#I love that he has an Oxford mug

[jessieren]

Further to my analysis earlier in the week of evans and the way he holds glasses/other receptacles I thought I would add these additional items..

1. The ‘we don’t trust that fidgety Evans with liquids and have put cling film over his mug…’ *

*(Yes I know it’s probably some sort of submarine thing to make it realistic but it made me laugh far too much..)

2. The trying to look chill whilst being interviewed two handed hold

3. The ‘I have a special Oxford mug and take it everywhere with me’

Note: pic at Manor rehearsal. This is an Emma Bridgwater mug of Oxford. I find it utterly adorable that he has this… (I’m choosing to assume it’s actually his)

[findingnemosworld]

𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 - 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐤 𝐬𝐳𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐳𝐥𝐚𝐢

・𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬.

(𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭)

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐮𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐩 …

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝟐: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐥𝐳, 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲.

This was it, the biggest moment she had ever experienced, her graduation ceremony.

Physiotherapy has been her greatest passions ever since she was a child, she had graduated school from her home country, opting to pursue a masters degree in Oxford University - and along the way she'd started working as an intern in one of the biggest football clubs known, Liverpool Football Club ... during the internship, not only was she able to implement her thesis topic, but also find love with a lovable Hungarian player.

Like her, Dominik was new to the club which was a common point that led to the pair growing closer during her time working there - eventually, a relationship was born, one that tested time as both were quite occupied with their passions yet despite that, were able to find time for one another.

Dominik was everything she could ever hope for in a man, charming, attentive, funny and ridiculously handsome.

The past ten months were a pure blessing, despite his busy schedule. Dominik would constantly call in to check on her as well as ask about her studies, he'd often sit with her whenever he wasn't busy with training and help her study, even going as far as to ask her about what her thesis topic, further assuring her just how attentive he was to her passion, the same way she did with her constantly being present during every match he played as well as helping him rehabilitate during his injury.

Each and every moment they spent together had led to this very moment now, today was a special day, it was the day she was set to recieve her degree.

The excitement had led to her waking up at around six in the morning despite the ceremony not starting for another three hours, she turns to her right to find a sleeping Dominik, his lips slightly parted, hair disheveled due to tossing and turning, the tattoos quite promiment and peeking from the bed sheets as his chest rose and fell evenly.

She didn't have the heart to wake him, therefore she gently removed the bedsheets from her body and tiptoed to the kitchen to make her-self some tea, she pours water into the kettle and turns on the stove to let it boil, she then proceeds to grab the mug that read, Future Doctor - the mug was a gift that Dominik had gotten her for her twenty first birthday which was quite adorable given that in his words, he knew that fancy gifts weren't exactly what she wanted.

Lost in thought, she barely noticed her boyfriend of nearly eleven months stride up to her from behind, he wraps his arms around her waist and lazily nuzzled his face in the curvature of her neck, "I told you I don't like to wake up alone." he whispers.

A soft smile appears across her lips, "I'm sorry baby, I am too nervous about today, I don't want to look like an idiot."

He grunts something incoherent before he said, "Baba, you won't look like an idiot! If anything, you're the opposite of an idiot."

"I almost spilt my coffee on your chest the first time we met," she reminds him with an amused expression across her face.

He chuckles, "God I wished you did, would have been an excuse to be closer to you back then."

She giggles at his remark, "I'm excited, I'm scared and nervous Domi, I mean I worked so hard for this, I don't want anything to go wrong."

Dominik reaches over to turn off the stove then swiftly turns her to face him, he cradles her face in his hands then proceeds to lean in and peck her lips before muttering, "You are going to look absolutely gorgeous taking that degree, and then I can brag about how I'm dating the most intelligent girl in the world."

His words soften her almost instantly and she proceeds to hug him, "I love you."

He grins then presses a kiss on the top of her head, "I love you too baby."

There was no denying that she had his whole heart, from the very moment he saw her in the training center until this very moment - he was and still hopelessly devoted her, yet the insecurities in the back of his could not help but rear their ugly head, she was so accomplished, so intelligent, well spoken and put together ... what was he? just a guy that became well known for pushing a ball in between his feet because his father wanted him to follow in his footsteps, sure he loved the game, granted the circumstances weren't healthy but in contrast her, he felt like ... nothing.

And boy did he loathe that emotion, it was akin to jealousy, something he had never felt in ages, not since he was a child having to see other children enjoying a normal life all the while his days consisted of training.

"Domi," she murmurs, breaking his train of thought.

"Hm?" he replied, rubbing her back.

"I gotta make my tea." she said.

"Make me one too then, please." he murmurs.

"Ok," she said then kissed his cheek.

He watched her with pure admiration as she quickly whipped up two mugs of chamomile tea, adding a hint of cardamom to help both of them relax for the big day, and as they make their way back to their bed, Dominik couldn't help but wonder if she would be better off with someone else, a doctor perhaps, or a lawyer, or someone with a normal occupation that doesn't force them to be away half the time.

He wanted to ask her, desperately wondering why she would rather stay with him than seek another man, yet he remained shut, especially when she curled up next to him after drinking her tea and quickly drifted off to sleep leaving him with only the ugly insecure thoughts swimming inside of his mind.

__

Dominik was seated with her parents who had traveled to attend the ceremony, dressed in a three piece black suit which he believed was suitable for the ceremony - he noted just how proud both of her parents were which in turn made him happy as the pair had worked so hard to provide her with this opportunity, "She was quite nervous." he remarked.

Her father chuckles, "she's always nervous,"

"Our angel is a pessimist at heart despite recieving the highest degrees, succeeding both in her studies and her extra curricular activites," her mother chimes in. "Hell, she was even nervous before she introducued us to you, she thought we wouldn't approve of you,"

Dominik smiles, recalling just how nervous she was at the propsect of him meeting her parents yet things turned out quite well, her father treated him as though he was his own and her mother doted on him, insisting that he visited whenever he could, "She definitely is ... but look at her,"

They watch in awe as her name was called out, and she gracefully walks up dressed in a beautiful dress topped off by the graduation cape and hat, she accepts her degree, flashing a smile towards her parents and Dominik, then making her way to the empty chair to sit whilst the others recieve their degrees.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve her," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Her mother leans in and whispers, "You two are soulamtes."

Dominik turns to her then says, "Huh?"

"You think you two just met by chance, not at all," her mother smiles softly then adds, "God has put you in her path and her in yours, you two are more alike than you think."

He grows silent, contemplating if she was right yet the small voice in his head says otherwise causing him to momentarily grow frustrated at how insecure he was. "I love her," he said.

"She loves you too," her mother assures him just before saying, "Oh look, she's set to make a speech."

Dominik shifts his focus towards her as she takes the podium, with a clearly nervous look on her face, their eyes lock for a moment and he sends her an assuring smile, which seemingly worked on calming her nerves.

"Good afternoon," she begins with a soft smile, "I'm not good at speeches but I shall try to make this as short and brief as I can, I'd like to first congratulate my colleagues who worked as hard as myself to achieve their dream and make their mark as future Physiotherapists, it wasn't easy but we made it," she pauses, "I'd like to thank my professors, the department and everyone who pushed us to work hard, and be confident in our abilites, I'd also like to thank God as well as my parents who risked just about everything to give me this opportunity, and lastly, I'd like to thank my boyfriend ..."

Dominik's eyes softened as he sent her a sweet smile, tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes.

"He doesn't know that much about the inner depths of Physiotherapy and god knows I bored him night and day but he stuck with me, supporting me day and night until I got this far, so thank you." she smiled at him. "And lastly, I'd like to say, let's face life with the bravest face we got because it's not easy but it's worth it, thank you."

A thunderous roaring applause rippled through the auditorium as she made her way back to her chair, the photographer snapped a couple of photographs before the graduates were able to unite with their family and loved ones, she rushed to her parents, embracing the two of them as they congratulated her, she then turned to Dominik and said with an obvious squeal, "I made it."

"I knew you'd do it baby." Dominik embraced her before adding, "Now come on, dinner is on me."

"Nonesense, dinner is on us." her father interjects.

"No no, you two are here for two days, dinner is on me." Dominik smiles.

They dine in a beautiful Italian restaurant with a comfortable atmosphere, her parents spent the entire time conversing about the prospects she'd have now that she graduated and while he wanted nothing more than to pitch in, he found himself feeling less like her boyfriend and more like an idiot who did not understand a single thing they said.

She deserves better than you, the small voice reminds him. She's intelligent, beautiful and young, she deserves someone that can understand her, not a dumb fool like you.

Suddenly, Dominik stood up, excusing himself to head to the restroom unaware that she was rather confused by his demeanor as she had noted just how distant and lost in thought he was - she opted to wait until they were home to try and speak to him, meanwhile he was in the restroom, staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror.

What am I? just a clueless idiot who runs after a ball, he lets out a soft sigh, and she's just, ... perfect.

He hated this, this nagging sensation of jealousy coursing through his veins at this moment. Maybe I am holding her back, ... I should just let her go, she would find someone better, someone that can understand her and doesn't feel like an insecure child.

He splashes cold water on his face, then dries it off with a paper towel before stepping out and returning to their table, he sits down next to her and she leans in to whisper. "You ok love?"

"Yeah," he assures her with a smile.

She nods, albeit not convinced as she could tell just how distraught he was.

__

The pair drive back to their shared flat, and the moment they step inside - she stops him halfway before he enters the kitchen - he turns to face her, yet avoids looking her in the eye, "What is it?" he asks despite knowing that she is on to him, and had read through his façade.

"Domi, what's wrong?" she pulls him in, wrapping her arms around his torso.

"Nothing," he grumbles, instinctively wrapping his arms around her lower back. "Just my stupid brain making assumptions."

She frowns in confusion, "Assumptions about what?"

"Us." he blurts out then blushes, "I just ..."

This was difficult, far too difficult than he could imagine yet as he looked into her eyes, noting just how concerned she was for him - he realized that there was no way he could hide his emotions any longer. "I'm jealous, but I'm also insecure."

The phrasing served to both concern and confuse her as she replied with a gentle tone, "What do you mean?"

"You're a graduate with a masters degree, you completed your studies, you had a perfect life ... perfect grades, extra curricular activites and a social life, ..." he sighs then adds on, "All I had was the football pitch and my father asserting that this was the best for me, it's not that I hate football but the circumstances were toxic at best."

Her eyes soften as she reaches to run her fingers through his hair, "I had no idea."

"I didn't want to concern you, it's all stupid ideas. I just, I can't help it ..." he pouts then murmurs, "You deserve better than me."

Her eyes widen at the last phrase, "Absolutely not, if I had the chance to turn back time, I will meet you again, fall in love with you again and picture the most beautiful life with you."

He looks at her then says, "But why? I'm just an idiot who runs after a ball."

"Not to me you're not." she says then leans in to peck his lips. "You're my Domi, the one who makes me laugh with the stupidest jokes known to men, the one who listens to me ramble about the most trivial subjects and my studies, and on top of that he doesn't get bored, you're the one who goes above and beyond during date nights even though he doesn't have to, and you're the one who stole my heart the second I met him, I don't want anyone else to have my heart and I sure as hell don't want any woman to steal you, so what if you're a football player, you're still an amazing man, my man."

Her words were both soft and assertive, serving to lead him to lean in and capture her lips in the most romantic and passionate kiss he could muster, driven by his pure love and affection for her, "I love you baby."

"I love you too" she smiles.

[totowlff]

saved by a perfect kiss

➝ to guarantee a year of good luck, you must kiss someone at midnight. the problem is that you have no one to kiss.

➝ word count: 1,5k

➝ warnings: none

➝ author’s notes: this has been a year of creative rebirth for me. after years without writing, i came back to creating stories and being enchanted by them. i found a safe place where i could share my stories and feel good. i thank each and every one of you who took a moment to read my words. you are very special :)

The night was lively. The terrace of the Head of The River, in the center of Oxford, was full of people, as well as the bar that was inside the building, all there to welcome the new year. The conversations overlapped the soft music that sounded through the speakers installed by the environment, the toasts with the most diverse types of flutes, cups and mugs complementing the chaotically perfect symphony.

Of course, you wouldn't miss it for anything.

The invitation had arrived in your email shortly after the end of the season, coming directly from the hospitality team in Mercedes. It was an image prepared by the design sector, specifying the date, time and a request for you to confirm your presence by replying to that message. You did not hesitate to send a reply, assuring that you would be there, however, without any accompanying person.

You arrived at the pub on time. The sun was already low on the horizon when you walked through the door, your eyes scanning the room for familiar faces. Despite working for a considerable amount of time on the team, it was almost impossible to remember all of the nearly two thousand employees at Brackley. Relief coursed through your body when she spotted one of your colleagues getting some drinks from the bar.

— Nicole — you called, waving at her. The blonde woman smiled.

— Y/N — she exclaimed, as you walked over to give her a hug — How are you? How was Christmas?

— I am fine. Christmas was great. And yours?

— It was good, we took the kids skiing, they loved it — she smiled — Grab a beer, we're gathered outside.

You waved, turning to the bartender and ordering a bottle of Heineken, which was promptly served. Grabbing the cold drink and thanking the man, you followed Nicole to where your other colleagues were gathered. Greeting them, you took a sip of beer, following the conversation about the new FIA rules on personal and political manifestations by drivers.

The hours passed at a leisurely pace. The conversations sailed through the most diverse subjects, from Formula 1 itself to world politics. With the alcohol already taking effect in your system, everything seemed hazy and slower, the jokes funnier and the challenges easier.

— So, do you know who you're going to kiss at midnight yet? — Elliot asked as he took a bite of the crab cake he had ordered. That was a popular English tradition and there was no one who didn't follow it, after all, the kiss at midnight was a way to guarantee luck for the year that was starting. And given that the year that was ending had been terrible, everyone wanted to make sure that 2023 was going to be better.

— I'm going to kiss my husband — Nicole replied, squeezing the hand of her partner beside her.

— I need to see where Oscar is — Victoria said, looking at the watch on her wrist — Less than half an hour to go.

— Me and Dan are going to kiss too — Jamie said, wrapping an arm around the social media's neck, making everyone laugh.

— And you, Y/N, do you already know who you're going to kiss? — Elliot questioned, before putting the rest of the pie in his mouth. You felt the tension build up in your body. You hadn't brought anyone with you and you had been single for quite some time. You had no one to kiss at midnight.

— Do I really need to do this? — you muttered, trying to hide your discomfort.

— Of course you do — Victoria replied — We need all the luck in the world next year.

— But who would I kiss?

— Y/N, there are literally a lot of people here, there's no shortage of options — Dan said, smiling — Even if you want to trade places with me, I'm willing, huh?

You laughed.

— Jamie claimed you first, I'm not going to steal you from him.

— Then go get someone — Jamie said — You have less than twenty-five minutes.

Giving a wan smile, you left the circle and started walking around the party, looking for familiar faces that were willing to kiss you at midnight. It was something complex, because the person you knew was engaged or had brought a partner and you didn't have the courage to approach a stranger. Glancing at the watch on your wrist, which read less than ten minutes, you let out a long sigh.

“Maybe I better give up”, you thought, approaching the bar counter.

— Do you want anything?

You stared at the shelves behind him, somewhat reticently.

— What's the strongest thing you've got there?

The man looked back and picked up a bottle of amber liquid.

— I have this rum here. Could it be?

— Yeah.

The bartender poured a shot and placed it in front of you. You took the glass with your fingertips and downed it in one go, like a shot of tequila. The drink burned down your throat, making you let out a dissatisfied grunt. But, you needed something that would help build courage, and fast.

— Thanks — you said, pushing the glass towards the man and heading towards the pub stairs.

At the second floor, was the top echelon of the team's executive. Directors, managers, most accompanied by their partners. Passing through the conversation circles with some frustration, you thought it best to go to the balcony that was just above the terrace where you had spent a good part of the night. The place was empty, which seemed a little odd, but understandable considering the cool breeze blowing through. However, the heavy dose of alcohol you had been drinking was keeping you pretty warm.

Approaching the parapet, you took a few seconds to observe the movement in the street, the restaurants and pubs full, the joy and anticipation of those last minutes of 2022 filling the air.

— Running away from someone, Y/N? — you heard someone say somewhere beside you. Turning your face, you found the tall figure of Toto Wolff leaning with his forearms on the sill, a glass of drink in his hand, with nothing but ice in it.

— No — you replied — I just wanted some air. And you?

— I'm running away.

— From who?

— From everyone.

The corner of your lips curled.

— Are conversations really that bad?

— Considering they're just about how awful this year has been, yeah, they're awful.

You chuckled.

— Yeah, the year was really shitty.

He looked at you, one eyebrow raised.

— Do you think so, Y/N?

— I thought it was general consensus, not just your opinion.

— Yes indeed — he murmured, stirring the ice in his glass — Everyone here wants to forget this year forever.

The two of you were silent for a while, which felt comfortable, until your alcohol-fogged mind decided you needed to know something about Toto.

— I can ask you a question?

— If it's about W14, no.

You laughed.

— It's about something else.

— Go ahead.

— Did you kiss someone at midnight last year?

— On New Years’?

— Yeah.

— No. I think it's been a while since I last spent New Years with someone. Not that I'm looking but...

You smiled.

— So we figured out this year's problem.

He looked at you, one eyebrow raised.

— What?

— The kiss at midnight brings luck for the year to come. Since you didn't kiss anyone, you were unlucky.

Toto laughed.

— Y/N, this is bullshit.

— Downstairs, everyone disagrees with you.

— A kiss, or rather the lack of a kiss, has not cursed my 2022.

On the terrace, someone shouted that the new year was less than a minute away.

— It may not have cursed, but it brought bad luck.

— Do you really believe in these things?

— I started to believe it from the moment you said you haven't kissed anyone in the last year.

He shook his head.

— Y/N…

— Do you want to risk 2023, Mr. Wolff? — you asked, in a rather suggestive tone. Toto looked at you, a gleam of curiosity in his eyes.

— No. Do you have any suggestions to help me?

Somewhere, someone yelled that there were 10 seconds left.

— Well, you can kiss someone.

He turned away from the railing and walked towards you.

— Do you know of anyone who could kiss me and save my 2023?

Five seconds.

— Yes I know.

— Could you introduce me to this person?

— Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N — you said in a whisper, bringing your hand to his face, the fireworks shooting up into the sky with a hiss and exploding in color the moment your lips touched. You felt his fingers slide around his waist, bringing you closer, almost impossibly close. Tilting your head slightly, you allowed him to explore your mouth, the taste of whiskey settling on his tongue. The symphony of toasts and wishes for a new year better than the one that had passed was something in the background around him. In his ears, only your heartbeat sounded, strong, dictating the rhythm of your lips against his.

Until he pulled his face away, panting.

— Happy New Year, Y/N — Toto murmured, your nose brushing his.

— Happy New Year — you replied, smiling.

[artknifeandglue]

WIP Whatever-day!

Because this piece has taken so much work today that I now have a headache, and sharing (the suffering) is caring. Have an excerpt from the first draft, y'all.

Tagging @lovingherwasgay because we are both suffering with exams in various ways lol

---

Over eggs and bacon one morning, Harry lowers the newspaper in front of him and looks at the chipped mug of coffee by Eggsy’s plate, horribly out of place with the words HANDS OFF MY MUG, YOU CUNT plastered across the side in stark contrast to the bone china of Harry’s teacup. Plodding footsteps echo from the staircase and down the hallway into the dining room as he takes stock of the things that don’t belong to him but have surfaced in his home anyway: a coat in the wrong size on the hook by the doorway; the pair of oxfords not in his size sitting by the shoe cabinet where their owner leaves them every single time despite Harry’s near-daily reminders to put them away; the box of absurdly sweet breakfast cereal with no nutritional value whatsoever, perched proudly next to the coffee machine as though that space was never empty; the second toothbrush by the bathroom sink where there was only one before; the sleepy brunette currently padding into the dining room, rubbing his eyes and colliding with the doorframe on his way in, still in his pyjamas with his hair sticking up at odd angles. Instead of all of this making his head spin, the realisation settles into a quiet sort of clarity, as though this is how it ought to be.

Still, Harry waits until the end of breakfast, when Eggsy’s coffee has disappeared from the mug, his plate is empty, and all that is left of his cereal is a lonely blue Froot Loop sitting at the bottom of the bowl, surrounded by a few spoonfuls of milk tinted an unappealing colour by copious amounts of food colouring. As Eggsy scoops it up with his spoon, Harry bites the bullet and asks, “How do you feel about moving in?”

The spoon pauses on its way to Eggsy's mouth, a drop of milk dangling dangerously and threatening to fall onto the placemat. Harry drops his gaze to his own nearly-empty plate, cutting the last mushroom into half and spearing it on his fork just to give him something to do in the unbearable silence. A second passes, and then he ends up being the one to break it anyway. “Of course, you don’t have to if you would like to remain-”

“Yes,” Eggsy cuts in, and Harry looks up in time to see his shocked expression give way to a delighted grin. “Obviously yes, Harry, I want to.”

Relief and joy swell in Harry’s chest, too much and just perfect and crowding out almost all speech except the words I love you. “Excellent,” he manages to say when his throat finally unsticks. “Will you need help with your things?”

“Nah. Haven’t got that much to pack, and I can get Rox to help. She’s been offering for ages.” Eggsy tips the last bit of cereal and milk directly into his mouth and swallows. “Can I bring my stuff over tomorrow?”

“You can do as you like,” Harry points out, “since it’s now also your house. You live here.” With me, he wants to add, horribly sentimental as it is. You live here with me.

“Sweet. Thank you, Harry.” Eggsy is smiling again, this one beatific and soft and gentle, the way he smiles only when they are alone. What Harry wouldn’t give to keep that smile, to keep Eggsy like that forever, bright and brilliant and happy.

He shelves the thought, because now isn’t the time for impassioned declarations of love. “I’m glad you’re open to it,” he answers instead.

“Open to waking up next to you every morning for the rest of my life? Fuck yeah.” Eggsy’s chair scrapes against the floor as he gets up, now-empty bowl stacked neatly atop his plate as he carries his dishes to the kitchen sink. As he passes Harry’s chair, he leans down for a quick kiss, leaving on Harry’s lips the faint taste of sugar and artificial fruit and in Harry’s chest the fierce warmth of love.

Every morning for the rest of their lives. What a prospect.

[torturingpeople]

Of A Small Cottage

Wordcount: 2.6k words Featuring: "The Tender Pathologist", Atlas (@staring-at-my-keyboard) Other info: from the Tender Pathologist's POV in first person, the MC and Atlas are silly cutesy best friends and i love them so much, the MC has a happy place because God knows he needs it

The Skin of The Sun never really had the shine that Atlas yearned for. It was uncanny -- the cosmogone glow felt familiar enough to satiate him, sure, but seeing the sun from a dream fresh from the surface? Now, that was enticing. And being allowed to visit it often? That was an offer Atlas couldn't refuse.

I gave a few, slow blinks before recognising where I had ended up. I stood, with wind blowing up my cowlick, on the cobbled steps to my little dreamy cottage, watching it through the hazy sunrise’s glow and managing a small smile to myself as the hot rays cascaded down my face. I had long discarded my lab coat some seven dreams ago — I hated being tethered to it, to my profession, to all of my crimes — so I didn’t have to think about what horrors I had to live through in somewhere so calm and peaceful. 

Making my way up the half-desire-path and half-paved way to the door, I clasped my hand around the familiar brass handle and pushed it open. Ah, yes… just as I left it. With all the creams and warm greens and vintage wooden furniture and pleasant record of general pop music of its time echoing through the hall, I pushed my Oxford-shoes off and slowly traipsed through my home toward the kitchen with a soft smile. I hummed a tune in synchronisation with the vinyl playing as I set the kettle on, waiting for the water to boil as I mused on a mug to choose for myself.

I had some particularly cute patterns on some. I was fond of the simple red plaid mug, with all its chips and cracks and wear and tear, but there was another I had procured recently; a simple white mug, with a simplistic picture of a rather fluffy duckling painted beneath the glaze. A hard choice… plaid or duckling… plaid or duckling… I chose plaid. Old and reliable. Then I selected for myself an English Breakfast teabag, poured the now boiling water over it, and let it brew for a few moments before withdrawing it and placing it on a small saucer by the kettle. Then I spooned in some sugar (not too much, for I have both sensitive teeth and no desire to rot them away) and poured in a healthy dosing of milk. I smiled at the tawny colour in the mug, just as I liked it, taking a slow sip to draw enough liquid out so that I would not spill it when migrating to my garden.

Unfortunately, I nearly spilled the entire cup (and was lucky to maintain ninety percent of the liquid in it) when I heard a slightly hesitant knock on my door. Placing the mug down and mopping up the spillage with a rag, I tossed it into the sink before moving toward the triadic sound. I fidgeted with the turntable on the small shelf by the open kitchen door to turn the volume to a low lull, then proceeded to turn the handle to my front door again and open it a second time.

‘Ah.’ I let out the soft sound of acknowledgment before a fond smile weaved across my lips. ‘I did not expect to see you here.’

‘Truthfully,’ started Atlas in a kind voice, pushing back a loc of dark hair, ‘I myself did not expect to be here, let alone be in your company, but — unless I am mistaken — your cottage is lone in this valley.’

‘Yes, I prefer it that way,’ I clarified, more than overjoyed that my close friend had joined me in this wondrous dream of mine. Refusing to question how, I gently cradled his cane away from him and welcomed him in with an arm. ‘Come, I’ll make you tea.’

He gave his own soft smile and followed me inside, observing the interior curiously. He made a loose comment about the colours under his breath, one I wasn’t particularly intended to hear, but I could tell he was happy with my choices, and I couldn’t keep back the small grin on my face. 

He noticed, and it prompted him to speak. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, tilting his head up partly in concern and partly in curiosity as to what had made me smile so wide.

My eyes creased a little more as I turned to him, stood by the cupboard, no longer rifling through it. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, sincerely, ‘and I’m glad to see you.’

‘Ah — hence the smile,’ he clarified, likely to himself. He smiled back. 

Atlas has the sort of smile that makes you, inherently, wish to smile back. His comportment is contagious and I wonder often where he had gotten such an understanding, such a kind smile from. It was something so genuine and honest, something that made you feel as if he saw every facet of your life from the day that you were born up until the very moment you were living in, and then, disregarding it with some mutually understood wave of his gloved hand, traded all of that, all the flaws and sins and mistakes, for a simple smile. A simple, honest smile. And after that, you cannot help but smile back. I certainly can’t. It’s a great comfort to me, to have the opportunity to witness a smile so lovely so often.

 I returned to looking through my mug cupboard, and pulled out the mug with the fluffy duckling painted on it. ‘I was deciding between this mug and the plaid one, when I got in.’

‘How exquisite,’ he commented, leaning down to observe it with a hand on his chin. ‘It is certainly a very charming picture.’

I placed my hands on my hips with brief pride. ‘It’s new.’ Then, I began to brew a second cup of tea, leaning against the countertop as I waited for the kettle to boil. Then, a thought struck me. ‘I’m sorry to be so forward, but… do you know where you are?’

Atlas, who had been scrutinising my duckling mug and comparing its merit to the plaid mug on the nearby table, lifted his head from its bowed position. ‘Well. An exact location would be hard to pinpoint, as I was under the pretence that we were previously reading together, in your—… In Dr. Hanna’s hotel.’

I gave another light smile, focusing on pouring hot water over the teabag, the steam tickling the tip of my nose with dewy warmth. ‘Perhaps we got lucky and fell asleep.’ I mumbled offhandedly, then finished crafting his tea before handing the cup to him. He accepted gratefully, and I took my own cup before leading him to my garden. 

All sorts of flowers in wonderful and fantastical hues leapt out at us as we made it out of the door. I frowned upon realising the grass would need to be trimmed sooner or later, but I gained another grin as I, firstly, looked at Atlas soaking it all in and excitedly passing his hands over one another and, secondly, realised my daffodils and foxgloves were looking particularly healthy. The bluebell patch was also looking well-to-do with cool violet and periwinkle tones colouring the flowers. I also decided to check up briefly on my small bush of strawberries, but some pesky and fat doves have been consistently nicking them mercilessly from my garden. They would not be given the time of day until my guest left — I had procured a mesh to lay over the plant and protect my harvest.

‘Come, follow me. We can sit here,’ I gestured to the two metal chairs settled in front of a metal table painted white, with a glass top showcasing the many swirling patterns welded underneath. I took my seat in the left chair, and Atlas settled in the right. We watched the stream by my house pass idly together.

He took a long sip of his tea before mumbling his thoughts aloud to me again. ‘It is... a rather pleasant morning.’ He seemed entranced by the sun, hovering at a low level, casting orange beams onto his besotted features.

‘Every morning is,’ I responded, watching the sun make no effort to curl around Earth, hovering rightfully in its place and casting its orange light onto me and my friend all the same. ‘I prefer the dawn’s light. Dusk is too grey and washed-out for me. Midday is way too harsh.’

‘I... I don’t quite recall the last time I saw the sun,’ Atlas shifted his body to sit sideways on the chair, looking at the sunrise in mild awe. I wondered what had him so enthralled, what about the sun had drawn him in so deeply like a love-struck teenager. I could only imagine, after not seeing the sun for long enough to forget when the last time viewing it was, he had a right to be in love with it.

I admired his desire to watch the sun briefly. ‘I like its warmth. And the way it reflects on the stream.’ I pointed more obviously to the running water, which caught Atlas’ attention as he stood to peer over my picket-fence, watching the fish jump and skip briefly out of the water to dive back in with a grin.

‘Marvellous…’ he mumbled with an enamoured expression, twisting his head back to me and hurriedly returning to the table again. ‘Apologies,’ he cleared his throat, fidgeting with his gloves, ‘I find that my attention tends to divert easily.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I scooped up my plaid mug into my fragile fingers, savouring the warmth that emanated from it, letting it bleed through the porcelain to my fingertips. ‘Please, feel free to explore. There is lots to find here.’ He noticed my eyes changing to a more wistful, sentimental gaze. ‘I spend a lot of time constructing this… alternate world to rest my head in.’

Then we spent a lot of time in comfortable silence. Occasionally, one of us would make a brief statement about what we saw (maybe a bird flying a little lower than normal or a fish leaping exceptionally high), or what we were up to in the waking world. (Atlas asked me about a recent penny-dreadful I had been meaning to read that he was rather insistent on, and I felt a little guilty for having so little to do in my life yet still not completing the simple task.) He liked often to point out the pink and yellow hues of the budding morning, and how much he loved the sun I had conceived in my dream, though for a moment, by how he omitted that crucial information of this being a dream, I thought that he might have imagined this was real. I could forgive him for this, though — I found myself more often than not longing that my cottage was not a mere figment of my slumbering mind.

‘Atlas,’ I asked in a gentle voice, my expression turning more concerned. Our mugs of tea were empty, and I was not fussed so much about waking him in fear of wasting them. ‘As pleasant as spending this time with you is… you do realise we are in a dream, right?’

‘A dream?’

We both woke pleasantly on the leather Chesterfield couch in the parlour of Hilbert’s Grand Hotel once, Atlas’ penny-dreadful gently propped open in a loose hand while  mine had been bookmarked accordingly, resting closed and on top of my knees. I must have fallen asleep first. ‘Good morning,’ I murmured jokingly in a hoarse voice,  lifting my head to allow him to pry his own from my shoulder.

‘Good…’ Atlas took a brief glance at the large window, giving us a tinted view of the glittering false-stars, ‘evening, I suppose.’ He then turned to me with a rather animated grin, his hands twitching on his knees with excitement. ‘I had a most wondrous dream, you know. We were in a small cottage together — your cottage, you seemed to know your way about it — and… well, we were someplace on the Surface. There was a pleasant morning overhead, and we took tea in your garden, by a stream…’

I gave a downward smile. ‘Yes, I gave you my duckling mug.’ My eyes flicked away from him as I dove into the wistful, transient memory myself. ‘I had been eyeing it—’

‘Before you arrived!’ Atlas completed my sentence, his jaw a little slack with shock. ‘It’s new! Isn’t it?’

I startled at his sudden enthusiasm, feeling my eyebrows raise against my forehead, but I managed to calm myself nonetheless, a soft chuckle escaping me. ‘Yes, it was either that or the plaid mug. I chose plaid. It’s my favourite. I quite like the red on it. I always drink out of it… really, it’s pointless to have more than one if I—’

‘How could our dreams have synchronised so perfectly…?’ His voice began to trail off into deep thought, stroking his chin and fighting a smile. ‘Exactly identical dreams; the same dream; how is it possible…? This doesn’t seem akin to recurring dreams… Perchance it is some latent effect of your hotel’s fantastical appearance in the Neath, or your longing for the world outside of this hotel manifesting itself in your sleep…’ He continued rattling off theories as I watched, confused and amused, trying to think myself on what could have caused our dreams to collide in such a specific way. 

Then Atlas lifted his head from its bowed position, his index finger pointed upward decisively, an undoubtedly excited grin on his lips. ‘I must investigate more!’ he announced aloud, but realised exactly how he would have to go about “investigating more”, and gave me a more shy smile, his hands finding each other to intertwine in a nervous tangle. ‘If you would oblige me…’

‘I would be more than happy to, Atlas,’ my soft voice went as tender as it could, trying to keep back the tears of emotion gently pricking my lower eyelashes. ‘You know,’ I had to turn away, bringing my thumb to my eyes, ‘that place is of… significant value to me. It’s something I constructed, alone, solely to… let’s say, indulge in happiness. It isn’t somewhere I see often, so when I do find myself outside of a nightmare and in my cottage, I try to work on it a little more — and these damned pigeons keep pecking at my strawberries so I must get that sorted next time…’ I managed a slight laugh, yet Atlas’ stare of unabating curiosity prompted me to keep speaking.

‘What I mean to say is, whenever I felt troubled, I would find myself with somewhere to go. Whether it is real is doubtable, but… I’m glad I could share my happy-place with you. And, again, I would be more than happy to share my dreams with you.’ 

Now, as sweet as this moment was, I think I may have overdone it with my sentiment, as poor Atlas found himself so moved that tears spilled almost instantly from his eyes, dripping down his cheeks in a steady stream. 

Immediately, I sprung into mortified panic, my hands clawing up as I tried to think of what to do or say to calm him. (I have always been rather inept with my own emotions, let alone someone else’s.) ‘Ah, um — please, it really isn’t anything particularly — uh — special — I just like to imagine myself there and it was — well, I was fond of seeing you there and I believe we are friends and… I am glad to share that with you — but please, if it affects you so much, I — I would rather you—’

‘Fret not, I — I merely need a… a moment to compose myself,’ Atlas placated me, somehow, but only choked on his tears more, clasping a hand around his lips to try and subdue his tears. I wanted to provide some comfort by holding him, or perhaps even placing a hand on his shoulder, but I reserved my hands to my lap, watching him with nervous caution. After a few moments, he lifted his eyes to look up at me, his eyes wide and wet, having given up on wiping the tears away.

‘It’s an honour that you believe I belong in such a… such a beautiful emulation of happiness.’ His voice wavered as he spoke, ‘I… I would be eternally grateful to spend any amount of time in… in someplace so…’

With no words left in his heart to say, he could only give me one of those brilliant smiles, if a little more coy, his head tilted downward to avoid what he imagined would be a scrutinising stare. Obviously, I was inclined to smile back. Next time, I would give him the plaid mug.

AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:

my first atlas mc fic... teehee

i looooveeed writing this so much they are so cute together... this was my first time writing them together and i loved it so much. and to think this kickstarted all of the salad spinner au writing. before i even knew about parabola too so call it Neathly Fuckery if there are any egregious discrepancies between what dreams should be and whatever this is

[legolasbadass]

Office Hours, Part 24

Summary: Lorelei Browning has just secured a job as an assistant professor at Exeter College in Oxford. Naturally, she is eager to prove herself and meet every challenge sent her way, but what she does not expect is the tall, handsome stranger who will quickly become much more than a colleague…

Relationship: Richard Armitage x OC (Professor AU)

Word Count: 1.8k

Rating: T

Read on AO3

The next morning, the sun finally decides to visit Oxford. After weeks of rain and grey skies, the whole city comes alive again, and Richard and I decide to make the most of it by walking to the city centre and going out for breakfast. 

After our conversation in the kitchen last night, Richard and I made love, slowly and tenderly, and each kiss, each caress, was a reassurance of his love, healing all the cracks in my heart that had been left by past lovers. We moaned each other’s names as we came, and it felt like a promise. A promise that all the passion burning inside him was reserved for me and that our love would never waver. And as we walk hand in hand past the city’s most recognizable sites, I feel that he genuinely understands me now, and the peace and comfort that come with that are pure bliss. 

