE YALL SO MUCH AND EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER READ THIS THANK YOU FOR BEING PATIENT

also harry is wearing this fit in this part just no tie?? i think i cant remember

college has been incredibly crazy this year already and i just dont have time to write like i did before i went back. i honestly had this mostly finished and i havent reread so i have no idea what even happens so lmk what you think, i can’t imagine that it will get a lot of notes but if it did id be very happy about that - anyways lots of love and feedback appreciated as always...pls enjoy

Word Count: 6.6k | Warnings: ?? Swearing? idek, more yearning bc slow burn

Catch up here! part 1 | 2 |

-

“Isn’t the weather not ideal for boat sailing today,” she ponders as her face looks up at the sky. She’s walking into Harry’s store again after running back to her place to grab a jacket and lock up. She placed a notecard in the door’s window that says “closed today, see you tomorrow” with a smiling face as punctuation.

Harry grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had sailing boots on his feet with a smart big-collared printed shirt and marigold trousers. Instead of a belt, he had suspenders that matched the color of his pants and a pearl necklace as his final accessory other than his rings. He must have repainted his nails this morning because they were a light lavender shade that hadn’t been noticeable last night.

“It’s just fine. We’re entering fall and the sun is out today!” He gestures to the sky above them and she nods in agreement that the sun is indeed out. However she wasn’t sure if she’d categorize it as a nice day to go out on the sea still. With the sun there were also many clouds, they were mostly white and fluffy, but she was sure they could turn sinister any moment.

“Ready?” He beams.

“As I’ll ever be.”

-

On the boat, Y/N felt her stomach churning. Was she giddy or unnerved? Likely, both.

Harry was tying the boat off the dock after helping her onto the deck. It wasn’t a huge boat, not a yacht or anything, but it also wasn’t a tiny sailboat. It had an upper deck where maybe four people - at most - could comfortably be. Then a lower deck, inside a hatch in the upper deck. She couldn’t discern how much space was down there, but she was sure Harry would show her. He was talking through everything he was doing on the boat. Ad nauseum for an extremely nontechnical girl, such as herself.

Still, she sat in the spot he had directed her to next to the closed hatch and watched him move gracefully around the boat. Maneuvering the sails and different parts of the boat was a dance for Harry. Each step, each twist and knot, moved by a song unknown to her. It was beautiful. He was completely in his element, surprisingly. Again, Harry surprised her. She knew he had a boat, but whenever she thought of a jerk with a boat she didn’t think of what she was seeing with her own eyes. It was beautiful - or at least, it would be, if he’d shut his big mouth that was now making her roll her eyes as he made a pun about boats.

“So,” Harry starts finally, finishing up whatever he needed to do to get the boat off the dock and on the path he wanted. They were moving out into open water, she could see the little town, but it was growing smaller by the minute. Her stomach churned again as she looked up at the man she had just trusted to take her out onto the ocean. She grimaced slightly at the thought.

“Do you want to see the inside?” he continued.

She nods eagerly, ���Finally!”

He chuckles lightly before opening up the hatch and gesturing for her to go first. She looks at him hesitantly.

“This isn’t a trap right? It’s not going to be all...murder-y down there?” Her voice is pitched higher, she’s almost completely serious.

This time Harry’s laugh comes from his belly, almost doubling over at the word ‘murder-y’. Between laughs, he tries to reassure her. “God no...oh my god.” More laughter, then a deep breath. “The only evil entity on this boat is the diavola I invited on here,” he gestures to her standing in front of him and her eyes narrow. Displeasure washing over her features.

“You’re ridiculous,” her hand swats at his sternum before she turns from him and climbs down to the underdeck area.

When she’s down, she’s surprised with her surroundings and she doesn’t notice Harry follow quickly behind her. It’s neat and stylish. Well, she’s not completely surprised, Harry was very fashionable. But the neatness dissipated all thoughts of the improbable scenario where Harry had lured her on his boat to murder her. It was what she had been freaking out over when she had at first refused to enter.

There was a small daybed at the end of the hall that doubled as a couch, a door to a bathroom, a dining area, a kitchenette, and then the random area they were standing in. It wasn’t super spacious, it was a hallway with things around it, but it was clean and it smelled nice. Everything had a place and they were neatly put in their places. After a moment, she turned at the feeling of Harry’s presence behind her.

He grinned, scanning the areas her eyes had just taken in for the first time. His green eyes were filled with admiration. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, smells like you.” She nods matter of factly.

“Huh?” His head whips to her, sure he hadn’t heard her right.

“The whole place is very you,” she looks away from him and walks down the hall to the daybed and takes a seat, “Styles-ish.”

He follows quickly behind, shaking his head out of his own thoughts.

He mumbles a thanks, not catching the play on words she’d used with his last name. She smiles to herself, pleased. He stands in the doorway, not really wanting to sit beside her. Maybe he didn’t trust himself with being in such close proximity with her anymore. No, not after last night.

Her eyes widen slightly when he leans against the doorway and crosses his arms. The sleeves of his button-up had been rolled up when he had been working with the sails. Her lips suddenly are dry and she wets them with her tongue, eyes moving to the fabric of the blanket she’s sat on top of.

“I meant to say,” Harry breaks the silence, obviously not a fan of the quiet. A hand leaves his pose and runs through his hair, rings classically tugging at his curls. He swallows before he speaks again, “Thanks, uh, for stopping me last night. That would’ve been weird…”

He trails off and her eyes go wide again, but now they’re trained on his face. His eyes are downcast now, watching the way light plays off his rings. She tries to make out the sound in his voice, the expression he’s trying to hide with indifference. Her teeth tug her bottom lip into her mouth as she thinks, silence once again taking hold of the small, small room. The air is tense, static, unmoving, the complete opposite of the water that rushes just outside the walls of the boat.

She clears her throat and Harry locks eyes with her, “No problem...alcohol and atmosphere, clouds the head. I get it.” She did, but she also hadn’t wanted the gratitude Harry had just placed on her.  

“You booze, you lose,” he smiles, straightening up and she looks at him quizzically.

“That’s such an odd phrase.”

“No it’s not!”

“It’s a play on ‘you snooze, you lose’ right?” She leans forward, face looking smugly up at Harry’s offended face.

“Well, yeah,” Harry admits.

“I can’t believe you made that up and got it tattooed,” She states breezily and then stands. She brushes past him to look around the rest of the cabin.

Harry scoffs, not even noticing the way her fingers had brushed over his naked forearm as she passed, too focussed on his indignation. “How’d you know about the tattoo?”

“Naked neighbor? Never closing his shade? Do you seriously need a refresher course already? Seriously, boat boy, I really thought you were smarter than that,” She talks as she snoops around the different parts of the cabin. She pokes at figurines and looks at little photos and paintings. Her head looks over her shoulder and she laughs happily at Harry’s face of irritation. It was so easy to push his buttons.

“Don’t call me boat boy,” he seethes, but she knows he’s not really mad. More like he’s a child who got told no dessert before dinner. A laugh rocks through her body again and bubbles to the surface. It causes Harry to soften, this time there’s no alcohol in his system to account for the feeling he just felt. He mirrors the smile she has. That is until she reaches the kitchenette and finds a rack of CDs sitting beside the sink.

She turns from him and begins to leaf through them, most of them are artists she recognizes. But then she reaches some that are just titled “Demo” with various numbers beside the word. Her fingers nimbly pick out “Demo #1” and turn back to Harry with an inquisitive gaze. His green eyes are bigger than usual, the smile gone from his face.

“These from the boy band days?” She smiles wider as he turns a little red. She crosses closer to him, remembering the sight of a cd player in the main area where the entrance to the cabin was.

“Erm..no.” She flips around again, confused again, but then it dawns on her. “Demos for my solo work.”

“That you put on hold to take over for your Uncle.”

“Great Uncle.” He corrects.

“I know.” She waited a second, where she was about to be quick to play the CD, she now wanted to get Harry’s permission. It might be a little more personal than she had first thought. “Can we listen to this one? You’d technically be taking me up on the request to play for me sometime.”

“Yeah, they’re rough - obviously. So if you could try to not bruise my ego, at least not more than you usually do,” he grins and she looks at him with dead eyes. A smile cracks on her face quickly, still.

“I wouldn’t...this is different,” she struggles to find the right words. She would never make fun of something he cared a lot about, not now. She wasn’t that person, it was odd to think he maybe saw her like that. She shook away the thought and focused on placing the CD in its player correctly.

The first song begins to play, he’s right it is rough, it’s a demo. There’s no backing vocals or beat of any kind. Just a voice and a guitar. And it’s amazing. After the guitar intro, she lets out a breath she had been holding when she hears the voice. His voice. It’s beautiful. And she’s shocked, her eyes flash to Harry. He’s nibbling at his bottom lip, watching her hear it for the first time. His voice from all those years ago.

“Brooklyn saw me empty at the news, there’s no water inside this swimming pool.”

Her eyes light up again at the lyrics and she smiles, finding it melancholic yet slightly funny at the same time. It was interesting, the words, his voice, the meaning. Some bits of information eluded her, but she knew she enjoyed the song.

“And I’ve been praying, I never did before.”

Even as the song moved on from this one lyric, she felt it replaying in her head as she watched the singer in front of her. Years older than he had been when he had written this song. She was filled with questions and paused the CD as the guitar faded out.

“That’s it?” Harry laughs, “Just one song? It was really that horrible?”

“Oh my god, no!” She is emphatic, needing Harry to understand she’s serious. She takes a step closer to his figure. He had traveled closer to her while the song had played. They were almost chest to chest and her hand goes out to touch his forearm. “I really liked it, genuinely. I just needed a moment before the next one.”

“Bracing yourself?”

“Stop, I’m serious. It was beautiful. Your voice is wonderful, Harry.”

His eyes sparkle at the praise, finally believing she’s not taking the piss. Then his eyes dropped from her gaze, “I was a lot younger then, was 21 I think when I recorded this demo.”

“So? A voice like that doesn’t just disappear, dude.” She looks at him with a finality in her expression before dropping the hand that was firmly gripping his tattooed arm and turning back to the CD player.

Harry bites his lip as another one of his early songs plays over the shoddy speakers. His voice repeats “Meet me in the hallway” over the solo guitar. There’s no echo or bass, no count in like the final song was supposed to have. It’s just him and his guitar, before he chose to leave it all behind.

His voice is sadder here, she notices and she visibly winces at “just take the pain away” and “just let me know, I’ll be on the floor” and his repetition of “gotta get better.”

How did this man, who seemed fazed by practically nothing, have so much hurt in him to write both of these songs? Her eyes welled with water, but she blinked them back still staring at the singer before her. He was watching the CD spin in the player as his voice came through the speakers. He was lost in thought, in memory. Maybe she was lucky, these weren’t memories for her, she was only hearing his interpretation of his life. She hadn’t had to live that pain first hand. This time she doesn’t pause before the next song.

The next one seems more produced than the last two. This one starts with drums, a step up from the last two acoustic demos in respect to production. A big crash and then a wailing guitar and an accompanying voice. His voice is stronger here, more sure of himself. And then it changes again, melancholic once again and her heart strings are yanked at again.

“We’re not who we used to be, we’re just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me, trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.”

The guitar continues that sad tone for a riff and then goes back to strumming beneath his voice. She shifts her eyes to him again and sighs softly, it weighs heavy on her soul that the man next to her has seemingly been through so much heartache. He looks up at “We don’t see what we used to see” and she holds his gaze, brows knit together in confusion and sadness. She pauses this time, finger reaching out without looking.

“This is depressing, please tell me they’re not all sad songs or I might as well have turned on a pet rescue commercial.”

His smile etches on his face, in a small knowing smirk and he crosses into her personal space. She’s about to step back, but he reaches out and softly bats her finger away from the pause/play button. She smiles back, shuffling to lean against the counter beside him. It was unusual for them to be on the same side of the counter, much like last night at the bar.

“There’s six songs on this demo. Three sad, three…” he trails off, looking at her expectantly. She nods. “You gotta learn to be a little less impatient, hmm?”

“Not impatient, just trying to brace myself for more sadness. I thought I had been promised a day of fun,” she grumbles.

“I wasn’t the one who suggested a demo listening party,” his brows raise and she twists her mouth to the side at his smug response.

“True,” she finally concedes with a murmur.

He presses play and a new song comes on that is more upbeat than any of the other’s that have played so far. It also seems to be a bit more produced than the first two. Her hand rests on the countertop and begins to tap, she quirks her brow at the first lyric “she’s got a family in carolina, so far away, but she says I remind her of home.”  A girl who likened Harry Styles to the South of the United States, interesting. As she listens to the lyrics, she smirks at the massive crush he must have had to write this song. The “good girl” lyrics bounce around in her mind and her mind drifts back to last night. Would it have felt good? To kiss Harry?

Then, she’s brought out of her reverie with “I met her once and wrote a song about her”. Her eyes widen and look to Harry again inquisitively as his past self muses over how good this girl felt. He wrote about a one night stand? That woman must have been magic. That was all she had to say about that.

“Really?” She asks incredulously, folding her arms over her chest. His gaze flickers at the movement, human nature. He presses pause.

“What?”

“A one night stand earned that?”

He looked at her seriously, like the answer was obvious. She laughs before continuing.

“You’re a simp.”

“I’m sorry?” He sputters at her statement immediately.

She raises her brows as a response now. Nothing else to say.

“She wasn’t a one night stand,” he defends, “She was a blind date...and it had been after a dry spell.”

She starts to laugh, about to give another snarky response, but he adds, “And I was twenty-one.” The numbers specifically enunciated.

“You’re still a simp in my book...but I liked the song. It was catchy, rock vibes in there. I don’t know about her telling you remind her of Carolina - north or south, I don’t see it.”

He eyes her warily, still not happy with her titling him that gen z term that was super popular all over the internet. He took her in and he knew she was only three years younger than him, he was pretty sure, yet she used ‘simp’ and ‘vibes’ like they were lexicon words. He didn’t hate it, it was just different than what he usually heard in the little border town. Italian not having translations for things like that, English was so interesting, internet language was so interesting.  

“I-” He starts and stops. “She said it. Was she right? That’s not my place to judge.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N pressed, words dragging out playfully, “Personally, I wouldn’t want to be a reminder of the U.S. South, but okay...simp.”

“I swear to god if you call me that one more time, I’m throwing you overboard and I won’t feel bad about it.”

Her eyes widen and then she smiles, he cracks a smile too. They huddle back around the CD player, ready for the next song. It starts with a strong guitar and drums, again well produced compared to the acoustic earlier ones.

His voice in this is far more shaky, unsure of himself again. “Let me take my medicine, take my medicine, treat you like a gentleman,” comes through the speakers. She shivers and looks at him, her fingers tapping along to the beat. The instruments are strong where his voice is soft, it doesn’t exactly fit, but she likes the lyrics still. When it gets to the pre-chorus, that’s when she knows she loves the song.

“I had a few got drunk on you and now I’m wasted, and when I sleep I’m gonna dream of how you (tasted)”

When his voice pitches high for ‘wasted’ she loses it. Her body moves with the instruments and her eyes close and her head wiggles. Harry smiles happily as she dances for the first time to one of his songs. The last word must have been shouted by his bandmates, because she doesn’t hear him say it.

Then the chorus hits and she wonders how it got even better. Her eyes shoot open and she just stares at Harry, her jaw slightly dropped.

“If you got out tonight, I’m going out tonight cause I know you’re persuasive! You got that something and I got me an appetite now I can taste it”

His past self sings of getting dizzy and his voice moans into the mic the demo was recorded on. She’s blown away. It sounds so hot, his voice gaining confidence during the pre-chorus and the chorus to have an all around rockstar sound.

The present Harry just taps his rings together as he watches her, studying her reaction with an even-tempered expression. Why isn’t he screaming like she is on the inside? When it gets to the second verse she’s bracing herself for what’s to come. This song has her pulse racing and blood flowing wildly around her body. She’s buzzing from it.

“The boys and the girls are in, I mess around with him and I’m okay with it”

The electric guitar follows the line up and she thinks she’s going to pass out on this boat right now. Flamboyant Harry. Was this what Marie had been talking about. The wild side of Harry she really had never seen, embodied in one song. She wanted more of it. Still all she got was the Harry on the demo rocking out to his song. She can hear him smiling through the recording, the sad boy from a few songs ago was now feeling euphoric. She just wanted to dance the night away with him.

Then another pre-chorus: “I’m coming down, I figured out I kinda like it, and when I sleep I’m gonna dream of how you (ride it)”

His voice goes high again for ‘like it’ this time and her question of what is to follow is quickly answered with the bandmates screaming ‘ride it’ into the mics they must have had. It’s punctuated with the drums and other instruments. A noise escapes the back of her throat and Harry looks at her both smugly and amused. She rolls her eyes in response, trying to convince Harry that she hadn’t just had images of him singing about how good someone rides him flash in her mind. Even more so with the images of someone, namely her, being the object of his dreams. Doing the things he said he’d dream of. That, that was definitely not what she was thinking about. Definitely not. Her throat was dry and she swallowed hard. Harry’s eyes never left her face. Watching every reaction, gauging it and storing the information elsewhere for the time being.

She sings along to the chorus, trying to focus on the song, it was easy to pick up, but then the damn moans. And then there’s a guitar solo that sounds like sex itself and she’s baffled that this was an unreleased demo, not a famous rock song. Harry in front of her can’t stop himself from tapping his feet at this part, a little dance forming on his body as his eyes finally leave her figure. They close as he feels the music, the memory of his friend playing the riff clear in his mind and how much he had loved it. It builds up again and then there’s a final chorus. She watches him now as he dances in the confined space. His mouth opens to sing along to the “la la la’s”

It ends and goes straight into another upbeat song. It seemed like a complimentary song to the one that had just played.

“I don’t want your sympathy, but you don’t know what you do to me, oh Anna!”

His voice sings strong again. Harry before her composed himself again, going back to his watching position. He took in her tapping and smiling to the song. He also mouths the words slightly as it plays, the lyrics clear as the day he finished writing them almost 4 years ago. One of the final ones for this demo.

“Hope you never hear this and know that it’s for you, don’t know what I’d tell you if you asked me for the truth”

She smirks at him, now, with the earnest lyrics, about to say something, but then notices the change in the guitar. It switches from the epic riff that was going to a more familiar tune, “Faith” by George Michael. She looks at him, a cheesy grin on her face as the voice begins to sing the chorus of that song. Her body begins to dance to it, like an old man doing the twist. She’s not ashamed and Harry loves it and joins her by mirroring the movements.

When the song comes to an end, they’re one large giggling mess. She falls into his arms and he holds her steady, their laughter coming out with freedom.

“Thanks for making me be patient,” She looks up at him, “it was worth it!”

He smiles, backing up slightly, “It’s like I knew what I was talking about.”

“Ok smart guy,” she teases with a silly voice. “I’m assuming whoever Anna is, isn’t actually named Anna then...?”

Harry hums and makes a twitch of his brows, but doesn’t respond. Instead he grabs her hand and she squeaks slightly, he pulls her to the ladder and prompts her to go up. She obliges silently and lands back on the top of the boat now. She looks out and sees the little town to be off in the distances now, shining blue water all around the creamy white boat.

Harry stands behind her now and shuts the hatch easily. She looks at him warily, confused by his silence. He extends his hand to her this time and she takes it. He leads her to the front of his boat. They’re moving, but so slowly you’d barely notice. There’s a loveseat of sorts right at the front and Harry sets her down in it. She smiles at him with caution, still bewildered. He leans against a part of the boat that stands in front of the seat.

“It’s beautiful, right?” He asks.

Her eyes have been looking around her, but they’ve mostly been trained on Harry. She was mesmerized by him now. His music, his boat, his clothes, his everything. She was seeing him in a new light. In a completely brand new way that had her unable to take her eyes off of him.

She nods finally when Harry looks at her expectantly. “It’s amazing,” she breathes.

His smile is the half-sided grin again. Beautiful big teeth on display with a little part of space between them. His dimple pops out and once again her eyes are on his face. She realized going on this boat with Harry might not have been such a good idea.  

He folds his arms, her eyes flicker down. Every movement he makes, she doesn’t want to miss it. Even if she also is telling her mind to shake it off, she can’t. It’s like a spell.

“Obviously Anna is a pseudonym,” he says finally, eyes watching where the boat was taking him. She nods in approval. He pauses, watching the little waves, but she knows he has more to say.

“What did you think of the rest of it?” He asks quietly, gaze never going back to her. He knew she’d teased him a little and had danced along to some. She’d looked at him with wide eyes at some lyrics, but he wanted to know what she really thought.

She can tell he’s nervous, but she doesn’t understand why. They were all very good songs, his voice was beautiful, the lyrics were interesting. She didn’t understand his lack of confidence. His first time not exhibiting his usual self-assured - self-absorbed, even - personality. She bites her lip in confusion and his brows knit together, further showing his apprehension. The wrinkles in his forehead show up more prominently and she’s reminded that Harry is 26. He’s a different person now then he was back when he recorded that demo. Maybe there was a reason he kept them on the boat. She felt unsure in her response now.

“They were all great, Harry.” His face softens immediately. “Each one was beautifully written and sung. The ones that were acoustic sounded wonderful as did the ones with your whole band. I’m honored to be someone who got to hear those masterpieces.”

She wanted to tell them they should be famous songs, but she had a feeling that might not have the effect on him that she wanted. He had chosen a little quiet life in the little border town. She didn’t think he would want to hear how his music could have made it big time.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, just about the sounds of the sea. He lets a closed mouth smile twist onto his face, but it feels like he doesn’t fully believe her. She wants to kiss his worry away, but again, she knows it’s not possible. His words from earlier rang in her head. It would make things weird. Yeah, you’re right. Ugh, why had she agreed. She didn’t agree, not at all, not anymore.

“Did you have a favorite?” He stands up straighter with his question.

She laughs slightly, “I liked the second to last one a lot. It was hot.”

“Hot how?” He steps closer, smirking.

She jumps up from her reclined seat, in indignation, “Oh come on, you know it’s hot. Now you’re just looking for me to stroke your ego! It’s obviously about sex.”

“And? You’re the one who’s saying it’s your favorite and blushing.” He arches a brow at her, arms going to his hips and looking at her teasingly.

“Well, you’re the one who was singing about sucking dick and dreaming of how someone rode you.”

“Is that what it’s about?” His voice raises as he purses his lips and raises both of his brows.

She realizes just how worked up he’s gotten her in such a short amount of time. She huffs and turns away from him with a flick of her hand. “You’re infuriating.” Is all she can say. She looks out at the waves now, ignoring Harry even though he’s less than a foot away.

He’s laughing behind her for a little. Then when she doesn’t turn around, he quiets and she’s not quite sure where he’s gone. Then his breath fans over her neck and right shoulder, where her jacket hasn’t managed to cover her. It’s warm and a little minty as the scent travels over the salty sea air. She doesn’t turn or move a muscle for that matter.

A hand reaches out to her shoulder, but still she makes no move to turn. It rests there for a minute and she simply huffs again, letting her shoulders rise and fall dramatically. A single laugh slips from Harry’s mouth.

“C’mon diavola, don’t be like that. S’all in good fun.” His voice is low in her ear, sultry even. It reminds her of his voice in that song once he got into it. His voice sounds like sex in her ear and this time when she sighs it’s not because she’s irritated with him. No, she wants him. The sigh has an undercurrent of that desire and she hopes Harry doesn’t understand that. But otherwise she stays quiet, letting him murmur into her ear with his hand on her shoulder and his chest pressed to her back now. The only witness of this exchange is the ocean before them.

His head leans closer and if she didn’t know any better it felt like he was about to press a kiss to her neck. Instead all she feels is the brush of his mustache, it tickles the shell of her ear and she can’t keep in the giggle. She twists away from the sensation and Harry is grinning at her when she faces him.

His hand still on her shoulder and his body still pressed close to hers. He’s so warm and so close and so shiny new in her eyes, even if he still manages to irritate her. Her eyes flicker up to his as their laughter quiets down. She realizes her own hands have gone to his waist to steady herself and she follows his feet as he backs them up from the edge of the boat that she had brought them too.

It’s quiet again. They’re staring at each other intently. Her eyes are swirling with emotion because she just wants to know what’s going on in the brain of the man before her. She wants to know everything about him, but she knows that’s not how he feels about her. Sure, they’re friends now, but nothing else.

Why did she have to come on this stupid boat and find his stupid amazing music? Why did he have such a stupid amazing face?

These questions and other silly things were racing around her head as she gripped his waist. He didn’t mind her quietness, he found her gaze to be a little unnerving, but he was just glad he had made her laugh. He found that he didn’t enjoy her anger at him as much anymore.

Just as he was about to start another conversation, there was a cloud that drifted over the shining sun. It was her original fear come to life. Harry’s brows furrowed as he looked up at the clouds. They were turning grey. Fast.

“Shit, shit, shit,” He began mumbling and released his hand from her shoulder. He pulled away from her hold and began moving swiftly around the boat. He needed to get them off the water, there was a storm coming.

Her eyes went wide as she noticed the approaching storm as well. Her brows furrowed with worry as she watched Harry begin working on the boat, his only words being curses to himself at first.

Then he enlists her help, asking her to hold onto a specific part of the boat for him after he threw her a life vest and made her put it on. She wore it with great dissatisfaction. He only shrugged as he continued to move nimbly around the boat, turning them around, back to the dock.  

The boat moved much swifter into the shore than it had on their way out. The waves were growing choppier by the minute and she would admit she was more than a little scared. Thankfully, Harry knew what he was doing and got them there quickly and safely. Once at the dock, he tied them there and then helped her off the boat. She stood on the dock uncomfortably as the rain started to come down.

“Give me your lifevest!” He gestures from the boat.

She quickly takes it off and flinches when the first bout of thunder sounds from far off. He takes it from her and throws it haphazardly down the hatch along with his own before jumping off the boat himself. He surveys the boat from the dock to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Then he looks at her. She’s wrapped her arms around herself and is ducking her head, looking like she’s attempting to ward off rain but failing miserably.

She looks up at him and he offers a soft smile of reassurance.

“Take my hand!” He shouts slightly over the growing sound of rain and thunder. He wants to get them out of the rain, but he’s also apprehensive to leave his boat to the mercy of the weather. Still, that’s all he can do.

She puts her hand in his and his fingers weave with hers. Then, they’re off racing back to their street in the little border town.

-

“I should go back to my place!”