We step inside a small café facing the fenced gardens of the Oxford Union Society on St Michael’s Street. The bicycle parking rack in front of the café is overflowing, and inside, almost every table is taken by stressed-out students, their eyes glued to their laptops or heavy textbooks. Yet, despite the palpable buzz of approaching finals, the atmosphere in the café is warm and comforting. Wooden ceiling beams meet the poster-covered whitewashed walls under the bright light of the morning sun as the smell of roasted coffee beans and pastries fill the air. After ordering food and coffee, Richard and I find a spot crammed into a sunny corner by the large windows overlooking the street. Our oversized mugs clink against the dark mahogany of the table, which is so small our knees touch underneath as we sit. 

Richard tells me that he regularly frequented this café when he first moved to the city as he used to live only a few streets away, near Pembroke College. He reminisces over those years until our food arrives, and a companionable silence settles between us. Fried eggs, baked beans, and toast are a perfect treat after a long walk.

“Hm, it’s eggcellent,” Richard jokes, then immediately starts laughing as I chuckle and shake my head. He always laughs at his own—often terrible—puns, and I find that incredibly endearing. 

“You dork,” I reply playfully as I take another sip of coffee. 

��Hey, you always laugh at my jokes.” 

“Maybe I’m laughing at you?” I tease. 

His smile broadens. “Well, you’re still laughing. That’s what counts.” 

I smile back at him as he squeezes my thigh under the table. “Hey—any news about your potential project with Dr. Stanley Griffin?” I ask curiously. 

He hesitates before he says, “Er, no—not really.” 

I nod slowly; his tone is strange, as though he is trying to avoid the subject. Then, without another word, he reaches out to look at his phone. I frown—he has repeatedly been checking his phone since last night.  

“You keep checking your phone—what is it?” I ask, hoping I do not sound too much like an insecure, controlling girlfriend.

“I’m not checking my phone more than usual, love,” Richard says dismissively, which only makes me more suspicious. I suddenly have the strange feeling that he is hiding something from me—but why would he, when we share everything with each other? Still, it could be nothing. Perhaps he is simply waiting to hear back from some journal to which he submitted a paper, or he is expecting a response from some society or university concerning a conference. That must be it. 

But then why does he not simply tell me?

“I’m gonna get some more coffee. Do you want anything?” he asks, pulling me out of my spiralling thoughts. 

“Er, no I’m good. Thanks,” I reply with a smile. I watch him as he stands and leaves toward the counter, my eyes drifting to his solid thighs and the firmness of his bum in those dark jeans before drifting back to his handsome face just as he scratches his beard with one of his large hands. 

I know I have nothing to worry about with Richard. He is the most caring, thoughtful, and loyal partner I have ever had. But that only makes me even more curious—or worried—about what he could be keeping from me. Of course, I could insist he tell me, but it does not feel right to press him when he has always been so patient with me. 

“We seem to be running into each other a lot.” 

Of all the cafés in Oxford. 

Jason wears a beige trench coat, unbuttoned to reveal a burgundy cashmere sweater and the collar of a white button-up shirt underneath. He smirks at me before sliding into the empty seat in front of me. Richard’s seat. His knees come into contact with mine, and I immediately push my chair back. 

All I can think to say is a cliché, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“Me neither!” he exclaims. “I’m glad—we didn’t really get a chance to talk yesterday, what with your boyfriend being there.”

I feel like one of those dumb horror movie heroines, convinced they have outrun the monster only to come face to face with it again. 

“What are you doing here, Jason?” I ask, glancing toward Richard, but he has his back to us. 

Jason chuckles. “I’m getting coffee?” 

“You know what I mean,” I retort with a sigh. “What are you doing in Oxford? And don’t tell me you’re here for the conference—we both know medieval literature isn’t your research area at all.” 

“Alright, look—I found out you were organizing this conference, and I thought….” He shrugs. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.” 

“There’s a reason for that.” 

He shakes his head. “Oh, come now, Lor—that was ages ago. And I said I was sorry—”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t change anything,” I bite back, failing to hide the ache in my voice as the memories and pain of years past clog my throat. “And you also blamed me for sleeping with her so you’re apology doesn’t mean much.”

Jason opens his mouth to retort, but before he can say anything, Richard returns, his face hiding none of the hatred he feels for Jason. “You’re in my seat.” 

Jason leans back in the chair and looks up at Richard defiantly. “Oh, sorry—I’ll get another chair.” 

“Sorry, mate, I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” he says as he places his coffee on the table, now towering over Jason. “Get away from her.” 

Heat crawls up my neck as I notice the people in the café glancing at us. 

“What’s your problem?” 

“You know very well what my problem is,” Richard retorts with raised eyebrows. “Maybe no one has ever taught you how to treat a woman, but I don’t think you need a degree to understand that cheating on your girlfriend makes you an arsehole.” 

Jason chuckles and shakes his head as he stands. “I made a mistake, alright? But that doesn’t erase all the good memories we shared before that.” He is looking at me now, his eyes filled with an odd mixture of anger and regret. 

“No, but it changes them,” I say quietly, all too aware of the curious eyes watching us. “I think you should just go—I have nothing to say to you.” 

“So you’re just going to be angry at me for the rest of your life?” 

I sigh, my heart tightening in my chest, but Richard steps in before I can speak. 

“Don’t you dare make her think her feelings aren’t valid. What you did to her is unforgivable,” Richard growls. “And she’s made herself perfectly clear. So get out.” 

I stare at my empty coffee mug to avoid Jason’s eyes—and Richard’s—as they both stare at me. My stomach is in knots. When Jason finally leaves, Richard takes back the seat before me and reaches out to squeeze my hand. 

“Lorelei?”

I lift my head to meet his gaze, and I find myself feeling both comforted and annoyed by the deep concern in his eyes. 

“Let’s just go,” I say as I run a hand through my hair. 

I do not wait for Richard before putting on my coat and stepping outside. The sun is higher in the sky, and thus the shadows in the narrow street are longer. A cyclist wooshes past me on the road holding onto the handle of his bicycle with only one hand while he holds a stack of books in the other; this is the kind of little moment that makes me fall in love with Oxford every day, and as I watch him disappear around the corner, I remind myself that the day is not ruined simply because Jason interrupted our breakfast. 

Richard announces his presence by pressing a hand onto my back, and when I turn around to face him, his eyes are clouded in worry.

“I didn’t need you to defend me like that. I’m not a damsel in distress,” I begin uncertainly, adjusting my tote bag over my shoulder.

“I know you’re not,” Richard hastens to say, a deep frown on his face. “I’m sorry, love—I didn’t mean to—” 

“Don’t apologize,” I interject, reaching out to wrap my arms around him. “I was just going to say that I don’t need you to defend me … but I still appreciate it. I don’t think I need to tell you that Jason wasn’t exactly chivalrous.” 

“Calling him an arsehole wasn’t chivalrous,” Richard replies as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, “it was simply stating the obvious.” 

“Well, either way, thank you,” I chuckle before standing on my tiptoes to kiss him. 

When we pull apart a few moments later, Richard keeps one arm wrapped tight around my waist. “So, do you want to go home?” 

I shake my head, though I appreciate his consideration. “I won’t let him ruin my day. It’s warm, the sun is out, and I’d like to spend some time just walking around the city with you.” 

Richard smiles. “Your wish is my command,” he says playfully. “Oh—I got you a surprise.” 

Raising a curious eyebrow, I take the small paper bag he hands me and peek inside. Then I gasp. “A blueberry danish pastry!” I exclaim in excitement. “You’re the best!” 

Without wasting a second, I raise the pastry to my mouth and take a big bite, marvelling at the flaky dough and the sweet blueberry filling. 

“Hey, I have a pun for you,” I say as I lick my lips. “What did Grendel have for breakfast?” I wait a few seconds, then smile and wave the pastry. “A Danish!”

Richard bursts out laughing and shakes his head. “Now who’s the dork?” I stick out my tongue at him. “I love you, nerd.” 

I smile as he pulls me into his arms. “I love you, too.” 

The sun feels brighter and warmer as we make our way toward Broad Street, and Jason is but a distant memory as Richard’s hand lovingly holds onto mine, never letting go.

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[karuvapatta]

More Jon/Elias nonsense. Enjoy!

Many, many thanks to everyone still reading this thing <3 I'd love to know your thoughts, if you care to share them!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

***

“Statement ends.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon to come back to his senses. The tape recorder in his hand is still whirling, hungry for more words. But Jon is done for now. Sated.

He tells himself it isn’t relief he is feeling. It shouldn’t be. But he is tired of lying, so he lets the thought go with a deep sigh.

Elias is watching him. At some point he must have let go of Jon. There is space between them, on the couch; not enough space for propriety, with their thighs almost touching, and Elias sprawled back, his arm resting on the couch, behind Jon’s back. Certainly there is nothing innocent or proper about the way he watches Jon right now, intent and pleased and hungry.

“You had your fun, then?” Jon asks.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Elias says simply. “Am I not allowed to be?”

Jon is, in fact, feeling a lot better. So much so he is beginning to question his decision to invite Elias into his home. It’s supposed to be his space; he is meant to be safe here. And the man next to him is everything except safe.

Belatedly, Jon switches off the recorder. Habit has him retrieve the cassette and sign it with the case number. He will have to file it away on Monday, and he doesn’t want it to get lost or mixed up in the meantime.

“I’m going to make tea,” he says. Mostly he needs to be alone right now. “Would you like some?”

“Please,” Elias says.

It’s still raining. Jon pours water into the kettle and sets it down on the stove to boil. He prepares two cups. There’s a carton of milk in his fridge, long past its expiry date; he sniffs it and recoils at the smell, before pouring the whole lot of it down the kitchen sink. There isn’t much left in his fridge that’s actually edible, which is a shame. He’s hungry now, in a normal, human way. Maybe they can order take-out, if Elias decides to stay over.

The kettle whistles. Jon waits a bit – Martin claims you cannot pour boiling water on the tea leaves – before remembering that he hasn’t actually prepared them yet.

The tea needs to seep for three minutes. Jon grabs the ice-pack from the freezer and touches it to his face. Hopefully the heat and swelling will leech away before Monday rolls around.

He brings the mugs and a small jar of honey back to the living room.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t have any milk.”

“That’s fine,” Elias says mildly.

He is standing by the bookshelves, examining Jon’s collection. It’s—definitely odd, for him to be here. Jon watches, warily, as Elias pulls out Jon’s binder on the Magnus Institute. It’s mostly articles, newspaper clippings, some bits printed out from the official website and any other place he found it mentioned. There is a section on Jonah Magnus himself, as well, although the information there was sparse.

“This is quite thorough,” Elias says, with evident amusement.

“I wanted to be prepared before I started working there,” Jon says. “Sadly, my research omitted a few key details.”

Opinions on the Institute vary. It’s not like there aren’t any conspiracy theories floating around the web or within Oxford academic circles – it’s just that the truth is much worse than any of them. But, of course, younger Jonathan Sims dismissed them all as nonsensical and flung himself face-first into the Devil’s waiting embrace.

Elias doesn’t respond. He puts the binder away and checks the other titles. Some newer additions, like a book on Smirke’s architecture that Jon borrowed from Tim, or the one on basics of cybersecurity Jon’s been trying to figure out with Sasha’s help. There’s novels and historical non-fiction, some that Jon has already read, some that he plans on reading in the future. Elias pauses on the House of Leaves, considering it.

“Have you read it?” Jon asks.

Elias shakes his head. “No. It’s fairly new, isn’t it? I’m still working my way through the 1940s and 1950s.”

“You’re reading books according to the date of publication?” Jon asks.

“It’s a pretty efficient system,” Elias says, somewhat defensively. “I make occasional exceptions for contemporary literature, if it warrants it. And I keep up to date on anything overtly occult. But novels are just a hobby.”

Jon can’t help but smile at that. His own approach to book selection is less methodical and more haphazard, boiling down to whatever catches his attention in the moment. It’s always been that way.

“Well, you should read this one. You’ll like it.”

Elias looks at him, eyebrows raised. But he picks it up nonetheless, skimming his fingers over the cover.

“I made tea,” Jon reminds him.

“Mhmm.” Elias barely acknowledges him. He’s opened it now, and Jon recognizes the look of a man who’d be content to stand still for hours and devour the book in his hands until something managed to distract him. It’s—it’s actually quite endearing.

Luckily Jon’s phone rings, so he doesn’t have to stand there and watch his boss like a creep. It’s still on the kitchen table, ringing its generic little tune. Who on Earth would be calling him on a Saturday?

Martin Blackwood, the phone proclaims. Of course. The heavy, anxious feeling returns to Jon’s stomach.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Jon?” Martin says, surprised.

“Who did you expect?” Jon asks, perhaps a touch too aggressive.

“Oh. I, uh,” Martin stammers. “I just wasn’t sure if you were going to pick up.”

Jon can feel his cheeks flush with shame and anger. He isn’t quite sure if he’s angry at Martin or at himself, but it doesn’t stop him from snapping back: “Well, I did. Was there anything you needed?”

Martin is quiet for a moment. “I wanted to ask if you’re okay,” he says softly.

Soft, always so damn soft. Jon cannot deal with soft, not now. He knows what he is, Martin knows what he is, so why this entire charade?

“I’m fine,” he says.

“And—your face? Tim was really worried…”

“My face is also fine,” Jon says. Then, because it would nag at him otherwise: “How’s Tim’s hand?”

“It’s fine,” Martin says. “Apparently he took boxing classes at some point? He says it’s really easy to break your fingers when punching someone, but they taught him how to do it properly.”

“Yes, I can attest to his skill in the area,” Jon says. He touches his cheek and winces. “Was there anything else?”

“You said—well, you said you haven’t been sleeping, so I wanted to ask…”

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon says, louder than he intended. “You don’t need to worry about me. I appreciate it, but it really isn’t necessary.” Just leave me alone, he doesn’t say. Leave me alone, because I’d rather it happen right now than in the future, after I forget how to live without you. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Are you sure you want to go back to the Archives?” Martin asks, something like panic lacing his tone. “This place—it isn’t good for you, Jon. I’m sure Elias will give you a few days off…”

“No!” Jon says. The thought of leaving the Archives for an extended period of time is unpleasant and wrong; he shudders at the mere idea. “No,” he repeats. “I have to—I have to go back. You don’t understand…”

“I’m trying to,” Martin says. “I want to help you, but—”

“Well then stop pestering me about it,” Jon says sharply. “Goodbye Martin.”

There’s a beat of tense silence, before Martin sighs, defeated. “Bye, Jon.”

Jon jabs at the screen to end the call.

He was too harsh on Martin. He knows that. He’s always been too harsh on Martin. And yet Martin continues to worry about him, and bring him tea, and is so damn kind—

Jon draws in a shuddering breath. He cannot, will not think about Martin right now. Elias is here, and Jon needs to learn to keep his powers under control before he faces his assistants again. Or any other human being, for that matter.

Elias has sat down in the meantime, on the couch beneath the lamp, where the light is better. He’s sipping the tea Jon made for him, and reading the book Jon recommended. It is weirdly, shockingly domestic. He hasn’t often thought about Elias in this manner. First he was simply a rather eccentric boss, and an authority on the paranormal; then an actual murderer; finally an agent of an eldritch entity, capable of reading and influencing the minds of others. What else is there to Elias Bouchard that Jon has yet to learn? And why is the thought enticing?

He should be horrified. He knows that. So why isn’t he?

“Elias?” Jon asks.

“Hmm?”

Jon takes in a deep breath.

“Can you stop what’s happening to me?” he asks.

Elias doesn’t even look up from the page. “Do you honestly want me to?”

“I—” The answer is yes. It should be. He knows it should be.

He can’t bring himself to say it.

Finally, Elias looks up. His features soften a little once he sees the state Jon has worked himself into.

“No,” he says. “I cannot stop it. You’re the Archivist, Jon. You belong to the Beholding. And to me.”

“Fuck you,” Jon says, but there’s no bite to it.

Elias looks around for something – a bookmark, Jon assumes. He picks up a sticky note and carefully inserts it before closing the book and setting it down on the table.

“You wanted to learn more about your powers,” he says. He is in full business mode now, sitting straight in the chair, his fingers steepled together. “Use them. Ask me a question.”

Jon shivers. He tries to recall that buzzing sensation on his tongue, the need to know.

Except his head is mostly empty right now, so he just blurts out the first question that comes to mind.

“What’s between you and Peter Lukas?”

Elias, damn him, laughs. It’s a nice laugh, full of surprise and genuine amusement.

“Ask me a simpler question, Archivist,” he says. “There’s quite a long history there.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles, the crow’s feet becoming more pronounced. And there’s something about the way he watches Jon that makes Jon’s heartrate pick up; a certain weight, attentive and considering. He wonders if it’s the Eye or Elias himself.

“Who is he, then?” Jon asks.

“Captain of the Tundra. Prominent member of the Lukas family. A crucial benefactor of the Institute. Avatar of the Lonely.” Elias smiles. “My ex-husband.”

“What?”

Jon sits back, dumbfounded. He—well, he should have expected something like this. They did seem awfully close. And Peter was willing to kidnap Jon just to annoy Elias, which in retrospect might have been part of some sick power-play between the two of them. But the thought of Elias and that silent, cold, distant man? Married?

Elias looks entirely too satisfied with himself when he regards Jon through narrowed eyes. “Are you jealous, Archivist?”

“No!” Jon says quickly. Too quickly.

Well, this is what he gets for asking personal questions. And he isn’t even actually sure if Elias is answering them of his own volition, or if it’s because Jon compelled him to. He isn’t sure if Elias isn’t lying.

He isn’t.

The knowledge arrives in his head, unbidden. He shivers, feeling the weight of the Eye’s presence. Is it watching them, now?

“You feel it, then?” Elias asks.

“I—yes. I think so.” He doesn’t need to ask for clarification. Cold sweat is beading on his forehead, that persistent sensation of being observed prickling in the back of his neck. He thought it was just his paranoia, but, well.

God, he wishes it was just paranoia. Something he might treat with therapy and medication, not that persistent dread…

“When did you learn about the paranormal?” he asks. “When did you believe it was real?”

Again, Elias smiles.

“I cannot give you the exact date,” he says. “But I was seventeen years old.”

Jon shakes his head. His mind is still foggy, swirling with thoughts of Peter Lukas, of the Eye.

“If Peter managed to trap me, would you have saved me from the Lonely?”

This time, it takes a moment for Elias to answer. “No.”

Jon laughs, weakly.

“Great,” he says. “That’s just great.”

“I had every faith you’d manage to get out on your own,” Elias says coolly. “And, as a general rule: do not expect me to save you, Archivist. The point is for you to learn.”

“Yes, I can tell as much,” Jon says. Then, he asks: “I cannot compel you at all, can I? You’re just humouring me.”

Elias is watching, always watching. Assessing Jon from afar. And damn if Jon doesn’t want to bask in the feeling of his approval; if he doesn’t want to make Elias proud. It’s an absurd, toxic impulse, one that he wouldn’t admit to unless someone compelled him to answer. Except Elias doesn’t even need to do that; he can pick the knowledge from Jon’s brain, can look right through his feeble defences. No doubt he knows what he’s doing to Jon right now, when he smiles at him, when he nods his head, and says:

“Very good. You’re paying attention.”

Jon shivers. He can still taste static on his tongue, he can feel the Eye, looking through him. Jon is nothing but a vessel for the Powers, and the idea that he can control it is—laughable. He feels like a child on a playground, being given just enough freedom to swing on the swings or dig through the sandbox, but knowing that someone else brought him here, and someone else will take him home once they decide it’s time for Jon to go.

You can run, says a voice in his head. You can even try to hide. But you cannot hide forever, Archivist. Sooner or later, you’ll have to come back to me.

“I don’t have any choice at all, then?” Jon asks. He knows Elias is reading his thoughts right now; he can almost feel his presence. He closes his eyes and shivers, tries to commit this elusive feeling to memory. If he learns to recognize it, he may learn how to fight it.

“Did you have a choice when it came to attending school, or paying rent, or participating in society?” Elias asks. “When you’re hungry or tired, is it your own choice to eat or sleep? Are you choosing to breathe right now? Your freedom is limited by a number of outside forces. It always has been.” He pauses and considers Jon for a long moment. “You’re taking this relatively well, mind you. Better than I have.”

“Breathing is an involuntary reflex of my own nervous system,” Jon says. “I don’t think it qualifies as an “outside force”.”

Elias glares at him. “It was a figure of speech.”

Jon shrugs. It isn’t actually important. He just felt like saying something to fill in the silence. But Peter Lukas had a point, even if Jon wishes he hasn’t attempted a kidnapping to make it: it is fun to annoy Elias.

“Even so,” Elias says. “Like I told you before: your will is still your own.”

“For the most part.”

“For the most part,” Elias agrees. “There are boundaries, which you must learn to recognize. But within them, you’re free to do as you please.”

His tea’s gone cold. Jon sips it anyway, and tries to take some comfort from its bitter taste.

“This isn’t how I hoped this conversation would go,” he says.

“No, I can’t imagine that it is,” Elias says, infuriatingly calm. His phone chimes; Elias glances at the screen and then checks his watch. He sighs. “Regrettably, I have another meeting scheduled for today. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Yes, of course,” Jon says. Is it another employee having a mental breakdown? He doubts Elias often deals with those, even though, logically, it should be quite common in their line of work. A meeting with sponsors? A follow-up to yesterday’s gala? Some dangerous artifact to move into storage?

“May I?” Elias asks, picking up the House of Leaves from the table.

Jon just shrugs his assent. Let Elias borrow the book. It’s not like Jon has much left he hasn’t taken.  

Elias is fussy with his appearance; that isn’t new. He complains about the lack of mirrors in Jon’s apartment. He takes an awfully long time to re-style his hair, even though it looked perfectly fine to Jon. He smooths each crease in his suit jacket and fiddles with his tie until it lies perfectly symmetrical. It makes Jon feel extra self-conscious about his own casual outfit, and the mess of his too-long hair. Worryingly, it also makes him smile.

Finally, Elias puts on his fancy coat, making sure it lies evenly across his shoulders. Jon follows him to the doorstep. He wants to say something, but the words can’t make it past his lips; not until Elias has his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.

“Elias?”

“Yes?”

Jon drops his gaze, unable to look Elias in the eyes. He says, “I, uh. Thank you. For coming here today.”

He shouldn’t be doing this. Elias is the reason they are all in this mess. And here Jon stands, thanking him for the courtesy of making sure Jon doesn’t starve to death. He made Jon a monster; Jon shouldn’t be grateful that he’s now trying to ease the transition. Jon’s having many feelings he shouldn’t be feeling, and this is perhaps the worst of them.

Jesus. Martin would hate him right now. And he’d be right to do so. Jon desperately wants to hear his voice again; he’d like to be half the man Martin believes him to be.

“Jon.”

Elias is—Elias is so close. Jon forces himself to look up, to meet his gaze. He takes in a deep, unsteady breath.

He’ll talk to him. He will have to talk to Martin. Explain as best as he can. Maybe—maybe Martin can actually figure it out…

Elias is closer still, his hands cupping Jon’s face. He hesitates—Elias never hesitates. It isn’t in his character. And he is afraid—of what? Of Jon? What could Jon possibly do to him?

His mouth is dry. Jon wets his lips, breathing shakily. Elias’s cologne is all he can smell right now; his grey eyes are all he can see. And he’s being stupid, so fucking stupid, this isn’t right—

Elias kisses him.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It doesn’t, not really. What’s surprising is this: Elias’s lips, warm, and soft. Elias’s fingers on his face, gentle, handling him like something breakable. Elias’s unsteady exhale, his hesitation before he deepens the kiss. Jon’s own racing heartbeat, his hands on the lapels of Elias’s coat, pulling him closer, until he is trapped, caught between the wall at his back and Elias’s steady form.

It feels safe. It shouldn’t, but it does.

There’s a hand on his waist, on his hip. It slides upwards, beneath the fabric of his hoodie, his shirt. The touch of it on his bare skin is electric, sending shivers down his spine. Jon gasps; he can feel Elias tightening his hold, pushing deeper into his mouth, until there is no space between them at all.

They part, breathless. Jon is looking now, incapable of tearing his gaze away: Elias’s face is flushed, his lips red and swollen, his pupils widened, only a thin ring of silver framing them; it feels like they could swallow him whole. He thinks he may want them to.

His fingers are trembling, ever so slightly; he presses them to Elias’s cheek. He wants to feel the warmth of his skin, the texture of it. The soft flesh and solid bone underneath. That, too, he wants to commit to memory. He could fill in an entire room in his Archives with everything he’s learned about Elias.

“Your, uh,” he says. “Your meeting?”

Elias blinks, as if he had forgotten. As if Jon occupied all of his attention right now.

“Right,” he says. He makes no move to leave; he kisses Jon again, both his hands on Jon’s waist now, working their way under his shirt.

The damn phone chimes again. Elias pauses, ragged breaths hot and damp on Jon’s lips.

“Fuck,” he says, quietly.

He steps away. Jon makes no such attempts, content to hold onto the wall behind his back and just breathe.

“This was—” Elias begins.

“Highly inappropriate,” Jon says.

“And won’t happen again.”

“No. It won’t.”

“Right,” Elias says. “Goodbye, Jonathan.”

And then he’s gone.

[moonkissedmeli]

Artemis [Greek, Olympian]

A page from my grimoire.

Goddess of: the Wild Mountains, the Crescent Moon, Girls, Childbirth & Midwifery, Weaving, & the Hunt.

Zodiac sign: Taurus; her birthday is May 6th

Planet: The moon, specifically the crescent moon

Lineage: Daughter of Zeus & Leto & sister of Apollo.

Primary cult centres: Brauron, Delos, Ephesos, & Sparta

Artemis is one of the most ancient deities in the Greek Olympian pantheon. Her name is of an unknown etymology & her origin rests in earlier, pre-Greek mythology.

Artemis was the Goddess who looked after young girls. The Arkteia, young girls who imitate she-bears, are protected by Artemis and eventually offer their childhood to her when they move into motherhood.

Artemis is the lion among women. She can spare their lives in childbirth, or she could take it away. The clothes of women who died in childbirth were left as offerings, much like the hunter would leave a pelt for the Goddess when he had a successful hunt. Likewise, when women had successful childbirth without much pain, they would consider this the work of Artemis & leave blankets for the Goddess. She assisted her mother, Leto, painlessly birth Apollo, Artemis’s twin brother.

Artemis is a virgin & is the only Greek Goddess to wear a short tunic, symbolic of her perpetual maidenhood & almost boyishness. However, she is a virgin by choice - representative of her fierce independence & autonomy. In fact, some say Artemis was the only Goddess to never be kidnapped or raped.

She has 20 Amnisides Nymphs as her handmaidens & 60 daughters of Okeanos, all aged 9 in her choir. She chose these as part of 12 wishes granted to her by her father. All of her companions remained virgins.

Artemis had various men interested in her & this never worked out well for the men. The river god Alpheus, Bouphagos, Siproites, Actaeon, Orion, &The Aloadaes are among the men that have loved or wanted her. These men often threatened her with rape or kidnapping. However, she was afraid of none of them & usually killed them, had them killed by animals, or turned them into animals. Sometimes it was some combination of the three.

Artemis can teach us wildness, independence, and a love of nature. She protects women, children, and anyone who exhibits exceptional self-sufficiency or who defies cultural gender roles. As a goddess of transitions, she helps us pass from one state to another. As a bringer of light, she can illuminate our lives and help us find our way.

In ancient Greece, cities prayed to Artemis before battle when the situation was a matter of life and death. When the options were to be victorious or be destroyed, they prayed to Artemis for survival. When they won, they would sacrifice in excess to her. Artemis can help us face whatever life throws at us. She teaches us how to adapt, survive, and never just be the sum of others' expectations.

Festivals & Worship

The 6th day of each month is sacred to Artemis.

Artemisia: Modern festival of Artemis where anything goes, celebrating freedom & modern inspiration. Celebrated on June 6th.

Elaphebolia: festival held in Athens & Phocis during Elaphenolion [March-April]. Modern Hellenistic practitioners observe Elaphebolia as a holiday which falls on the sixth day of that month. [March 1st in 2020]. Cakes made from flour, honey, & sesame in the shape of stages were offered to the goddess.

Mounikhia: 16th of the month of Mounichion of the Athenian calendar. Was created to commemorate the victory of the Greek fleet over the Persians at Salamis. Cakes w/ candles were offered to the goddess & young girls dressed up as bears.

Kharisteria: Festival of Artemis at Athens to thank her for their survival of the Persian assault at Marathon. Celebrated on 6 Boedromion [September/October].

Mounykhia: 16 Mounkyhion [April/May]. Festival to Artemis as a light bringer.

Brauronia: Festival to Artemis at Brauron & an initiation festival for young girls.  At this festival, girls & maidens dance in their bear masks w/ phallus' strapped to them. The dance was slow & solemn as it was meant to imitate bears. Baskets of figs were also carried. The earliest participants actually wore bear skins; however, they were switched to Krokoton dresses. The dresses were short, saffron-yellow chiton, at the end of the festival they shed their dresses to symbolize maturation. Offerings found here are many, but include spindles, spindle whorls, loom weights, epinetra, textiles, & garments. Celebrated every 4 years.

Thargelia 6-7: May 6, which is the birthday of Artemis & Apollo.

Symbols

All animals, as she is the mother of all animals. Particularly, deer/stag, bear, goat, boar, buteo hawk, dog, horse, fresh water fish & ground dwelling birds.

Bow, arrows, & torch.

The crescent moon.

Colors: silver, white, red, green, turquiose

Offerings

Cypress, asphodel, amaranth, palm tree, mug wort, birch, wildflowers, female goat [drawing/toy/etc; I don’t really condone giving an actual goat, lol], toys from girls before their wedding, clothing [from women], garlands, statuettes of soldiers, clay masks [bear, rites of passage], moonstone, frankincense, fruit, music & dance, work & tasks, honey, port, incense [woodsy]  game meat, & pelts.

Crystals

Moonstone, pearl, clear quartz, silver, turquoise, emerald & diamond.

How to Worship

Offerings, caring for the natural world & animals.

Support women's and all gender equality, supporting LGBTQ+, and trans rights and equality.

Spending time in nature.

Show gratitude to the natural world & its gifts, including using natural resources in witchcraft if you practice or any other creative hobby you may have.

Work, any kind of work. Dedicate it to Artemis. Create her things to offer her.

Knitting, sewing, crocheting, etc. Artemis as one of the goddesses of weaving so you can dedicate anything you make to her. Likewise, you can use knot magic with her.

Epithets

Agreia/ Agrotera – Of the Wild, Huntress

Brauronia – Of Brauron, Caretaker of Girls

Delia – Of Delos

Hegemone – Leader, Ruler

Karytis – Of the Walnut Tree

Keladeine – Noisy or Sounding

Kynthia – Of Kynthos

Leukophryne – White Brow

Limenia – Protector of Harbors

Limnatis – Of the Marsh

Lokheia – Protector of Women in Childbirth

Mounykhia – From Mounykhia

Parthenos – Virgin

Phoebe – Light Bringing

Phosphoros – Bringing Light, Shinning

Potnia Theron – Mistress of Animals

Soteira – Savior

Sources

“The Myth of the Goddess: Evolution of an Image” Anne Baring and Jules Cashford

“The Oxford Classic Dictionary” Simon Hornblower

“Encyclopedia of Greek and Roman Mythology“ Lucas Roman

“Artemis” Theoi.com

“Artemis” Wikipedia

“Artemis” Britannica

[newtonsheffield]

The court requests evidence of Thomas Sharma with his cute grandson and showing him off to anyone and everyone

Well then, I'd like to submit Exhibit A

Friendly reminder that in my head, this will always be Kate and Edwina's Dad

Tom Sharma could admit, he was incredibly proud of of his little family. He'd been lucky enough in his life to fall in love twice with two incredible women, who had given him the most incredible daughters anyone could ever ask for. He was fairly sure every one of his work colleagues was positively sick of hearing about Kate's work as a human rights barrister, and Edwina studying at Oxford, he was fairly sure they were even fed up of him saying Thanks! My son in law rebuilt it for me. Every time someone complimented his little MG.

They were probably absolutely sick of him showing picture after picture of his girls (Mary included) and their partners. Sue in accounting had definitely rolled their eyes when he'd been showing her pictures of Edwina and Matt's trip to Greece on Tuesday

"Matt's over there on a dig. He's-"

"An archaeologist, we know, Tom."

But Thomas was undeterred. As far as he was concerned, his family was incredible, and everyone should know it. There was one member of his family, who he thought unashamedly, outshone the rest. The little boy who had made him a grandpa.

Katie had looked a little green when she'd visited them all those months ago now, and really the first sign should have been that Anthony was excitedly hovering over her like an anxious Puppy, his hand on her back the minute they'd stepped out of Kates Jag.

Kate had smiled a little awkwardly when she'd handed him a small box, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she handed one to Mary as well. Tom had stared curiously down at the box as she'd said

"You should open it."

He'd carefully unwrapped the box and puled out a mug, and his heart had stopped when he'd seen what was on it.

"தாத்தா" (Grandpa) A picture of a scan and Baby Bridgerton coming soon

His eyes had shot up to hers, and found her and Anthony grinning excitedly.

"Dad, Mary, Anthony and I are having a baby."

And Tom had burst into tears for the rest of the afternoon, and proudly taken his new mug into work, telling absolutely anyone and everyone who would listen, that He, Tom Sharma, was going to be a Tatta.

And from the very minute Anthony ad placed little Edmund Bridgerton in his arms, Tom had burned with pride. Because, this baby, was the most beautiful child that had ever lived. He knew Edmund was. He had a shock of curly dark hair that tumbled over his forehead just like Kate had, and he had a sleepy little frown that creased his eyebrows just like Anthony's when he was concentrating and Tom had never felt more in love with his tiny little family.

"Tom, I'm going to look after Kate and Edmund, I promise." Anthony said seriously later that afternoon, his gorgeous son clutched in his arms, as Kate slept soundly o the bed next to him. "I know we're still really young, but I'm really excited to be a Dad, I wanna have a bunch of these little Gremlins and I'll look after my family so well, I promise."

And Thomas couldn't help but smile at the man the scared boy who'd first dropped Kate home had become. "Anthony, Son, I stopped worrying about whether you'd look after my daughter after you took her to that party and got into a fight defending her. I'm proud of you, kiddo."

But he still couldn't take his eyes off the baby.

So naturally, Tom had jumped at the very first opportunity he'd been given to babysit Edmund. And he had a whole day with nothing to do but show off his grandson.

"Mary, this boy is the most handsome boy who has ever lived." He said proudly, staring down at his grandson as they walked through the supermarket, Edmund strapped to his chest, his eyes darting around curiously. "naturally, he takes after me."

Mary hummed, barely looking up from the comparison she was making between two types of cheese. "I agree, but I think he looks like Anthony."

Tom rolled his eyes.

"Oh my goodness! What a beautiful baby." A woman cooed, barely Edwina's age smiling up at Tom.

"Thanks! He's my grandson! My daughter's new baby."

Mary sighed, "Sorry, he's just excited." smiling apologetically at the girl as she walked away.

Tom tutted, but perked up immediately spotting Portia Featherington in the distance, "Mary hurry up. We need to show off the beautiful Grandchild our very successful son in law fathered. Layabout indeed."

And for all her eye rolling, Tom did note the shopping trolley sped up considerably.

[kneelesssharks]

How to Lose the Lottery

Hi! This is my first actually story post on tumblr so please give me feedback! :) 

George Weasley X fem!Reader (Muggle!au)

Inspo: this song

Summary: You’re remembering the night that you broke up with George Weasley. Looking back at your relationship you’re missing the good, but you can’t forget the last day you were together.

Warnings: Angst

If you have to go on one more ridiculous date you’ll scream. Ever since you and George broke up your friends had been insistent that you find someone else, or at least try and break out of your slump. 

You had been with George since your second year at university. He had already graduated and was working on becoming a computer sciences professor. He was in grad school, and you were a beautiful, fresh faced sophomore. It seemed simple, he had a decent enough job that he had a nice apartment close to campus. You were just nineteen, he was twenty-three. It made sense, guys your age were focused on partying, rather than being responsible young adults. 

Your first couple dates were fun, he’d taken you on the London Eye, and taken you for some really amazing food after. He was really sweeping you off your feet. A couple weeks into your relationship you started to spend more and more time at his apartment. You’d stay over on weekends and spend the week at your dorm to get your work done. Every Saturday morning you’d make pancakes in one of his old shirts he’d let you sleep in. You always woke up before him, used to your classes being earlier in the day, while he scheduled his for after ten am. He told you how much he loved waking up to you making breakfast in his shirt while playing music quietly as to not waking him up. 