“Don’t be silly! France is much too far for you to go in this weather!”

She laughs and grips his hand tighter as he fumbles for his key. His wet hand slipping as the rain droplets soak their clothes and skin. Even though her door is a mere few feet away she allows Harry to pull her into his shop. The warmth and dryness appreciated after running a few blocks in the now torrential downpour. There weren’t storms often in the little border town, but like the old adage said ‘when it rained, it poured’ quite literally. The less she had to travel in the rain the happier she was, even if it was three measly feet.

It also occurred to her that she’d be able to sit out her first storm with someone by her side. And she would admit that didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world. She wasn’t necessarily a fan of storms and being in a new place with a storm she’d never weathered before was daunting. Harry inviting her in was a blessing. She didn’t have to be asked twice.

Once inside the little shop, their wet frames begin to form puddles beneath themselves. Harry sighs and takes off up his rickety stairs. She looks after him in confusion but stays put when he calls a quick “Wait there!”

She shakes a bit of the rain from her and shivers as she listens for Harry’s movements barely audible above the crashing of the rain water. When he returns, her breath catches in her throat, like she just choked on something, yet there’s nothing.

As he walks down the steps, far slower now, his wet hair shakes out around his head forming some ethereal halo. The light from upstairs illuminates him and the darkness outside casts an ominous darkness as he descends.

“Un ange…” She whispers after finally catching her breath.

If he hears her, it doesn’t matter. He’s already beginning to smile widely just from seeing Y/N before him.

He skips the last step and crosses to her swiftly. “Let’s get you dried a little more,” he begins to dote. A matching smile spreads on Y/N’s face out of appreciation. She still can’t manage to fend off the shivering and Harry’s smile falters. His hands leave the towel and trace her exposed skin. Her cheek feels like ice, only slightly warming under his touch.

“You need dry clothes,” he mumbles.

Her eyes widen as she looks up at him. He’s so close and so attentive and she wants to ask him to kiss her because they’ve been going back and forth all day, but he’s right she’s freezing. His eyes are so intense though she can’t even maintain eye contact. Instead her gaze flits up to the droplet beginning to swell down one of his rogue strands of hair that flopped over his forehead moments ago.

She doesn’t respond as she watches and Harry begins to worry more. Her eyes seemingly unfocused, her shivering, and her silence. He thumbs over the apple of her cheekbone and finally breaks her reverie. The droplet splashing between them without her as its audience.

“C’mon,” he tugs her hand now to bring her upstairs.

[thearcher18]

so....erm i wrote my first witcher fic. not my best work but i literally wrote this in one hour and i just wanted to.

title: talk me down

fandom: the witcher

relationship: geralt of rivia & jaskier, geralt/jaskier

words: 1k

tags: hurt/comfort, pre-slash

also on ao3

They had been traveling for six days when the farmer sought them out. There was a pack of werewolves terrorizing the village and had already killed several people. The village, which was in middle of nowhere, was small, consisting of not more than a hundred people. So it was stupid of the farmer to not have mention a seventeen year old girl looking to avenge her family.

After Geralt had left Jaskier, who had been complaining as usual —seriously, Geralt, you should know there is no point in telling me to stay— and had only given up when Geralt mentioned that they didn't exactly had enough coins for a decent meal tonight. Jaskier had given a reluctant nod —I forgot. of course you deserve a good meal after saving the day— he'd said.

The girl, Lorelei, had been excellent at hiding. Apparently, she started following him right after he left the inn. The forest, in which the werewolves lived was quite deep, the smell of blood was fresh. Geralt could sense that the wolves were close and they knew he was here so he sheaths his sword— the potion he'd drank earlier heightened his senses, his eyes sharp and blood pounding in his ears. Adrenaline flowing rapidly in his veins.

Suddenly, just behind him, he heard the rustling of leaves; a brief smell of meadows and horses, carefully concealed so the witcher in his normal form wouldn't have sense it— a human.

Geralt tried to get her to leave. That it was dangerous but she was determined and vengeful and the fire in her eyes reminded him so much of Renfri that he felt his breath stutter but Geralt didn't have enough time to convince her when suddenly the werewolves revealed themselves— big and vicious creatures. One was an alpha and the other three were betas, all powerful. Geralt had dealt with bigger packs before but today he had to somehow protect the girl.

The werewolves attacked, either side of him— snarling and hungry for his blood. All four of them pounced on him at the same time. He killed the first beta in just two minutes; that turned the other three werewolves more vicious and angry. The alpha aimed for his neck but Geralt quickly moved but his claws dug in his sides. Geralt roared and managed to severe another beta's head.

He was too late in noticing Lorelei running towards the only beta left and before he could even try to fend off the alpha, the beta tackled her to the ground and riped her throat out.

“No!” Geralt roared but it had been too late. He severed the alpha's head and succeeded in cutting the beta in half with vicious slash.

But it didn't matter now.

Geralt moved towards the girl's body but she was already dead— eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Shit.” Guilt was heavy on his soul.

He pulled out a scarf from his belt— the scarf Jaskier had gifted him. He tried to picture his beaming smile, his bright eyes. But he didn't deserve him, did he? He was a monster. Geralt laid the scarf on her torn neck, the blood instantly soaking it.

You killed Renfri. And you didn't save the girl. Both their blood is on your hands. You are a monster. Everyone had always been right about you.

The potion had already worn off; making him weak in the knees and the injuries he sustained were long forgotten as he picked the girl up and made his way towards the village. Geralt doesn't know how he had reached it— only one thought running through his head;

You couldn't save her.

Thankfully, the farmer was just there as he laid the girl's body down. “I—” he began but the farmer cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Since her family was eaten by those bloody wolves, she had been a lost cause.” The farmer rambled on how they all had seen it coming but Geralt didn't listen— instead, he continues walking towards the inn.

Walking away from the sour stench of the girl's blood.

“Witcher! Your coin!” The farmer yells but Geralt didn't deserve that anymore.

“Keep it.” Geralt says, gruffly and he doesn't know how says it but he does and pretends that his hands aren't trembling.

Thankfully, the inn wasn't far and the bard was standing there in front, probably about to complain but as soon as their eyes met, Jaskier stops. Geralt doesn't know what he looks like. But whatever Jaskier sees is enough to make him understand. He is grateful but what would the bard do when he finally knows that he couldn't save the girl? That he had been too slow, too weak.

Jaskier doesn't ask anything. Doesn't speak at all. He just leads Geralt in the inn towards their room where he's already had a hot bath set up.

Geralt realizes that his body isn't responding to his mind. He's almost motionless— a puppet in Jaskier's hands as he helps him out of the armour and pulls him towards the tub. There are firm, lute calloused hands cleaning him up, cleaning his wounds— strong gentle fingers massaging his scalp but Geralt refuses to relax.

Geralt knows he hadn't felt like this since Renfri, and he knows that circumstances were different, that he had killed Renfri but he hadn't killed Lorelei— but he couldn't save her. And it was almost the same thing.

Jaskier is pulling him up and helping him get in his clothes and suddenly he wants Jaskier to stay away from him. He wants him to leave and never come back because how long is it going to be when it's Jaskier that he couldn't save? His sweet, lovely, wonderful Jaskier. And even the thought of it makes him sick and he jerks back from Jaskier's gentle hands.

“What—”

Geralt ignores the hurt look in Jaskier's cornflower blue eyes— regret builds inside him but he keeps his resolve.

“You should leave.” Geralt snarls, hoping he doesn't have to stand from where he's seated at the edge of their bed— and Jaskier's eyes widen slightly but he doesn't move, damnit.

“Geralt, what—”

“You don't understand! I couldn't save her!”

Jaskier's eyes soften but he still doesn't budge, still standing in front of him. “I know.”

And Geralt wants to yell, wants to roar that why haven't you left!, wants him to stop looking at him with kindness and wonder as if he's some kind of a hero— because he isn't. He's a monster, the Butcher of Blaviken—

Suddenly his vicious thoughts are cut off by firm, gentle hands that cup his face. “Geralt, it wasn't your fault.”

Geralt tries to shake off his hands, wants to stop looking at his bright blue eyes. But Jaskier's hands don't move. “I could have stopped her before—”

“No, you didn't know, darling. She made a choice. I saw her earlier, she had that wild look in her eyes and she wouldn't have stopped.” Jaskier rest his forehead against his and says firmly, “It wasn't your fault.”

And there is something in Geralt that just breaks. Witcher don't cry, but he is shaking and Jaskier's there, pulling him in— and Geralt buries his face in Jaskier's chest.

He knows that this probably won't be the end of this conversation. That he is going to get awful nightmares just like has of Renfri's. That the guilt isn't just going to fade away. That he would sometimes look at his hands and find them red with blood— with Renfri and Lorelei's blood.

But he also knows that Jaskier will be there for all of it. Wrapping him in his arms and making Geralt feel the most safe and secure he's ever felt in his life. His bright laughter, his careful understanding, his beautiful singing will probably get him out of any dark corner his mind will lead him to.

And then maybe, maybe he would understand that some things just weren't his fault.

[whatstheproblembaby]

Fic: What’s in a Name?

The “Why does everyone call Shelagh ‘Mrs. Turner’ when all the other married nurses are ‘Nurse Whoever’ fic that no one asked for but I wanted to write anyways. ~1900 words, G, gen/friendship fic at the beginning but solidly Turnadette by the end.

Also on AO3!

Shelagh had thought she was above eavesdropping in corners in Nonnatus House after Trixie and Cynthia had roped her into their spying on Jenny and Alec all those years ago, but apparently, some things stayed with you. She was approaching the dining room from the hall, intending to enjoy a quick cup of tea and a catch-up with Trixie as she waited for Patrick to finish with an ulcer case, but the voices coming from the kitchen made her pause and shrink back into the wall. She was likely still visible if someone took the effort to look from the dining room - and anyone coming from the end of the hall would think she was ridiculous - but she thought the conversation that was going on might not benefit from her presence just yet.

“Trixie, you’ve been here the longest,” Lucille began.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me, Lucille,” Trixie replied with a faux-irritated huff.

“You know that’s not what I meant. You’re still a young woman, and you have valuable knowledge that the rest of us appreciate,” Lucille said. Shelagh could just barely see them entering the dining room out of the corner of her eye, noticing what she thought was a quick, loving hand squeeze between the two women as they and the others took their seats. “Especially about the history of Nonnatus.”

“That’s true,” Sister Hilda cut in. Sister Frances nodded emphatically beside her. “They give us some background at the Mother House, of course, but it’s no substitute for actually having your boots on the ground here.”

“I see…,” Trixie said. She took a sip of her Horlicks before continuing, “And what exactly about the history of Nonnatus do you want to know?”

“It’s not about the history of Nonnatus precisely, but it’s related. I think,” Lucille said, sipping her own drink. “It’s about Mrs. Turner.”

“She should be here in a moment,” Trixie said. Shelagh flattened herself even more against the wall when Trixie leaned out to scan the hallway for her, but to no avail - she saw Trixie’s eyes widen as they locked with her own. Shelagh shook her head, just once. Thankfully Trixie got the message, smoothly saying, “You could just ask her then.”

“I don’t know if what I’m about to ask is...painful, somehow.” Shelagh quirked an eyebrow at Lucille’s choice of adjective. “If you don’t know the answer, though, then I will ask once she arrives.”

“Fire away, sweetie,” Trixie said. She looked back up to where Shelagh was hiding, her face a perfectly unruffled mask. Shelagh could see in her eyes that she too had no idea where Lucille was taking this question, though.

“Why do we call Mrs. Turner ‘Mrs. Turner’ when we all called Barbara ‘Nurse Hereward’ after she got married? She’s also a nurse - are we being disrespectful?”

“I’ve wondered that, too!” Sister Frances chimed in. “She puts in as much work as the rest of us. Doesn’t she deserve the title?”

Shelagh pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh. She had been so worried about gossip and stigma when she first left the Order - she had never imagined that she would be so absorbed into her new life that people might not know anything about her past at all. Of course, she had never imagined that the staff at Nonnatus would shift quite so frequently, either. Once, it would have been Cynthia, Jenny, and Chummy sitting at that table with Trixie, and they would have had no need to ask.

“I suppose the simplest answer is that for quite a while, we never expected Shelagh to become Mrs. Turner,” Trixie said. “It was a joy for us to be able to say it, and she did retire briefly from nursing when she married. We just got used to it.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Shelagh said, finally stepping into the dining room and revealing herself. A chorus of startled noises punctuated her statement, along with Sister Frances splashing her Horlicks onto the table.

“Oh, lass,” Phyllis sighed, pushing herself up to grab a dishcloth from the kitchen. “Hasn’t the East End trained the jumpiness out of you yet?”

“I’m sorry!” Sister Frances said, taking the cloth and mopping up her spill. “But why didn’t anyone expect you to marry Dr. Turner, Mrs. - I mean, Nurse-”

“Right now, I think you should all just call me Shelagh,” she cut in, taking Sister Monica Joan’s usual seat at the foot of the table. Trixie got up at that, walking over to the kitchen to pour Shelagh a mug of Horlicks, too. “Or were you going to be circumspect about my first name as well, Trixie?”

“Had they asked, quite possibly!” Trixie said, passing Shelagh her mug and taking her seat again. “I didn’t realize your past was such ancient history. Or is it classified under the Official Secrets Act?”

“What are you two talking about?” Val interjected, looking from Shelagh to Trixie and back like it was a match at Wimbledon. “You’re making it sound like she has a secret identity or something.”

“Maybe she’s a Russian spy,” Phyllis teased. “Come to get classified intel on birthing babies for the Kremlin!”

“Close,” Shelagh said with a laugh. “But to answer your question, Sister Frances, I need to ask you and Sister Hilda one of my own first. Did anyone at the Mother House ever mention a sister who left the order back in 1958?”

“Not to me,” Sister Frances said. “But I only just took my life vows.”

Sister Hilda bit her lip for a moment before saying, “Now that you mention it, it rings a bell. I think Mother Jesu Emmanuel said something at dinner one day, but she didn’t say which sister it was. Did you know her, Shelagh?”

Trixie snorted into her mug.

“I was her,” Shelagh answered.

There was pin-drop silence around the table. Five sets of eyes bored into Shelagh, clearly begging to know more, while Trixie just quietly allowed everyone to process the moment.

“I was Sister Bernadette for about ten years,” Shelagh explained. “And Dr. Turner was married to his first wife, Marianne, for most of that time. But she passed away, unfortunately, after an illness, and after that...we grew closer.”

“So no one expected you to get married because you were a nun,” Val said. “That makes sense.”

“Well, that, and I was in a sanitarium for six months or so because I had tuberculosis. Your future generally gets a bit hazy when you’re diagnosed with a serious illness.” Shelagh took a sip of her drink as another round of stunned silence settled around the table.

“Is that all?” Phyllis asked after a moment. “You aren’t secretly a member of the Royal Family, or brewing bathtub gin out of one of the spare rooms-”

“No, I’m out of surprises for the day,” Shelagh said through a laugh. “But thank you for thinking I could be that interesting.”

“So when you two first met-” Lucille began, turning to Trixie.

“She was Sister Bernadette, terrifyingly efficient and completely off-limits for friendship. Or so I thought,” Trixie said, smiling. “And now Shelagh’s still terrifyingly efficient, but an excellent friend.”

“Gosh, Trixie, at least buy me dinner first,” Shelagh teased. There was a moment of shared laughter before Lucille spoke up again.

“No one’s answered my original question, though. Do you want us to call you Nurse Turner professionally, Shelagh?”

Shelagh took a moment to gather her thoughts before answering. “I do appreciate the offer, Lucille, but no. Patrick and I actually discussed this a little when I returned to nursing, and we were concerned that ‘Dr. Turner’ and ‘Nurse Turner’ would lead to confusion among our patients if they were trying to discuss diagnoses or treatments amongst themselves. And admittedly...I do quite like being Mrs. Turner.”

“Well that’s encouraging to hear,” came another voice from behind her, making them all jump. Patrick rested his hand on Shelagh’s shoulder from behind her chair, squeezing once in greeting before asking, “Are you ready to go home, Shelagh?”

“Unless anyone has any further questions?” Shelagh asked, smiling at her colleagues around the table before standing up and taking her mug to the kitchen. There was a flurry of “good nights” from all parties as Shelagh looped her hand through Patrick’s elbow and they made their departure.

“‘Further questions’?” Patrick asked once they were in their car. “Were you having a class I didn’t know about?”

“Not exactly,” Shelagh said. “I overheard Lucille asking Trixie why everyone calls me ‘Mrs. Turner’ and not ‘Nurse Turner,’ and that led to some, erm, revelations.”

“But why - no one knew about Sister Bernadette?” Patrick said, connecting the dots. “Not even Sister Hilda? I would think she was in the Order around the same time you were.”

“She had heard about a sister leaving, but she didn’t know it was me,” Shelagh explained. “Apparently there’s been so much upheaval at Nonnatus House over the last few years that our story has gone quite unremarked.”

“You’re not upset that Sister Bernadette isn’t more prominent, are you?” Patrick said, reaching over to take one of Shelagh’s hands in his. Their gazes met briefly before he had to turn his focus back to the road. “She - you - did important work during your time there.”

“I’d like to think I’m doing important work now, too,” Shelagh said, smiling over at her husband. “And I don’t care about being recognized for it, whichever name I’m using. Frankly, I think I’d find it harder to do my work if Sister Bernadette’s name was still being talked about. I’d always be concerned that I’m not...living up to her standards, or that people preferred one version of me to the other. Not that there are versions of me in the first place!”

“You have always been the same loving, determined woman I used to share an illicit cigarette with years ago,” Patrick said, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’d like to think you’re allowed to be more open about it as my wife, but even if you had stayed in the Order, I know you would be going above and beyond for your patients and colleagues, because that’s just who you are, regardless of the name you use.”

“If I had any doubts about the path I chose in life, that would have erased them,” Shelagh said. “You have always seen me so clearly, Patrick, and it’s helped me to see myself.”

“It’s mutual, my love. I don’t know how I would have handled certain events over the past few years without you helping me find my strength and courage when it was needed.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Shelagh said, waiting for Patrick to put the car in park and turn off the engine before reaching over to take his hands in hers. “Just listen to us. Timothy would be aghast if he heard all this ‘mushy stuff,’ as he used to call it.”

“Timothy’s not here, though, is he? Which means I can do this without fear of unwanted commentary.” Patrick pulled Shelagh in for a lingering kiss. By the time it was finished, Shelagh had just about forgotten any name she had had in her life.

A yell of “Mum!” came from the front door, startling them back into reality.

“Another name for the list,” Shelagh joked wryly. “But maybe we could resume what we were doing a little closer to bedtime?”

“With pleasure,” Patrick said, and they got out of the car.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Emerald and Amber

Summary: This story concerns an amber-eyed young man from Xerxes, and an emerald-eyed young woman from the lands to the West that have not yet become the country of Amestris. 

A little tale exploring a world in which Trisha was Hohenheim’s contemporary, and they met back in the halcyon days of Xerxes before he became immortal.

Written for the Wriye ‘What’s In A Name?’ title challenge. As soon as I saw the prompt ‘Emerald and Amber’ I knew it had to be Trisha and Hohenheim.

Rated: T

Content Warning: Mentions of slavery, including sex slavery. 

 Emerald and Amber

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.

This story has two endings. 

One is emerald. One is amber. 

Neither ending is entirely happy, but neither ending is entirely sad, either. They are both, however, endings: final finishing points, where the story comes to a natural close. 

This story concerns an amber-eyed young man from Xerxes, and an emerald-eyed young woman from the lands to the West that have not yet become the country of Amestris. 

When they meet, these two endings begin to weave themselves into their respective shapes. 

This is the beginning of both these endings.

X

Van Hohenheim, newly named, newly freed, newly literate and, indeed, newly everything, is not quite sure what he ought to expect from his life going forward. He has spent the last few years working diligently alongside his master and Homunculus and has reaped the rewards of that, and whilst he’s always had dreams of having a family of his own, he’s never been entirely sure that’s on the cards for him. In his line of work he doesn’t really get out much to meet people, not when he has to spend so much time in the alchemy laboratory. It doesn’t really lend itself to dating. 

Not that Hohenheim would really know what to do if he had the time to date, and if he had someone to date in the first place. Whilst he’s always dreamed of having a family, it’s always been a rather nebulous dream and he’s never given all that much thought to all the processes that go into the creation of a family in the first place, such as finding a wife and having children with her. 

It’s precisely two days after he casually laments this to Homunculus that Hohenheim’s life changes irrevocably, because whilst he’s not at all sure what to expect from his life going forward, going into his room one evening to find a young woman with the green eyes and dark hair of the western lands beyond the desert is definitely not something he would ever have expected. 

Eloquence is not one of the traits that Hohenheim prides himself on, so he feels justified when the first word out of his mouth on meeting this lady is “erm…”

She just looks at him. There’s tension in her entire frame, arms crossed over her chest protectively and shoulders hunched, but her eyes, as they hold his steadily, are bold and defiant. She’s wearing a loose silky gown that’s so sheer it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination and Hohenheim isn’t sure where to look, finally settling on the ceiling as the best place. She’s evidently had a bath but there are blisters on her feet from a long walk through the desert sands and Hohenheim knows she’s a prisoner from the Xerxian army’s latest land-grab foray into the west, spared the ransack of her village because she’s so pretty and she’ll do good harem service in Xerxes with her exotic colouring. 

Hohenheim’s stomach churns at the thought of it. It was not so very long ago that he had just as little freedom, although at least his tasks were menial and domestic rather than sexual. 

“Erm…” He clears his throat and tries again. “Erm, I think you have the wrong room.”

“Don’t I please you, sir?”

Her Xerxian is halting and Hohenheim wracks his brains for the bits of Western he’s picked up over the last couple of years. The frequency of the army’s excursions across the border have resulted in a lot more westerners arriving in Xerxes, and the tongue is not silent here. Hohenheim hears it often enough in the kitchens and sculleries, places that, as hard as the memories of his indentured time are, are sometimes more familiar than the small room in the palace where he now resides as his master’s most trusted assistant and the most trusted confidant of Homunculus.

“Erm, no. Yes. No. I mean, you’re very pretty but I really don’t think that you’re, erm, for me. And I’m not a sir. I’m just a, well, me.”

“You are Hohenheim?”

“Erm, yes.”

“Then I am for you.”

Hohenheim gives a strangled yelp of alarm as she pulls the shift off and turns tail, racing out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him. For a few moments, he’s convinced that this is all a very strange dream and he’ll wake up in a minute. Maybe he’s hallucinating. 

He counts to ten and goes back inside, but despite his hopes, the woman is still definitely there and still definitely naked. 

“Right. Erm. Right.”

He grabs the blanket off his bed and wraps it around her shoulders. 

“I’m just going to find out what’s happening.” He doesn’t tell her not to go anywhere, because he’s still not entirely convinced that she’s there in the first place. 

The woman just draws the blanket around herself and sits down on the bed as Hohenheim rushes out of the door again. He leans back against it and takes several deep breaths. This is not at all how he expected to be spending his evening and he really needs an explanation from someone. 

Unfortunately he knows that the person most likely to be able to give him an explanation is also not entirely a person, and he worries just what Homunculus’s explanation might be. 

Slowly, Hohenheim makes his way back towards the laboratory and Homunculus in its flask.

“Back again so soon, Hohenheim?”

“I was hoping you could tell me why there’s a naked lady in my bedroom.”

“Oh, don’t you like her?”

“I…  She’s lovely but why is she there?”

Homunculus shrugs as much as a ball of smoke in a flask can shrug. “You were lamenting your difficulties in finding female company,” it says, completely nonchalant. “Since I knew that there was a party returning with new blood for the harems, I persuaded our good friend the alchemist that you deserved one for the night.”

“I… That is not what I meant!”

“Don’t you want her? I’m sure we can find someone more to your tastes if you’d like.”

“No, that’s really not the issue here.” Hohenheim realises that it’s going to be impossible to get Homunculus to understand what the problem is, because as deeply and profoundly intelligent as it is, it is at times like this that it shows it is really not human and does not necessarily understand the vast complexities of the human condition in all its messiness. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve only got her for the night. Any other man would be making the most of it.”

Hohenheim shakes his head in despair and leaves the laboratory again, wending his way back to his room. 

The woman is still there, still sitting on the bed in his blanket, and she looks up as he comes in. 

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” he says. At least, that’s what he hopes he says. His Western isn’t very good. The woman just looks at him, confused. 

“Don’t I please you, sir?”

Hohenheim really does not know enough Western to make his next speech at all intelligible to her, so he launches into it in Xerxian and hopes for the best. 

“You’re lovely, and I’m sure you’re very, erm, pleasing, but I’m still not going to sleep with you. I was a slave once too, I know what it’s like, and I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want to do. You’re not mine, you shouldn’t be anyone’s, you should just be you, and I’m not going to sleep with you because it’s what’s expected of either you or me.” 

He sinks down onto the bed beside and she looks at him with curiosity rather than the tense defiance she’s shown so far. 

“Patrizia.”

“Sorry?”

“Patrizia.” She points to him. “Hohenheim.” She points to herself. “Patrizia. Trisha.”

Hohenheim smiles. 

“Hello Trisha. Nice to meet you.”

She reaches out and pats his hand. “You are a good man.”

“I try not to be a bad one.”

They fall back into silence for a little while. Hohenheim is glad that they’ve now introduced themselves properly and he’s glad that Trisha seems to understand that nothing’s going to happen between them, but at the same time he still doesn’t quite know what to do with her, because whatever happens, her position is precarious. 

She’s been brought back to Xerxes to be a harem girl, that much is obvious, but since after tonight she will ostensibly no longer be a virgin, she won’t be part of the royal or other noble harems - she’ll be considered sullied, and relegated to the more dangerous brothels in the more dubious parts of the city.

Hohenheim is not naive enough to think that anyone will believe him if he says he didn’t sleep with her. He’s a hot-blooded young man, after all, and everyone knows that there’s only one thing on a hot-blooded young man’s mind. 

Hohenheim knows that the one thing is not supposed to be alchemy, but then again, he’s never really considered himself to be all that normal, so he’s just accepted that he’s not all that interested in sex and goes about his life not thinking too much about it. 

All the same, he knows that from the moment Trisha was brought into this room, her fate was sealed, and he knows that he needs to do something about it. He can’t let her go through what’s in store for her. He has to do something. There must be something he can do. 

A plan begins to form in his mind.