Every morning he’d walk up to you half asleep without a shirt on and wrap his arms around your waist, placing a light kiss on your temple before nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He used to love hearing you giggle. Used to. 

About a year into your relationship he’d asked you to move in with him. Obviously you were excited. This is the first long term serious relationship you had ever been in. You really felt like George was the one for you. You really loved him.

Then everything sort of... stopped. The hugs from the back, the sleeping in his t shirt, him waking up to drive you to class. Being together all the time made all the niceness of being together fall to the wayside. There wasn’t any excitement in your relationship, even when you’d tried to surprise George with dinner and a tight dress, with a beautiful and delicate lace lingerie on underneath, he’d be working late at the library. You’d changed out of your dress and into one of your pj sets and packed up the food into the fridge by the time George got home.

Then Angelina entered the picture. She was a transfer from Oxford that George had been assigned to show around the Comp Sci department. She was brilliant and beautiful, and closer to George’s age than you were. You were a little jealous of how perfect for George she seemed. She was tall and into computers too. Her and George even started to work on their projects together. Your first reaction was to worry, but you’d convinced yourself that you were being paranoid. That it was good for George to have a friend outside of Lee and his brother Fred. That you and George had built a relationship on trust, that there is no way that he would ever be willing to throw what you had built away.

Then it happened. One night in the heat of the summer, he came home really late. You were awake, waiting for him. Sitting in your pjs watching one of your favorite movies. You had already eaten your dinner and put his in the fridge to reheat if he was hungry when he got home. So when he came back at two in the morning, you were surprised to say the least. 

“Hey babe, are you hungry? Do you want me to heat up your food,” you asked tiredly. 

He dropped his bag on the ground and huffed, causing you to look over at him. He looked utterly defeated. You immediately stood up and went over to him. Your hands went to hold the sides of his face, but he gripped your wrists before you could touch him. 

“George what the hell is going on,” you asked in a quiet worried voice. His face looked so guilty, he wouldn’t look into your eyes, your worry dropped, replaced by a sinking feeling in your stomach. “George, what did you do,” your voice was eerily calm as you pulled your hands from his grip.

His eyes finally meet yours. He looks teary, but not sad, not sorry for whatever he doesn’t want to tell you. “Y/N...” he started. 

“Don’t bullshit me George just tell me what happened.” Your eyes started to fill with tears, dreading what he would tell you. He stayed quite as you quietly yelled, not wanting to wake the neighbors. His back slid down the door until he sat on the floor. 

“I found someone else,” he said barely above a whisper. But you heard him. You wished you hadn’t.

Your jaw dropped and you backed against the wall that sat across from the door, the one that separated the kitchen from the living room in your shared apartment. You slid down as your throat felt like it was closing. You tried to blink back the tears, not wanting George to see them fall, but they slide down your cheek silently.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally looking up from the floor to look at your stunned and hurt face. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Is that supposed to make it better,” you ask, your voice betraying you and cracking. “Is that supposed to make all of this shit better? That you didn’t mean to ‘find someone else’ after we’ve been together for almost three years? When we live together,” your voice starts to raise, as tears fall down your face with reckless abandon.

“You have to know I didn’t mean to hurt you,” his voice is raised a bit now, his head squared as he finally has the courage to make eye contact with you.

“Oh,” you ruefully laugh, “well then it’s all better then isn’t it? I’ll tell you right now that it’s a little too fucking late to say that. To say that like you haven’t been hurting me for the last year of our fucking relationship.”

“It’s not my fault that you stopped trying for us,” he stood up. 

“I stopped trying,” your feet launched you up. “I’m the one who cooks for you every single day. I’m not the one who won’t even get up to take my girlfriend to school when it’s five minutes away. I’m not the one who spends all of their free time away from their house as to avoid their girlfriend. No George, that was all you.”

“Oh don’t blame all of our issues on me. We both had a hand in the end of this relationship.”

You stormed into the bedroom to start packing some of your things to leave. You can’t stand to look at him for one more second, much less to stay in the same apartment with him for one more night. 

“What the fuck happened to betting everything on us? You swore to me that you wanted to be with me for the rest of our lives. You told me that meeting me felt like winning the lottery. What happened to that? What? Some girl comes all the way from Oxford and all of a sudden all of that was bullshit?”

“Don’t bring Angelina into this, you know we were falling away from each other before she ever came into the picture,” George grabbed your arm to get you to look at him. His face morphed from his angry excuse making mug to something much softer, showing the small part of him that still cared at all for you. When he saw your tear stained face and the pure and painful hurt in your e/c eyes.

“Get the fuck off of me George,” you shoved him with all your strength. He didn’t even fight back as he fell to sit on the bed behind him. “I’m getting as much of my stuff as I can right now.” You wipe the tears from your cheeks. “I’ll stop by tomorrow when you’re in class and get the rest of it. I’ll leave my key on the counter. Then I never want to hear from you again. I don’t want to see you if I even hear your name anywhere close to me I’ll walk away.”

“You don’t have to do all that. It’s three in the morning you have nowhere to go. I’ll leave and you can stay here for tonight,” George sighs.

“I can’t stand to be anywhere that reminds me of you right now,” you glare at him over your shoulder. “I can stay at Cedric’s for the night and figure things out from there tomorrow.” George scoffs. You roll your eyes and turn to him. “What?”

“Of course you’re running to Cedric,” he bites.

“The hell do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” he rolls his eyes, “just seems convenient that you know you could go over to his place at this time of night. He always had a thing for you and you know it.”

You finish zipping your suitcase and stand up, looking at him. “Well it doesn’t matter now, does it? Because one of us already chose someone else.” You felt too calm. You knew you shouldn’t feel as relieved to leave as you do. That you should feel a little more crushed by the ending of your relationship. That you should be screaming and begging for more of an explanation. That it shouldn’t be as easy as it was to walk out on what you thought was going to be the rest of your life.

“Whatever, just go,” George’s eyes looked just as detached as you felt right now.

God, this is really ending, isn’t it.

[apinchofm]

Miriam and Baldwin in my modern!AU

Miriam's life was perfect. At least, as close to perfect as she needed.

Bertrand, her fantastic and funny husband adored her and his books. Marrying young, at 19 seemed foolish, but they were a happy couple. Matthew was the last person to criticise, as he too just had Marcus

Then one day, after a lecture, her entire world falls apart with one phone call.

"Miriam..." Matthew is crying. He doesn't cry. Miriam always joked that he had his tear ducts removed, despite his kind and romantic

When she arrives at the hospital, everyone is looking at her with pity and sympathy. Matthew is bruised up. Godfrey and Baldwin are watching sympathetically.

Hit and run by some drunk idiot. Bertrand had pushed Matthew out of the way. Because he was like that. Miriam didn't blame Matthew, not at all. But she couldn't look at him. So she leaves.

.....

Baldwin, too, had a perfect life. Divorce wasn't ideal, but it was for the best. Eva wasn't happy, he wasn't happy and more importantly, their daughter wasn't happy. It made sense.

But he was back in London, where he hoped to raise their daughter. Miyako enjoyed her school, as much as five year old could enjoy school.

A welcome surprise was Miriam, who he hadn't seen since last year, at his door.

"I'm sorry, I didn't..." Miriam knows from Matthew how Miyako gets used as a chess piece and time together is precious.

"We're making hot chocolate." Baldwin said with a small smile, "Come in."

Miyako is happy to see Miriam, making sure to sit next to her and blow dramatically to cool down her mug of cocoa. Not much made Miriam smile, but seeing Miyako and Baldwin did.

"It's a stupid question, but how are you?" Baldwin asked later, "Matthew said you were back at Oxford for your PhD?"

"Better, I suppose." Miriam shrugged, "As much as I love my parents, Harvard isn't home."

"Well, welcome back." Baldwin smiled, "I know how difficult being back in England is for you."

"It's home. And I miss working with Matt." Miriam said.

"What about you? Who is the famous bachelor seeing now?" Miriam teased, "You can't be single forever!"

"So are you!" Baldwin said.

"Yes, but I saw Eva with the Prince of Monaco's brother." Miriam teased, "It's time to get back out there."

Baldwin huffs a laugh, "She does it to provoke me. But she can see whomever she pleases. I'm still richer. And it gives me more time with Miyako before she decides to uproot her to Germany or Switzerland,"

"Is she still doing that?" Miriam asked, "What about school? Her friends?"

"She wants me to do the cruel and perhaps the easiest thing. I could easily get sole custody."

"But then you become the bad guy who took Miyako from her mum,"

"Exactly. I'm a bastard, yes. But not to my child."

"Why not have Miyako at Sept-Tours? Matthew said that Marcus adores being with your parents." Miriam asked. She had stopped in France to see her toddler godson, he seemed great.

"Marcus is two and barely has time to realise his father can't look at him," Baldwin said, "It will come back to bite him in the arse."

"I can help." Miriam offered, "I have a lot of free time now, and well, I love Miyako, she cheers me up. If you need someone to help out, even Matthew would offer. You know how much he hated Eva."

"I know. Matthew has offered but I don't want her to hear her uncle arguing with her mother. As entertaining as I find it."

"Well, I'm in London for the next five weeks before my house in Oxford is ready. I can have Miyako with me if you need to go anywhere, and help her get ready for school here?"

"You would do that?" Baldwin asked surprised.

"Yes. The two of you mean a lot to me." Miriam admitted, "And Switzerland is really cold in September. I don't want Miyako getting frostbite."

"Mimi?" Baldwin calls her over from her drawing and she bounces over happily, "You know how I'm going to Paris next week? Would you like to stay with Miriam?"

"Do I get to go to the same school?" She asked hopefully.

"Yes." Miriam promised, "And I think I can braid hair better than your dad."

Miyako giggles and nods, "Thank you!" She gives Miriam a big hug that she has no idea makes her feel better.

Miriam and Baldwin smile at each other, unaware of the shift between them.

[alldayangst]

gold rush (Tom Holland)

All of my fics are LGBT and PoC friendly. Inspired by gold rush by Taylor Swift. Everybody wants Tom, but you don’t like a gold rush. WC: 2.7K words. 

“Y/N, I just wanted to say again, thank you for coming in today and doing this for us.” Tom’s dad, Dominic, said as he displaced papers across desks, earl grey swaying like an angry lake in his mug. Approaching footsteps hinted that the star of the show was soon to be hold. In other words, Tom was running behind.

The door creaked and light from the corridor crept through like Sun peeping through curtains of the Night. It refusing to shut after Tom budged and pushed was maybe divine punishment for him being so late, and maybe provided the bit of laughter you needed after rolling out of bed at 6am for this, for him. When the door eventually did close, Tom turned around and saw you in all your glory; much taller than he remembered, more assured than he’d imagined, and more gorgeous than drowned out and half forgotten memories of you could ever fabricate.

You and Tom ran in the same social circles, but hadn’t seen each other since Tom’s career imploded when you were both nineteen. As much as Tom felt he owed his heart and soul to the UK, he maintained an almost permanent fixture on the States. It started to feel like his trips back to England were in fact actual holiday. At one point, you were in love with Tom, but meeting became a constant battle of ‘here, not there’ and your heart grew tired of the duck and goose chase. The gravity of the situation was too much for you, whom hadn’t even tasted their twenties yet. 

“Y/N!” Tom launched at you and held you in tight embrace. You let go of the hug, but he didn’t. And his dad watched on in momentary awe as you wrapped your arms around Tom once again, who breathed in every part of you with unwavering adoration.

“Tom!” You rubbed along his back as he hummed. “When I was told we were gonna have a ghost writer, I had no idea it was gonna be you.”

Tom and his dad (being an author) were collaborating on a book, a million dollar idea that’d been years in the making. Tom had stalled it, his dad told you out of simple insecurity. Now that the world was a stage, he was worried people would criticise his dyslexia with every line he wrote, that every stroke of his pen would reveal him as a rare type of monster that lacked intellect, he pondered that he wasn’t insightful enough in some way. His dad may have written a book about Tom outfaming him, but Tom felt like he’d always live in Dom’s shadow in this respect. Fresh from Oxford with an English Bachelor’s degree, Dom employed you to get grease on the gears to commence writing. Tom had always come out of his shell when you were around.

Your writing session lasted from 8 til noon, when Tom had promo with LadBible or Entertainment Weekly or whoever had bid the highest from his presence that day.

The door swung open and three men in all black and mics saddled around their waists called for and led Tom out of the room.

“Tom, session’s over. We need to get you to your BBC promo in 30 and we’re already running behind schedule.’ One cloaked Tom in a jacket you were sure was more expensive than your own home and another whispered something into a walkie talkie: “Holland is on the move. Check the back entrance is clear.” With that, Tom rose to his feet and left completely opposite of the way you came in. Without a word, no goodbye.

You and Dom left the building together around ten minutes later, where ten men with large cameras stood, lenses focused on you, glaring at you, not sure what to make of you. One of the men screams “Hey! You dating Tom Holland” and after that all you hear is clicks and all you see is bright flashing lights and Dom clenches your hand and leads you to your taxi cab.

The next time you see Tom is sooner than expected. The Hollands were hosting a last minute dinner party and you found yourself sitting opposite Tom, feeling his hard, hot and heavy gaze on you. The tension in the room was so thick not even a chainsaw cut through.

“Next topic,” You picked up a card from the deck and read it aloud. “Politics!” You said devilishly as you sip on what was left of the white wine in your cup, and now that your thought process is blurred; Tom’s longing gaze puts you at dismay.

“Fuck!” Harry exploded, and you hear their mother hiss. “Fuck I hate politics, there’s no making it out alive!” he remarked as he drummed on the table cloth, drunken excitement brewing a new energy in the room.

You go on like this for hours until dinner party is dinner party no more. And while Dom, Nikki and all of Tom’s siblings have chosen to exit stage left, it’s 1am and you and Tom have yet to leave the scene.

Tom sets down your deck of debate cards in favour of a genuine moment.

“What are you doing these days, Y/N?” Tom’s not looking at you, he’s looking at your knee as he rubs circles on it. You want to look down there too, see what he finds so intriguing; but you decide against it in fear you might spontaneously combust. You don’t know if this moment’s supposed to be intimate or innocent and you’re not sure if you want to find out.

So you put up a wall.

“I should be asking you the same thing, Holland.” You say sarcastically. “What have you been doing these days? I haven’t seen you around.” Your eyebrows scrunched up together but you’ve got a big, idiot grin on your face that’s more than telling. Tom giggles at your facetiousness.

Tom scratches his head in mock thought. He never clocks out, always putting on a show. “I don’t know - uh.” You’re laughing before Tom has even told the punchline, ‘cause I guess anything’s funny when it’s said by the one you love.”I’m kind of -” He snatches an old Spiderman comic off the floor. “I’m kinda doing this acting thing at the moment. Playing, y’know, this guy.”

“Well I wish you better luck in the future.” Tom has stopped rubbing circles but instead places his two hands on your knees as you rock back in laughter.

“I’m serious, Y/N. What do you do now?”

“Um.” You suddenly forgot your entire career as Tom, with no shade of subtlety, stares right into your soul. “I got my degree. I write like little stories, y’know? Have you ever heard of folklore?”

Tom shook his head.

“They’re like these little, old beautiful myths. And I write them for a living. And if I’m lucky, they get published in The Times. If I’m even luckier, I get to work with my old best friend - ” You feel your world stop temporarily as you call Tom your ‘best friend’ and you pause for all of 0.3 seconds to register Tom’s reaction but his face doesn’t flinch. “-Writing a book with him and his dad.” And that makes Tom smile. So he doesn’t have to tell you he missed you, you just know.

‘Undivided appearance’ and ‘undivided attention’ don’t necessarily mean the same thing in Hollywood as they do in real life, and you learn that the hard way in your writing session.

Tom may have been sat right next to you, but he was miles away. He was doing press with Cosmo, who hadn’t stopped tagging him with blue hearts on his Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat stories, causing his phone to go off every two seconds. You looked at the phone and then at him who then got the hint and put it on silent. Then there was a knock on the door. Tom rushed to open it, expecting that Dom had sent down a food delivery to egg you on finishing this chapter. You rehashed his childhood like a million times - in fact, you were part of it - so when it came to writing the parts that hurt, where you took a more supporting role in his life, you needed his help. The fact is, the knock at the door had come from one of Tom’s men (Tom liked to call him Man In Black no. 3) who hadn’t said as much as a ‘hi’ before he made his announcement. “Tom, you’re on the line with Cosmo in 10.” The man stepped back and pulled out his walkie talkie, “Holland knows he’s on the line with Cosmo at 10.” And then continued to pace around the hallway.

Cosmo called as he said they would and you almost felt for. second like tom might enjoy an entertainment magazine’s company more than yours. The interviewer made glaring comments and passive flirts at Tom who just blushed and chuckled and sipped his water like the woman on the phone calling him ‘hot’ was just too much to handle. At one point, she says: “What must it be like to grow up that beautiful, Tom? With your hair falling into place like dominoes.” You’re not expecting it when Tom tilts the phone so you’re in view. “Well I’m with the most beautiful being on Earth right now so..” Tom looks at you as if to ask ‘is this okay?” and you know it’s too late for these kind of questions, because that moment is headline fodder, so you smile not to make him feel bad for opening Pandora’s box. But Tom is merciless and likes to rub salt in the wound. “This is Y/N! Y/N’s helping me write the book with my Dad! We go way back.” He covers his mouth as soon as he says it. “Shit! They’re not supposed to know about the book yet.”

This is the moment, you think, where you believe when they say your first love is the one you never let go.

And you can’t think of anything purer than the love you have for him.

Tom thinks being on land is boring. He likes being strung from chords 30 feet in the air, and drowning in despair through scenes of emotional turmoil. You want to tell him you’re an arrow from Cupid’s bow about to reach him, but you couldn’t recover from the splinters if Tom shut you down. After all, Tom was a gold rush. A treasure that everyone had discovered but nobody owned. How precious is a jewel that anybody could take home with them?

Tom had invited you to a visit to Brighton with him, a city near the coast, for some inspiration on writing his section of the book. 

You accepted. And because you did, you found yourself at the beginning of the end, on Tom’s boat in Brighton. “We don’t have to talk about the book right now.” Tom throws a stack of blue tinted paper on the floor. His dyslexia meant that spelling and reading was so much easier when done on blue pages, and you could only guess that was the reason the body of water around you brought him so much peace. So when you saw that something might compromise your best boy’s happiness, you point it out. To give Tom a little bit of time to exit before things got ugly.

“Tom, I see someone in the bushes.”

“Yeah. It’s a pap.” Tom mumbled nonchalantly. 

“They’re here to get pictures of me,” He turned to face you. “and you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, the fans ship us. Think we’d be a good couple after that Cosmo stunt. We would have been a good couple when we were like, 18.” He laughs.

“Huh, yeah.” You look down.

“The best one around.” And you can’t tell if he’s serious.

You rip off one of his blue sheets. “I’m coming. I got hit with inspo.” And you trail to a different section of the boat. A very obvious click of the camera from a shrub nearby coaxes your pen to write without a second thought, How is he so accustomed to this? Fake private moments, protected by sheer glass curtains?

You scrunched your paper, well his paper, into a ball. 

Your mind had turned his life into folklore. You weren’t sure if that was crossing a line, so you just put the ball into your bag and hide it until he hits you with the spark again.

“Let me see it.” Tom says.

“No.”

“You ran off to write it and won’t let me see it?” 

You held your bag at your hip in defence. “No, Tom. Drop it.” 

Tom’s face drops a little bit, but then he reaches into his own bag and reveals a deck of your debate cards. “I know what will cheer you up, good ol’ Y/N.” He sets a card on the wooden table between you two. 

“Do you believe in a higher power?”

You toyed with the pendant around your neck which revealed your faith. “Do you?”

“I don’t. But I believe in soulmates.”

You look to the left to really ponder on what Tom is saying, and a paparazzis captures another photo of you in the corner of your eye.

“And you don’t think there’s a higher power that manufactures our souls to make our soulmates?”

Tom feigns a scowl. “That’s ridiculous.”

You scoffed. “How very contrarian of you.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

“It means you contradict yourself, Thomas.” You laugh as he holds his chest in fake hurt.

“Are you implying I’m anything less than perfect?”

“Never.”

Never. Because you didn’t believe that to be true. 

“Good. Cause you’d have to be punished.” Tom picks you up and throws you in the water below before jumping in with you.

On your way home you stop at the yours and Tom’s writing booth, scavenging through your bag to drop off Tom’s notepad, some scrunched up blue and white papers you and Tom thought could still help you write his book. You’d made an addition to your love-hazed scribblings about Tom and reckon you’d die if he found it. You managed to throw the other in the water, excusing yourself with “It’s utterly awful.”, to which you and Tom agreed you wouldn’t throw any more paper in the ocean cause the poor fish already had it hard enough.

You and Tom had a session the next day. Tom was excited for the day, and you could tell because he’d given his phone to one of his big babysitters for the time he had you.

“I think that’s all of yours.” You and Tom made a business out of unscrunching your paper balls to see if they had any useful ideas. You were certain you reached the end of Tom’s. All of his notes had ‘T.H’ written on the back in big and were scribed on blue paper. When it came to your little ‘secret admirer’ notes you weren’t worried - you had an English degree and were quick to think on your feet and was ready to make something up when it came to opening it. 

“No, this one’s mine.” He’s confident, so you let him have it. He goes to pick up your tea and then realises it’s nowhere near warm, and was the one you made for yourself when you crept in yesterday evening. Tom has a smile on his face, and then he doesn’t. Before he goes to read it aloud, his eyes tell you he’s reading it again and again and again. “At dinner parties, I’ll call you out on your contrarian shit, and the coastal towns we wondered round will never see a love as pure as it.”

The look on Tom’s face gives you the splinters. He tries to look at you but you know he can’t. You don’t blame him. You can’t look at him either. “I really thought this was a good friendship.”

You hum and nod your head in agreement, pull your lips into a thin straight line as streaks of tears abandon your eyes. This was worse than Tom rubbing salt in your wounds. He’s rubbing dirt in your painful fucking gashes and you are reminded of why this didn’t work before, why it will never be.

And you wouldn’t dare to dream about him anymore.

Masterlist

Upcoming Works

[qqueenofhades]

Whew!

Darklina + academia AU? (Professors, students, whatever dynamic you find most interesting)

Alina Starkov has always loved maps.

There’s just something about them: the deeply human struggle to understand the world, to sketch it out, to imagine fantastic beasts and lands and people on the margins, here be dragons. It’s half illusion and half reality, a guidebook both to what lies out there and what is dreamed of. She is fascinated by the relative accuracy of maps drawn long before satellites and space photographs – that, say, the sixteenth-century Europa recens descripta à Guileilmo Blaeuw does look pretty much like the modern continent. Well, mostly. She wrote her undergraduate senior thesis on the fictional island of Frisland, long believed to exist in the North Atlantic Ocean just south of Iceland, and its role in premodern cartographic and geographic imagination. Rereading it now gives her a twitch, as it always does with academics trying to revisit their past work, but it’s not all bad. It won her a prize and it impressed Professor Baghra Morozova, the fearsome head of the Department of Medieval Studies at Central European University, Vienna. (Best method to survive her class: Pray.) And it’s why Alina, still feeling very, very much like a terrible fraud – though she’s been assured this is likewise common to academics, so yay? – is working late in the main library on Quellenstraße, stifling yawns. She has a supervision meeting tomorrow, and if she half-asses this, Baghra will eat her alive.

Alina has been working for a while, pausing only to slug lukewarm coffee from her travel mug and answer texts from her flatmate Genya, when she becomes aware that there’s some other late-night diehard skulking in the stacks. This isn’t uncommon, but this guy doesn’t look like your usual desperate slacker. He’s tall, lean, and elegant, wearing a black shirt and crisp slacks, and – Alina has eyes, sue her – he’s extremely good-looking. Thick dark hair with a bit of a curl, a sharp dark gaze, and although he has his own stack of books, he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to any of them. In fact, he is looking – a little unsettlingly – directly at her.

Oh, hell. Alina hasn’t spoken to him before, but she knows who this is. Aleksander Morozov is an urban legend at CEU, for rather ominous reasons. He is rumored to be in some indeterminate year of his own PhD, but disappears at long stretches for “research trips,” and nobody is any the wiser about what he’s actually doing on them. Noting the similarity of surname, Alina once asked Baghra if they were related, and got a face that looked like someone had died. “Unfortunately,” her supervisor said, lips pursed, “he is my son. But I assure you, his presence on this campus has nothing whatever to do with me.”

Understanding that familial relations were, to say the least, chilly, Alina hasn’t pushed it. She’s also not sure what to make of her professor’s estranged (and disturbingly attractive) offspring sitting here and watching her study, as if he has nothing better to do than haunt first-year PhD students like the Ghost of Bad Decisions Yet To Come. At last, she gets up and marches over. Keeping her voice at librarian-approved levels, she hisses, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

She speaks in English, the lingua franca of CEU, though the Morozovas are political exiles from the Putin regime, like White Russians fleeing the Bolsheviks once upon a time. Alina herself is ancestrally Russian – born in Moscow, adopted by a nice British couple out of an orphanage and raised in suburban Sussex – and as Aleksander Morozov flicks those onyx eyes up at her, she can sense him weighing how to respond. As if he wants to test her, examine her bona fides, and Alina’s Russian is limited to “da,” “privyet,” and “dosvidaniya.” Not that he should know that. Not that he should know anything about her.

“Good evening,” he answers, also in English. His Received Pronunciation is even more posh than hers. “I wasn’t aware that I was disturbing you.”

“You’re – ” Alina wrestles with herself, tells herself not to be rude. It’s not a crime to sit and watch someone study, even in a mildly creepy fashion. “You’ve just been watching me for, like, an hour now.”

“Ah.” He doesn’t apologize or explain why that might be. He sits back in his chair, studying her like a piece of rare porcelain. “My apologies, Miss Starkov.”

Alina glances at him again, despite herself. There’s an undeniable thrill at actually talking to the campus heartthrob, even if the reason for it leaves something to be desired. She should say something else, when she becomes aware that he’s addressed her by name, and she doesn’t remember introducing herself. That doesn’t exactly do anything to convince her that he’s not a stalker. A little uneasily, she says, “How do you know my name?”

“You’re my mother’s student, aren’t you?” He cocks his head. “Alina?”

“I – yes.” That does explain it, although she didn’t realize the two of them were on speaking terms, or that they discussed her. Her name sounds unusual in his mouth, deliberate in a way nobody has spoken it before, and all at once, he gets to his feet. He stands several inches taller than her, and he starts piling his books into his bag, as if to discreetly absent himself now that she’s noticed him. “You don’t – ” she starts. “I didn’t mean to – ”

He looks at her again, sidelong. Then he says, “I should go home and get some sleep. I’m returning to Oxford tomorrow morning anyway.”

“Oxford?”

“I went to school there.” He utters a short, dry laugh. “All the good Russians do. And they live in Londongrad.”

That explains the accent, at least, and he seems to have some other business there, whether it’s another of the “research trips” or a guest lecture or whatever else. (Alina hasn’t seen his CV, but she has a sneaking feeling it’s the kind of thing to make her throw her drafts in the trash and never do anything in academia again.) Despite herself, she’s curious, and even though she has just told him to get lost, kind of, she wants to know. “Will you be back?”

Aleksander Morozov studies her with utter, unblinking intensity, as if he sees past flesh and bone, blood and sinew, to the very core of her, something that even she does not fully comprehend. Then he shrugs, his eyes never leaving her face, until Alina feels a shiver travel down her from head to toe, cold and powerful, twisting in her stomach. “Perhaps I will. Good night, Miss Starkov.”

With that, he nods to her, then turns on his heel, vanishing into the shadows as effortlessly as if he is made from them. No sound, no breath. Simply there one moment, and gone the next. Alina rubs her eyes, but she is alone in the library. Just as she wanted. Wasn’t it?

She can’t help her eyes from searching for him, or rather the vanished impression of him, the flutter of a curtain after someone has left the room. Before she can stop it, she has the thought that he very much is a map of his own, a path that leads into a strange dark land beyond the boundaries of the known world, a dragon or a doorway, a dream of what could be. Maybe something entirely ordinary. Maybe something not.

Alina shivers again, and returns to her carrel. She sits down and pulls the next book toward her, forcing her tired eyes to focus. Just because Aleksander Morozov – Aleksander Morosov – is a map, albeit the strangest one she has ever seen, it does not mean she needs to follow where he leads. She knows damn well the danger.

(And yet, despite herself, she wants to.)

[soranihimawari]

Bella Donnas & Love

This is the final installment of the Hanahaki Disease AU featuring the Seijoh Four. This is a Mattsukawa Issei x Yin (YN/Reader) story.

Word Count: 4.3 K

Warnings: mentions of depression, suicidal attempts, mentions of burn out, and intrusive thoughts

Recommended Audience: 17+ (minors recommended to not read because of the warnings attached)

Pairing: Mattsukawa Issei x reader// MIA->MIF [Mattsukawa Issei angst to Mattsukawa Isei fluff]

Mattsukawa Issei is a simple man. He sees the world in copious amounts of black, white, and gray; it isn’t because he is colorblind either. It is because he knows his worth. Truthfully, his parental figures were always a bit worried about their son especially given the profession he has chosen to pursue. Being in the business of burning and or burying the dead, Mattsukawa Issei is a fan of the loneliest times in a lifetime: they say when we are brought into the world, we are alone, and when we pass on, we too exit the world alone. There is nothing wrong with finding a job in the business of death, but even angels have demons. And for Mattsukawa, you are an exquisite example of the dichotomy between his dark side and your eventual akin to the brighter side.

It is a known fact in Japan, the pressure to be perfect or to fit into the mold of society has been a fatal flaw throughout the years. This is the main reason why at exactly two fifty-five in the morning, Mattsukawa Issei notices a young person, hanging out on the edge of the skyscraper across his workplace. There was a late night arrival to the city morgue; he just needed to be there to sign the paperwork to turn over the embalming processes to his mentors. It was the deceased wishes to be buried in the mausoleum in the home town of their forefathers: the mountain side of Nagasaki.

You were having a rough day: you were told you by your employers that you’ve been slacking for too long getting numbers for the statistics presentation coming up with business partners across the South China Sea. Then your grandparent were strictly feeding toxic lies to your parent(s) about how you would never find a suitable partner to marry you. Quite frankly, because you put your career and studies first, you had no issues putting your family in their place. The intrusive thoughts, snide comments about your appearance, was enough for you to glance at the sleeping pills that were prescribed to you to assist in a normal pattern, to invade your subconscious. The events which led you to climb the fire escape up to the rooftop garden in your kitten heels made for a daring flirtation with death. There have been nights the last couple of months where your heart is heavy in your chest, your lungs are intoxicating you with the poisonous belladonna petals.

“What a time to find out I’m going to die a lot sooner than I thought,” you sighed into your palm. Your eyes scour the hazy city in the afterglow; after a tizzy of a day you had, you chose that perhaps this might be a sign of the universe you were better off dead. Either that or your soulmate would be in extreme pain and you didn’t want to disappoint their perception of your love. Then again, you wouldn’t know what love, honest, and kind would feel like even when you’re about to let it all go.

You are devoid of emotion as you bring yourself to your feet. A hand of yours drags across your face. The drop is high enough to entice little to severe damage like broken legs, or severe head trauma, but to be truly free, you wish to be put out of your misery as quickly as possible.

Mattsukawa sees the figure clad in a lighter powder blue and his eyes are wide with fear. The morgue worker and delivery driver had already gone off into the night to complete the rest of the deliveries of bodies to the funeral homes. As soon as he finished locking up and registering the corpses, Mattsukawa was determined to see your hair wind blowing on the rooftops. The blurred vision he sees makes the twenty-seven year old shiver. Even in his line of work, this was the second instance he wanted to save someone. He knew of you: the business woman who was suffering from a similar ailment to him. The belladonna hues from your rebellious highlights enticed him to notice how you seemed a bit off at the coffee house you frequent by the funeral parlour he had been working at.

“Excuse me,” you said, holding on to your mug. Your knuckles were white with tension, so Mattsukawa did something unexpected of himself: he gave you way, but instead of sitting on the opposite side of the restaurant cafe, he sat directly across from you. The crowd was getting to be a bit noisy, but you and him sat there staring off center, hyper fixating on the number of people sign in either direction.

“Why do you smell like belladonna?” You asked. You had a glance meet you with a harsh smile.

“It’s part of my line of work. I use it to bury the dead at the request for all nameless suiciders that wind up on my table,” Mattsukawa explains. The oils from his embalming course was enough to mimic actual belladonna, but has he noticed from her, it wasn’t coming from just his hands: it was coming from her hair. He asked a question about why you seemed so strung up lately and like a fool, you told him everything which was bothering you. If anything, this man was a silent confession box. He seemed like the genuine article, so when you check for the time, you realize it was time to leave and head back to the office to grab the final jump drive for the presentation. Things at work seemed to have gotten better since the next time you’d see your precious Mattsukawa would be in the next life. You never truly disclosed your name to him, so he made a note call you Bella or Donna (whichever you preferred really). His smile is flirtatiously coy and you felt your cheeks grow a bit warm from the moment he told you his name.

For whatever reason, perhaps Mattsukawa was feeling a bit lucky, he asked you to dinner the day before yesterday. He wanted to know you, truth and all, bruised and damaged as you were, the meds your doctor prescribed were starting to cushion the intrusive thoughts. However that changed the moment you give him a nod, he grabs your hand as you’re about to leave the cafe; gently he squeezes your fingers for reassurance.

“You’ll do great Miss. I believe in you,” Mattsukawa whispers in the last part. The cafe begins to echo again, so you couldn’t hear the last part, but you were sure it was an encouraging word. Mattsukawa was the first person in a long while to give you something so few in your battlefield mind would want (or need): hope.

“Goodbye Mattsukawa.”

With that said, you were gone from the cafe and headed back into the office where a different manager made your life hell because their normal assistant was very organized, but the constant comparison was enough to make your head explode.

Presently, you stand on the ledge, glancing down like a superhero vigilante, but just as you were about to take a dive, you feel a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around your waist. The hands are interlocked under your empire waist line and if it wasn’t for the fact your hair was probably in a ponytail prior to this predicament, you’re sure your band was lost to gravity and the wind. You thrashed about in your captor’s arms, not realizing this person was about to save you from an awful mistake.

You see, Mattsukawa Issei is a funeral employee; he dresses sharply like an agent of the Grim Reaper. He is suave and debonair; he loves watching the life cycles of the various flower arrangements in his mentors stores go throughout the seasons. His heart and soul is full of vibrancy you have yet to comprehend; Mattsukawa was always a strong individual and you could ask anyone of his friends in school what kind of person he was. So, what made you so different? Sure you were stressed out, anybody could see that, but Mattsukawa picked up on the depressive aura you emanated. Did he really want to sit in front of you that afternoon? Sure; it was mainly because he couldn’t shake this feeling ever since you were ahead of him in line to order that he was supposed to meet you here (even if you were at your lowest post appointments at the business office downtown).

You struggle to let go, but the owner of these hands does not wish to loosen their grip on you; you ask twice kindly to be left alone and the soft ortund tone of the stranger’s voice from the cafe stops you from thrashing about further.

He tumbles back and lands on his arse with you sitting on his lap, pressed against his broad chest. His sleeves from the black oxford shirt he wears is rolled up to his elbows, and his hands still are in an interlocked position. Mattsukawa has seen some pretty fucked up causes of death recently, yet this time, he wanted to save you, not bury you. He wants to see you tomorrow night at dinner in the diner close to his loft; he wants you to understand maybe death isn’t all that grand and if you struggle with your mind everyday, he wishes to someday be of importance to you. You’re in charge of your own autonomous decisions, yet Mattsukawa wants you to give him a chance to prove to you that love, hope, and for the very fortunate, miracles exist (even if you weren’t shown any).

“You’re sick,” he closes his eyes. Apparently, you pick up on the frown in his voice and somehow, you’re sixth sense of empathy decides not to fight his tonality, but rather when you subconsciously agree and call your mental state one of a landmine, he doesn’t make a fuss. It was a short exam and you realize may be life is worth living for a nano-second. You could have an entire relationship with this man from the cafe in a span of two hours, if that. The fates must have had a wicked sense of humor when pairing either of you to the other: one who works with and around death, the other has an affinity to try and cross into the next life every moment things in the sea turn too rough.