The good thing about her being considered ‘damaged goods’ after tonight is that no one will miss her if she disappears quietly and is not found in his room in the morning. He can spirit her away to somewhere safe, as long as he can find somewhere safe for her. 

He crosses his fingers that this plan isn’t going to come to nothing, and he gets up again. 

“Stay here.”

He’s not sure whether Trisha understands, but she’s showing no signs of moving, and Hohenheim leaves the room, racing through the palace as quickly and hopefully unobtrusively as possible until he reaches the kitchens. The smell brings back the odd fond memory from a childhood that now feels very far away. 

He peers around the door into the bustle. Even this late in the evening, the kitchen is still working, preparing things for tomorrow. 

“Pst. Cam.”

It takes him a few moments to get Cam’s attention, and she heaves a sigh, coming over to him at the door.

“You’re really not supposed to be here, you know,” she says. “What brings you down here this time?”

“I need help.”

“What’s new?”

Hohenheim tries not to be too put out at that remark. “It’s not help for me, it’s help for someone else. And potentially help for you. Have you got space for another person in here?”

Cam looks around the kitchen.

“Space? Potentially not. Work enough? Absolutely. What’s going on, Hohenheim?”

“I have a naked lady in my bedroom and I don’t know what to do with her.”

Cam raises an eyebrow. “I know you came into your education comparatively late, Hohenheim, but I distinctly remember giving you that particular talk.”

Hohenheim just glares at her. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what to do if I don’t want to do that.”

“So you’re trying to rescue her instead?” Cam gives a soft sigh. “Oh, Hohenheim.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re just so… Never mind. I take it she’s Western and came in with the latest raid return?”

Hohenheim nods. 

“Right.” Cam bustles back into the depths of the kitchen and returns a minute later with a bowl of fruit and some kitchen utensils. “I’ll come by later and help you get her away. In the meantime, you can make yourself useful and teach her enough Xerxian that she doesn’t get herself killed on her first day in the kitchen.”

Hohenheim rushes back to his room, keeping an eye out for anyone who might question the rather eclectic mix of items that he’s taking there. Trisha is still there. He hadn’t really expected her to go anywhere, but he’s still relieved to see her. She’s put the shift back on but the blanket is still wrapped around her shoulders as she looks out over the desert, the sunset making the sand in the distance glow amber for a moment before it vanishes completely and plunges Xerxes into darkness. 

“Trisha?”

She turns and gives him an incredulous look at his utensils.

“It’s nothing weird, I promise.” Realising that’s probably not at all reassuring since she can’t understand enough of the language, Hohenheim just sighs and offers her a pear instead. She eats eagerly and ravenously, the juice dripping over her fingers, and for the next hour or so, they make good headway with learning the the Xerxian for various fruits and kitchen utensils. Hohenheim’s not sure if he’s learning more Western than Trisha is learning Xerxian, but as long as Cam keeps her on desserts in the kitchen, she should be fine. 

By the time Cam arrives with a motherly smile and some rather more substantial clothing, Trisha seems to have fully understood what her new fate is, and as she leaves his room, she kisses Hohenheim’s cheek in gratitude.

For a long time after Cam spirits her away to the kitchen staff’s quarters, Hohenheim can only stare at the open door. 

It’s the first time he’s ever been kissed. 

X

This story has two endings. One is emerald, reflected in the eyes of the defiant young Western woman who stays unnoticed in the shadows of the palace kitchen, learning the language around her by osmosis, her dark hair tucked under a scarf, never drawing attention to her roots. One is amber, reflected in the eyes of the confused young Xerxian alchemist who keeps sneaking down to peer in at the kitchen door and check that she’s all right. Sometimes she sees him and gives a smile and a wave. Sometimes he’s shooed away before she notices him. 

They’re both glad that the other is all right after that night that brought them together and began to set these two endings in motion, and so the endings continue to weave from the beginning of the story into the middle.

X

Hohenheim is surprised to receive a soft knock on his door late one night, and even more surprised to find Trisha grinning at him when he opens it. 

“You sneak down to see me,” she says by way of explanation. “My turn to sneak.”

“Oh. Right. Ok.” He steps back, inviting her inside. “Come on in.”

She steps in daintily, looking around at the room where their first meeting took place, months ago now.

“How are you getting on?” Hohenheim asks. 

“Good. Cam is nice. Everyone is nice. I feel happy in the kitchen.” 

Trisha’s Xerxian is definitely coming on in leaps and bounds, Hohenheim can tell. He follows her over to the window and they stare out at the desert night together like they did on that first evening. 

“I miss home.” Trisha sighs. “I miss green. Everything here is so white and yellow.”

“Yeah. I’d like to see green some day.”

“Maybe one day I’ll take you to my home.” She’s so frank and matter of fact. “Then you’ll see lots of green.”

“What’s it like, your home? Apart from green.”

“Sheep,” Trisha says definitively. “Lots of sheep. But some people too. Good people like you. I think they would like you.”

Hohenheim gives an awkward cough, fixing his gaze on the horizon and pointedly avoiding Trisha’s eye. He hears her giggle beside him, and after a few more moments he turns to find her watching him, amused. 

“You’re funny,” she says.

“Oh. Thank you. I think.”

They continue looking out of the window over the city in silence for a while, but there’s nothing uncomfortable in it save for Hohenheim’s inherent awkwardness that he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow out of even though he’s now approaching thirty (he thinks - he’s never been entirely sure of his birth date). There’s still movement and chatter in the streets outside the palace; in a city as big as this one there’s always something happening no matter the time of the day or night. Braziers will always be burning, people will always be working. 

Trisha watches it all with rapt attention, and Hohenheim finds himself watching her. 

“Have you been outside?”

“Outside?” Her brow furrows. 

“You know. Out there.” He waves his hand out of the window to indicate the city. 

“Oh. I see. No.”

“Do you want to go outside? I could take you out now?”

There’s nothing stopping them  - he’s a free man, and Trisha’s not really got any kind of civil status at all since she vanished into the kitchens, but Hohenheim still feels like he’s suggested something clandestine. Maybe it’s because it’s so late at night, maybe because everything about Trisha feels a little bit forbidden. 

Any qualms he had about the suggestion melt away when Trisha’s face lights up at the suggestion.

“Yes, yes. Yes. Please.”

They leave his room and pad quietly through the palace until they’re out in the streets outside, wandering through the Xerxes of the everyday people. Hohenheim points out the sights to Trisha - well, he points out shop fronts and merchant stalls and names them for her, listening to her rich foreign accent curling around the words as she repeats them back. 

Presently she shivers - night time in the desert is as cold as the day is hot, and she steps a little closer into his side as they continue to walk. Even though he feels ridiculous to do it, Hohenheim offers Trisha his arm, like they’re a proper courting couple stepping out together. 

Trisha slips her arm through his readily, leaning into his side with an impish smile. 

“We look like…” she says, but the final word is lost on him. He’s going to have to get her to teach him some more Western whilst she learns Xerxian. 

“What was that?”

“We look like….” Trisha’s brow furrows as she tries to translate. “Honey cakes?”

“Oh. Sweethearts?”

Trisha shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Oh.” Hohenheim pauses. “Is that all right?”

Trisha doesn’t reply, but she stays with her arm linked with his, her presence very real by his side, all the way back to the palace. When he leaves her by the door to the kitchen staff quarters, she goes up on her toes and kisses his cheek again, like she did on that first night. Her bright green eyes are searching for a moment, and then, before he can move away, she pulls him back and presses her lips to his. 

Hohenheim squeaks in surprise and she pulls away, startled. 

“Oh. Sorry. I thought…” 

“No, no. It’s ok. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

Trisha is flustered and looking at him without comprehension, so Hohenheim decides that actions are going to have to speak louder than words, and he kisses her back. 

“Honey cakes,” Trisha says softly as they pull away, and with that same impish little smile, she disappears around the door, leaving Hohenheim wondering what on earth just happened. 

Perhaps the vague dream of having a family of his own won’t be as hard to achieve as he always thought it was. 

They settle into a comfortable routine after that, a slow but happy courtship that’s easy in its simplicity. Neither of them have parents or guardians so there are no strict formalities to be observed. Well, Cam counts as guardian of both of them, in a way, but she’s hardly scary, just giving Hohenheim a good-natured ‘treat her well’ one day when he comes to the kitchen at the end of Trisha’s shift to take her out. 

It takes a long time for them both to come around to the idea of it, but just over four years after Trisha first appeared in Hohenheim’s room and took her clothes off, she does so again, this time with love rather than defiance in her eyes. It’s not something magical that moves the earth, but it’s something beautiful nonetheless. There wasn’t a lot of point in waiting till they got married. They can’t get married; Trisha doesn’t officially exist. 

Trisha rolls over onto his chest and strokes a finger over his chin.

“I like the beard,” she says. “I wasn’t sure when you started growing it out but I like it now. It looked terrible at the start.”

“Thank you. Your lack of faith in my ability to grow facial hair is wounding.”

Trisha just laughs and leans in close to kiss him. She lingers for a long time, their noses touching, and when she finally pulls away and looks down at him, there’s a pensiveness in her face. 

“Trisha?”

“What happens when you’ve finished your job?” she asks. 

She’s talking about the king’s quest for immortality. The pieces are falling into place now and it won’t be long before the ultimate transmutation takes place and Hohenheim will play his part in bringing that ambition to fruition. Trisha has never fully understood exactly what he does, has never had any interest in alchemy beyond the fact that he is interested in it and she is interested in the things that make him happy, so she just refers to it as his job.

Hohenheim shrugs. “I don’t know. I assume we’ll just keep researching what else alchemy can be used for. Homunculus has a wealth of knowledge still untapped after all.” 

“Hmm.” Trisha doesn’t look convinced. “Do you think you’ll ever find the limit of that knowledge?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t trust that thing.”

“I know you don’t.” Truth be told, Hohenheim doesn’t really trust Homunculus either, but he can’t deny that it’s been the key to his current happiness, so he can’t really disparage it too much. 

“Do you think you’ll have more time after it’s all done?” Trisha asks. 

“Potentially. Why?”

“Just thinking.” Trisha dances her fingertips over his chest. “About the future. You know. You. Me. Perhaps more.”

“Yes. I want that.” Hohenheim has never given up on his dream of having a family, and now he has Trisha, it’s within his grasp. He thinks of what they’ve just done. Maybe it’s already in the works.

Trisha smiles. 

“I love you, Van.”

“I love you too, Trisha.”

“Finish your work, and we can be together without anything hanging over us.”

It’s such an inviting prospect, and it’s in the back of Hohenheim’s mind for the next few weeks, until the Promised Day is almost upon them. 

X

This story has two endings. One is emerald. One is amber.

Both endings begin in the same way, with two simple sentences. 

“Trisha, I’m worried about what will happen on the Promised Day. I think you should leave Xerxes, just in case.”

Trisha answers “only if you come too,” and the world shifts emerald green.

Trisha answers “I’m not going without you” and the world shifts golden amber. 

X

Trisha leaves. Hohenheim leaves with her. If going with her is the only way to get her to leave, then he’ll leave it all behind. As long as she’s safe in the wilderness across the border.

The Promised Day comes and the population of Xerxes opens the Gate of Truth.

Everything is emerald. 

Everyone is dead. 

They watch the portal open from just beyond the border, with the lush forests of the west welcoming them on the far horizon. 

There’s only dumbfounded horror as Trisha and Hohenheim realise what they have just narrowly escaped. They’re the only survivors of Homunculus’s scheme. Hohenheim is the last of his people. Just like that. Just in a finger snap.

“Van?”

He’s still staring at the devastation as Trisha tugs his hand. 

“Van, come away. There’s nothing to be done. All we can do is leave it behind.”

He should have been there. He shouldn’t have left. Why should he survive when everyone else is gone? 

But Trisha’s alive. Trisha’s all right, and Trisha never fails to remind him that she’s glad he’s alive, too. 

The thought gives him a glimmer of hope. 

The west is so green. Hohenheim’s never seen this much green in all his life. He’s lost in it, just as Trisha had been lost in the sands as they made their way away from the city across towards the Xerxes border. 

Trisha knows where she’s going though, and within a few days, they make it back to her village. Years have passed since she left it ransacked, but those who were spared have begun to rebuild. 

Together he and Trisha can rebuild. Together, they can work towards justice for the Xerxes that they left. 

X

It takes over four hundred years, but the legend of the last Xerxian still holds true. No matter how diluted the bloodline becomes, Van Hohenheim’s amber-gold eyes always appear at least once a generation. 

In the end, when the second Promised Day comes, it comes down to a pair of brothers, born in the same village where Trisha and Hohenheim made their home all those years ago, both with those golden Xerxian eyes. It’s fitting that they’re the ones to bring everything to a close. 

When it’s all over and all done, Edward and Alphonse Elric trudge up the hill towards the forest, where stone markers set in place centuries ago are entombed in greenery. There are no names, but the family who now call themselves by the name of Elric have always known who lies here. 

“Hey Great-Grandma. Hey Great-Grandpa.” Ed gives a tired smile. “There’s way more greats than that by now, but you know what I mean. It’s all over.” He pats the ivy covered stones. 

“You can rest now,” Al adds. “You couldn’t finish it in your lifetime, but you made sure we could finish it for you. Rest now.”

The green woods of Resembool have been haunted for years, they say. Only those with the golden-amber eyes of Xerxes can venture in without uneasiness. Perhaps if anyone else had been watching, they would have seen a young woman with a smile like the sun, and a young man in the traditional garb of a Xerxian alchemist walking away from the tombstones as the Elric brothers set their souls at ease. 

Within a moment though, the forest is the emerald it was before, and the world is at peace. 

X

Trisha stays. Hohenheim stays. If he can’t persuade her to leave, then he might as well go ahead with the plan. As long as she’s safe in the kitchen with Cam.

The Promised Day comes and the population of Xerxes opens the Gate of Truth.

Everything is amber.

Everyone is dead. 

It’s the morning after the Promised Day, when the King of Xerxes would have become immortal. But the King of Xerxes is dead, like everyone else in the entire country of Xerxes. Everyone is dead. 

The Dwarf in the Flask is no longer in the flask, and as Hohenheim flees from his new doppelgänger through the labyrinth of the palace, he only has one thought on his mind as the screaming of half a million souls echoes through his veins, sending him half-mad with the despair of it. 

“Trisha!”

He knows it’s futile as he reaches the kitchens. He knows that everyone is dead, and yet there’s still that small part of him that can’t help but hope. 

“Trisha!”

She’s lying in a pile of fallen fruit, as if she’s sleeping among the pears. 

“Trisha!”

She’s dead and long since cold, but Hohenheim holds her close nonetheless, and his wail of anguish drowns out the souls for a long time. 

Three days into his trek across the golden sands towards Xing, trying to pacify the souls and going slowly insane from their agony, Hohenheim hears one voice distinct among the rest. 

Van?

“Trisha?”

I’m with you.

Then her voice is lost in the whirlwind of pain. 

For the first time since he woke from the nightmare of the Promised Day, Hohenheim feels the faintest glimmer of hope. Maybe he can form an understanding with the souls, and maybe Trisha can help him with that. Maybe she doesn’t blame him for what happened. 

Maybe together they can work towards justice for Xerxes.

X

It takes over four hundred years, but the legend of the Last Xerxian holds true, and when the second Promised Day comes, it comes down to one man with amber-gold eyes and over half a million souls all united in one goal. It’s fitting that they’re the ones to bring everything to a close. 

Hohenheim doesn’t think that he would have been able to get here if it wasn’t for Trisha’s constant presence in the back of his mind, always pushing him forward whenever he was on the verge of giving it all up and trying to find some way to end his long, long life.

She’s still there, even as all the rest of the souls give themselves up for the cause, as he takes hit after hit, trying to keep the one now known as Father from turning Amestris into another Xerxes, because Hohenheim will have justice for those million dead. He will have justice for Trisha. 

But the time has come for them to part now. The souls are all used up and Hohenheim’s strength is failing.

It’s time, Van. I’ve got to go if you’re going to make it to where you’re going. I’ll see you soon, though. Very soon. 

He wants to beg her not to leave, but he knows that neither of them have a choice in the matter. 

“I love you, Trisha.”

“I love you too, Van.”

And then she’s gone. 

When it’s all over and all done, a lone figure trudges through the sand towards the ruins of the place that had once been the illustrious city of Xerxes. The Ishvalan refugees who have made their home there watch with curiosity as he moves through the decaying buildings towards the palace, paying them no mind. 

The palace bears no resemblance to the glorious structure that it once was, but Hohenheim can still find his way around what’s left of it, finding his way to the room that had once been his, and had become his and Trisha’s. 

“Hey Trisha.” It feels so lonely and quiet without her presence. “We made it home.”

The palace of Xerxes has been haunted for years, they say. Only those with the golden-amber eyes of Xerxes can venture in without uneasiness. Perhaps if anyone else had been watching, they would have seen a young woman with a smile like the sun, and a young man in the traditional garb of a Xerxian alchemist walking away from the city as the Ishvalans perform the last rites of their people and set their souls at ease. 

Within a moment though, the sand dunes are as amber as they were before, and the world is at peace. 

[calypsoff]

Eighty Five.

Meetings after meetings, studio after studio. New York is busy for me to say the least, and now I am onto meeting number three and this is with Jay Brown, he wants an update on the plan of action. Before we leave tonight to go back to California where I pretty much take my sound engineer and team with me to California to finish my album off, like this whole thing with Chris has inspired me a lot, I think the songs that are coming from me are going to be songs that people love, I have been testing different genres and I think I am pushing myself for this album but it’s hard, I have my private life on show too, I have people that need me. Meaning my daughter, I have a lot on and then building my own team, Fenty Corp, now I was thinking of getting Chris on board until he annoyed my life with his stupidity but it’s a lot, I could have done with him helping me with this. I am building an empire for my daughter, for my family. I rise, so does all my family. I want my kids, kids, kids to be rich and it starts with me but I will deal, I will get on with it and deal. I want to build my empire, this is something I’ve always wanted to do so I am excited but I need to get this album out “Miss Fenty, Jay Brown is ready to see you” breaking my daydream there, Jen and I both got up from the seat “you have been so quiet” Jen said at the side of me “planning my next move, doesn’t help when my voice is going so I am trying to be quiet” I chuckled “oh yeah, I mean it should just disappear, just have the break today and then tomorrow, by then you will feel better” nodding my head as I made my way inside the meeting room “Rihanna!” Jay Brown spat with his arms open, walking into the hug “long time boo” wrapping my arm behind his back “where is the mini Rihanna?” He said looking around me, I chuckled “she is plotting on her next milk feed, she is with her father” moving back from the hug and made my way around the table “oh he’s taking care of her? In a cast” he added “yeah, Rorrey is with him. She’s only Five months, not like she can walk away from him” he’s not incapable of taking care of her.

The meeting is underway and honestly my mind is drifting, drifting back to the meeting and then to my future, to my life but I am just thinking how Chris had to get hurt in this, I didn’t want that. It’s been a few days and I haven’t really spoken to him or even Rorrey until I said pick up Rylee to take care of her “for the album rollout we are thinking of going in partnership with Samsung and do a little fun thing for the fans but I also want to add we need you to use their phones too for a while, but we want to do something for the fans so they are involved” nodding my head “that is fine, I am here for all that and I am doing this album for my fans, this is who I am doing it for and they deserve it. I want to make sure I do the most for them, are we announcing the tour straight away after the release?” Jay nodded his head “indeed we are, and then of course after all that it will be your own personal ventures until you are ready to do another” all I can think about is missing out on my daughter “I wanted to ask actually, what happened to Chris?” I knew that was coming “erm, he had a fight. With Drake” I added, I came out with it, I am not holding back on it because he is a snake “Drake? He hasn’t said anything about it” Jay looks taken a back “because he is in the wrong, he used my husband. Manipulated him, Chris is new to this game, he’s come out of Jail, not knowing what things happened between him and I, I assumed he was just being friends with him, genuine. But then it escalated to the point where he was making out I am some Hollywood whore, kept feeding him shit, Chris is none the wiser because he thinks this nigga is being a friend to him, that Drake cares when he doesn’t, I’ve had enough and it ended up being an argument and it was like he was a good guy when he wasn’t so yeah it all blew up, and that happens” Jay is in shock, he wasn’t expecting that “that is so sly, this is over you?” I snorted laughing “shocking right” he waved me off laughing “it’s dramatic but not shocking, he’s had a thing for you, you just didn’t see it for him” he got that right, Drake is not my type at all “tell Chris he needs to be careful out there, nobody is really your friend in the business” Jay said and he is right.

Left the meeting feeling positive to say the least, stressed a little but we move on “busy, busy, busy. You’re actually going to take the world by storm, I am so excited for you” I cooed out “thank you Jen” I mumbled “you seem a little deflated though, how come?” Taking in a deep breath “a lot has gone on, I think before I even start my album rollout I would hope my private life is dealt with, it’s hard when it’s left in the balance and I’m having to hear how he is through Rorrey, I don’t ring, and he doesn’t ring me and I think it could be more because of him feeling bad about what happened you know? But I just want my marriage to be secure, I want to know when I go on tour that he’s ok, I really want to take Rylee with me, she’s my daughter and I want her to be close but also want to know my marriage is ok. Just worried, it’s ok I’m here building this when my marriage is falling. It’s a lot, I feel like a hypocrite too at times” Jen is so understanding, she is married herself “marriage is hard Robyn, I think what happened with Chris would have happened. He’s new to the game, he needs to learn and understand. He will grow and you both will be fine, why are you worried?” Turning to Jen “with Fenty Corp. I wanted him to overlook my business, I wanted him to be that person because I trust him, but I feel I don’t, and it’s annoying me. I didn’t want him to be just my husband, I wanted him to be clothing brand owner and also Vice President of Fenty. I wanted that but he trips up and I’m like I can’t have this? I wouldn’t have it with anyone else, I just don’t know” I have a lot of decisions to make, and he doesn’t understand that “like I need a decision now? You know, who is my team, that is it really. It’s just a mess” waving my hand.

Placing my bag on the countertop “oh and what are you doing back?” I said seeing Rorrey on my couch “I came to back of my stuff, Chris said come. I have done anyways, so erm, not to sound awkward but is Chris coming with us?” Rorrey laughed “oh and that is Chris’ dirty clothes” Jahleel sniggered “right, erm yes. He will be coming; I haven’t really spoken to you since. How is he?” making my way to the couch “good, I mean we have just been playing the console all day really, but he is good company, just watching movies after movies, so yeah. He is good, I think he is a little stressed because he can’t do anything” looking around the room “my daughter?” I asked “with her dad” pulling a face “right, go back and help him stupid. Just tell him to come with you, with my daughter thank you too. She better be fed too” he is so dumb “they were asleep, I just text him” the nigga has a cast on so of course he needs help and here he is, legs up “I am going back, don’t worry” Rorrey mumbled “I will see you all the jet then” sitting down on the couch, I am just thinking so hard on everything, I need to make that decision before I leave who will be doing what for my company, and my step forward was Chris being in it. By the time my album and tour is done, this will be ready and waiting for me, my baby.

“Spill, you’re thinking” Mel said, my people all gathered around “my team, who I want with me for this journey. Mel you said you want to break away, you want to do your own thing. Ciarra will chief creatively officer, Melissa is going to be my design director and Philippa creative director. Chris was going to be my vice, but I don’t know” I mumbled “Jahleel, don’t give me that face I barely know you” he gasped “right, I didn’t know that was your plan but go with your heart” Mel said “the same guy that royally fucks up every time, I just. I am scared and worried because he does it a lot, you know?” Jen is thinking, I can tell “what is it? Speak to me Jen” she has something on mind “how about Chris and I do it together, he messed up then I am the safety net?” furrowing my eyebrows “this is a big deal, I am talking a big scale. I can’t have half assed shit with him, but what do you mean? You’re with me? I got Tina to help you” I said “I need to step back from that, I need something where I can work from home, less travelling also. My other half and I are trying for a baby, and I need to be home more” letting out an oh “so I am asking, because you are the boss. I don’t want to leave you; I want to be around you forever. I love you so much, all of you but if I need to have an interview for this then I will but if you want me to do it alongside Chris, I can be a silent person on side” licking my top lip “well with Chris he isn’t getting paid for it, he is my husband. We will prosper together, but. Mhmm” I said thinking “no, I will make you Vice, Chris will be the silent person. Maybe he will be annoyed with that, it’s unfair to hide a title from you. That is it, you are president, and he is vice, that is how we will need to do it, it has to be. This is where you two can work, I am going to keep it as that” I am actually upset about Jen.

I don’t want to seem selfish, but Jen is actually leaving me, and I am so sad, I will discuss it on the jet, once it sets off. We are waiting for Chris, Rorrey and my daughter. They are taking a while, but I think it’s more to do with Chris, trying to get him in and out and stuff. Now his leg is in a cast, I hope my brother is staying behind because if he isn’t then I will have to go back home because I can’t leave Chris alone, he won’t do well alone “they are here, let me go and help them. More to get my daughter then anything” I chuckled, I have dealt with Chris when he has a cast on, he isn’t the best person, he whines about everything “just going to get my daughter” I said to the attendant, she is waiting around like us. Making my way down the steps, Rorrey is of course the first person to be out “hey, how is my daughter” Rorrey is laughing, he hugged me “please tell what is funny?” he shook his head “nothing, she is on my side. She is awake, I am going to help Chris get out, maybe carry him up they jet” he better not laugh too much, Chris will refuse to go anywhere “Miss Fenty” my driver said, going around the car “oh baby” looking up and seeing Chris, he is just looking at me with low eyes, but he looked away “come on baby, you my big baby” Rorrey is very annoying, especially to a stubborn men like him now.

My brother and Chris are stupid, that is all I can say. They did more falling then anything but least he got him on the jet “everyone say back to California!” Jahleel spat “I don’t want my picture taken” Chris said because Jah is taking the selfie in front, so everyone is in it “don’t be moody?” Jah said, “I don’t want it nigga now move” frowning at Chris “Chris!” I spat “just come here Jah, leave him out of it” Jahleel kissed his teeth, Mel eyeballed me but what the hell she want me to do with that “ok look at the camera everyone” smiling as Jahleel took the picture, leaning down and pressing kiss to the top of Rylee’ head “he was rude to Jahleel” Mel said to me in a whisper “I am not his carer but I know what his problem is, or maybe I don’t but I will speak to him, maybe it’s that. I didn’t speak to him when I got Rylee out of the SUV” Mel shrugged “let me take the princess and you go and deal with that” nodding my head as Mel took Rylee from me, getting up from the seat “sit down in my seat” I said to Jah “I didn’t say anything to him” he said defending himself “I know, it’s fine just sit” making my way over to Chris “this seat free” I pointed at the empty seat across from him “yeah” Chris breathed out pointing too.