You slowly stop trying to fight him the moment you hear his voice toss in the wind. Instead, you move your hands to hover limply on his, leaning back and letting his breathing calm you. The smell of belladonna from your hair oil wafts through the air. “Suicide is not how I want your story to end.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about or-o-or,” you stammer on. “Perhaps I don’t want to be alive anymore because people keep interfering.”

This causes Mattsukawa’s heart to gain a solid crack. You toss your head back and land harshly against his sternum, causing him to grunt and inhale sharply.

It rips seamlessly to his soul. In the past six to eight years since he entered his chosen profession, he has seen corpses from all ages, the youngest being eight who suffered from a myriad of health issues including Hanahaki because the playground friend in their preschool years was going to be theirs when the time properly came. Mattsukawa, the night he was on duty for the wake, anonymously donated the flowers that would have made the child laugh on wishes. Sure, life does have it’s moments when it tests us, yet he couldn’t wrap his head around the burn out business person from earlier this week, who was now in his arms, safe.

Unintentionally landing on his back with you on top of his chest was not how he had pictured becoming a hero. Just for one night, Mattsukawa Issei, the stern and most silent of the volleyball players in high school, was a hero worthy of saving a life.

“Argh,” he groans.

He coughs quietly away from your face when his hands loosen their hold. You chose to not chastise him about not wearing a sweater in the middle of autumn. After all, this man was the only one who would be daft enough to try and stop you. You curl into him, hiding your face in the satin finish of his dress shirt; you promise to buy him a new one as long as you let him hide your eyes and you break down. You’re crying over the smallest inconvenience and on top of feeling like a burden to the man, you consistently apologize by saying it’s no one’s fault especially his when you catch yourself in your darkest moment.

Mattsukawa listens to your request: with one hand, he covers your left side of your face, the right is patting your hair down, reassuring you that he will console you until the sobs stop and the sniffles remain.

“You’re lucky I live and work not too far from here doll,” he whispers into your hair. You’re calming down as you hiccup the last couple of bubbles of air. You nod in understanding the words he was saying, but you still have your eyes closed to shield himself (and keep your pride intact) when he would peer into your bloodshot ones.

“Don’t worry about me tryin’ anything either. You’ve been through enough tonight. Just let me take care of you for the rest, ok?”

“Mmhm,” you agree. He sits up half way and you rise with him, your eyes ever looking westward until you see one of his handkerchiefs from his back pants pocket dangle in your line of sight. You stifle a laugh, utter a thanks, and begin to dry your face. Mattsukawa, when you were done, doesn’t hold your face anymore, even if it pains him to do so. Your free hand decides for both of you: your left reaches for his and you bring the calloused hand, opened palm, to your cheek. Your skin is soft and sticky from the tears, but if anyone were to ask Mattsukawa what it felt like to save a life, he would humbly point you out in a crowd and say ‘Ask ‘em yourself.’

“I lost sight of the things that brought me joy,” you say quietly. You’re breathing in his cologne and it smells like whiskey sours. The scent grounds you, as you recall your therapist giving you stress-relieving tricks such as naming five to ten things your senses pick up on. Your cheeks feel soft like mochi ice against Mattsukawa’s open palm; you see the neon lights hazily glow in the city below you; and finally, you hear his shirt ruffle against the shell of your ear when you finally calm down.

“Everyone does,” Mattsukawa agrees. “Can you do something for me?”

“Mattsukawa-san,” you said his name and he chuckles in surprise. You remembered his name? This was even better than before. He finds himself falling gently in like with you. The love between long lost friends is what keeps him afloat. Unwillingly, you find yourself amusedly smiling at his tanned skin glowing with a soft hues under his eyes. Was this man blushing?

“Call me Issei or Mattsun,” his voice says when his other hand loops around your waist. He buried his head on your right shoulder.

Tonight you learn that even strong and by your standards of “fine men” do in fact cry. You blink a couple more times and he just cries a mixture of tears he has no control over.

“Mattsun,” you say, voice soft like the breeze sending a boat to sail. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“You could have said you weren’t feeling well if you didn’t want to go out with me,” Mattsukawa jokes, turning his head to the side so you wouldn’t see his tear stricken face to the side. He asks you, if you felt comfortable enough, to just stay still for a moment.

The rooftop rendezvous was not what you had in mind when you came home from clocking out, but considering you were heavily contemplating ending your existence earlier, this one request was not too hard to fulfill. The belladonna in your bronchioles seemed to dislodge itself into your lungs. You stay as still as your companion had asked and you breathe in time together. His curls are soft to the touch and when he relaxes his shoulders when you run a hand through his hair, you feel him grin on the right of your shoulder blades.

Was this what it felt like to be you every hour before you both met at the cafe? This profound sadness doesn’t leave his heart nor does he quite shake the feeling of the leaves of the belladonna flowers taking root in his lungs. The flowers bloomed slowly since his twenty-third birthday were the same ones you dyed your hair for. You’ve been suffering with the hanahaki disease for quite some time, you confess back to him.

“Is that why you were here? Trying to jump?” Mattsukawa asks an innocent inquiry. He seemed like he was about to be scolded for the first time in seven years, yet you thought it was kind of adorable. And so you do something you haven’t done in a very long time: you scoff (although you were sure it was closer to a giggle.

“No,” you reply. “I was contemplating jumping because all my triggers hit at once, so I’ve been in a depressive episode for quite some time before we met.”

“Oh,” Mattsukawa acknowledges. “Do you want to stay the night?”

“…that’s awfully forward of you,” you say. Your pragmatic inner voice says to decline, but there is a mischievous side of his mannerisms, nonetheless you are curious. It is late into the evening already, so perhaps the offer is a better one. After all, you think the change of scenery would do you some good, so you humbly agree.

Roughly an hour later, you find yourself in Mattsukawa’s living room area. Offering his shower to you, you ask if there is something he can lend you. It is an old shirt with his high school cactus logo on it, but the shorts he tosses to you has a VBC and his old number stitched on the back pocket. Mattsukawa hands you a spare towel and tells you how to work the shower in his bathroom. Twenty minutes later, you sit close to the kotatsu even if it’s not too cold outside at the moment, you tend to sleep better underneath one.

Prior to your shower, Mattsukawa-san graciously gave you a small tour of his loft when you arrived. The walk wasn’t too far from the rooftop building and so you two walk side by side until the loft complex came into view. Mattsukawa says hi to the doorman who makes a joke or two about how he had almost pulled another overnight at the funeral home.

“Be careful with that one miss, he’d work himself to death! Ha! Work himself to death,” the doorman says, wiping a faux tear from his eye. You snickered covering your smile with the back of your hand. When you put it to the side of your body, Mattsukawa notices how dazzling your smile is. How would someone who smiles this much at a pun, hold so much carnage of self-doubt and depressive thoughts in their heart? Is that why your flowers and your scent are wrapped in poisonous belladonna? Mattsukawa shakes this thought to the furthest parts of his mind. You’re here now, in the next room, safe under the same roof.

The master bedroom door is opened just a crack once Mattsukawa is half-dressed in his pajama pants, parading around shirtless fetching a glass of water from the kitchen. You were already seated on the barstool peering out the sliding glass door of the patio outside. Jumping was not the way to die for you, you think. Perhaps if you died with love, perhaps you’d have a better chance of reincarnation than you thought. The ambient sounds of the refrigerator and the water spout being used brought you back to hold the gaze of your host for the evening. You made a conscientious decision to cash in on your PTO at your work location for the next two weeks via e-mail. You explain to the HR representative you were feeling burn out and your therapist was working with you to battle the depressive episodes you were going through. The automotive message came back saying someone from the office of internal affairs would look into the chain of command in your division. However, you could care less about work at the moment, since you were enjoying the company of the person who helped kept you tied to this world.

“You like what you see?” Mattsukawa says smoothly. The water glass is placed on the counter in front of you. After graduation from Aoba Josai, running and other kinesthetic stretches were included in his workout regiment. You froze, placing your phone face down to the extreme left of the counter space. The granite glowed in the soft lamp from behind you, casting shadows in the grooves of his muscular features.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” you tease. “But I do like the person who saved me from making a huge mistake.”

Mattsukawa nods as he leans forward to rest his chin in his hand.

“I’ll always come running to you Yin,” he gives you a nickname close to the currency your country uses. This causes you to roll your eyes, yet you reassure him it was filled with endearment.

“You sound like you’re going to love me until the day I properly die Mattsun.”

He wasn’t expecting you to climb halfway across the granite counter, stretching your back further parallel to the floor (your feet are balancing your lower half on the chair).

His hand finds its way to the small of your back and he says a quick, “pardon me.” The onyx eyes he owns close and crinkle upward like small crescent moons before you feel his pursed lips press against your forehead.

“You’re safe here,” you hear him say. His warmth is a welcomed blanket of comfort for you; his words are kinder than your own thoughts.

“Will you kiss me properly?” You ask.

“In the morning, first thing,” he answers. “But first, sleep.”

Mattsukawa walks around his counter to keep you from hanging in the balance thus lowering the risk of you falling knees first on the floor.

“Remember how you fell on top of me?” Mattsukawa’s voice is low. You swallow nervously; you affirm that you do. “Good. Now hold on to me sweetheart.”

He leans back against your left side of your suspended body and he wraps an arm around your mid-section and you push off with your elbows. The next thing you are aware of, you are being carried like a drowsy child to the living room where you sit on Mattsukawa’s lap like before. You raise a hand to his smooth face, your fingers tracing the highest points of his features; his eyes flutter close to the sensational spell you are casting; he is about to fall in the in-between of sleep and lucidity when he feels your lips press firmly against his. When you back down, he stops you with one word: “More. One more time.”

You turn your head at an angle the moment you feel his hands turn you around to straddle him more comfortably.

“Better,” you confirm. Your nose teases his own and he languidly looks at you before he pushes your back playfully and your lips meet his again.

You sigh against his lips when your knees come into contact with his cushion; his arms move away from your hips to your ribs. The callouses he earned over the years of playing volleyball in high school memorizes the map of your skin. Together, the aroma of belladonna almost dissipates the pain in your lungs the longer you are breathing in everything the young man in front of you is giving.

This was as brave as you wanted to be right now. You’d be more adventurous months into your new found relationship with your restaurant-cafe rendezvous man. Your hands trace his collar bones before they found their purchase on the sides of his neck.

“I like that,” you say when you are given a chance to catch your breath. Mattsukawa’s hands rest on your love handles again and he pushes you into a loose embrace. Your hair tickles his shoulder when you rest your head against his pectoral.

“I like this too,” he says, running his fingers lightly up and down your spine. “Close your eyes and rest for a while Yin. We can talk about this in the morning, ok?”

You stifle a yawn, agreeing.

A few minutes later, after you are truly asleep, Mattsukawa supports you in his arms and he carries you like a child, careful to support your neck as your legs rest limply above his hips, to his room. He lays you down first and then proceeds to tuck you in; staying above the duvet, he watches over you breathing in and out steadily, the last small petals escaping your lips when you cough softly in your sleep. Mattsukawa stares at the last shriveled one on the corner of your lips and swats it away.

“Pretty angel, don’t scare me like that. I don’t want to lose you,” Mattsukawa reaches over to hold your hand; fingers intertwining around your own and you squeeze his back. “You’ll be alright and I will help you keep nightmares away.”

“Why?” Your voice is laced with sleep. “Why do you want to love me?”

“Because our story is just beginning my love.”

Mattsukawa rubs his thumb over your knuckles and when he lies down further on his bed next to you, he rests a protective arm over your shoulders.

[coffeestainsandcashmere]

Let No Man Steal Your Thyme - (older Dramione), Part Four

Well, here’s part four for you! It’s really just part three continued, but since I didn’t want the previous part to be 7k words or so long, I split it up. The total wordcount is 12.4k words now!!

Thank you very much to those of you who’ve commented and sent me lovely owls on here to let me know you’re enjoying it! (this is a sideblog for me, so I don’t respond to comments on posts, but I do answer asks as Cashmere).

I know a lot of folks (me included) don’t like starting to read WIPs that are unfinished, so thanks to those of you who have hopped on now. Consider yourselves honoured beta readers! It’ll go up on AO3 when it’s all posted on here and completed.

No real warnings for this one, just some discussion of their past relationships (for both Hermione and Draco) before the plot thickens and things warm up a bit in part five. Not sure when that’ll go up - it kind of depends on how much feedback I get on this one I guess! Comments and reblogs feed an author’s muse after all.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

___

At her wry smile and tiny shrug, Malfoy laughed, apparently reassured. “A little,” he repeated softly to himself under his breath.  

After a heartbeat she shot him a sidelong look and added, “You’ve changed so much, Draco. I can hardly believe it, but it’s clear as day.”

He did a little double take at the sound of his name on her lips, and then he smiled. It was such a tiny, fragile melting of his expression that she nearly missed it.  

“I mean it,” she said, tightening her fingers on his steel-cable forearm for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know if it was the war or your marriage, or becoming a father, or something else entirely, but… you’re not the same person you were back at Hogwarts. Not at all.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he hissed. “I had a hell of a lot of growing up to do. I think I did ninety percent of it in the space of sixth year. But Astoria helped steady me after… after Hogwarts and all the bollocks and bullshit of the aftermath of… of… you know.”

“‘Bollocks and bullshit’ is a mighty casual way to say ‘a short stay in Azkaban and three years of house arrest’, Malfoy. That’s got to change a person, for sure.”  

He shrugged. “I’m just glad it’s all in the past now. For the most part, anyway.” The silence that followed spoke volumes of the baggage that they were all still hauling around with them, of one kind or another.  

They wound their way across the park’s pathways with no particular direction in mind. As the glittering waters of the Serpentine drew into view in the deepening dusk, she murmured, “I’m glad you came tonight.”

“Me too,” he said, voice little more than a low rumble above the sussurating wind in the trees. “Theo seemed on fine form, and it was nice to see Pans again. It’s been a few months. Longbottom looks good too,” he added as an afterthought. “He grew into himself, didn’t he?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “Never would have called his and Pansy’s relationship though. I thought she went for the bad boys like you and Blaise…”

Malfoy snorted. “I’m a ‘bad boy’ now, am I? That’s an interesting spin on my past.”

“Maybe not so much ‘bad boy’ now as ‘grumpy reclusive Mr. Rochester’. How about that?”

“He one of your Muggle heroes?” he asked without sting.  

“Yeah. He’s Jane Eyre’s leading male. A bad-tempered rich man who has a big house in the middle of nowhere and a secret deranged wife in the attic.”

“Well, I hit three out of the four criteria…” he said and Hermione’s heart lurched as she remembered he wasn’t a bachelor but a widower.  

“Shit, Draco, I’m sorry,” she said. “That was thoughtless of me.”

He shook his head, the silver hair of his forelock tossing about as he chuckled, an entirely unfamiliar sound which she decided she wanted to hear again almost immediately. “It’s fine, Granger. You haven’t got a malicious bone in your body. Besides, it was a long time ago.”  

They came naturally to a halt in front of the man-made lake and stared out at the lapping water for a time before she uncoupled her grip from his arm and shucked her coat back on.  

That done, she drew in a deep breath and paused, leaning her forearms on the back of a cast-iron bench overlooking a flock of huddled, plastic pedalo boats moored up offshore. Malfoy remained a pace behind her, back straight as an arrow, his hands tucked into his pockets now that she was no longer hanging onto him.  

A fair few Muggles were out and about, some walking lazily as she and Draco had been, others pounding along the pavement on their evening run, and a good number were walking dogs. The sheer mundanity of it all struck her deeply for a moment and her breath caught in her throat.  

“Granger?” he asked in a soft voice.  

She straightened and turned to look back at him over her shoulder. “I was just thinking how close we came to losing all of this… Sometimes it seems like a million years ago, and others…”

“Like yesterday,” he finished a beat later. His eyes glittered in the half-light, pale lashes ghostly and ethereal, and in the dark, his pupils were wide and black and inviting.  

“Let’s keep going, hmm?” she chirped.  

In fact, he walked her all the way back to her rather modest apartment in Muggle London. “You didn’t want to live closer to work at the bookshop?” he asked as she fumbled for her very ordinary, Muggle keys with half-frozen fingers.  

Giving up, she murmured a quick ‘alohomora’ and pressed her hand to the extra ward she had placed on it. “I’ve lived here since I moved out of the house with Ron. Never seen any point in looking for something bigger or whatever. It’s cosy, and it’s just me anyway. You want to come in? I’ll have to tweak the wards if you do.”

“I… I don’t want to be a bother,” he said, his expression pinching.  

“No bother. It’s a three minute job, if that.”  

He looked torn, teetering on the edge of a refusal, but as she swept her curls back out of her face and blinked up at him, he seemed to waver, and finally he nodded. “Alright. Yes please.”

“Stay put. I’ll be right back,” she said, and left the door open so that he wouldn’t feel like a stray dog shut out in the cold.  

After setting her bag and coat down on a sofa in the main living room, she stood and centred herself, reaching for the wards with her magic. They thrummed reassuringly as she wove a slightly different pattern into them, allowing Draco Malfoy to come and go, and then she released the magic once again.  

“Ok!” she called to him and he stepped tentatively inside, shutting the door with a polite click behind him and levering off his fancy dragonhide Oxfords at the doormat.  

There was something so intimately sweet about seeing him pad across the fake-wooden lino of her living room floor in his dark socks that she couldn’t help grinning.  

“Those are some powerful wards you’ve got up,” he commented as he blinked curiously around the room.  

“Hangover from the Ministry days, I suppose. Plus this is technically a Muggle building, so I can’t have anyone noticing anything strange. There’s another witch here, up on the seventh floor, but we don’t see each other often. You want something to drink? I’ve got tea or coffee, and a small selection of wine, though nothing nearly as nice as what Theo has on tap…”

He smiled. “A tea would be lovely.”

She ducked out into the tiny galley kitchen and lost herself in the simple task of filling and boiling the Muggle kettle. She turned to find Malfoy leaning his shoulder against the door frame, hands cupped under opposite elbows, watching her with that owl-like intensity again.  

“Muggle kitchen,” she grinned almost sheepishly. “Magic is great for a lot of things, but some routines just can’t be beaten.” Ron had always hated and mistrusted things like electric kettles and refrigerators, not quite fully understanding the way it grounded her in her Muggle upbringing.  

“I’m not judging you,” he said, voice low and slightly hoarse. “I’m just interested. Do you mind?”

“No,” she said, fishing in the cupboard for her selection of teabags. She held the cardboard box open for him to select one and her eyebrows rose when he chose a delicate mint and chamomile one, but she offered no comment. “I can give you a masterclass in using Muggle kitchens if you like.”