Chewing on my bottom lip, we are both quiet with each other. I honestly know why I am quiet but him, I don’t know really because he is supposed to make the effort, but I will “how you feeling with your leg?” Chris looked up from his hands “erm, it was hurt at first but it’s ok. The bruises on my side hurt more than anything, it is what it is, what can I say about this. It’s happened, my fault” he is very agitated “you need to relax, like you don’t even know Jahleel and you are snapping on him” this is bringing me back so many memories of when he was housebound and he was ever so moody about everything “if something annoys me, I am going to say it. Are you coming home?” he asked but I only know one answer “I won’t be no, I am staying with Mel and you are going to ask why but I don’t want to live with a man that thinks I was a liar, missed out on our anniversary, our first one as a married couple, first Christmas too. You can be mad all you want but you did. The effort you made because you was busy wanting to believe him, you don’t deserve me Chris. Even now, just taking care of you. Let me know when you want to see your daughter but you right, I am not coming home” getting up from the seat, he ruined these moments for and now wants me to come home because it’s all out in the open, the issue still stands. He believed another man over me.

[remedialpotions]

all these people think love’s for show

This was written for the 2020 Incognito Elf exchange on the Harry and Ginny Discord for the amazing @katie-with-the-tea. Katie, I hope you have a fantastic holiday! ❤️💚 Special thanks to @thedistantdusk for organizing the event, which is no small feat! 

Title taken from "peace" by Taylor Swift, because I am forever basic and proud of it.

ao3

Harry’s not unaccustomed to seeing his face splashed over the front page of the Daily Prophet. It’s a weekly, if not near-daily occurrence, and it has been since the end of the war. They are obsessed with him. They snap photos when he’s out for a pint with Ron or visiting Madam Malkin’s for a new set of robes (because as it turns out, it’s possible to go on the run for nine months at the age of seventeen, live off mushrooms, and still go through a grow spurt). They print speculative editorials every time he has to go to the Ministry - which is frequent, since he works there, though they prefer to disregard that. They run interviews with people he only tangentially knows - the Eyelops employee who once sold him Owl Treats, perhaps, or the Hufflepuff who was Head Boy when Harry was in his first year - who share embellished tales of their interactions with The Chosen One.

At this point, it’s almost weird when they aren’t talking about him.

Mostly, though, he’s managed to shield Ginny from taking the full brunt of it. She’s a hero in her own right, and he knows that a sighting of the two of them together is guaranteed to sell more papers than the Prophet can print in a day. He spent the summer hiding out with her at the Burrow or at Grimmauld Place, which proved effective, and so far, they haven’t missed out on too much. Of course it would be nice to take her out for dinner or even just walk through London holding her hand, but the reality of his life means that isn’t exactly an option. After everything, he’s just happy to be with her at all.

But today, it’s different. Today, when the post owl flies in through the fireplace and drops a fat bundle of newsprint directly onto Harry’s mug of tea, it’s not just his bespectacled face blinking back at him. In fact, the sight before him makes his stomach sink into his shoes.

“Nice,” mutters Ron from across the kitchen table as he uses his wand to siphon up the mess. “All they do is deliver papers all day, you’d think they’d have better aim.” He pauses and narrows his eyes at Harry. “You all right?”

Harry wants to respond, really he does - he knows Ron is prone to assuming the worst when he goes all quiet like this - but maybe Ron should assume the worst, because that’s how it feels. Words are failing him.

The photo, which moves in a terrible, taunting loop upon the page, is from yesterday, when he had been foolish enough to think that he could sneak up to Hogsmeade to see Ginny without being spotted. He followed all of his own unwritten rules, too. They didn’t go to the Three Broomsticks or to Honeydukes, but instead stole away to a secluded grassy knoll just behind the Shrieking Shack, where he believed that its macabre reputation would shield them from prying eyes.

And it had, but he made the mistake of kissing her hello in the middle of High Street (having not seen her in weeks, he hadn’t really been able to help it), and now, taking up the entire front page of the Sunday Prophet, is a long-lens closeup photo of their lips locking together. Over and over and over again.

Harry tosses the paper down onto the table and leans back in his chair. At this very moment, that same paper is surely arriving in the Great Hall, landing on the long wooden tables and making a spectacle of the most precious relationship in his life.

“Fuck’s sake,” laughs Ron, blinking in surprise at the photo. “Not exactly subtle, are they?”

“I should have used the cloak,” Harry mutters, mostly to himself, as Ron picks up the empty mug and carries it over to the stove. “And I should have met up with her somewhere different, I don’t know why I thought I could Apparate to the middle of town on a Saturday afternoon and not get caught - or I should have just stayed home. I should have known better.”

“They’d have got you some other way,” reasons Ron as he refills the mug with boiling-hot tea. “It’s unavoidable at this point, really, innit?”

The fact Ron’s right doesn’t make the truth sting any less. Where Harry goes, photographers follow, and if it was only his life it affected, he could live with it. But Ginny deserves better. Most of the horror Ginny has been through has been his fault, and now that it’s over, she deserves calm and happiness and peace.

If only he could offer that to her.

“How come this never happens to you and Hermione?” Harry asks irritably as Ron plunks the mug down in front of him. “Oh, cheers.”

Ron shrugs and picks up a slice of toast. “It does, occasionally,” he replies around a bite, “if it’s a slow news day. But the difference is that they’re not usually looking for us. They’re always looking for you.”

“And now they’ll be looking for Ginny too.”

Ron nods, morose. “Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

Like he always does, Harry writes to Ginny that afternoon, but today the parchment is filled with apologies, promises to do better, ideas on how they can meet up without being seen. He doesn’t try to reassure her, because there’s nothing to reassure her about: this is his life. There is no sense sugarcoating it; she needs to know what she’s got herself into by being with him.

By the time he’s finished his letter, the sky has gone dark, and he ambles down to the basement kitchen with the intention of sending his letter off with Pigwidgeon. But just as he reaches the staircase, he pauses. He might just be imagining things - it wouldn’t be the first time - but he’s almost positive he’s heard his name just now, coming from the general direction of the fireplace.

“Harry?”

There it is again, louder, more insistent, and alarmingly familiar. His stomach just about leaps into his throat as he thunders down the stairs and darts across the kitchen to the fireplace.

“Ginny!” Indeed, her bright, beautiful face is hovering there above the grate, and the sight of her squeezes his heart with fear. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Well, hello to you too,” she quips, good-naturedly shaking her head.

“How are you doing this?”

“I’m in McGonagall’s office,” she says as though this is something she does every day. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

His stomach turns over. She’s here to chuck him, he’s sure of it. She’s seen the paper and she’s decided that the hassle isn’t worth whatever benefit there is to dating him (if one even exists).

“Oh,” replies Harry, resigned as he drops down to the floor in front of the fireplace. “All right.”

Ginny tilts her head curiously to the side. “You look like someone’s just died,” she observes. “Is everything okay?”

“Well - I - erm - you go first,” he stammers out. “What’d you want to talk about?”

She squints at him, perplexed, then says, “Apparition lessons are starting tomorrow. The thing is, there’s so many people signed up this year - y’know, since we didn’t have them last year at all, it’s sixth and seventh years - that there isn’t room in the Great Hall so we’re doing them in Hogsmeade instead.”

Harry nods, unsure how to respond. If she’s chucking him, this is an odd way to begin the conversation. And if she’s not, then he’s not entirely why it’s so urgent to inform him about her Apparition lessons.

“So since the lessons are in the morning, McGonagall said we could stay in the village for lunch if we wanted to, so you can visit again.” The excitement on her face is painful to behold. “I just didn’t think a letter would make it to you in time, and I really want you there.”

Relief rushes through him - she is definitely not breaking up with him - but it is quickly replaced by guilt, because she looks so happy and so hopeful, and he loves her so much, and he doesn’t want to have to say what he’s about to say.

First, though, he leans forward and kisses her softly on her soot-tinged lips. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ginny blinks. “Oh.”

“Just, with what was in the paper today-”

“Oh, that,” interjects Ginny. “Yeah, I thought it was ridiculous too-”

Guilt grips tighter at Harry’s chest. “I know, I’m so sorry. I had no idea they were even there, but I should have known to expect it by now-”

“But I still want to really see you tomorrow,” she says, looking earnestly up at him.

“I do too, but…” He lets out a long, slow breath. “It just isn’t a good idea.”

Ginny looks up at him again, an intensity in her eyes this time, and then nods decisively. “Right. I’m coming in there, can you pull me through?”

“Gin - you can’t just leave school-”

“What’re they going to do, expel me? Come on, pull me through.”

Her hand rises up from the grate. Harry grasps it and tugs until she materializes fully in front of him. As she steps out of the fireplace, she brushes off her robes and then drops down onto the cold tile floor beside him. Her right hand slips over his left and pulls it onto her lap, and their fingers entwine together automatically.

“I’ll be honest,” says Ginny, the tip of her thumb rubbing along the back of his. “I didn’t love the picture in the paper.”

“I’m so sorry-”

“Stop apologizing.” Her quiet voice carries immense patience; affection for her bubbles up inside of him. “I didn’t love the picture, and the article was…” She casts her eyes up to the ceiling in search of the right words. “Creative at best. But I also wasn’t surprised by any of it. I’m mostly amazed it hasn’t already happened.”

“That’s because we never used to go anywhere together,” Harry points out, and she nods her agreement. “But Ginny, it’s only going to get worse. There’s always going to be pictures and articles that make things up, it’s just part of my life. I just, I never wanted it to be part of yours.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” says Ginny, “but that’s completely stupid.”

Harry lets out a sputter of startled laughter. “Oh, is it?”

“Of course it’s going to be part of my life,” she tells him, eyes fixed on his, “because I chose to make you a part of my life. I didn’t have to get back together with you, you know.”

Despite himself, Harry laughs again. Somehow Ginny manages to make everything better, easier, lighter. He expected an awful, painful conversation, and instead they’re holding hands and laughing.

“I’ve always known what I was getting myself into,” she goes on. “People talked when we were together last year, too.”

“A little gossip from Romilda Vane is completely different from the Prophet printing things every day - which they’ll do, by the way, now they’ve got pictures of us together.”

Ginny shrugs. “So let them. I mean, if they’re going to do it regardless, then we shouldn’t stop living our lives.”

This is difficult to argue with, but there is still one nagging fear at the back of Harry’s mind, because now he has further proof that Ginny really is in this for the long haul with him. The wizarding world has been watching him since he was eleven, and he doesn’t expect that all of this public attention isn’t going away anytime soon.

“So, what about…” He looks down at their interlocked fingers, studying the way they fit together as though designed that way. “I mean, what if we - erm - got married, and - and had kids?”

Harry forces himself to meet her eyes and finds that same intensity burning there, the thing that kept him going on long, cold, hopeless nights in the tent, the very last thing he saw as he faced his own death.

That, and maybe just the slightest hint of a smile.

“If we have kids?” she repeats softly.

“Yeah, well - you can’t pick who your parents are, can you?”

“Maybe everyone’ll be bored of you by then,” Ginny offers up, inching closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder. “And if not, we’ll deal with it.”

“All right.” Harry angles his face towards hers so that their lips brush. “Just know that I wouldn’t blame you if you decided you’d like a quiet life.”

Ginny’s nose crinkles. “Sounds boring,” she says. “I’d rather have you.”

Their lips meet again, lingering together in soft, gentle kisses, and when Ginny pulls back to catch her breath, Harry realizes he has one last question.

“What’d the article say, anyway? I never even read it.”

Ginny sits up straight. “You haven’t read it?!”

“I was too angry!”

“It was rather brilliant, actually,” she says with relish. “It spoke a lot about what a scarlet woman I am, having had three whole boyfriends in my life-“

“Naturally-“

“But apparently now I’m even worse, because now…” She paused for dramatic effect. “I’m the one you’re cheating on Hermione with.”

Harry laughs and rolls his eyes. “As if Hermione and Ron weren’t just down the road from us?”

“Yeah, well.” Ginny planted a cheerful kiss on his cheek. “Let them say what they want.”

[amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines]

Betty//things change and friends leave. life doesn't stop for anybody.

Request: Can I request a Betty/Reader where you fly in with Nick St Clair as one of Veronica's old friends and you ask her to show you around Riverdale

hey! i hate nick...a lot. i wonder if that translates in this? anyway, i hope you like it! also, it seems every gay thing i write always has some sort of quote in all lower case letters as the title. hmm... this one is from the perks of being a wallflower. maybe i rushed in with the romance and lovey stuff, maybe i don’t care. 

“You really are an awful person.” You spit as you get out of the cab. Nick smiles sweetly at you while he gets out the other side, practically sprinting so he can get to the boot and pull your bags out before you have a chance. He places them on the ground but doesn’t take his hands off the handle until a few seconds after you’ve grabbed it, and your fingers touching his makes you feel even sicker than the plane here.

“Thats not very nice Y/n.” He replies, before sending a very fake, but very big smile to the cab driver and giving him a large tip. “Especially not to someone like me. Or do you want me to tell my parents?” 

“Your parents know you’re an ass, they just don’t want to be murdered in their sleep.” You reply and spin on your heel, pulling your suitcase behind you. 

“Hey!” He calls after you and you groan, you’ve already been stuck on a plane and in a taxi with him and the short walk from the side of the road to the hotel you’re both staying in seems like a lifetime away. “You’re supposed to be my friend.” 

“I am not your friend. I tolerate you because of Veronica, and after she left to move here, I’ve barely seen you. And when I have, it hasn’t been enjoyable.” 

“Clearly, that plane ride made you grouchy.” He teases and pinches your cheek. You stop abruptly and turn to face him, you’re just about to slap him when Veronica’s cheery voice stops you. 

“Next time. I won’t stop.” You whisper in his ear before looking at your friend, a bright smile appearing on your face as you take in her appearance. She looks different since the last time you saw her, but thats what a small town does to someone like Veronica, however she doesn’t look sad, she looks happy instead, and even though she left you in New York to deal with Nick St douchebag, you’re happy she’s happy.  

“Y/n!” She squeals and wraps you in a tight hug. “Nick!” She says once she’s pulled away and you can tell she isn’t as excited to see him, that fact alone makes you feel a little better about all the time you’re inevitably going to have to spend with him. “How’s New York?” She wraps an arm around your shoulder, guiding you up the steps of the hotel and Nick walks on the other side of her.

“Not the same without you.” You say genuinely and she looks at you sadly. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

“I’v-” 

“We’ve missed you too.” Nick interrupts and as soon as he starts talking its like your automatic response is to roll your eyes. 

“Aww.” She hits his arm lightly as you walk through the front door and in to the lobby. Its not as fancy as the hotels you’ve stayed at before, but for a small town you’re quite impressed, however you can’t imagine that they get many people staying. 

Veronica’s told you so much about Riverdale, about how quaint it is, and how it looks like it would be the backdrop of some coming of age film that the two of you would watch back home. You would fawn over the protagonist, who would be trying to figure out what she was destined to do with her life, while trying to juggle everything else that was thrown at her. And Veronica would drool over her love interest, who would look far to old to be playing a 17 year old, with a chiseled jaw line and abs that definitely did not fit the aesthetic. You missed those times, but like in those coming of age movies, life doesn’t always go the way you want it to, and usually the universe will throw a curveball your way, and you can’t always dodge it. 

So, when she invited you to come visit, you were excited to see her new home, meet her new friends, and a small part of you had hoped that your own film, romantic or adventurous or anything in between would start here. But, thats not how the real world works. And instead of meeting the love of your life, you end up stuck with the devil himself on a plane, while he talks about how much he’s missed Veronica and if she’s got a boyfriend yet. 

“Oh, before you guys check in, I want to introduce you to some people.” She smiles. “Archie! Betty! Come here!” She waves behind you, and you and Nick both turn around at the same time. You’re met with a red-headed boy and a girl with very light green eyes, pink lips and blonde hair. The pale pink shirt underneath her short dungarees, is so simple but so elegant and even though you’ve never met her, it seems to be so her. “Y/n, Nick.” The sound of his name in the same sentence as yours makes your face scrunch up and the blonde girl seems to notice, a small smile flickering on her face. “This is my boyfriend, Archie.” She says and you glance at Nick, the bright smile on his face drops, and your smile widens. “And this is my best friend, Betty.” She introduces you all. 

“Rude.” You mumble and send her a teasing smile before waving at the two. “Y/n.” You smile, your eyes lingering on Betty for a moment longer than normal and a soft blush dusts her cheeks. 

“Nice to meet you both.” Archie says while shaking Nick’s hand. “Veronica has told us so much about you.” 

“All good I hope.” Nick jokes, but the tone of his voice seems to make you all a little uncomfortable. 

“Nothing about you is good.” You reply and send him a sarcastic smile. Both Betty and Archie stifle a smile at your comment, and you can tell you’re going to get along with them. Veronica decides to change the subject to stop any fights happening and soon the five of you are exchanging in polite small talk. 

“Anyway.” She claps her hands together after a few minutes. “I need to take Nick to talk to my delightful father.” 

“Yeah, I have to go back home.” Archie scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry I couldn’t hang out with you guys more.” He sends both you and Nick apologetic smiles, to which you return and Nick just huffs. 

“Who says hang anymore.” He whispers in your ear, a small snicker following it making you roll your eyes...again. 

“Everyone that talks about how they’d like to watch you die.” You return and shove past him as you walk closer to Veronica. As soon as your by her side she looks between you and a very annoyed Nick before giving you a confused look. 

“Well Betty, I guess you’re stuck with me.” You move to look at her, and the two of you send each other small smiles. “Thats if you’ll have me.” You add and she nods, some would say a little too quickly. 

“Yeah.” She says. “I can show you around if you want.” She suggests. 

“Yeah, that would be great.”

“Well, we all have our orders. Y/n, I’ll meet you at Pop’s later on if you like.” 

“Pop’s?” You ask. 

“I’ll take you there last.” Betty says. 

“You can leave your bags here and they’ll put them in your rooms.” Veronica tells you before calling someone over. She gives them their orders and you smile gratefully at them as they grab your bags. “See you later Y/n. And thanks Betty.” She hugs both of you, before kissing Archie quickly and then guiding Nick out into the street. 

“See you Betty. It was nice meeting you Y/n.” Archie is the next to leave and you wave politely at him before he disappears. 

“So where do you want to start?” Betty asks. 

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Do you have a favourite place?” You ask as the two of you walk down the steps. 

“Hmmm.” She thinks about it for a few seconds before her face lights up in a bright smile, and the sight alone makes you feel a whole lot better about being here for a week, even if you do have to spend some of it with Nick. “I know just the place.” She says before turning on her heel and walking in the opposite direction than you were originally going. 

“Is this place far?” You ask. “Because these shoes are not made for walking far. I’m not like Veronica, I can’t sprint in heels.” You giggle and she glances at your black heels. 

“I think Veronica could run a marathon in heels if needed.” She laughs. “But don’t worry, my car is parked down the street.” She reassures you. Once the two of you are in the car and driving down the small streets she glances at you quickly before looking back at the road. “Do you miss her?” Her tone changes drastically and the sound of the street your walking down seems too loud all of a sudden. You came here to have fun and see your friend, not talk about serious things with a stranger, no matter how cute said stranger is. 

“Erm. Yeah. I do. New York doesn’t feel the same without her.” You admit and look at the passing trees. She sighs, trying to think of something to say to you. However, no matter how much of a people person she thinks she is, she knows how close you and Veronica where, and she knows that if Archie moved to a different street let alone city or town, nobody would be able to make her feel better. So instead she keeps to simple girl talk, something that you’re grateful for, even if you don’t tell her. 

“I like your outfit.” She says and you look at her, a small smile on your face. 

“Thanks. I like yours too.” You reply and she rolls her eyes. 

“You don’t have to be nice.” She shakes her head and you stare at her confused. 

“I’m not. I genuinely like what you’re wearing. Why is that so surprising?” 

“I just thought it wouldn’t something you liked, I mean based on your outfit right now, I can’t imagine you ever wearing short dungarees.” 

“I’m full of surprises Betty.” You nudge her causing her to giggle. 

“I’m sure.” She replies, stomping at some traffic lights. Her gaze lingers on your profile for a few seconds too many, and when you catch her staring she can’t help the blush that burns her cheeks. 

“So, where exactly are you taking me?” 

“I am also full of surprises.” 

You continue looking out the window, and wonder what type of place could pull someone like Betty in. 

-----

“This is your favourite place?” You wonder as you look around. 

“Yep.” She smiles back at you before sitting down on the ground. “Its great isn’t it?” 

“It’s an abandoned railway.” You quirk an eyebrow as you look at her. “Its hardly paradise.”

“It is to me.” She smiles, her eyes are closed and her head is tipped back slightly, a soft breeze making her ponytail sway a little and she looks so calm, so peaceful, so at home. “Me and my sister, Polly, used to come here when we were little. Our mom would always tell us to stay away from this place but we never listened. We’d play and run around and just escape into our own little worlds.” She explains before looking back at you. “Do you have anywhere like that back in New York?” 

“Hmm.” You think for a few seconds before sitting beside her, your legs outstretched on the cold concrete while hers are crossed next you. The coldness of the ground makes you shiver a little and she’s quickly untying the jacket from her waist and handing it to you. You’re about to argue, but the look she gives you shuts you up and so you smile at her gratefully before draping it over your shoulders. “Not really. When you live where I do, there’s not a lot of places like this. Its all high rise buildings and busy roads, not sleepy streets and abandoned railways. Plus, with my parents being who they are, especially back then, I couldn’t really go out alone. I was always with someone, whether it was a nanny or a chauffeur.” You sigh. “I know.” You hold your hands up. “That makes me sound really stuck up. But I promise I’m not.” 

“That honestly never even crossed my mind.” She replies quietly and you turn your head a little to look at her. “Nick however, is an ass.” 

“Don’t even get me started.” You groan. “He is the worst person in the world. I honestly don’t know why Veronica is friends with him. Literally the only reason I talk to him, is because of he-what?” You ask when you notice her still looking at you, an un-readable look in her eyes. 

“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Come on.” She stands quickly and pulls you up with her. “I have somewhere else to show you.” 

-----

“Oh yeah. This is it.” You smile brightly at her and she gives you a confused look. 

“This is what?” She asks as the two of you look around. The bridge connecting Riverdale to the outside world is quiet for the time of day. The sun is high in the sky, warming the two of you, and her jacket is now wrapped around your waist, it doesn’t entirely go with your outfit but Betty thinks its cute, and she has to give her head a shake to get rid of that thought. You’re Veronica’s friend from New York who she’s showing around, nothing more and nothing less. The water from Sweetwater River is gentle beneath the red bridge, but you can hear it none the less, and that sound mixed with the birds in the trees makes you smile as soon as you parked. 

“This is where my coming of age story starts.” You spin around and take in your surroundings, and Betty’s looking at you even more confused than before. 

“What?” 

“This.” You look at her. “Is where everything starts. I’m going to fall in love and have to defeat evil all while trying to figure out who I am.”

“You’re...” She tries to find the word to describe you, to describe how you look right now. But there’s no word to describe how Betty feels when she looks at you. Despite knowing you for less than two hours, she can’t help her stomach doing summersaults every time she looks at you, or the way her heart hammers in her chest every time you laugh. So her sentence dies, whatever compliment she was going to give you disappears, and she’s left watching you while you try and find a stick to drop into the water. “Coming of age?” She asks and hands you a small twig. Your eyes light up as you take it from her and the two of you lean over the ledge, you watching the way it falls and her watching you. You then grab her hand in yours, quickly look at the road before running across it and leaning over the other side. As soon as you see the stick you do a little celebratory dance, and the laugh that comes from your lips is something Betty could never get sick of hearing. 

“What about it?” 

“Whats it about?” 

“Well, Veronica told me that Riverdale could be used in a coming of age film. And we used to watch them all the time at home, so I was excited to see it for myself. The railway was a good contender, but this bridge...this is it. I mean look at it. Its so old and solid and just...here.” 

She nods and she looks around. “I get that. But I have somewhere else to show you.” 

----

“This place is great.” You look around in awe. “Why the hell was this placed closed.” 

“You know, I have a friend called Jughead who you would get along with very well.” She says as the two of you walk through the empty drive in. “So where does this come into your story?” 

“Oh, okay.” You stop suddenly and she almost walks into you. “So, two options. Which one do you want to hear?” 

“Both.” She nods. 

“Well, first option. I’ve met my love interest...whoever she is.” The word she makes Betty’s heartbeat pick up, and now she’s even more interested in what you have to say. “And, she’s showing me around, hey, kind of like this.” You laugh. “And we break into here, and she’s trying to show me that there’s more to life that whatever the hell I’m worrying about, maybe a murder or something. Basically she’s showing me how to live. And we end up here, stood right in this spot, both of us inching closer to the other.” You’re both hyper-aware of how close the two of you seem to have gotten and you don’t remember being this close before. “And...she’ll hold my hand softly in hers, tip my chin to look at her and then lean in slowly, and the whole thing will feel slow and fast all at the same time. And she’ll kiss me, and it’ll be soft and gentle and everything I thought it would be.” You finish, your eyes feel heavy as you look at Betty, your lips centimeters apart and Betty’s hand is holding your arm gently. 

“What happens in the second scenario?” She asks quietly and you glance at her eyes. Very light green from far away, but when you look at them up close, they have darker green and even golden specks in them. 

“Well, its gotten to the point where everything has gone to shit. My whole life is falling apart, I’ve lost friends, made enemies and the whole reason for my story seems lost. So I come here to make myself feel better, to remind me of the happier times. And she follows me. We fight. We scream and shout at each other and its raining so much you can barely see in front of you. And just as she’s about to storm off, I grab her wrist and pull her back to me, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.” You’re voice is practically a whisper as you look at her. “And then we make out.” You say the last part casually making her laugh loudly. 

“Is that the night you guys go like all the way.” She teases, her voice high pitched and mocking and now its your turn to laugh loudly.

“Erm, duh.” You reply, flicking your hair over your shoulder and the two of you giggle. 

“Ooooo.” She wiggles her eyebrows. 

“So, where are we going now?” You ask. 

“Somewhere, that I think you’re really going to like.” She replies, her eyes shining as she stares at you. 

For a split second while you’re looking at each other, it feels like you truly are in some sort of movie. 

----

“This our last stop before Pop’s.” She turns to face you, as she rambles about the history of this place she walks confidently backwards until you stop at a clearing. 

“We’re in the middle of the forest.” You look around. 

“I know.” She says. “But its so much more. This is where stories begin.” 

“What do you mean?” You ask and she smirks at you. 

“Sit down.” She guides you to a worn out brown sofa, pushing you to sit down. She then stands in front of you, a bright grin on her face as she begins. “This.” She points to the ground. “This is where me and Archie buried treasure when we were 8. Its where me and Polly dug it up a week later and its also where Archie got annoyed at me for digging it up, despite him being there with Jughead, to also dig it up a week after that. Its where Cheryl Blossom had her first kiss at 12, with an unknown boy, the mystery of who it was still causes controversy. Its where Jughead went when his dad was drunk, and its also where me and Archie would meet him. Keeping him company until one of us had to go home. Polly told me she had her third date here with Jason Blossom, and that something else happened too, but I won’t divulge.” She scrunches her face up at the last bit and you do the same, standing up quickly and dusting yourself off. 

“Gross.” You mumble and decide to sit on the plastic chair. 

“We’ve had bonfires, fireworks, parties, fake weddings...don’t ask. Even a fake funeral...definitely don’t ask. There’s been first kisses, first dates, first friendships made. Handshakes and hugs, and everything in between...for generations. This is where everyone’s coming of age story starts and ends. So how do you want to start yours?” 

“Like this.” You stand up and walk the short distance towards her. Your hearts in your throat and your stomaches seems to have dropped to your knees while your hands cup her cheek. Her breath hitches at the sudden close proximity but she doesn’t seem to mind, in fact she leans into your touch, her eyes fluttering closed. And then you’re kissing her, softly at first, just to test the waters. Her lips taste like strawberry chapstick and vanilla ice cream and you can’t help but wonder when the hell she had that because you met her at 11 this morning. But that melts away with the rest of your thoughts when her hands rest on your waist, squeezing ever so slightly as you deepen the kiss. 

Yeah, this is so much better than any film. 

[wistfulcynic]

A Uniquely Portable Magic

Summary: Tucked into the crossroads of the world we know and another one that we very much don’t, there lies a bookshop. Killian Jones knows the moment he enters that there is more to it than meets the eye, but he has no way of knowing just how much it holds in store for him until he meets its owner, Emma Swan. 

In which there is tea and cake and books and magic, a witch and a cat, and a lost soul finding his home. 

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HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS to the wonderful @katie-dub​, who some time ago now gave me a prompt about a magical bookstore, possibly my FAVOURITE EVER THING, and perfect for witch!Emma. There’s also a bit of inspiration from Neverwhere and of course the tea is Bird&Blend. I hope you have the most fantastic day, my dear, and that you can feel all the hugs I tried to write into this for you 😘

Thanks of course and always to @thisonesatellite​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​​ for keeping things tight. 

- 

Rating: T Words: 8.5k Tags: magic, magic AU, witch!Emma, bookstore, bookstore AU

On AO3

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A Uniquely Portable Magic: 

He’s not sure what draws him through the door. The look of it, perhaps, the twisted grain and the knotholes, polished to a patina by centuries of wind and rain and hands upon it. Some hands much like his own and others very different. He finds comfort in that, as he places his hand on the door. His hand. 

His only hand. 

On the other side of the door is a bookshop. He knew that of course, from the sign in the window, another thing tempting him inside. It’s far too long since he read a good book, too long since he let himself get lost in stories other than his own. He’s not quite ready for what he sees. 

The shelves are made of the same wood as the door. Carved from it, it seems. Hewn might be the word. The knobbly, knothole-y wood that even his limited carpentry knowledge tells him could not form straight shelves. It doesn’t, yet they hold the books. Row upon row of them, dizzying rows. His head spins when he tries to look at them, like a kaleidoscope or a funhouse mirror, too many things, too many angles, too little space. 

He blinks, and everything is fine again. It’s just a bookstore. 

“It’s just a bookstore,” he tells the cat in the window, a huge grey tabby with long, silky fur and pale blue, unblinking eyes. 

“Of course it is,” the cat replies. “What were you expecting?” 

“I—what?” 

“Meow,” says the cat. 

“Can I help you?” asks a voice to his left and he turns, grateful for an excuse to look away from the cat. 

“Yes, I’m looking for a… book…” 

The woman gives him a faint smile. “Well, we do sell those.” 

She’s an ordinary woman, quite stunningly beautiful but dressed in a plain ivory sweater and jeans, hair pulled back in a tidy ponytail and not whipped to a frenzy by eldritch winds as she raises her arms to call down the midnight sky. Of course it isn’t. He blinks and shakes his head, and when he looks at her again her smile is still in place. 

“Any particular book you’re looking for?” she asks. 

“Erm, no,” he replies. “Something meaty. Complex. But no politics or business or murder. Something… something that feeds the soul.” He has no idea why he says that, but the woman’s smile softens. 

“That’s a tall order,” she says. “But I think I can fill it. Come with me.” 

She leads him through the maze of shelves, muttering under her breath and pulling books from them seemingly at random. He tries to look at the books for himself but she moves so quickly he gets little more than a glimpse of their titles as he takes long strides to keep up. He recognises none of them. 

They emerge into the back of the shop where a small cafe nestles into the wall. Its counter is made of the same knotted wood, its display case filled with cakes and pastries laid out beneath a curving pane of glass he’s somehow certain was hand-blown. It’s softly rippled with a pearlescent sheen and inside it the baked goods glow. 

He blinks again and they are simple cakes. 

Small tables and chairs are scattered throughout, wrought-iron painted eau-de-nil, and onto one of these the woman drops her armload of books. “Have a look through these and see if any of them appeal,” she says. “Take your time. I’ll have Ruby make you a coffee.” 

“I—” 

“Don’t be silly, Emma,” says another voice, that of a tall and sleek red-streaked brunette who saunters up from behind the counter. “He’d clearly prefer tea.” 

“I—” he doesn’t really want either, but then it’s been so long since he’s had a book and a nice cup of tea, and so “I would,” he replies. 

“And cake.” Ruby grins, wide and only a bit predatory. “Tea and cake.” 

He doesn’t dare argue. “Thank you.” 

“Coming right up.” 

He sits at the table and opens the book at the top of the pile, glances into it, and is absorbed. It’s the tale of a lonely man, a wanderer without a home who finds his place in the hearts of those he meets along his travels. It grips him so entirely that he fails to notice Ruby as she sets a pot of tea before him, with a mismatched cup and saucer and a plate bearing a thick slice of cake, fragrant with lemon and dotted with plump blueberries. Absently he prepares his tea—a splash of milk, no sugar—and sips it as he reads. It has a bright, floral aroma but a rich flavour that reminds him of the Earl Grey his brother favoured, and he has to pause for a moment to allow the ache to pass. It does, faster than it once did, and so he risks another sip and sighs this time in pleasure. It’s delicious. He settles deeper into the chair and the book, sips the tea and nibbles the cake and doesn’t notice either one disappearing or the afternoon sunshine fading into twilight beyond the windows until Ruby comes to clear the table with a clatter of silver on porcelain. 

He startles at the sound and looks up, frowning. 

“Sorry to interrupt you,” says Ruby. She sounds the opposite of sorry. “But we’re closing soon. Can I get you anything else?” 

“Oh. Sorry. No, I’ll just take this book. And… do you think I could get a list of these others? For reference?” 

Ruby grins, and there’s something triumphant in it. “I’m sure Emma would write them down for you,” she says. “She’s at the register.”

“Thanks.” 

She nods. “Come back soon.” 

~

The woman—Emma—is waiting at the register, a large apothecary-style chest equipped with all the cash-and-card accoutrements necessary to a modern retail establishment. He wonders why this surprises him.  

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, with a professional smile and an undercurrent of something in her voice that he can’t quite put his finger on, a depth to the question that makes him hesitate before he answers. 

“Aye,” he says after a moment’s pause, endeavouring a lightness he doesn’t feel. “This one sucked me in and I don’t think I can rest until I finish it. I’ll take it now, and, er, Ruby said you would also make a list of the others for me, so I can find them again?” 

“I’ll do you one better,” she says. “I’ll leave them here at the register, and you can choose another when you come back.” 

There seems to be no question in her mind that he will come back. He’s not certain he cares for the presumption, but he agrees with a smile. “That would be lovely, if you don’t mind keeping them from your other customers.” 

She gives him an odd, sharp look. “It won’t be a problem.” She tears a sheet of paper from a pad next to the register and continues “If I could just get your name?” 

Once again he hears a weight in her words that doesn’t seem to belong to them. It’s a simple enough question and the answer hardly a secret, and there is surely no reason at all to feel as though he’s giving anything away by replying. 

“Killian Jones,” he says. 

“Killian. Is that with a C or a K?” 

“K.” He keeps the smile on his face as she writes his name on the paper and places it atop his stack of books, then tells him the price of the one he’s buying. As he reaches into his pocket for his wallet she flicks her fingers at his sleeve, the tiniest twitch of motion, barely noticeable even if he were watching her do it. 

He doesn’t notice. 

He pays for his book and gives her another smile, one that she returns warmly. He notices again how beautiful she is, how her green eyes sparkle, and feels foolish that he ever imagined that there may be something sinister in the way she spoke to him. She’s just a lovely woman who runs a lovely bookstore, and of course he’ll be coming back again why wouldn’t he? 

He turns to go and finds the door is easily visible from where he’s standing. Of course it is, he thinks, why wouldn’t it be? He shakes off the feeling that his way to the back of the store was far more convoluted than his way from it, and takes his leave, ignoring the unblinking gaze and swishing tail of the cat in the window. 

Emma watches him go, and once the door clicks shut behind him she takes the hair she plucked from the sleeve of his sweater and places it carefully on the sheet of paper that bears his name. She folds the paper several times upon itself until the hair is safely enclosed within it and puts it in her pocket. 

~

The moon is high in the sky, round and luminous, when Emma lights the fire beneath her cauldron with a flick of her wrist. She tosses in a bit of this and a pinch of that, gives it a stir and lets it simmer as she consults a crumbling, leather-bound book. 

The grey cat leaps onto her table, delicately avoiding the bottles of potions and powders that litter it. He sits on the edge and curls his tail around his paws, regarding her with his cool blue eyes.

“He saw you,” the cat says. 

“I know.” 

The cat flicks the tip of his tail. “He heard me.” 

“I know, David!” Emma huffs in annoyance as she stirs the contents of the cauldron. 

“Who is he?”

“That I don’t know.” 

She tips a handful of bright blue powder from a glass bottle and into her palm, then tosses it into the cauldron. The contents bubble up with a hiss then settle into a smooth, flat surface. Onto which, when she drops the single dark hair upon it, resolves the image of Killian Jones. 

“But I intend to find out.” 

~

He’s back again three days later, having finished his book and found himself unable to stop wondering what other gems may be among the pile that Emma has tucked away for him. The one he bought was more satisfying than anything he can recall reading since his youth, when tales of adventure kept him awake late into the night, reading beneath the covers with a flickering torch so Liam wouldn’t see. 

Killian knows now that Liam did see, but kept it to himself. 

He feels so little these days other than tired, worn threadbare by stress and sadness, and a book that not only holds his interest but actively engages it is an inestimable treasure. These past few nights have seen him sleeping soundly through them, his mind too exhausted—in the good way this time—to keep him awake with remembering. And all because of a beautiful woman who found him a book. 

This Emma has a gift, he thinks, and with it she’s given him one. He’s deeply grateful but he wants more. Needs more. Needs to know more about her. 

The cat is not in the window when he arrives this time, nor is Emma anywhere to be seen. The shop itself is perfectly normal—he’s not sure why he thought it might be otherwise—with its crooked shelves standing straight…well, not straight precisely but lined up, er, in a line… He sighs. It makes sense in his head. 

He heads back towards the cafe, which is empty save for the cat and a young woman with short, dark hair upon whose lap he’s sprawled, his pose relaxed but his gaze sharply observant. The woman is petite and very pretty, reclining in her chair at an odd angle to accommodate the cat’s generous size, holding her book carefully in one hand and stroking his head with the other while a cup of coffee steams invitingly on the table beside her. She casts the cup a longing look from time to time, but it’s too far away for her to reach without disturbing the cat and so she leaves it be. 

Killian isn’t sure the cat would move even if she did disturb him. His purr is audible from across the cafe and his expression one of perfect, smug contentment. He regards Killian coolly, fluffy tail flicking, daring him to make something of it. 

Killian raises an eyebrow and strides purposefully across the cafe, keeping his eye on the cat as he slides the woman’s coffee cup across her table. She casts him a grateful glance and he nods, smirks at the cat, and when he looks up again Ruby is there behind the counter grinning her wide grin. 

“Hey, Killian,” she says. “It is Killian, right?” 

“Er—yes.” 

“Yeah. Emma said.” 

“Oh.” He feels an odd thrill at the thought of Emma mentioning him. Thinking about him after he had gone. “Er, yes. Is she here?” 

“She’s in the back. Is there something I can help you with?” 

“Um.” He shoots a glance at the woman. Her attention seems wholly on her book, and though the cat continues to stare, Killian figures there’s nothing he can do about that. “Perhaps you can,” he replies. “I left some books here on my last visit, and Emma said she would hold them for me. I’d like to look at them, if I could, and choose another.” 

“Killian Jones.” It’s Emma’s voice that speaks, from behind him and just to his left. The sound of it shivers across his skin in a way he’s not entirely sure he likes. 

He definitely doesn’t not like it, though. 

He turns to see her smiling at him. Her hair is loose today, curling over her shoulders in soft waves, bright against the blue of her blouse. She’s wearing jeans and sandals that reveal red-painted toenails and she looks completely unthreatening. 

Of course she does. He gives his head a little shake to clear it.

“Have you come for your books?” she asks him. 

“Yes. If that’s all right.” 

“Of course it is. Let’s go have a look. Ruby, would you make him some tea?” 

Killian doesn’t bother to protest. He accepts that the tea is inevitable, and actually he’s quite looking forward to it. 

He follows Emma to the register where she retrieves the stack of books and watches intently while he looks through them and makes his selection. He watches her watching him, noting the subtle changes in her expression and body language each time he picks up a book to read the blurb on its cover. He lets her reactions guide him, and when he holds up his final selection her approving smile lights up the room. 

He blinks and the light is as it was before. 

Killian holds the book carefully in his prosthetic hand and scratches his ear with the other. 

“Lass,” he says. “I hate to ask, but—” 

“Can I hold the rest of these here until the next time you come?” she says, deadpan but with a twinkle in her eye. “Of course. It’s no trouble at all.” 

“Are you this kind to all your customers?” he asks with a grin. 

Her lips curve in response, into the most peculiar smile he’s ever beheld. “No,” she says. “I’m not.”  

His heart thumps and for a moment he feels his old self again. “So I’m just lucky then,” he says. 

“That remains to be seen.” 

She holds his gaze a beat too long for comfort then turns away. 

He takes his book back to the cafe where Ruby has tea waiting and a slice of cake. At first he’s disappointed to note that it’s a different cake than he had the last time and a different aroma emanating from the teapot but once he’s had a sip and a bite that disappointment turns to delight. The cake is soft and mildly tangy with a crunchy pecan topping and the tea is rich and malty and perfect with a splash of milk. 

Killian sinks into it, into all of it—the cosiness of the room and the tea and the cake and the book, and the sunshine through the windows and the purr of the cat. He melts into the story as he reads, lets the pages enfold him and wrap him up in their embrace, and when the dark-haired woman eases the cat from her lap with soothing words and a kiss on the top of his head, he doesn’t notice. Nor does he hear the chat she has with Ruby or the petulant mewl of the cat, or sense her walking past him when she leaves. 

Other customers come and go as well. There’s a slight man in round spectacles accompanied by a Dalmatian whom the cat, much to what would have been Killian’s astonishment had he been watching, seems to adore; they curl up together beneath the corner table as the man enjoys a cup of coffee and a slice of buttered raisin bread. There’s a haughty woman, sharply dressed, who sweeps in and holds a hissed conversation with Emma at the back of the shop then leaves with the same sweep and several parcels wrapped in brown paper beneath her arm. There’s a man in a tattered velvet jacket and a few too many scarves; Emma’s smile strains at the edges as she helps him and the flash in her eye has a dangerous edge. There’s a man who takes his coffee black like the typewriter he pecks at in an armchair beneath the window as Ruby rolls her eyes, and there’s a little boy with a bright, eager face and incessant chatter who drinks hot chocolate dusted with cinnamon and makes her laugh. 

Throughout all the intermittent bustle and quiet of the day Emma watches Killian read. She watches as the tension drains from his shoulders and the frown fades from between his eyes, and as he gets lost in the story his expressive face reveals the sharp intelligence and wry humour that struggle valiantly beneath the weight of his burdens. Killian doesn’t notice her gaze but he feels it all the same and all the same it warms him, soothes him even when he sighs and leans back in his chair to roll his shoulders and rub his neck and it sharpens, just briefly, with something darker. 

All too soon the day begins to fade behind the windows and when Ruby comes to clear his table he looks up at her with a smile. 

“Closing time already?” 

“It sneaks up on you sometimes, doesn’t it?” she replies. 

“Aye.” 

He stands and stretches, glances over to see that Emma is on duty at the register. As he approaches her expression softens in a way that makes his heart do a little skip in his chest. 

“How was it?” she asks.

“Brilliant. I’ll take it.” 

She beams. “I’m so glad. Ah, that you liked it, I mean, not that—” 

“Aye. I know.” 

She rings up his sale with a flush on the tops of her cheeks that captivates him, and when she hands him the bag her fingers brush against his. Killian gasps as the world explodes with colour and sound and light, but when he blinks it’s gone and Emma is smiling at him, the same as before. 

He thanks her and starts to go, still all of a whirl, but something stops him. He turns back. 

“May I ask you a question, love?” 

“Sure.” 

“How did you know? What books to choose for me, I mean? These two have been—well, exactly what I didn’t realise I was looking for. I’d never have found them for myself. How did you know?” 

“I’m afraid that’s a trade secret.” She grins and taps the side of her nose. “Let’s just say I’m good at reading people.” 

He clears his throat. “And what do you read in me?” he asks. 

Her tone is light, draped over something deeper. “Would you really like to know?” 

“Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think perhaps I would.” 

She places her hand on his arm and this time the light is gentle, the sound is soothing harmonies and the colours soft as a rain-washed meadow. 

“Another time,” she says. 

~

It’s not long before the bookshop becomes a part of his routine, such as it is. Routine is important in recovery, so he’s told, and he does his best to set and stick to one. He gets up at the same time every day—early, as always, the habits of a lifetime are hard to break—he cooks and eats and exercises, and attends his meetings. And two or three times a week he stops by the bookshop for tea and cake and a new addition to his rapidly growing personal library. He makes a mild joke to Emma about affording all this luxury and she replies with a careful smile. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

And it is. His navy pension barely covers his expenses but although he buys a book each time he finds he’s never short on funds; rather he always seems to be discovering twenty dollar bills in trouser pockets and handfuls of change from things he can’t remember buying. 

He adores the books, of course. They fill his lonely nights and give his mind the respite it craves, an alternative to painful memories or sluggish retreat. But they are not what draws him back to the shop, again and again. It’s also not the cake. 

It’s the way that Emma smiles at him, the warmth that radiates from her and into him, that seals the fissures in his soul. The conversations he so treasures that begin with books and end in a pause, a we’ll talk more next time, but they never do. There’s always something new to discuss, next time. 

He thinks about her often as he goes about his day, when he finds something he thinks she’d enjoy or sees sunlight dappled through the trees the way it is through her hair. He looks forward to the glint in her eye and the twist in her smile when she tells him she’s added a new book to his pile; he forces himself not to rush as he reads. The books will still be there tomorrow, he reminds himself, and the next day and the next, and he is determined to savour them. 

Determined, though he knows all too well the fragile nature of this kind of happiness. 

~

The greenhouse is lit by moonlight alone, the only light that doesn’t kill the Nocturnam dentifolia with its glow. Emma wakens the plant with a gentle stroke of her finger down its curled-up frond, and smiles as the frond unfurls and wraps itself around her palm in greeting. She begins harvesting tiny beads of venom from the plant’s sharp teeth, ignoring David when he leaps onto the table and sniffs the dentifolia in feline disapproval. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says. 

“I’ve been harvesting dentifolia venom since I was ten years old—” 

“You know that’s not what I mean. I hope you know what you’re doing with him.” 

Emma considers dissembling but decides it’s not worth the effort. “I do,” she replies. 

“Do you, though?” 

“He’s lonely, David. And sad. He needs me.” 

“And what about what you need?” 

She shakes her head, willing away the thoughts of Killian and his crinkly smile and the pain behind his eyes and the way those eyes light up when they see her. 

“I have everything I need.” 

“Yeah? Then what about what you want?”

Emma focuses her attention on catching the venom in her vial, made of a hardened smoky quartz that won’t dissolve on contact with it. It’s delicate work, and requires concentration. 

David hisses and the tip of his tail flicks. “You take too much on yourself, Emma.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“I know you can. But you don’t have to do it alone.” 

Emma sets the venom down on the table with a sharp thunk. “So what do you think I should do, David? Force him to give up everything he knows—” 

“I doubt much force would be required.” 

“—drag him into an entirely new world—” 

“Not entirely new.” 

“—when he’s known more than enough suffering already in his own?” 

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” David repeats. “Let him help you.” 

“He’s the one who needs help.” 

“You’re so damned stubborn, Emma. Don’t forget that I saw the same things you did in that cauldron—” 

“Pah.” 

“—I saw who he is, and who he could be. To you. All you have to do is let him in.”

“I’m fine as I am.” 

David’s tail swishes as it whips across the table and his ears turn back against his head. He catches her gaze and holds it as he reaches out with his paw, a single claw extended, and with slow deliberation tips over the vial. They both watch as venom oozes out of it and through the cracks in the table, dripping down to burn a sizzling hole in the concrete floor. 

“I’m going to spend the night at Mary Margaret’s,” he says.  

~

As the days become weeks and then ease into months, Killian begins to notice certain things about the shop. They enter his consciousness in a slow drip, never too many at once, never more than he can handle. The shelf by the register lined with candles and powders and tinctures in crystal vials. The arcane symbols carved along the edges of the bookshelves and the ones formed of silver and set with cut glass that dangle in the windows and twist the sunlight into rainbow hues. The odd way that the time stretches, the depth and stillness of the shadows, how the tea is always hot. The glimpses from the corner of his eye, gone the moment he blinks, of Ruby’s smile baring dripping fangs and David’s crystalline eyes in a human face. 

Killian is a practical man, well-educated and vastly travelled, and he accepts the existence of things in this world that lie beyond his ken. He’s seen hints of them all his life, faintly on the misty edges of Cornish cliffs in his childhood and more clearly during his years in the navy, around corners he turned down on a whim and on the faces of those people whom most folk barely notice. The bookshop and its patrons are the clearest yet, unlike anything he has encountered before. This doesn’t trouble him in the least though it thoroughly intrigues him, just as everything connected with Emma intrigues him. 

The last traces of spring have faded and the air is warm and fragrant, with the gentle weight and drawn-out softness of an early-summer twilight, on the day Killian leaves the bookshop and turns, quite without any intent to do so, around a corner that he’s never noticed before. He finds himself in a narrow alleyway far darker than the street, still and close and vaguely menacing, though he feels certain that it means him no harm whatever it may hold in store for other travellers. He follows it to where it ends in a stone archway and a rusty iron gate which swings open before he can reach out his hand to push it, beckoning him into the hazy gloom beyond. 

This is how mortals end up kidnapped, Killian thinks, and yet he barely hesitates before stepping through the arch and through the gloom and into a garden bright with golden sunlight and riotous with colour. Woody vines and trunks of trees twist together to form a wall that marks its boundaries on three sides; those he recognises are apple and hawthorn and cherry and yew. Two greenhouses make up the fourth side, one a fairly typical model in his estimation and the other much the same, except its windows are all stained a smoky black. Together they frame a wild carpet of blooms in hues that range from bright white to deepest indigo, nodding atop stems and stalks in every shade of green. 

It appears random, Killian thinks, but there is method in it, a species of order underlying chaos that is so familiar he feels no surprise at all when the greenhouse door opens and Emma emerges. 

“Oh!” she cries and stops abruptly, staring at him. “Killian! What—how did you get here?” 

“I... don’t know exactly,” he replies. “I’ve never turned down this path before.” 

“No,” says Emma, “I don’t suppose you have.” 

She’s annoyed, he thinks, though not with him. “Is all this yours?” he asks, indicating the garden with an expansive gesture of his arms. “It’s extraordinary.” 

“Yes, it’s mine. It’s where I grow the ingredients for my—” She snaps her mouth shut and looks at him warily.

“For the things you sell in the shop,” he supplies, with an encouraging smile. “The candles and balms and… the like.” 

“Er—yes.” 

“You make them all yourself, then.” It’s less a question than a gentle acknowledgement, to let her know that he knows too. 

She softens. “Yeah. It’s, um, kind of a family tradition.” 

“And a lovely one. May I see it?” 

She hesitates. “Do you really want to?” 

“Aye, of course I do. I’d love to know more of your heritage.” 

The look she gives him is both sweet and sharp, tenderness with an edge that makes his gut clench. She nods. 

“Follow me.” 

~

It’s those damned eyes, Emma thinks, as she leads him on a tour around the garden, stopping to introduce each plant and explain its properties and uses. They’re so interested, so intent on her and on everything she says, and the sadness ever lurking in their depths breaks her heart. 

They’re shining now, though, as he looks around her garden, and when he looks at her she feels lit up from within, warm and glowing in a way she never imagined she could feel without using magic. 

This is magic. 

Emma ignores the whisper in her ear just as she’s been doing now for months. No cauldron is going to tell her what to do, she thinks obstinately. She’s perfectly capable of managing her own fate. And anyway, cauldrons are designed to observe, not predict. If she wanted to mess around with the Foretelling she’d get herself a damned crystal ball. 

“And what’s in the greenhouses?” Killian’s voice snaps her back to herself, and she realises that they’ve made a full circle of the garden. 