His lips pulled back into a broad, dazzling smile and he laughed. “Go on then.”

“Fridge,” she said, opening it and showing him. “Keeps things cold; powered by electricity. Freezer, keeps things, well, frozen…” She continued her tour while the tea steeped, and by the time she was done, the tea was ready and they made their way back out into the humble living room, with a second-hand sofa and a battered old coffee table with more ringed coffee-stains on than visible surface.  

Her stomach rumbled and he raised an eyebrow at her.  

“I didn’t get a chance to eat anything yet, other than nibbles at Theo’s,” she cringed.

“Don’t let me stop you having something for supper then,” he said.  

“I’m not going to scoff a freezer dinner on my own while you sit there and watch me,” she blurted, laughing. “Unless you want to join me? I’ve got a couple of pizzas in the freezer. Nothing fancy, but they’ll be ready in twenty minutes or so if I put the oven on now.”

Malfoy looked like he’d missed something somewhere but was too embarrassed to ask, so he just said, “Pizza? Sure. The last time I had pizza was when I took Scorpius to Rome.”

“Well,” she said, setting her mug down on the table and heading into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she called, “I can guaranteed these won’t be nearly as good as those were, but they’re pretty tasty. I think they’re both chicken and pesto - is that alright?”

“Perfectly.”

Oven on, she returned and folded herself into the squashy armchair which sat at right angles to the sofa, tucking one leg up beneath her and drawing the other foot up beside her. Malfoy, of course, sat like he was about to take tea with the Queen, while she felt like a pretzel on a shelf. A comfy pretzel though, she thought as she reached for her mug.  

“I’m glad we walked back,” she said after a moment. “I can’t believe I worked myself up into such a tizzy over Ron like that. It’s so childish…”

Malfoy sipped his tea and then cradled it between his long, pale fingers for a moment. “What happened between you two? I thought you three were —”

“— the ‘Golden Trio’?” she purred, voice laden with sarcasm.  

He made a conciliatory gesture with his head but said nothing more.  

She sighed. “We were. I mean, Harry and I are still super close - I’m James’ godmother after all. Ginny’s the sister I never had, but something went wrong with Ron somewhere along the line.” She knew exactly what the final blow had been, but there had been a myriad other issues on both sides before that. “I think… I think he felt like he never had a real niche, you know? He was always second fiddle to Harry in the heroics and quidditch departments, and, well, everyone knows I was the brains of the trio,” she said self-effacingly. “That’s not to say that he’s stupid — he’s not.”  

Malfoy scoffed at that, and for a moment she saw the petulant, petty little thirteen year old he had once been. A deeply sceptical look filled his eyes, and he looked like he was physically biting his tongue to keep himself from disagreeing with her.  

“No, really,” she scowled. “He just makes stupid, split-second decisions without thinking anything through. I’m not defending what he did or how he behaved at the end of our marriage, but…” she sighed heavily and drank a mouthful of too-hot tea that scalded her throat on its way down. “He’s in a pretty good place now with Lavender. We just… rub each other up the wrong way, even now I think.”

“Theo said he was being an arsehole earlier,” Malfoy pushed.  

She shrugged. “A bit. I think he carries a lot of bitterness towards…” she gestured vaguely in Malfoy’s direction, “… Slytherins? I’m not really sure. Stupid house prejudices that a lot of witches and wizards clearly never get over. As if one moment in our history defines us for the rest of our lives, or as if we’re limited to the characteristics of the house we were sorted into at the age of eleven… It’s just so fucking dumb, Malfoy!”

He laughed softly at that.  

“What? You don’t agree?”

“No, I absolutely agree with you. I was enjoying hearing you swear, that’s all. Forgive me.”

She flushed and looked away, anger leaving her as swiftly as it had come. “Ron has a lot of insecurities, and a few of them centre around me, but… I guess I just wasn’t enough for him in the end.”

“How could you possibly be ‘not enough’ for someone, Granger?” Draco asked in a hoarse whisper. “And you were the bloody Minister for Magic for Merlin’s sake…! What more did he want from his witch? Morgana herself reincarnated?”

She laughed long and loud at that, and Malfoy seemed to relax a little in the wake of his little outburst. “My reign was very short though,” she said as she stood and took the opportunity to put the pizzas in the oven. When she returned, she asked carefully, “What about you and Astoria?”  

“What about us?” he asked, voice even and steady, though his eyes swirled softly like Trelawney’s crystal balls, hiding their secrets behind a shifting sheen of silver.  

“Were you happy?”

Malfoy’s eyes slid away from her to stare unseeing at a point across the room, and he sat back against the sofa cushions, still nursing his cheap, Tesco mug between his hands.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “For the most part we were. It wasn’t… earth-shattering or anything, but it was pretty good, all things considered. It was arranged by our families, you know?”

She nodded.

“I knew Astoria’s older sister, Daphne, far better than I knew her, but Daph promised to an Austrian count already. He’s actually very nice. I’m glad for her.”

“I vaguely remember Daphne from school, but I didn’t have many classes with her as we got older.”

“I’d met Astoria a few times before it was all formally arranged, but even then, we only met a total of perhaps five or six times before the wedding proper. It wasn’t the huge event my mother had always dreamed of throwing for me, but with my father in Azkaban and me under house arrest, the mood wasn’t really there, you know?”  

Hermione did some quick maths and realised he must have been only nineteen or so when he’d been married, and her eyes widened. She’d only been twenty-two when Ron and she had tied the knot, but still, that struck her as very young. Scorpius hadn’t been born straight away though, and there had been vicious gossip about blood-curse-related infertility until the little mandrake had arrived. Hermione been about to make the leap to Minister at the incredibly tender age of twenty five when the attack on the Manor had taken place, and Scorpius had been mere months old at the time.

“Toria and I grew to know each other better,” Draco went on, “And in time, I think we came to love each other, in our own way. She certainly adored Scorpius before the blood curse took her.”

“What was she like?” Hermione asked in a whisper.  

Again, Malfoy sighed and closed his eyes with his head tipped back to rest against the sofa cushions. “Quiet, intelligent, articulate, easy-going most of the time, but when she got passionate about something, she could be pretty stubborn. Scorpius inherited a lot of that from her.”

“He looks like you though,” she said. “I mean… almost exactly like you did at that age. It gave me quite the turn when I saw the two of you on Platform 9 3/4 you know?”

He smirked and cracked an eye open. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Mother is always calling him ‘Draco’ instead of ‘Scorpius’. It drives him nuts.”

They shared a laugh at that. “Your mother lives with you at the Manor then?”

“Yes and no,” he said, shuffling a little and getting comfy again, relaxing his torso more casually against the arm of the sofa at last. “She moved out of the main manor when Toria and I married. Now she lives at what we affectionately call the Dower House. Officially it’s called Nightshade Cottage.”

“Ominous name,” she said and he smiled again.  

“Apt though. There’s a rambling, stone-walled potion-garden round the back of it, full of all sorts of interesting plants, and a stunning rose garden at the front. It’s really beautiful in spring, and rather potent in summer.”

“You make it sound almost welcoming,” she said without thinking and he huffed a dry laugh.  

“Parts of the estate really are lovely, Granger; its sordid past notwithstanding.”

When the beeper went on the timer, Malfoy jumped and looked confused, but she laughed and showed him. She did use her wand to cut up the pizzas though, and by the time they were seated back on the sofas with plates in their lap, they resumed their easy talk as if they’d never been interrupted. Watching Malfoy in his fancy clothes and eating pizza with his hands was almost too much for Hermione to bear, but if she focused on his voice too much instead, she found herself mesmerised on that front too. Who’d have thought that Hermione Granger would have found herself growing more and more attracted to Draco Malfoy all these years later.  

Long after they’d finished eating, they spoke a little more of Scorpius, and how Malfoy guessed he was getting on after his first week at school. “Of course, he hasn’t written to me yet, but I’m hoping he might pen something this weekend…”

“You worry about him, don’t you?”

“Constantly,” he snorted. “One of the burdens of being a father, I suppose.”

“Of being a good one,” she amended, and she didn’t miss the way he swallowed thickly and blinked his glassy eyes rapidly a few times.  

Then he sighed expansively and then levered himself to his feet. “It’s late, Granger, and I should probably be going. I’ve got a meeting to get to early tomorrow morning in Scotland, and I still have a bit of paperwork to do tonight.”

“But it’s the weekend, Malfoy,” she said as she rose too. “You can’t have to work, surely?”

He nodded and shrugged, but made his way to the door and slid his feet back into his shoes without further comment or explanation.  

A little, fluttering, doxy-wing cloud of nerves shimmered to life in her chest as they stood face to face at the door. Malfoy swallowed again and hitched a tiny, lopsided smile. “Thanks for tonight, Granger. And…” he faltered and shook his head. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Thank you.”

“I feel like I should be thanking you,” she said. “You got me out of my funk and walked me safely home.” She ran her fingers through her mass of curls and didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to watch the movement before he blinked and turned away to open the door, clearing his throat.  

With his fingers still on the handle, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “My pleasure, Granger. Sincerely.”

Hermione barely managed to offer him a watery smile before he was striding off down the corridor.  

She lingered in the doorway long after his footsteps had faded down the stairwell — apparently using the Muggle lift alone had proved too daunting for him. After she locked the door and recharged the wards behind her, she picked up his empty plate and mug to put them in the dishwasher.  

As she passed the dresser that had once belonged to her mother, she caught sight of a moving photograph of Crookshanks. The half-kneazel was staring at the flat’s front door with his yellow, lamp-like eyes wide. “What do you think of him now, huh Crooks?” she asked the photo. “Bit different, eh?”

Photo-Crookshanks purred and circled in the bottom corner of the frame a few times, bottle-brush tail twitching, before returning to his fireplace and curling up with a look of contentment on his face. God, she missed that cat.  

“Yeah. I think I like him too, Crooks,” she said. “Merlin help me, but I think I like him too.”

.

Part Five

___

I’ve only written all 12,410 words of this because people told me they liked it, otherwise it’d have stayed on whatever the first chapter was, so if you want more, let me know with a reblog! Feel free to send me an anonymous owl too if you’re more comfortable doing that.

Anyway, take care, and more soon, I hope. I’ve got a fair chunk plotted out, and it should take us up to Christmas in the storyline (it’s September now for them).

writing masterlist | Ao3

[thiswasinevitableid]

Haunted Doll Watch (OT4)

Prompt for the 11th: ‘You should have never brought that into our home… Can’t you see it’s cursed?’

“You should never have brought that into our home. Can’t you see it’s cursed?” Indrid crosses his arms. 

“Or at the very least, haunted.” Joseph studies the two foot tall antique doll Duck just plonked down on the dining room table. 

“Look, I got to Aunt Ethel’s place after all the other cousins, so pickin’ were kinda slim. But cousin Craige kept insistin’ I had to take somethin to remember her by and I panicked.”

“Not gonna lie, would have preferred you take a coffee mug or something, but it’s not so bad.” Barclay nudges the doll aside to set down a pizza box, “I mean, those things weren’t always creepy; they were just kids toys once upon a time. Weren’t they all the rage when you first turned up on earth, Indrid?”

“Yes, which speaks to the occasional lapses in judgement of the human race.” Indrid steps behind Joseph, “one of you please put it away.”

“Okay okay, scaredy moth, I’m goin.” Duck picks up the doll, kissing Indrid’s cheek as he passes, “I’ll just tuck it in the closet.”

“I’m not the one who hid his eyes during our viewing of Taste the Blood of Dracula.” 

“I don’t like bitin!”

“Could have fooled me.” Joseph whispers. 

Barclay snorts, nips his ear, “Glass houses babe. And don’t worry, little moth, if that thing’s haunted we’ve got an FBI agent, bigfoot, and a savior of two worlds sleeping here tonight. You’ll be fine.”

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“Duck, have you seen my dress shoes?” Joseph comes out from the bedroom in his usual suit, though Duck smiles when he sees he’s wearing socks with tiny mothmen on them. 

“Ain’t they by the door?”

“They should be. I can't find them anywhere.”

“Behind the cat bed.” Indrid’s voice drifts down the hall.

“How on earth did they get there?” Joseph brushes grey fur from his Oxfords.

“Maybe she-OWfuck” Duck grabs the back of his head as the kitchen cabinet rebounds off it, “damn, hinges must be wearin’ down.”

“I can pick some up this weekend to replace them. See you tonight.” Joseph kisses him, then blows a second kiss over his shoulder to Indrid, who’s finished padding into the kitchen. 

“Watching him walk away never gets old, does it?” Indrid purrs in his ear.

“Nope.”

A kiss on the sore spot on his head, “I don’t suppose you could call in sick today?”

“Nice try, sugar. Gotta save those days off for our next trip.” He turns in wiry arms, “don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

“No promises, Winnie and I are planning quite the, ah, rager.” 

Duck snickers, puts on his hat, and steps out into the cold, October air. Work is quiet and slow, the telephone ringing during his lunch break the first loud noise of the day.

“Go for Du-”

“Hello, love. This may sound odd, but could you please purchase, ah, a dozen lightbulbs on your way home? Every single one in the house has died, it isn’t the breaker since everything else has power. I could only find two spares in the closet.”

“Sure thing, sugar.”

Four-ish hours later, he pulls up to the apartment to find it fully lit.

“You find more spares?” He nudges the front door closed with his elbow.

“No. They all started working again about twenty minutes ago.” Indrid is holding Winnie, idly petting her fur while she stares at the far corner of the living room. 

“Huh. Well, guess we have extras. Ain’t like they go bad.” He stashes the bulbs in the hall closet, right next to the doll, and goes to slip into something more comfortable.

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

Barclay loves his Sundays off. Having the chance to make a big, fancy brunch for his boyfriends isn’t the only reason he hired a few more cooks for the Lodge kitchen now that it’s becoming a destination in its own right, but it’s sure as hell one of them.

Joseph will be up soon, but right now it’s just him, humming and pulsing biscuit dough in the food processor. It’s a little cramped on the counter with this plus the mixer he brought over, the coffee pot, the blender, and the rice cooker that won’t fit in any of the cabinets. More counter space would be nice, if only so he doesn’t have to balance his cutting board across the sink. 

He tucks his free hand into his sweatshirt while he checks the consistency of his dough. Fuck, he’s freezing, did Duck turn the heat down last night?

His teeth chatter as he checks the thermostat and finds it at the usual 70 degrees. So he slips into the bedroom, grabbing a sweater from the closet. It takes a second to find his grey one, as it’s somehow migrated to Indrid’s fourth of the rack. 

The other three are still asleep, Indrid curled around Duck while Joseph is sprawled across the remaining space. Barclay stops to tug the blankets up around them, just in case. When he gets into the hall, he feels perfectly warm and comfy. Maybe Indrid’s low body temperature is rubbing off on him. 

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

Joseph is half under the desk in the guest room, trying to get the correct cord plugged in, when it starts. Squeaks and scratches in the wall, right by his head. Funny, he didn’t see any other signs of a rodent problem.

He raps on the peeling paint and all the sound stops; were there rats back there, he’d expect to hear the scurrying of little feet away from the thud. Once he’s safely out from under the desk, he grabs a book from the shelf (they really need a second one, he’s moved most of his books here since there isn’t much room for them at the Lodge), and flips to the chapter titled “Indicators.”

Five minutes later, he’s gathered his boyfriends in the living room. 

“The apartment is haunted.” 

“How do you figure?” Duck asks. 

“For starters, we’ve had more and more items be moved to odd places, more doors and windows opening without someone touching them, and more instances of Winnie hissing at something we can’t see than we ever have before. Then there were the lights, and the cold spots, and now I’m hearing strange noises. Those are all signs of paranormal activity.”

“Should we call Moira and ask her to see if she can talk to it?” Barclay rubs his chin. 

“We might have to. But since this is all within the last month, I think it’s attached to an object that recently came into the house, rather than a ghost that’s been here for years.”

“The doll.” Say the other three in unison.

“That’d be my guess.”

“Okay, how about this: I take it to the thrift store tomorrow mornin’. If the weird shit stops, we’ll figure that was the culprit, if not we ask Moira to come over. Or, I dunno, use a Ouija Board. Those always make me feel like I’m at a sleepover, though.”

“I prefer spin the bottle.” Barclay opens the fridge.

“How’d you even learn about that?” Joseph looks up from the index of the book. 

“Said it before, I’ll say it again, I had some wild times before I settled here. And not all of them involved messing up Indrid’s feathers.”

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

Given that his teeth just feel out, Duck’s going to guess he’s dreaming. 

As he’s gathering his pearly whites from the bedroom carpet, someone “tsk tsks” from behind him.

“You’re as stubborn as your daddy.”

“Aunt Ethel?” He stands, teeth turning to pudding and squidging through his fingers. 

“Mmm hmm” An old woman with short hair and tortoiseshell glasses materializes in the chair, “came in with Darlene--that’s the doll, had her since I was a girl--to see how you were gettin on and I must say I am disappointed.”

“With what? The boyfriend or the fact there’s more’n one of ‘em?” Duck shoves his hands into his pockets. 

She shakes her head, “You know as well as I the Newton men pride themselves on bein’ providers. But you got your family livin’ in this tiny place that ain’t big enough for four grown men. I kept showin’ you how this ain’t the place for you no more but you were too damn hard headed to take the hint, pardon my french.”

“So you are hauntin’ us.”

“Yep, and if you take Darlene to the thrift store before you do what’s right, you’ll find her right back in the closet when you get home.”

Duck shudders, “Okay, point taken. I just...gettin a bigger place, gettin it because there’s four of us it, it feels like a huge step.”

“You don’t see these boys stickin’ around?”

“No, or, uh, I mean yeah? Uh, point is, I want ‘em around for good, but I aint sure they want the same.”

His aunt smiles, “You don’t gotta come to a decision in one day. All I’m sayin is it’s high time you four thought about your future.”

He nods, “Guess I’ll start there then.” The world shifts, a sign he’s waking up, “give my love to the grandparents.”

The bed is empty when he wakes up, his clock telling him he overslept, even for a Sunday. When the shuffles into the kitchen, Indrid sets a mug of just poured coffee down for him and kisses the top of his head while Joseph bumps their feet together under the table. It boosts his courage, and after his first sip he sets the cup down and waves Barclay over.

“So, uh, I been thinkin; what do you fellas think about gettin a bigger place so we can, uh, can all move in together?”