“Oh. Um. Just more things I use. For, uh, more specific needs.” 

“For personalised spells.” 

“Well, yes. Things that people request that need to be tailored to them and—wait, what?” 

He turns to her with that dimpled smile and so much warmth in his eyes. “Emma,” he says gently. “I’ve been around the world ten times over and seen many things on the way. I know a witch when I meet one.”

“Oh.” She stares at him as he continues to smile. “And that doesn’t, um. Freak you out at all?” 

“Of course not.” 

He’s so close she can feel the heat of his body and she shivers despite it, and despite the warmth of the evening. He sees of course, just as he sees everything in her, and she hears the catch in his breath, feels the tension straining in his every sinew as he steps closer still. His fingers brush across her cheek and trace the edge of her jaw and she gasps at the sensation, grips tightly to his shirt to keep from falling as he whispers her name across her lips and she rises on her toes to meet his kiss. 

~

Killian feels suffused in light, bursts of it behind his eyes and sparks that dance along his skin. He thinks at first that it must come from Emma but no, he realises, it’s within him, pouring out from him and into her. 

He catches her startled gasp with his lips and takes the kiss deep, slowly savouring the taste of honey cake and of mint tea—a sweetness and a burn that’s so very her—until the noise she makes at the back of her throat nearly ends him. With a growl he pulls her closer and just for a moment she goes, melting into him and firing his blood, but then she shoves hard against his chest and breaks the kiss and the light is gone. 

She stumbles backwards, staring at him with a tangle of emotions in her eyes, apprehension and longing and the heat of both passion and pique. “I felt—” she whispers, raising a trembling hand to touch her lips. “I thought—but you can’t—I—I—” 

“Emma,” he says softly, taking a hesitant step towards her, but she holds up her hands and backs away. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s too much. You can’t—we can’t do this. I’m sorry.” 

“Emma!” he calls after her as she turns and flees across the garden, heedless of her precious plants, but the name returns to his ears in a hollow echo when she slips through the solid wall of trees and then is gone. 

~

He gives her space, and time. She needs both, he knows, and plenty of them. Emma is not a woman who accepts lightly, or deals easily with things outside her control. When the time is right to return to her he’ll feel the pull. 

It doesn’t come for nearly a month and when it does he goes without hesitation. His arrival finds the shop empty of customers and eerily silent, a still, expectant silence so deep that the swish of David’s tail along the knotted wood of the windowsill is deafening. 

Emma is standing where she was when he first beheld her, beneath a tall window and swathed in moonlight, though the sun is high in the sky. Her hair is loose and wild around her shoulders and she wears a flowing crimson gown. The same gown he saw her in, that first time. The same gown and the same moonlight.  

“You see me,” she says. 

“Aye. Of course I do.” 

“No, but—” she breaks off as her eyes turn to David, now standing in front of the window in soft leathers and silk, very stern and very human. “You see me, I mean.” 

Killian nods. “I see you both.” 

Emma sighs and the scene around them melts away, gently as chalk in the rain, and the bookstore is as normal. The swish of David’s tail is drowned out by the bustle and hum of customers, and Emma is dressed in jeans and a sage green sweater that brings out her eyes. 

“Emma,” he says, stepping closer and taking her hands, the bright magic that flares up at their touch familiar now. “What does this mean?” 

“I don’t entirely know,” she admits. “Magic doesn’t always have an explanation. Sometimes it just is.” 

“And what magic is this?” 

“True love magic,” says David, and Emma flushes. 

“True love?” Killian repeats as he twines his fingers in hers. He imagines this should feel like a revelation, but it does not. 

“Maybe,” she says, biting her lip. “I mean, it’s possible, or maybe more like potential.” 

“Potential true love?” 

She nods. “The seeds are there,” she whispers. “We only have to let them grow.” 

“Growing seeds is something you do remarkably well, love,” he says with a soft smile. “What will we need to nurture these ones into full flower?” 

She huffs a little breath through her own, reluctant smile. “Don’t torture the metaphor,” she retorts, and then her face grows solemn. “It’s not as simple or straightforward as nurturing something until it grows,” she says. “Magic isn’t for everyone. There are dangers—” 

“I’ll face them,” he assures her, tightening his hold on her hands. “Whatever may come, I’ll face it with you.” 

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand, Killian.” 

“Then explain it to me.” 

Emma pulls her hands from his and twists them together anxiously as she speaks. “We can’t talk about this here,” she says. “Come with me.” 

She leads him back to the corner of the shop where the register sits beneath a tall window and opposite an archway of precisely the same material and shape as the one that brought him to her garden, though this one is fitted with a sturdy wooden door. He’s seen her pass through this door a hundred times, into ‘the back,’ as it is known, with no other name nor explanation ever given. The door swings open as Emma approaches and he follows her through it, David at his heels, and if anyone finds it odd that he’s gone with Emma into a place where no customer before has ever been, they do not show it. 

“Ruby,” Emma calls. “Bring tea.” 

The room they enter is long and narrow, with the same tall windows that grace the bookshop on either side. Along one windowless wall is a cluttered wooden workbench and the other is lined with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with supplies. There are ceramic bowls of all different sizes, glass vials and stone ones, herb bundles and crystals and lumpy leather bags, and, Killian notes to his amusement, no fewer than three cauldrons, one copper and one iron and one that appears to his untrained eye to be carved from moonstone. 

Beneath the nearest window two armchairs sit, deep and inviting ones made of worn brocade. A table like the ones in the cafe nestles between them, and onto this Ruby, appearing quite suddenly through a smaller doorway that opens up from between the shelves, places a teapot and three cups. 

She flashes her feral grin at Killian and saunters away. Emma gestures for him to take one of the chairs and he does, watching wordlessly as she settles herself into the other and pours the tea. David leaps onto the arm of her chair and sits like a sentry at her elbow, accepting the cup she balances in front of him with regal grace. 

She hands Killian the second cup and takes the third for herself, and the three of them sip in silence for a moment. A dozen questions clamour on the tip of Killian’s tongue, but he holds them in. He waits. 

“Magic,” Emma says finally, “is a capricious, tricksy thing. It doesn’t sit comfortably in the world you know.” She sets her cup down on the table and folds her hands together in her lap. “It can exist only at the edges of it, deep within crannies and around corners and on certain people, a part of those things but also outside them.” 

“Beyond them,” says David. 

“Yes. It extends beyond what most can perceive and into a place that’s much wilder and less ordered. One that’s run on arcane powers and ruled by the people who wield them, and wielding them sometimes requires a darkness and a sacrifice that changes those people, makes them less than human. Dangerous.” 

Killian nods. “But such people exist in my world too,” he points out. “The ones who sacrifice their humanity for power. The difference, it seems to me, is only in the nature of the power.” 

Emma frowns as she considers this. “I see what you mean,” she says. “But. I’d guess that the people who wield power in your world don’t take any particular interest in you?” 

“Decidedly not.” He can’t hold back a bitter laugh. “I’m quite insignificant, really.” 

“In your world.”

Killian looks at her sharply. “But not in yours?” 

“No.” 

“But—how can that be?” He scowls. “How can I be of importance in a place I’ve never been?”

 Emma picks up her tea again, and her fingers tremble as she wraps them around the cup. “Killian, why did you come into the shop, the first time?” she asks. 

“I wanted a book.” 

“Was that all?” 

“Aye… although perhaps not.” He frowns, trying to remember. “The shop just—appealed to me, in an odd sort of way.” 

“Odd how?” 

“Like it was beckoning to me, almost. I’d been down this street dozens of times before, hundreds even, and never noticed it. Then one day I did.” 

Her expression doesn’t change, and he realises she was expecting this very answer. “And why did you keep coming back?” 

His mouth quirks. “To see you.” 

She huffs a short sigh, though her cheeks flush faintly. “And?” she presses.

“And, well, I suppose it kept beckoning.” 

“Did you never think to wonder how?” David interjects. “Or why?” 

“David!” snaps Emma, but Killian replies calmly. 

“No, mate, I confess I didn’t. I’ve learnt not to question any good fortune that happens to come my way. I prefer to simply enjoy it”—he pauses as he thinks of Liam—“for as long as it may last.” 

“Are you happy now?” hisses Emma, glaring at David. “Do you have anything more you’d like to contribute?” 

David looks away from them and begins to wash his face. 

“It’s a reasonable thing to ask, though, love,” says Killian. “Why didn’t I question it? Should I have?” 

Emma gives him a searching look, as a sunbeam from the window falls across her face. “Would you have stopped coming here if you had?” 

He wishes he could say no, but “I’m not sure,” he answers truthfully. “Perhaps.” 

She nods. “That’s why you didn’t question it.” 

“But I still don’t understand,” he says, setting down his empty cup. Emma refills it without asking, and without thinking he takes it up again and sips some more. “Why did the shop call to me? Why me?”

“True Love magic is extremely rare,” David says, ignoring the scowl Emma turns on him. “And powerful. It behaves as it must to draw together the people capable of sharing it.” 

Something in his voice, a bleak sort of yearning, catches Killian’s attention. “You, and the brunette,” he says. “Mary Margaret, is it?” 

David’s tail swishes, and though he doesn’t clench his jaw he gives the impression of it. “Yes,” he replies. “And we have suffered for it. Magic that powerful can do incredible things, so you can imagine there are many people who seek to harness it for themselves.” The light bends and he shifts, from cat to man and back again. “By whatever means necessary.” 

“That’s the danger you spoke of,” Killian says, looking at Emma. “You’re worried something similar might befall me.” 

She nods. “Or worse.” 

“But not necessarily,” says David. “You have to tell him everything, Emma.”

The anxiety is back on Emma’s face, evident in the wrinkling of her brow and the way she bites her lip. She replaces her teacup in its saucer with a clatter and clasps her hands again, digging the nails of one into the flesh of the other.

“Killian,” she says, “I'm so sorry to unearth the painful past with this, but—what do you remember about your mother?” 

He blinks in surprise. “Er—not much. She died when I was very young. I remember that she was beautiful. Blue eyes like mine but red hair, a dark auburn red. Her name was Alice. Alice Pendyr, as she was born.” 

“Pendyr,” Emma repeats, her expression sharp and sorrowful. “Cornish?” 

“Aye. Meaning end of the—” 

“—land,” Emma finishes. “Alice of the land’s end.” 

“Aye.” 

She pauses and the silence builds, settling like snow upon their shoulders. “But,” she says softly, “of what land?” 

 Killian starts, and stares at her. She meets his eyes calmly, though her hands remain tense and twisted in her lap. He makes a fist of his own.

“How can you know to ask that,” he whispers. “No one outside my family ever learned of it.”

“What land, Killian?” Emma presses, gentle and implacable.

 He forces his body to relax, unclenches his fist and lays his hand flat against the arm of his chair. “Nobody knows,” he replies. “She was found in a basket on the edge of a cliff, wrapped in a blanket of a weave and fibre none had seen before, less than one day old. The couple who found her raised her as their child but with her own name, a name for her origins, they said. They were called Chenoweth. I—” he frowns. “I don’t know why no one ever questioned that. The difference in names, I mean, when they always called her their daughter.”

“How did she die?” 

“I—” He shakes his head. “I’m not certain. As I said I was very young. One day she was fine and the next—we went for a walk.” He blinks again as the memory, so long forgotten, returns in vivid force and he is there again—there on the wind-whipped precipice, clinging to his mother’s leg as clouds swirled above them and rocks churned the sea into a lather far below their feet. “We walked right to the edge of the cliff and she told me the tale of how my grandparents found her there, on that very spot where we stood. Then she… she stared out at the sea for the longest time, and when she looked at me again her eyes were so sad. She said it was time to go home. I held her hand the whole way back because I didn’t want her to be sad, and she laughed and hugged me, as she always did. But then… the next day she was gone. My father told me she had taken ill in the night and died before sunrise.”

There are tears in Emma’s eyes, and she clears her throat before she asks “Was there a funeral?” 

Killian’s frown deepens, and he rubs his temple. “I—I don’t—I don’t remember one.” 

Emma smiles, a small smile full of heartrending empathy. “I see.” 

“What—what are you saying?” Killian demands. “That my mother didn’t die?” 

“She did not,” says Emma gently. “She went home.” 

“Home. You think she was from this magical world.” 

“Yes I do, and I don’t think that it truly surprises you to hear it,” Emma replies, and he swears the earth tilts as she speaks, telescopes around her until she is all that he can see, her voice the only sound in his ears. “It explains a lot that’s never quite made sense to you, I’d bet, like why you’ve always felt slightly out of place wherever you are and why you spent so long wandering. Why you are able to see more than you should.” Her gaze is intent now, her face and form aglow with the moonlight that empowers her. “Because you do, don’t you Killian?” she says softly. “You’ve always seen things others don’t, seen and accepted them without judgment. You embrace the world in all its strange and wondrous tapestry because deep down you’ve always known that there is more to it than meets the eye. Haven’t you?” 

“A-aye.” Killian clears his throat. There’s light behind his eyes and on his skin and in his very bones. “I believe I have.” 

“You wandered for years observing that world and seeking your place in it,” Emma continues, “until the time was right and you were called here, to a haven for the lost and the cursed.” 

He nods. He can feel her words, and he can feel the truth in them, a truth he’s always felt but never understood. “Why was the time right now though?” he asks, a wealth of pain behind the question. “After so many years, why now?” 

“Because now is when you truly needed it.” 

“I needed it before—” he chokes, but she shakes her head, tears shimmering again in her eyes. 

“Now is when you truly needed it,” she whispers. “And I—I need you.” 

She takes his hand, smiling as he catches his breath at the magic that leaps between them. “It won’t always be like this,” she says. “If you come to me, eventually our magic will settle. Right now it’s really new and you just—excite it.” 

He smiles at this, and at the flutter in his chest. “I excite your magic?” 

“Mmmm,” she replies with a wry smirk. “Among other things.” 

David swishes his tail and gives a hacking cough. 

“Hairball?” queries Emma sweetly. 

“But love.” Killian turns his hand in hers so that their fingers entwine, shivering at the power that crackles between their palms. “What do you mean if I come to you? And why do you say our magic?” 

“You don’t think that all this only comes from me?” Emma gestures at him, at the silvery light from his hand that mingles with the golden glow of hers. “You have magic too. It’s what had me so scared that day in the garden. I had been shown your origins and the True Love potential, but not the magic. There’s so much in you, Killian. If you come to my world, you’ll learn just how much.” 

“Come to your world?” He stares at her in awe. “I can do that?” 

“If you wish.” She smiles at his expression, then her own turns solemn. “But it’s a one-way journey. Once you go, you can never come back. Not fully.” 

“I’ll go.” 

She shakes her head. “This is a big decision. You need to think about it.” 

“I don’t believe I do.” Killian feels as he is sure a ship must, when docking at last in her native harbour after a journey long and fraught and rife with loss. It’s a homecoming he has never known, not truly. Not until now. 

“The world I’m in holds nothing for me now,” he says. “Everything I once had is gone—my family, my career, even my bloody hand. I was barely living anymore... until I met you.” He draws their clasped hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of hers, and their magic sings. “If we have True Love, or the potential for it,” he continues, “if there’s a chance I might see my mother again—well, I don’t have to think about either of those. I want them both, and if there is danger to be faced in the pursuit of them, I’ll face it. I’ll go.” 

The light of Emma’s smile holds no surprise for him this time nor does the joyous dance of their magic through the air, though David’s approving purr does rather take him aback. Emma stands and he follows, their hands still joined, by touch and by magic and by choice. 

“Come, then,” she says. 

As she speaks the shimmer between their hands brightens to a glow that spreads out from where they stand, silver light entwined with gold and curling open as a spring bud unfolds, until it reaches the arched doorway that leads to the shop. The light bursts—blinding for a moment—then it fades into a gentle gleam and the door swings open. 

Emma’s hand tightens in his, and they step through the doorway together.

- 

@kmomof4​ @stahlop​ @mariakov81​ @teamhook​ @winterbaby89​ @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @shireness-says​ 

[simp-for-spencer-reid]

Favors- George Weasley fic

I may delete this from this blog bc it’s my criminal minds blog. but for now, here’s my latest writing idea if anyone’s interested :)

the title of the fic and the chapter title are a work in progress and subject to change

Chapter 1: Be My Alibi

A puff of smoke swirled around the library common area. Essie was shifting her focus between her Care of Magical Creatures essay and her upcoming Potions exam. Her eyes were growing heavy as she read her Advanced Potion Making textbook. A few groups of students who were also in the library had gotten up and made their way to the hallway. Essie briefly glanced at the commotion, but brought her attention back to her work. Two snickering red-haired boys were calmly following the crowd. 

The Weasley twins. 

Their reputation preceded them: notorious for their pranks they’d been pulling since the end of their second year. Before that, they had received some of the top grades in Gryffindor house. Now, just beginning their sixth year at Hogwarts, their main focus was on their pranks.

One of them had accidentally knocked into Essie’s table, sending her ink for her quill toppling over, a stream of black trickling over her hard work. 

The laughter between them came to a halt- one kept walking, he hadn’t bumped her table and was oblivious to the ink. The other; however, paused, noticing the Hufflepuff girl gaping over her destroyed essay. 

“Oh, sorry!” He muttered a quick incantation to soak up the excess ink, but it left the words that had been written before a bit faded. Essie gave him a shy smile, before gathering her work. It would probably do her better to finish up in her common room, less commotion and a certain pair of twins wouldn’t be up to their tricks. 

“It’s okay, thanks for clearing that up,” Essie turned on her heel and hauled out of the library towards the kitchens. 

“Wait! Let me make it up to you,” he had a grip on her upper arm, keeping her in place, yet it was still gentle. His twin was long gone down the hall now, not noticing yet that his other half was not following him. 

“Oh, erm, don’t worry about it. I can fix the rest,” Essie shook her head, tucking a loose strand of her golden hair behind her ear. 

“Please, I owe you one. It’s the least I could do.” He realized his hand was still on her arm and dropped it back to his side- then shoving it in the pockets of his pants. “Just think about it.” he shrugged.

“Uh, okay.” Essie agreed, wanting this interaction to end so she could finish her studying in her room. She turned away from him, walking as fast as she could back to her dorms. 

Just as she had gotten out of the grasp of one of the Weasley twins, Gabriel Truman- a fellow Hufflepuff and Head Boy, was coming into step beside her. She was trapped between the wall and Gabriel as they walked toward the Hufflepuff common room.

“Hey,” he started cooly, “Bit late for you out here isn’t it?” Gabriel asked, but it was more of a statement. 

“Gabriel,” Essie said dryly, “I could say the same about you.” Gabriel had been trying to convince her to go on a date since the start of their fifth year. Essie, didn’t have time for dating. She was busy with her studies and trying to get the best grades possible to set herself up for a promising future as a magical creature professional. She had a lot of pressure on her shoulders now that she had made Prefect her sixth year..

The magic in Essie’s family had skipped a generation. Her mother was a squib who married a muggle man, much to the disdain of Essie’s maternal grandmother. Her grandmother was famous Wizarding author, Dria Finkle. Dria was known for her stories of her travels- voyaging across Europe and writing about her affairs with politicians and diplomats and other famous wizard-folk. 

Essie kept her grades up to make her parents proud. Her father wasn’t sure about the whole wizard thing, but Essie sweet-talked him into allowing her to board at Hogwarts and showing him that magic wasn’t as unbelievable as it sounds. 

“What do you say: you, me, and a couple of butterbeers down at the Three Brooksticks next Hogsmeade weekend?” Gabriel put an arm out to stop her in her tracks, caging her in between his body and the stone wall. 

“Tempting, but I already have plans,” she moved to escape under his arm, but he shifted his arm down, blocking her. 

“Oh, yeah? Doing what?” He tested her. 

“I’m working on the Care of Magical Creatures essay.” she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, and pushed her way through his arm to continue walking. 

“That’s not due until the end of the year!” Gabriel called after her. She was thankful for his temporary defeat as he had stopped following her. 

Essie shook her head,now just wanting to retreat under the covers of her bed. She made her way down a flight of stairs to the basement. The smell of comfort food and the warmth of the ovens getting stronger as she got closer to the entrance of the basement. She stopped by a stack of wooden barrels, tapping the correct one to reveal the circular door to the common room. 

Copper lanterns provided a dim light, the main light source coming from the fireplace now that it was nightfall. Many plants hung from the ceilings or sat on shelves. Essie’s favorite plant was some sort of ivy whose tendrils swayed in its own dance and it whispered if you listened closely. It hung from a basket made of twine over one of the desks, and Essie talked to it sometimes while she did homework. 

A few students were gathered in the common room, and Essie politely informed them of curfew and that they needed to get to their dormitories. With some groans and sighs, they cleared out. 

Essie walked through the door that led to the dorm for the Prefects. She shared the room with the two other Hufflepuff Prefect girls, Cleo and Gwen. They were already in bed, as Essie could tell from Gwen’s snoring. Through the light of the lanterns, Essie placed her study materials on her designated nightstand and quickly changed into some sleep shorts and a tank top. Once she was nestled under her covers, Essie quickly fell asleep. 

This year at Hogwarts, the castle was hosting the Triwizard Tournament, as Professor Dumbledore had announced at the first feast. Hogwarts students were accompanied by two other schools: Durmstrang and Beauxbaton. Only students who were 17 could participate. In this dangerous tournament. 

They were given a night for students to put their name in the goblet of fire. Essie would never partake in something so dangerous, not to mention the attention that came with being chosen. She knew that her friend Cedric had put his name in: tempted by the thousand galleon prize and eternal glory. 

The night after Professor Dumbledore’s announcement, Essie was walking  the corridors of the castle, thinking of her schoolwork and making a mental to-do list as she took the long way to the Hufflepuff common room past the stairway to the dungeons.

She could hear footsteps coming from ahead of her. Fred and George Weasley were running down the hall. One of them beelined down a smaller branch off the hallway, while the other’s face brightened as he saw Essie. Slowing down, he stepped into place beside her.

“Never caught your name the other night in the library,” he looked over his shoulder, breathing heavily from running down the hall. “I’m George,” he smiled. They rounded a corner. 

“Estelle, but you can just call me Essie.” she also looked in the direction where George was glancing. She saw Filch, angrily hobbling after them, yelling about his cat. When Filch caught up to them, he continued his shouting.

“Weasley! I know it was you. You and your brother did that to Mrs. Norris, I just know it!” 

“Ah, but you see, Filch, I have been with Essie all evening. It couldn’t have been me that dyed Mrs. Norris pink,” George feigned politeness, going as far to throw an arm over Essie’s shoulders. Filch looked to Essie, and when he saw her Prefect badge upon her school robes, George and Essie could see the battle in his head of whether to trust this story. George lightly elbowed Essie to prompt her to speak.

“Yes, Mr. Filch. George and I were just on our way back from discussing tutoring sessions for Potions class-” George elbowed her again to get her to stop talking.

“You might consider asking my brother Fred about his whereabouts. I believe he went that way,” George pointed back in the direction of where Filch had chased them down. 

Ultimately, Filch grumbled about the twins and their mischief and he hobbled off in search of George’s twin. 

“You ought to learn to keep your lies short and sweet.” George told Essie, “Easier to keep straight.” She lightly shrugged his arm off as they continued walking in the direction Essie was headed.

“There’s nothing to keep straight if you just told the truth. Pretty soon they have the snowball effect.” Essie rolled her eyes at the ginger boy. Gabriel Truman was walking towards them, looking to strike up another conversation with Essie. She halted in her tracks, and grabbed George’s arm to wrap over her shoulders again. 

“What are you-?” George was cut off by Gabriel as he approached.

“Essie, did you give anymore thought to my Hogsmeade preposition?” Gabriel hadn’t noticed George’s arm around her.

“Actually, Gabriel, I can’t.” Essie shrugged, holding onto George’s hand to keep his arm over her. “George has just asked me to be exclusive, so I can’t.” George’s eyebrows shot up when he heard the words come out of Essie’s mouth. The twins were just as famous for their flirtatious mannerisms as they were for their pranks. Gabriel looked between George and Essie suspiciously. 

“That’s right, Gabe,” George held Essie closer, sliding his arm from her shoulders to her waist. Essie blushed profusely at the contact. “Essie and I are what you would call a ‘thing’ now.” George’s chest puffed out, proud of his words. 

“Well, I didn’t realize you two had been seeing each other.” Gabe said, still wary of the two of them. “Enjoy your night,” he said as he walked off, “Don’t stay out past curfew.” Essie and George watched him walk away, waiting until he was out of eyesight. 

“What was that you said? Something about telling the truth?” George mocked a thinking face. Essie scoffed, stepping out of his arm.

“Shut up,” she rolled her eyes, “Didn’t you owe me one from ruining my essay?” Essie countered. “Consider us even.” Essie began walking again towards her common room.

“Essie Essie Essie,” George tutted as he watched her walk away. “You don’t know what you started.”

[p-and-p-admin]

Interview given to The Severus Snape and Hermione Granger Shipping Fan Group.  (sharing here Admin approved)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/199718373383293/

Hello Ciule and welcome to Behind the Quill, thank-you for sitting down with us for a chat.

SS/HG readers might be familiar with your stories “Awkward” and “Headmaster’s Wife”. 

Okay, let’s jump right in. What's the story behind your pen name? Well, I sort of took one of my real names, swirled the letters around in the air with my imaginary wand, and I ended up with this. Can’t begin to imagine where I got the idea from... ;-) Later on, I realized that Ciule is actually a name in Romania. I had no idea, but there are people out there carrying this name for real. I guess I’m #sorrynotsorry?   Which Harry Potter character do you identify with the most? To be quite frank: No one, really. This is more about the characters I like, than truly identifying with them. I can relate to parts of some of them, but not the whole package. Primarily, I write about Hermione, Voldemort and Severus, and the one common thread between those three is the search for knowledge. That’s a trait I can identify with, but I’m neither an evil bastard, a grumpy protector nor a fretting, intelligent activist. I am, however, a swot. If you had asked who I’d want to be, the answer is clear. I want to be Albus Dumbledore. Though I can’t agree with the things he did, I feel absolutely certain that he’s the one who has the most fun during the books. I want to have that twinkling fun in face of absolute chaos.   Do you have a favourite genre to read (not in fic, just in general)? Fantasy! Definitely fantasy. While growing up, I read ‘everything’ in every genre, and in my twenties, I decided I’d spend my time reading what I loved the most. So, fantasy it is. Do you have a favourite "classic" novel? You landed me in an existential crisis right there. I mean, there’s so many to choose from! ‘Wuthering Heights’, I think. It hurts so good. Or maybe ‘Rebecca’, at least, I loved that when I was younger. Or the fairly obscure ‘Lorna Doone.’ When I was a kid, I wanted to be a film director, shooting Lorna Doone into an epic film. Oh well, there might be a theme in this selection of books which reflects in my writing… At what age did you start writing? The creative process has gone on since forever. I’ve told myself thousands of stories in my head, but rarely written anything down. At the age of ten, I had a co-writing project with one of my friends. We created this secret room in her basement, and painstakingly wrote a ‘novel’. It was fun, though the writing ended as it became too cold down in the basement during winter. How did you get into writing fanfiction? In 2009, I became completely obsessed with a TV-show in the last episode. I was watching the entire series, casually enjoying the murder mystery, and in the last episode, the villain said: “I can do the math,” and I was literally gone. That obsession sparked writing my first fanfic stories. Those stories are still on FFnet, but they aren’t any good. *shrugs* What's the best theme you've ever come across in a fic? Is it a theme represented in your own works? Compromise. The world isn’t a perfect place, and will never be. You can, however, make it more to your liking. It may not be perfect, but if you play the cards you are dealt, you might improve something. In Robert Jordan’s “the Wheel of Time”-series, one of the characters goes through a test in a parallel universe of sorts, and she thinks: “The world was not what she wanted, not anywhere near it.” I loved that: trying your best to make things as you want them to be in the face of dangers and difficulties.   And then there’s time travel! I love messing with time, and there are so many great Time-travelling fics. Plus, I have to say I have a certain love for the villains...   What fandoms are you involved in other than Harry Potter? Currently, I’m not writing for any other fandoms. I read Star Wars, GoT, POTO and LOTR, and in the past I read Smallville. Though it’s more of a type of ship for me, because I only read Reylo, SanSan, Erik/ Christine, Lex/Lana and ….drum roll… the extremely small and quite oddball ship of Eowyn/ Grìma Wormtongue. If you’ve never tried the last one, go search for the fantastic stories by auri_mynonys. If you could make one change to canon, what would it be? Do you have a favourite piece of fanon? One change: duh, that’s easy, isn’t it? Severus lives. Or, maybe Dumbledore acting more rational, not keeping so many secrets. Maybe telling McGonagall that Severus is on the Order’s side… (Interviewer is laughing - ”NOT so easy”) I do write Voldemort wins AUs, but I wouldn’t want canon Voldemort to win. I prefer him to be more sane than in canon. My absolute favourite piece of fanon has to be the Black library. I thought it was canon, but it’s not. This is a thing that really, really should exist in canon! Do you listen to music when you write or do you prefer quiet? I’m very much inspired by music, and sometimes I listen as I write, but not always. Some fics are heavily inspired by music, such as ‘Absence’ and the last epilogue to ‘The Manipulation of Time and Matter’. What are your favourite fanfictions of all time? Definitely ‘Two Steps from Hell,’ by the amazing Ssserpensssotia, but that’s a Volmione. This was such a wild ride, I felt like I was on the edge of my seat, holding my breath the entire time. Those twists and turns were so unpredictable and … Well, I’m in awe. The SS/HG fandom is so massive, there’s a plethora of great stories out there. The unfinished ‘Self-Slain Gods on Strange Altars’ is a wonderful story by scumblackentropy, and I love Slytherpoufs stories, especially the wip ‘Ghosts’, but also ‘Angels to Fly’. And then there’s the one that got away - it means, I can’t find it. In this story, Severus watches the thestrals, befriending one of them, I think, but they’re unpredictable and maybe even dangerous. He’s heartbroken, and knows how it all will go down, having bitterly accepted his role. It made me cry. And then there’s the works by Aurette, and lena1987, Subversa, Kittenshift… Are you a plotter or a pantser? How does that affect your writing process? I need (strike that: want) to draft the entire story before I post, to have some idea on how it goes. That makes it easier to write, but if it’s a long story, I’m happy as long as I know the general direction. This year, I finished a story that was on an unintended hiatus for two years, and I think part of my problem on getting back into writing it up was a too vague idea for the ending.   What is your writing genre of choice? Uh. I don’t know? Basically, you could argue that I’m a porn writer, or at least it’s fuelled by sexual tension and angst. So, romance or drama, bordering on erotica might be correct. To be frank, I haven’t really thought about categories after I started posting on AO3. Which of your stories are you most proud of? Why? Hard to say. I might go with “the Manipulation of Time and Matter,” because I think it’s the best plot I’ve created. Besides, I managed to write Hermione having a relationship with both Severus and Voldemort in the same fic. My favourite “clean” SSHG would be the short story ‘Grimmauld’. Did it unfold as you imagined it or did you find the unexpected cropped up as you wrote? What did you learn from writing it? In Grimmauld, the house became a character. That was unexpected, and not something I had planned from the beginning. So the lesson would be “don’t start posting until you know what’s going to happen.” Or else, this story might have turned out very much different. I had to throw in a little made-up lore on how you set blood wards on a house too to make it sentient. That proved to be a quite chilling piece of magic.   How personal is the story to you, and do you think that made it harder or easier to write? I love old houses. Exploring abandoned houses, going inside to see what remains of furniture, tapestries and everything is so exciting. (It can also be dangerous, but that’s another matter). Such houses makes me feel .. nostalgic, plus I get those nice little shivers down your spine that is a little like a horror story. So, I wanted to use Grimmauld as a setting to explore that in a fic, to really dig into the aching loneliness of a lost house. The story came very quickly to me, so I guess that helped me.   What books or authors have influenced you? How do you think that shows in your writing? Big question there. Hmm, I think … it’s hard to say. I’m a reader, really, and I couldn’t easily pick apart any influences. Though I have to say that one of the things I enjoyed when reading ‘Two Steps From Hell’ was the attention to magic. I think it’s important to include spells, rituals and the use of magic in my fics, because that’s what sets it apart from a Muggle AU, for example. That’s an important part of the world-building.   Do people in your everyday life know you write fanfiction? My significant other knows. I didn’t tell him, but he found out for himself, probably by spying on me. When he told me, I almost couldn’t stop laughing, because he… erm, he said he had thought about reenacting a scene in my PWP ‘Twenty Points to Gryffindor’, where Severus shouts the title as he… well… you get the gist. If he had done that, I’d have had a heart attack. I would literally be dead. Instead, I laughed non stop for an hour.   How true for you is the notion of "writing for yourself"? Haha, so true. You spend all those hours in front of your laptop - and if I wasn't motivated by doing it for myself, I can’t even see how I’d force myself through all those hours. It’s fun, though. I do this because I love it.   How important is it for you to interact with your audience? How do you engage with them? Just at the point of publishing? Through social media? Very important. I'm on the publishing sites (visible interaction is why I prefer AO3 instead of FFnet) and on Facebook, mainly. I love feedback (as all authors do), and when people form theories or make comments, I get an insight into my own writing. I know how it’s going to pan out, but the audience doesn’t, and how they perceive things might be different from how I think it is. At times, it influences how I go forward, mostly because I need to add things, to explain what’s going on. What is the best advice you've received about writing? Don’t post until you know the ending, and remember: the devil on your left shoulder will be at war with the angel on the right side. Listen to the angel telling you to wait a little longer, and not to the devil chanting: ‘Post, post, post!’ In the end, of course, you’ll give in to the devil, regretting it until you’re done. What do you do when you hit writer's block? Read. Read a lot. And read some more. Has anything in real life trickled down into your writing? Certainly. I’m a foodie. For example, everything that Voldemort eats is stuff I love. His food habits are primarily mine, and I love cooking.   Do you have any stories in the works? Can you give us a teaser? It’s a short piece, maybe three or four chapters, with the title ‘Transference’. The point of departure from canon is during their time in the tent at DH. Hermione wakes up in a bed, in a room she doesn’t recognize, having no idea where she is, but she spots a large, moving picture on the drawer:  Feeling panic rising, she stared hard at the moving and smiling pictures, and her heart leapt into her throat, pulse hammering as she recognized herself in the largest picture. A slightly older Hermione, in a white wedding dress, kissing and laughing at someone who simply had to be a much younger Severus Snape. It had to be him: Long black hair, hooked nose, sallow skin - but then he looked so young, carefree and happy - expressions she had never seen on her dour Professor's face. Beside the picture, there were numerous cards, greetings and well-wishings for their wedding - the date an impossible 21 August 1982, and amongst the cards, the largest one stood out, the black ink showing an elegant handwriting: “Dear Hermione and Severus! Best wishes for your wedding, Lord Voldemort.” Any words of encouragement to other writers? Read and write, in that order. Don’t worry about trolls, because when you contribute something that you created, it makes you so much more than people spending their time just raining on anyone’s parade. You brought something new to the world, they’re just reacting to things. If someone accuses you of a self-insert, go ahead and lecture them on the intentional fallacy. I promise, you won’t regret looking it up. ;-)   And please, mind the normal physical limits when you’re writing smut. Unless you give the male a stamina potion or put him under the Imperius, it’s unlikely that his refractory period allows him to come five times in one hour. Realistic smut is so much more sexy, lol. Thanks again for speaking with us Ciule.

[typewriterghcst]

Title: But For Me It Was Tuesday Rating: also G-ish, but some allusions to probably what we would consider child abuse in the modern day lbr Characters: one (1) OC, Baron, Natori, Yuki Summary: The events of The Cat Returns, but told through the eyes of the smallest-- oh, sorry, my mistake— the youngest kitchen maid in the service of the Cat King. No romantic pairings. A crush or two may be mentioned, though. Notes: Written for the 2020 TCR Birthday Bash, even though I emphatically missed the deadline rip. This one was for the prompt of ‘Movie Extra’, which I took to mean, well, pretty much just what I wrote— the events of the movie as a backdrop to another character’s everyday life, lmao This is another one that isn't Entirely Finished, but I've been working on it since June-ish and I've just lost all motivation to finish it. Though, unlike the last one I posted that was unfinished, the only part missing from this one is the ending.  There's also a part in here involving Natori that needed to be changed, but I liked the wording and imagery of it, and never did get around to figuring out where else to put it, so some of the pacing in here is Off rip

                                                        &&&

She oversleeps. That's the first unusual misfortune that happens to her on this particular day. Opens the day, no less, she  thinks to herself as she forlornly stokes the ovens' gently smoldering fires. Her ears are still ringing from the boxing she'd received— the fact that Cook had had to include a little hop to even reach them means what little pride she has feels just as bruised.

Were she a more superstitious, flighty sort, she might even have taken this setback as the first of likely many portents of an upcoming stressful day. But instead she is only Topolina, the youngest (but emphatically not the smallest; more on that later) kitchen maid currently languishing away in the employ of the illustrious royal castle of the Cat Kingdom.

Of course, it’s there she stops herself. It’s only the chaos of the morning that has her using such bitter language. She should try harder, she tells herself, not to linger on the unpleasant aspects of her current existence, and instead focus on… on… well, she supposes there’s something to be grateful for in all of this. 

Like…

Oh! She has a home. A relatively nice bed to sleep in. And meals, every day.

...Meals which she is most often forced to wolf down in the kitchen in solitude as she tends the fires and keeps a watchful eye on the simmering pots.

Ah.

Perhaps she needs a bit more practice with this gratitude thing, is all.

It’s entirely possible her recent light resentment had begun with her very name, Topolina, a name which had been quite fitting when she stood at least two heads shorter than all the other kitchen maids, one she'd even perhaps viewed with some fondness for its endearing quality. And yet, alas, it now exists as a name which seems only heavily ironic— that is, now that she's hit the tender age of fourteen and found herself towering over all but the very tallest of cats. It feels to dear Topolina like some massive, omnipresent joke that she remains her old timid, meek self, still eager to fade into the background and disappear... now without even the faintest hope of being able to do so.

Metaphorical salt in the wound is the undeniable fact that her pinafore's hem, once perfectly aligned with her ankles and cutely poofy, now drapes awkwardly far above its original position. Perhaps it’s comparatively trivial atop all her other complaints, but when she finds herself thinking back to her old unassuming silhouette, she can’t help but feel at least a little crestfallen. Nowadays, she feels quite akin to a pitifully overgrown shrub, no matter how many well-meaning words to the contrary she receives.

All in all, she imagines such a thing might make anyone feel rather less than appreciative.

It’s as she’s sitting there alone before one of the nine stoves in the palace kitchen, contemplating her rotten luck, that she hears— well. She’s not sure, exactly. It’s something of a crunching sound, like rusted metal grinding against itself, and she can’t imagine what its source could be. She stands, and gingerly inspects the oven itself from every angle she can think of. She even studies her fire iron. Yet still she comes up empty-handed.

Defeated, she flops back down in her original spot.

And then— she squeaks, because the ground under her is moving, slowly twisting back and forth as if she’s sitting on a lazy top. She leaps (falls is more accurate) off the emerging ground once her mind comes back to her, once it stops panicking, and stares in confounded shock as the very spot she’d been settled atop transforms into what appears to be a long-forgotten manhole covering. How long had that been there?! She’s never been made aware of an old servant’s tunnel in this area!

Her perplexion only deepens when she spies just who has made use of this abandoned tunnel— a cat much like herself, though she thinks that he looks quite a sight better than she would have had she just crawled through a dirty tunnel. His off-white suit is pressed and smart, for one, and hardly has a tear nor even a wrinkle to show for the abuse he’s no doubt just put it through.

His sharp gaze falls then on her, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of her ill-fitting, nearly threadbare pinafore, the scuffs of dirt and soot smattered across it, and her probably unkempt fur, smudged and mussed from fire-tending. Oh, if she could just will the earth itself to open its maw and swallow her up—!

“Ah,” he starts, in a much gentler voice than Topolina had expected, turning to her and offering a hand to help her up, “I apologize. It was not my intention to startle you.”

“N-No, it’s okay,” she stammers, taking his hand without thinking. (Were she in a right state of mind, she’d never do such a thing— the very last thing her poor Young Maiden’s Heart could stand is for a handsome gentleman to struggle to lift her.) He pulls her up with little difficulty, though, and in her chest she feels a very peculiar thump, and then a flutter.

“A-Are you here for the king..?” She asks impulsively.

He doesn’t answer immediately, appearing to think that over for a fleeting moment, perhaps aware of the myriad of ways the pairing of her question and his response could be interpreted, before he makes his decision.

“Yes. I would like to have an audience with him. It’s a matter of utmost importance.”

“Y… you’re not here to kill him, are you?” She whispers, perhaps irrationally afraid that the king himself might be listening in on her. And yet, not too irrational— she’s seen his spying Cat’s Eye floating languidly about the castle on more than one occasion.

There’s something pitying in his gaze, she thinks, but he replies graciously enough. “You have my word, miss. I am not here to usurp or otherwise harm your king.” Then, while dusting some nonexistent dirt off his clothes, “I do believe I will need a change of wardrobe, however. It won’t do to adress a king while clad in anything less than my finest, will it?”

He says it without flinching, and in such an earnestly straightforward fashion, that Topolina herself is almost led to believe there really is some flaw with his clothing that she simply can’t see.

“Oh!” She says then in sudden inspiration. Without explaining herself first, she scampers to the open alcove behind him, separated only by an unfinished wall. The kitchen servants have long used the area as a makeshift coat rack, and one particularly bizarre ensemble has been there for as long as she can remember. She comes back around the wall bearing the large hat and cloak before offering it to him, embarrassed now that she realizes that, judging by her actions, this is what constitutes ‘his best’ for her: an absurd hat and a dusty, worn cloak.

He himself appears no less than enchanted at her offering, however, and when he stands before her with the hat cocked just slightly on his head and azure mantle thrown over his shoulders, Topolina finds she’s again being assaulted by those odd, vexing heart palpitations. Is she really such a nervous thing? ...Yes, she answers herself firmly. Yes, she is. But she’s far from convinced nerves are to blame in this instance.

“Oh,” she breathes eventually, clasping her paws together and resting them against the edge of her cheek. “You look like you came out of a storybook.”

Well… that was more childish than she meant it to be.

“Then it’s perfect,” he says succinctly. Then, removing the hat and inclining his head to her, he adds, “Thank you for your assistance, ah—”

“Top— erm, Lina.”

“Miss Lina, it is. I’m quite grateful for your help. I am sorry only to startle you and then run without so much as a token for your assistance, but it’s imperative I make good time.”

Topolina shakes her head. “It’s okay— I-I don’t mind!”

And with a final bow, he leaves her and the kitchen behind.

                                                        &&&

Peculiar dashing stranger aside, the rest of her day passes in relative normality. There’s a clamor about the servants some time later, and she catches snippets of an excited buzz about something happening with the prince (something that ties in with a group of special guests, but she’s yet to put together how) as she goes about her duties, but in all, for how bizarre the day started out, it all strikes her as rather uneventful.

She’s instructed eventually to scour the floors in the audience chamber in preparation for a banquet, which means filling an old rusted tub with hot water and soap, and then carting it to said room. She’s no stranger to the task, of course, and thinks nothing of trudging through the hall with this metal burden in her arms.

Perhaps as penitence for her lack of investment in the day’s continuing  Wonders, another ill-fated obstacle is tossed onto the tracks before her. In this case, literally. 

Earlier that day, a courier had accidentally overturned a loose stone in the hallway floor. Scratching his head, staring down at the disturbed piece of clay as though it had personally insulted him in the most obtuse way possible, he’d eventually looked from one end of the corridor to the other and quietly snuck it back into place, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed.

Unfortunately, Topolina notices.

With a decidedly unfeline-like squawk, she trips over the rogue stone; the tub in her arms ends up the victim of gravity, as we all so unfortunately are.

And who should turn the corner then but Natori, just in time to be the unwitting second victim of her bad luck— drenched by the ensuing sheet of warm, sudsy water and so jarred by it, it seems he can do little other than look rapidly from his own sodden person to her no-doubt horrified countenance for near a full two minutes. In the fraught silence that follows, his glasses clatter to the earthen floor, and the tiny sound echoes in her ears like a gunshot. Trembling, Topolina instantly drops to her haunches, paws clapped together in desperate and tearful pleading.

"I-I'm so sorry, sir! Please, I beg your pardon— I didn't mean— i-it was an accident!"

"...Topolina," Natori finally interrupts quietly, gently, even, but the hum of exasperation vibrates just underneath his patient tone like a trapped butterfly, "—retrieve a mop and a towel, please.”

“Of course, sir! R-Right away!”

                                                        &&&

It’s afterward, as Topolina does her best to mop around him while he tries to dry himself without incurring any extra… floof, that Natori deems an appropriate time to address his reason for coming this way in the first place.

“It’s possible that Cook may have instructed you about this task already, but the kitchen staff will likely be needing every pot and pan that can be spared for today’s dinner, so do ensure that you tend to the ones that have been, er, languishing in... that corner.” When she chances a glance at him, she sees that his gaze is inconspicuously trained on a particularly infamous corner of the palace kitchens, one where abandoned cookware is just shy of creating its own ecosystem by now. For a brief, heart-pounding moment, some measure of indignation rises in her; she’s so very close to telling him she isn’t the one to blame in this instance! ...At least, not the only one.

Ah. Alas, once more. Her courage withers in the face of this culpability, small as it may be. Instead, she goes back to her doleful mopping. Still, there is at least enough nerve left in her to present him with one continuing question on the topic.

"Is it... is it for the special guests?"

Natori pauses, giving her something of a searching glance. "...It is, yes." Then, after a few seconds spent appearing to think this over, he continues ringing out the bottom hem of his robe. It seems at some point while she was distracted, he’d laid the drenched towel at his feet. "I see word spreads fast through the kitchens."

To herself, she thinks that he has no idea how true that is, nor precisely how fast it truly does.

Finally satisfied with all that the towel can accomplish in drying him off (and evidently feeling his now damp robe will no longer leave any puddles as he wanders through the castle), he returns it to her. "Now, Topolina, please try to keep the mishaps to a minimum. We do have an exceptional guest today, after all."

She only nods frantically, all too aware of her ears flapping up and down. To this, he gives an approving nod of his own, and then finally turns on his heel and leaves. Secure in her admittedly paltry position for at least another day, Topolina breathes a sigh of relief as she puts the mop away.

...An exceptional guest, he’d said. Curiosity flares again, this time stronger than before, and she can’t stop wondering just who they could be. For the most fleeting of seconds, she remembers the cat who had interrupted her delayed routine this morning, but he’s quickly waved away.

Honored guests did not arrive to their own commemoration by climbing through old servants’ tunnels.

                                                        &&&

Once the dirtiest, most grime-caked pots and pans are finally scrubbed to perfection, she peeks around the corner in search of Cook or Natori, wondering what other (insignificant) part she may have to play in the care of these exceptional guests. To her consternation, however, the kitchen aside from her seems rather empty, present only to the sound of a maid or two prepping extra portions of stuffed mice on the off-chance they’re requested.

Cautious as always, Topolina all but tiptoes through, still careful not to draw attention to herself, and— once she’s certain she’s not being scrutinized— peeks out of the kitchen itself into the servers’ hallway. There’s music playing, muffled, down the hall in the great dining room— something elegant, bouncy. A waltz, perhaps. She wonders distantly who it is that might be dancing, and if the well-spoken cat she’d crossed paths with earlier is anything of a dancer himself. She could imagine him dancing… Oh, the flutter is back.

“Lina—”

“Yes!!”

She jumps impressively high, her hackles on edge and tail fluffed out in alarm.  Yet, when she whips around to face her unexpected company, she’s met only with Yuki. Another of the kitchen servants, Yuki has existed as a consistently friendly, warm presence, to the degree that she’d willingly adopted Topolina’s attempts to shorten her, well, newly embarrassing name, something a few of the other servants (and Natori…) were still having trouble with. Her fright abated, Topolina tries to greet the smaller cat with a smile, but it wavers.

“Oh— Yuki, it’s you.” She’s carrying a large glass bottle, freshly-filled with some unfamiliar pink-tinged liquid, Topolina notices.

“I’m sorry,” Yuki starts in reply. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I-It’s okay!”

“What were you looking at?”

Oh. That.

“I was looking for Cook,” Topolina admits reluctantly. “Or maybe Natori. I’ve finished the dishes they wanted me to clean earlier today.”

“I saw The Corner was all clean. It must have taken a while.” Yuki sounds impressed, perhaps. Topolina doesn’t mention it, of course, but deep down she’s a little tickled. “Natori’s already taken his place in the dining room, though, so I don’t think you’ll have any luck getting more directions from him.”

“Oh…” Thinking back now, she realizes she should have surmised that already. At least, if the banquet has progressed to the point that entertainment is warranted. “What about Cook? Have you seen her?”

“Sorry, I haven’t.”

After a short silence, it suddenly occurs to Topolina that Yuki seems… a little distracted. Troubled, even. Fidgeting, she gathers her resolve for the third time that day.

“...Are you okay? You look like… um, something’s on your mind.”

Just the mention of her evident disquiet is enough to erase its presence from her expression; Yuki almost instantly brightens some, shaking her head gently.

“No, no. I’m fine.” And then, before Topolina can press the issue, “How about this? Stay here— I have to go back in and serve refills. If I see Cook, I’ll ask her what else she wants you to do and then fill you in when I come back. Okay?”

Topolina is just about to enthusiastically agree (leisure time in the sparsely occupied kitchen? Not being the one to personally ask Cook for more work? Of course she’d be on board!), but a sudden eruption of screams and breaking glass from the direction of the banquet room means the two of them are turning their startled attention to the ruckus instead.

“Wh— what could it be..?” Topolina wonders aloud, shaken.

[ and that's it rip the ending i had in mind was that yuki tells topolina to find a safe place, topolina cowers probably in the kitchen the whole time, especially upon hearing an Explosion. and the next day there's all kinds of rumors and tall tales about baron and The Daring Rescue he pulled off. topolina connects the dots and. well basically becomes haru 2.0 crushing on him and indulging in fantasies where she's also swept off her feet by a dashing hero fjfjkda; ]

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 13 Part 1

We’re in Heaven! Crowley’s got to access his blending-in skillz.

Warning for slightly creepy mind control.

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 13

There was a noise like a twang of a harp, but in reverse.

Two men (seemingly), a child, and a small green dog in a space helmet popped out next to the reception desk.

Noone was there. Crowley hung back while Aziraphale went up to the desk. It was pale mahogany, as smooth and clean as a surgical tray. The only things on it were a tiny golden bell, and programmes for The Sound of Music on stands. There was a plaque in front of the bell, that said:

And the Spirit and the bride say, Come.

Bit forward, Crowley thought.

Aziraphale turned back.

“Good, nobody’s here. That will make things easier. Now, what we’re looking for is -”

There was a musical chime, and an angel appeared behind the desk.

Aziraphale jumped, then tried to look as though he hadn’t. “Um, hello. I believe we spoke a moment ago?”

The red-haired angel gave them a frozen smile. “Welcome to Heaven. Please sign in.”

A ring-bound blue folder appeared on the desk in front of him.

“Er. Certainly.”

Aziraphale stepped forward. Crowley shifted so that Aziraphale’s body blocked him from view. He was unsuccessful. The receptionist’s eyes flicked from each member of their party to the next. First they took in Aziraphale’s disheveled appearance from his fight with Michael. Then the eleven-year-old child, the floating green dog, and then -

“That is a demon!” they shrieked.

Aziraphale froze, pen in hand. He could feel the situation topple out of control like a stack of books on an unwisely rickety table.

“Do something, Crowley,” he stage-whispered.

Crowley looked around, wondering if there was any point trying to duck out of sight. “You’re the one who just took out an Archangel, why are you looking at me?”

The receptionist’s hand flew out towards the little bell.

Adam stepped forward. A terrible, booming voice came out of his mouth.

“Don’t move.”

The red-haired angel froze. An eerie blank look stole over their face, smoothing away the panic. They straightened up and let their arm fall to their side.

“Have a pleasant apocalypse,” they said, in a high, toneless voice.

A chill ran up Crowley’s spine and set up camp there.

Aziraphale set the pen down and turned around, avoiding Adam’s eyes.

“That’s, um, well. Thank you, I suppose. How… how did you know to do that?”

Adam shrugged. He held the Book tighter against his chest.

“He did it back in the garden,” Crowley muttered to Aziraphale. “While you were. You know. Indisposed.”

The receptionist kept gazing forward with a faraway expression. By unspoken agreement, they all inched away from the desk.

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose I should lead the way. Crowley, you’ll need a disguise.”

“Yeah, could have done with one five minutes ago.” Crowley eyed the angel behind the desk and concentrated. His body glowed. His hair sprouted a few extra inches down to his shoulders. The darkness leached out of his clothes, leaving them white as bone. They morphed into a floaty blouse and smart suit-trousers. It was a good facsimile of what the receptionist was wearing. Crowley could have got it closer, but looking at the angel gave him the willies. He morphed a long earring that would pass for a gem as long as nobody looked too closely, and tucked a strand of hair in front of his ear to hide his own gem.

He turned to Aziraphale and made his best churchy face. “How do I look?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, dear, very fetching.”

Crowley reckoned he could get away with one white glove under his shirt. It might be a little fashion-forward for Heaven, but at least it was discreet.

They turned to Adam.

“I have no idea what to do about him,” Crowley admitted.

“The green dog is quite difficult to explain away,” Aziraphale said.

“It’ll be alright,” Adam said, vaguely.

His nose was back in that Book. What on Earth was in that thing? Crowley tried to get a glimpse at the title. It was in a curly font, which always played havoc with his eyes, especially with the sunglasses - oops. He would need an explanation for the sunglasses if anyone challenged him.

“I reckon,” Adam said, slowly, “if we all just walk around like we’re supposed to be here, then nobody will say anything. I think they just won’t notice I’m there.”

“Psychologically, there is a basis for that…” Aziraphale said, sounding doubtful.

“I think he means something a bit more… occult,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale coughed. “I suppose, if push came to shove, he could always. Well. Do… that again.” He gestured vaguely back at the reception desk.

Nobody had a better plan. They exchanged uneasy glances and set out.

~*~

Crowley despised open-plan offices.

They were the kind of thing his side ought to have devised, by right. Technically the nasty, cramped, dirty space occupied by Hell down in the basement qualified as open-plan, even though in practice everyone siloed themselves off in makeshift half-walled cubicles constructed out of anything they found lying around. This was something else, though. He felt himself going cross-eyed as he contemplated the vistas of white, airless space. It was like walking around inside a lightbulb.[1]

Spacedog trotted at their feet. His back legs whirred and clicked. He gave loving looks to Adam’s dirty, untied shoelaces as he sloped along. Adam’s guess earlier seemed to have been right. They’d met a few angels, and their gazes had slid pleasantly past their group without questioning their presence at all.

Aziraphale led the way. Crowley knew he should have some idea what everything was, but it had been so long since he’d been up here. He’d probably missed a few thousand restructures, too. Good.

They entered another blindingly bright open space with a bank of desks set up every half a mile. Crowley glowered from behind his shades.

A group of angels were clustered together. Aziraphale walked past them, head down. Crowley followed.

“Excuse me,” someone called out.

Aziraphale’s steps faltered. Crowley meant to keep walking, but against his better judgement, he glanced over at the group. With a jolt, he realised one of them was beckoning him over.

He stopped. Mistake.

“Hello, excuse me?” The voice brooked no argument.

Crowley stood frozen. A tiny voice screamed in his ear.

“Uh. Yeah?”

Aziraphale gave him a desperate look over his shoulder. Crowley pretended not to see.

The angel crooked her finger at him. Mouth dry, he walked slowly towards her.

“Yup?”

She had a sternly benevolent expression. They all did. It was becoming his least favorite expression.

“Are you any good with Powerpoint?”

Something in Crowley’s brain broke.

“Pardon?”

“You’re on the front desk, aren’t you? I’d be ever so grateful if you could help me. We’ve all got presentations due before the big push. It’s been ages since I’ve used the dratted thing - beg your pardon -”

She pressed a hand to her lips, as if blotting them.

“Also, if you could help us set up the projector, that would be super,” she added.

Crowley looked over his shoulder at Aziraphale. The angel spread his hands, helplessly.

“Erm. No problem,” he mumbled.

There was no way out. He drifted over to the huddle of angels as though walking to the guillotine.

~*~

Aziraphale, unlike some, was not an accomplished lurker. He could feel himself drawing unwanted attention as he tried not to hover. He suspected the only reason no-one was questioning him was because of Adam. Suspicious gazes began to be directed at him, but turned vague and distant as they failed to register Adam’s presence, before wandering back to their work. Crowley, at least, gave the impression he knew what he was doing as he clicked away on the angel’s ultra-thin desktop computer.

One of the few advantages of the extremely open-plan office was that it was easy to see threats coming from a great distance away. Aziraphale spotted Gabriel, flanked by Uriel and Sandalphon, the second he got out of the lift.

Aziraphale grabbed Adam by the shoulder and scurried behind a printer.

“- We need to be dramatic, but sombre. Maybe some lightning? And crank up the wind machine. I want my coat to billow when the first round of smiting kicks off.”

Gabriel swooped down towards the knot of angels. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, heart in mouth. Crowley was still in the middle of the group, explaining how the projector worked.

“- Has anyone heard from Michael? She missed a video-conference. It’s not like her.”

Aziraphale could not think for the life of him how to extract Crowley. He, on the other hand, was about to be right in Gabriel’s line of sight if he glanced over. He had to move. He’d have to trust in Crowley’s disguise and pray for luck.

He tiptoed backwards, towards the fire exit, and felt behind him for the handle.

The door gave a polite click and swung open without a sound. Aziraphale beckoned Adam. The boy jerked his head at Spacedog. The three of them slipped out and onto the fire escape.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Aziraphale felt a wave of relief for himself and fear for Crowley. He was nauseous with guilt for leaving him back there. But there was nothing to gain from dwelling. He held up his ring hand, and with a glow from his gem, summoned a piece of chalk into his hand. He marked the wall next to the door with a C.

Adam looked around, unmistakably bored.

“This isn’t how I imagined a spaceship,” he said.

“Ah.” Yes. They were still keeping up that fiction. Aziraphale was losing patience with it, if he was being quite honest. “Well, this is more of an… interim location. We’re really trying to get to Alpha Centauri.”

Adam’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I know about Alpha Centauri. It’s cool.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Talk to Crowley about it. He’ll tell you all sorts.” Not necessarily true all sorts, although Crowley told them with great confidence.

Adam had rallied, now that he knew their destination. “So, how do we get there?”

“We need to find the Department of Stars and Systems.”

In fact, the fire escape wasn’t the worst way to get there. It might even be faster, provided they encountered nobody. Aziraphale began the climb up to the next floor. Adam and Spacedog trotted at his heels. He marked the walls with chalk as he went.

He’d have to hope that Crowley caught up with them as fast as possible.

~*~

Many flights of stairs later, Aziraphale dragged himself up the last few steps, thinking with great nostalgia of the lift.

They were, at last, on the right floor. Aziraphale listened at the door, mostly as a formality. No-one was ever up here.

He opened the door and emerged onto floor 4004.

Its official name was the Department of Stars and Systems. Its unofficial name was The Universe.

“Woah,” Adam said.

The corridor they’d arrived in was, in one way, the polar opposite of the rest of Heaven. It was black. Endless black, the kind that made your eyeballs feels like they were being turned inside out. Aziraphale could see himself, and Adam, and the dog, as clearly as if they were standing in a well-lit room, but their surroundings were a deep, light-eating darkness.

Aziraphale groped for the wall and chalked a C onto it.

“Nearly there,” he said.

They walked carefully, unsure whether there were still walls to bump into. Eventually, as if cut into the night sky, letters appeared at head height, hanging in midair.

Gen 1:1

Aziraphale stretched out his hand towards them. They touched the raised letters, and behind them, a smooth steel surface. It was a door, invisible in the blackness.

When he touched the door, there was a musical beep, and a keypad lit up just where a handle would normally be.

Aziraphale’s face fell.

Adam hovered at his elbow. “Try one-two-three-four-five-six.”

Aziraphale contemplated the keypad,[2] his heart sinking away into the darkness. Stupid. Of course there would be security clearance. And of course they’d never give it to him. He looked around in the vague hope there would be a post-it note somewhere with the passcode written down.

“Oi,” came a voice from the other direction.

Aziraphale spun around. Crowley sauntered around the corner.

“Crowley!”

Crowley squinted, his shades dangling from one hand.

“This is weird. It’s not like proper darkness. More like light that happens to be black.”

He was still dressed like the angel from the front desk. He had dropped the sickly sweet expression, though, and looked properly Crowley-like again. He’d also reverted to his usual walk. Aziraphale loved that walk. The sight of it brought happy tears to his eyes.

“You escaped then, I take it?”

Crowley grinned as he sashayed over. He had a sparkle to him that meant a bad job well done.

“Eventually. I got their projector working. They thought I was so helpful they gave me a couple more tasks to do around the office.”

That sounded like the opposite of escaping, and also the opposite of Crowley’s general vibe. Aziraphale eyed him with suspicion.

“Then I issued an automatic update to all their devices with no deferrals. Slipped away in the chaos. Turns out angels can swear just as well as demons. I reckon it gets pent up if you go too long without.”

Aziraphale laughed.

“Well, at least you spotted the chalk,” he said.

“Chalk? What is this, the Famous Five? I went to the monitor room and saw you on the security cameras.”

Aziraphale blushed. He blamed everything currently happening to him on silly technological nonsense.

Crowley squinted at the keypad. “Ah. I’m assuming you don’t have the door code?”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Who’s in charge here nowadays?”

“Well. Nobody really comes up here. It’s an archive, but it’s self-regulating, so…” Aziraphale thought. “I think technically Gabriel’s in charge.”

“Right. Try one-two-three-four-five-six.”

“I really don’t think -”

Aziraphale heard beeping. Adam was already tapping numbers into the keypad.

“Wait, you don’t know -”

There was a click, and the door swung open.[3]

“I’m telling you,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Always underestimate that man’s intelligence, you’ll never go wrong.”

Aziraphale gave his most dignified eye-roll.

They stepped, one by one, over the threshold.

They emerged into a room with the Universe inside.

---

[1] Demons could do that, but why would you want to?

[2] It had thirty-one buttons, not all of which were numbers. One through six did appear on there, in some fashion.

[3] If anyone had asked Adam, not that they’d bother to, no reason to bother asking him anything after all, he’d have showed them prophecy 1511: the numbere of the Univerfe is the numbere of wone-thorough-sixe. But they didn’t.

(Link to the next part)

[winchest09]

Heatwave

Title: Heatwave

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Universe: AU

Word Count: 3711

Summary: A heatwave isn’t the only reason Dean Winchester is struggling to sleep. He ends up on your doorstep, and cooling down isn’t an option.

Rating: 18 +. NSFW

Warnings: Smut. Fingering, finger fucking, oral (female receiving), wall smut, kitchen smut, sweaty hot summer smut. 

A/N: So this is my smutty entry for @negans-lucille-tblr‘s challenge!  

The prompts i chose were: “man i ain’t ever seen an ass like hers” and “i don’t deserve you” these will be outlined in bold!

Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :) I’ll give you a virtual hug if you did reblog or comment, means the world <3 Main Masterlist

Let me know what you think!

********************************************

Dean was tossing and turning in his bed sheets, Kansas was currently being held by a heat wave that showed no signs of going away any time soon. Earlier on in the evening, the air conditioning unit in Dean’s room had decided to break, even though he did all he could to try and fix it, it was of no use. The parts were old and needed replacing, something he could only do in the morning. This left Dean hot, sweaty and incredibly frustrated. His frustration was not only being caused by the heat, it was also being caused by the thoughts of you writhing beneath him the day before. The way your body rubbed against his as he snaked his fingers into your panties, the way you nibbled his bottom lip as you tried so hard not to scream his name, you were in a public place after all.

His phone buzzed for the umpteenth time that night. Rolling over to his night stand, Dean sucked in his bottom lip, running his tongue over it as he opened the newly sent message. He groaned audibly, running a hand through his slightly sweat dampened hair before throwing the sheets off of his naked body. He couldn’t sleep, he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon so he may as well be productive with his time. He pulled on his pair of dark jeans, not bothering with underwear before throwing a grey t shirt over his body, grabbing his car keys from the top of his drawers. He padded down his stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible so he didn’t wake his little brother as he made his way to the hallway for his shoes.

“Dean?” The voice that sounded in the darkness made Dean jump out of his skin, one foot halfway in his boot. Turning around he saw his not so little brother standing in the archway that led into the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand.

“Oh…erm…hey Sammy,” Dean replied awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. Sam creased his brow as he looked down to see his brother’s feet half in his boots.

“Dean it’s two in the morning, where are you going?” He questioned, arching a brow at Dean’s sheepish look, watching how his elder brother continued to rub at his neck when it suddenly clicked for Sam. “Wait…you’re going to Y/N’s aren’t you?” He asked incredulously. Dean just rubbed his forehead as he stood straighter, letting out a sigh as he did so.

“I can’t get her out of my head Sam. I can’t sleep, this damn heat wave is killing me, the AC unit has broken in my room and all I can think about is seeing her again,” he admitted, his hands out wide from his sides, a smirk adorning his lips, “man I ain’t ever seen an ass like hers.” Sam just shook his head as a tiny laugh escaped him, his brother was unbelievable.

“So what, you’re just gonna show up to her door unannounced in the middle of the night?” Sam asked, walking around Dean to get to the solid wood staircase, ready to take himself back up to bed. The elder brother just shook his head, his smirk still on his lips as he looked to down at his shoes, slipping them further on his feet.

“On no, she’s knows I’m on my way…she’s been texting me all night. Sinful, sinful things Sammy,” Dean divulged, winking at his little brother. “Don’t wait up!” Dean pointed at his brother as he made his way out of the front door, Sam just waving him off with a roll of his eyes.

Dean made his way to his beloved impala which was parked out front, the night air thick and sticky. As he walked out of his yard, his thoughts were on you and the messages you had been sending him. He could feel himself hardening as he walked, the last text you sent burning in his mind, the picture of you in nothing but your underwear. As he slid into the drivers’ seat, he pulled his phone out and looked at the photo once more, a slightly audible groan escaping his plump lips as he studied it. You were wearing a lace maroon coloured bra with matching panties, you were lying back on your bed, sheets tangled around your legs with your hand resting just above your chest. To Dean, you looked delectable and the message that accompanied your picture cemented his decision to race over to you.

I. Need. You.

Placing baby in drive, he sped off in the direction of you. Not one for keeping to speed limits, Dean knew he’d be at your front door in less than ten minutes, if he really pushed and the lights were in his favour, maybe even less. With one hand on the leather of the steering wheel, his other hand was free to palm at his erection through his jeans. He was desperate for another taste of you, desperate for another taste of your lips; desperate for another taste of your sweet pussy.

He couldn’t believe his luck when he saw you again just over a week ago. He felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs, like he had been punched in the gut when he saw you walk elegantly across the marbled floor in your navy floor length dress. You looked just as beautiful as the day he stupidly left town to continue his family business, to take over from his father and become the CEO of Winchesters Inc. Dean didn’t know it then, but the moment he saw you wave goodbye in his rear view mirror would be the last time he saw your face, until now. You both tried the long distance relationship thing but Dean was young, reckless and the temptation of women closer to him became hard to resist. Within a couple of months, after a couple of arguments, you decided to call time on your relationship.

However, no matter how hard Dean tried, no matter how many women he slept with; not one compared to you. They didn’t feel the same underneath him, his name didn’t sound right coming from their lips in moans, nothing could compare to the feeling of being balls deep inside you. He missed you, but he knew his ship had sailed. Or so he thought. Fast forward four years and here he was, racing with a painfully hard cock to your front door. The charity function that a local art gallery had arranged was the last place he thought he’d see you again but there you were, mingling with the locals, looking even more beautiful than the last time he saw you.

It didn’t take long to fall back into natural habits with each other, Dean tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear as he asked what you’d been up to and you biting at your lower lip as you looked up into his moss coloured eyes to answer his questions. It felt like you’d never been apart, like you hadn’t lost those four years so it was no surprise to either of you three hours later when Dean slammed you up against the wall of the arts office, bunching your dress up above your hips before running his long fingers through your soaked folds. He then dropped to his knees and lapped you up like a man starved, his tongue swirling around your clit, his fingers knuckle deep in your pussy as you clung to his head for balance. That night you had the best orgasms of your life and you both rekindled what you had lost.

After exchanging numbers once again, neither of you went a day without texting nor calling. Dean had you back and he would be damned if he lost you again. He pulled up outside of your home, all of your lights were off and the clock read 2.13am. He had made it to yours in just under ten minutes, his cock still hard in his jeans, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting you. He swung open the impala door, the hinges squeaking slightly before shutting it behind him. He half jogged across your yard, running a shaky hand through his hair before gently knocking on the front door. He waited with baited breath, the last time he saw you was a week ago; your schedules not allowing either of you any time to be together. After a couple of seconds, he heard the lock being undone and the door opened, revealing you on the other side wrapped in a bed sheet. His cock twitched at the sight and he let out the long breath he was holding.

You smiled at him coyly, opening your door wider before walking back a little bit. Your hands wrapped around your sheet as you slowly unwrapped yourself from the cotton, letting it pool at your feet to reveal you standing there in nothing but heels and your maroon underwear. You’d been waiting for him and Dean licked at his bottom lip at the sight of you. He felt like the luckiest man in the world.

“Damn sweetheart,” he husked, as he walked into your home, shutting the front door with his foot, “I don’t deserve you.”

He didn’t give you time to respond as he had taken the two strides to get to you in no time at all, wrapping his large hands around your hips as he pulled you into him. Your breasts were pressed tight against his chest, your arms instinctively going around his neck as he captured your lips in a crushing kiss. His tongue running along your bottom lip, begging for entry to which you granted. His hands didn’t stay on your hips for long, after a gentle squeeze, he slid one hand into your hair whilst the other slipped under the waistband of your panties. You moaned softly into his kisses at the feeling of his fingertips gracing your skin, goose bumps erupting over your body at his touch. His nose nudged yours as he moved his head to change the angle of his kiss, pulling you impossibly closer to him before teasing his fingers lower into your underwear, his fingers now dipping into your folds. He groaned loudly when his fingers became coated in your juices, when he realised how wet you were and that it was all for him.

Dean’s cock was straining against his jeans and you could feel it hard on your hip as he pressed himself against you, his hand still in your panties as he started to stroke your tiny bundle of nerves with his thumb. His fingers were teasing the entrance to your pussy and you whimpered against him, feeling how you were coating his fingers with your fresh slick. Dean started to walk you backwards, his mouth still on yours, grumbling against your lips. You felt the coolness of the wall collide with your skin as Dean pressed you into the it. The events from the week before flooding your mind, the way his lips felt wrapped around your clit, his tongue snaking its way through your folds; the thought alone made you quiver. Your hands gripped at Dean’s biceps to steady yourself, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin as Deans fingers slid into you until they were knuckle deep. You gasped, breaking contact with Dean’s lips as you let a wave of euphoria wash over you. Dean wasted no time, his lips were attacking your skin, nipping and kitten licking your neck. He started to pump his fingers in and out of you in a fast rhythmic motion, the palm of his hand rubbing against your clit as he finger fucked your soaked pussy.

Dean was relentless in his attack on you, he craved your whimpers, he needed your moans and he yearned to have his cock buried to the hilt inside of you. He continued to curl his fingers inside of you, his palm rubbing at your sensitive nub as his lips trailed down your neck to your breasts. With his free hand, he pulled the cups of your bra down, taking one of your nipples immediately into his mouth. His tongue swirled around the bud, his fingers were fucking you incessantly and the coil in your stomach was tightening. Your grip was very much still on the tops of his arms, nothing but pornographic noises were leaving your mouth as your knees started to quiver.

“Oh god…De…Dean,” you stuttered, your eyes screwed closed due to your impending orgasm. Dean just growled against your skin, the smell of your perfume mixed with the musk of your sex was a scent that he could happily drown in.

“That’s it Y/N, let go baby,” he husked, his mouth placing hot kisses against your breasts before he moved back up to the other side of your neck.

With a flick of his fingers and the friction from his palm, you came undone. His one arm was now wrapped around your waist to stop you from falling as he felt your pussy pulse around him. You coated his hand in fresh slick before he pulled his hand out of your panties slowly, bringing his fingers to his lips. You watched how he sucked off everything you had given him and you couldn’t wait for him any longer. You needed to take control. Tiny beads of sweat rolled down your chest, the heat of the night starting to affect you as well as Dean. Your breasts were heaving and you noticed how Dean was watching them intently as you sucked in your bottom lip. Pushing back on him slightly, you ran your palm across his clothed hardened cock and you smirked when he hissed. You were impatient. You grabbed at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head to discard it behind him before placing your lips on his neck, sucking at his pulse point.

Dean growled at your bold movements, his hands coming to your thighs, his fingers leaving indents in your skin as he focused on the feeling of your soft lips. You kissed up to his ear, before working down his jawline, relishing in the way his stubble was leaving a pleasurable burn on your lips. He captured your lips once again in his as he roughly picked you up from the floor, you instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist. You licked at his bottom lip before biting down on it gently, causing the Winchester to moan against you. You felt a gentle breeze as he carried you the short distance to your kitchen, placing you down on the cool granite of the island that was situated in the middle of the room.

As his lips massaged your own, his hands made light work of the clasp of your bra and he chucked it behind him, your undergarment landing in the sink. His hands ghosted over your skin, sliding from your sides down to your hips before one large hand placed itself over your abdomen, pushing you down gently, encouraging you lay flat on your back. You did as you were told, your hair splaying out beneath you as you looked up to see dark green lust filled eyes staring back at you. His toned chest was heaving with each breath he took. He took one leg in his arms, kissing from your ankle all the way to behind your knee, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he ghosted his lips over your ruined panties. Dean smirked as he saw how your arousal had soaked through the silk, sucking on the spot before trailing his kisses down your opposite thigh. Dean hooked your legs over his shoulders, bringing both of his large hands to your panties, a devilish smirk on his lips as he ripped the material clean off.

“I hope you weren’t fond of those, sweetheart,” Dean growled, the sight of your bare pussy glistening in the moonlight making him lick his bottom lip. His action had made you gasp slightly as you tried your hardest to rub your thighs together to gain a bit of friction but his strong hands were holding your legs apart.

“Nuh uh,” you mewled, desperate for him to make his move. You didn’t have to wait long, the sight of your slick covered pussy caused Dean to go at you like a man starved. His fingers of one hand parted your folds as he licked a long strip from the entrance of your sex to your clit. You heard him groan with pleasure as he tasted you and it made your pussy clench around nothing. Your hands clawed at his short brown hair as you moaned, Dean was relentless. He had no particular method, no particular pattern, his tongue was just working you the way that Dean had always worked you. The coil in your stomach was tightening once more, the way he looked up at your writhing body as he flicked his tongue over your sex was enough to finish you off. You arched your back against the cool granite, something that was welcomed as your skin was clammy. The thick heat that was filling the night air doing nothing to cool you as you recovered from your second orgasm of the night.

Dean grinned, running his tongue slowly over his top lip as he placed wet kisses over your abdomen, your slick glistening over his mouth. You whimpered, you were sensitive and desperate for him to fill you. You needed him to fill you. Not willing to wait any longer, you moved your legs from his shoulders and pushed him backwards, your hand sliding straight away into his jeans. You were not surprised to find him not wearing any underwear, the fact he was commando turned you on, it had always turned you on. Dean’s lips were attacking your neck once more as you placed desperate kisses against his chest, working the button and zip of his jeans. You pushed them eagerly down his legs, his hard cock springing free and you groaned at the sight of him. He was long, thick and precum was seeping from his tip. Dean was painfully hard and he hissed when your hand wrapped around him. You started to pump his cock, massaging his balls in your other hand as Dean’s lips made their way back to your mouth. His kisses were breathless, his eyes were tight with pleasure from your touch but he couldn’t take any more of your hand. Your pussy was begging for him and he needed you, now.

Dean broke free from your lips once more as he pushed you back flat against the granite surface, your breasts heaving with each breath you took. Dean raised both of your ankles to his chest, your heels providing temporary cool relief against his burning skin as he separated them, placing one either side of his head. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with lust as you felt his cock nudge at your entrance, one large hand flat on your stomach to hold you in place. He coated his cock in your slick a few times, rubbing it through your soaked folds before he slowly entered you. You gasped, throwing your head back at the pleasurable burn Dean’s cock gave you as you accommodated him.

“Fuck Y/N!” Dean groaned when he was fill to the hilt inside you, your pussy squeezing around him, “you’re so tight.” You looked back up at Dean, your ankles either side of his head, his hands on your hips as you tried to move.

“Move, De,” you mewled, “fuck me,” you begged breathlessly. Dean didn’t need to be asked twice, his grip on your hips was tight as he fucked you hard and relentless on the counter top. Your breasts were bouncing with each of his thrusts, the sound of your slick and Dean’s balls slapping against your ass echoing around the kitchen. You moaned, you panted and you were desperately trying to grab onto something.

Dean threw his head back as he felt your pussy tighten around him, this angle was definitely one of his favourites, he felt like he was going deeper with each thrust. He growled as you clenched around him once again, the movement encouraging him to pound into you harder, his hands bringing your pussy down onto his cock with force. You felt that familiar tightening once again, your coil wanting to snap at any moment. Dean recognised the look on your face, he knew when you were close. You screwed your brow slightly, your lips parted just a little, your eyes were half lidded. He brought one hand from your hip to your clit and he began to rub in little circles as he fucked you hard. He felt his balls tighten, he wasn’t far off from cumming himself.

Your legs were the first to tighten, your toes curled into your heels, your hands were trying to grasp at anything they could as an explosion of euphoria overwhelmed you. You were repeating Dean’s name like a mantra as your pussy pulsed around him, wanting to milk him for everything he had. This is what Dean had been craving, this is what he needed; you. He came undone at hearing his name fall from your lips in plea, at feeling your pussy tighten against his cock. He gave you everything he had, releasing hot ropes of cum inside of you, filling you entirely.

Dean fell slightly on top of you, using one hand to hold himself off you as beads of sweat trickled down his toned chest. Your weak legs fell from his body, dangling off the edge of the counter as you came down from your third high. Dean placed loving kisses against your body as his cock started to soften inside of you, his seed dripping from your entrance. In this moment, he didn’t care about the heat wave or the four years he had lost with you. You were his oasis in a desert, and he was never going to give you up.

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A/N: I hate how tumblrs removed the page break. Anyway...I hope you’ve enjoyed this little one shot!  Let me know your thoughts HERE! :)

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