#I read the note about why they changed the Franc letters

[truly-sincerely]

Dark Star Falling (6 of ?)

Darling can tell this saccharine sentimentality is grating on Gortash. It’s hard enough for Darling, whose memories of Alfira are all wrapped up in guilt and regret, and of course there’s the Urge.

The thought is interrupted by another groundquake. Each of them reaches for the same candelabra instinctively. Darling swings their legs off the table and smirks at Gortash as the tremors subside. “This is the part where you tell me I should go.”

“You shouldn’t be wasting your time here. Orin has your–what was it?”

“My bear. She stole my bear,” they say, pretending to be hurt.

“Distracting me isn’t going to get your bear or our netherstone from Orin,” he growls, tiring of whatever this is. “Return to your little adventurer friends, clean yourself up, get some sleep, and make your father proud, or whatever it is you do in that gory ossuary.”

Sharp, hard laughter splits the room like a lightning strike. A wholly different laugh from earlier, but still Darling. They’re on their feet so fast their chair falls over. “That’s the answer! I figured it out! Fuck me, I really am that good,” they crow, their tail lashing back and forth behind them. They slap the table with both hands, “I know why this is all falling apart.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Dearest,” Gortash says. The guards have all taken half a step forward in alarm. He doesn’t look at them.

“We talked about this. You said we discussed why our predecessors failed, so we could succeed. No, I still don’t remember. But I solved it. Like the sphinx’s riddle.” Darling climbs up onto the table, completely losing themself in their revelry. He can see all of their sharp teeth when they say, “Now it’s my turn. I get to eat the sphinx. You’re so fucking clever but everyone has a blindspot.”

“Even you,” he keeps his voice firm as they advance on him on their hands and knees, spilling books and papers onto the floor. The candelabra they saved earlier goes too, but its everburning candles are harmless. It’s the tiefling on the table that seems surrounded by a halo of heat.

“Yesss,” they purr, sliding their hands over the embellishments on his lapels, pressing him against the chairback. They smell like sulfur, blood, and soot. “My blindspot got me killed and yours brought me back.”

They’re above him now, face as close as a kiss but only heat and breath pass between them. All of their weight comes down on him as one leg and then the other transfers from the table to the chair.

“Perhaps we should remove your armor,” he suggests, as the front of their chain skirt grinds into his lap. They snicker at him and slide their hands apart, pulling his jacket down around his elbows, ostensibly pinning his arms to his sides. Their hips sway, pushing the mail up against him rhythmically, and very quickly there’s even less room between the two of them.

“Don’t you want to know?” they whisper into his hair.

“You want to tell me, so go on.”

“People. You are utterly incurious about people. I misjudged Orin once but you misjudge everyone. They’re all statistics for you, and generalities. They have to be, don’t they? Anything else would be self-destruction,” Darling punctuates their sentences with little nips at his ear and neck. “Even me. We were partners for a decade or more, weren’t we? I’m sure of it. You didn’t mourn my loss. You went on without me. As tho I’d never been here. You let me be replaced. That’s when the plan failed.”

“You sound like a scorned, jealous lover.”

“This is why you need a poet too. What am I jealous of? You? Your praise? Your love for me? No. At the coronation it was our hard work, our plan. Did you mean any of what you said?” They’re pawing at his chest like a cat. If they weren’t wearing gloves he’d be in ribbons.

“I meant every word,” he says, taking one of their arms by the elbow and pulling the glove off.

“I wasn’t merely scorned. I was dead. Gone. A failure. A weakness that was excised,” they say with confidence, describing his rationale with unpleasant accuracy. “But without me you had no one to tell you that you were wrong. Ketheric was a self-important scold and Orin had nothing to contribute except as a warm body. Neither of them could’ve warned you not to send the Emperor after the prism. What was even the point of any of this without me to see it thru? You think you can rule your kingdom of ash, little tyrant? If anyone else had walked into that throne room with Ketheric’s stone you’d be lost already.”

Dearest had never said any of this to Gortash. They had never been this combative. They had never needed to prove anything with words–their actions were always enough. This desperate need to convince him of their competency is bordering on pathetic, but he can’t find fault in their words, as hard as those words are to hear.

They cup his chin in their hand, pulling his gaze back towards their face. “You can’t do that again,” they insist and the look in their eyes is so intense, so familiar, it doesn’t matter that they don’t remember. It doesn’t matter how much they’ve changed. Nothing matters.

“You’re making it sound as tho you’re going to disappear again,” he says. Darling slashes him across the chest in response. He groans and buckles, leaning into them and clenching his fists. They wrap their arms around his shoulders, using one to pull the glove off the other, while looking straight at the guard standing a few meters behind Gortash’s chair. Some idiot in a mask, probably called a Black Hand or something like that. Hard to tell thru the mask what they’re thinking about this turn of events.

“Were you around before? Do you remember me?” they ask rhetorically, knowing the goon won’t answer. They only answer to Banites. Darling’s expression is a challenge. The guards are all stock still. It’s kind of fun, having an audience. Darling sits up again and pushes Gortash’s shoulders back against the chair. “And what if I do?”

He clutches his chest, blood oozing thru his fingers, sliding off gold, coating skin. “I would wait for you,” he says, looking up with some effort, thru his fringe at Darling. They run bloody fingers thru his hair and loop their arms around his neck and wonder if it’s going to come to that.

First - Previous - Next

[just-a-ghost00]

💌Someone wants to reach out!

Trigger warning : this reading mentions the passing of beings and other sensitive subjects. It is way heavier than I intended and I want to make sure that you know what you get yourself into. If you are underage, refrain from reading this post. If you know that you are sensitive to such subjects, refrain from reading as well, as a security measure.

As this is going to be a very detailed reading, I only put two options to choose from. To help you identify if you picked the right group, I will use some letters to try to get keywords as confirmation signs. In this reading, we are first going to try to identify who is trying to reach out to you. Then, we will find out what they wish to say to you. At the end of your reading, you will get a short advice from your guides. For this PAC I will be using letters, the White Numen tarot and the Threads of fate oracle, as well as some self made tissue box messages.

Group 1

Note from reader : As I was doing the last adjustments of your reading, I looked up at the sky through my window and looked at the clouds. That might be something the person we're talking about used to do a lot. In the shape of the clouds I saw many N and a few A. Those might be significant initials.

Letters : M F T I U A S N E M R S C V U Keywords : Mass, rain, Insta, star, rats, Cain, museum, amuse, Muse, cinema, mics, revue (French for magazine), fame, Reita, Sumire, saint, Cirus, Marcus, Mars, trains, Venus, arts, man, versus, Mantis, fumer (French for smoking), fast, cars, music, rants, Francis, frantic, France, matsuri (Japanese for festival), mister fun, musc, sister, fan, Ventura, Messi, faint, vain, veins, Traum (German for dream), stairs, Uranus, Saturn, Vermin, races, fire, Aries, Uranium, Taurus

Who is trying to reach out?

Creative soul | Unusual talent | Singer | Heterochromia | Earth angel | 5th house personal creativity I SERVE | 2 of pentacles, 7 of cups, page of swords, The Void, The Weaver, The Revolutionary

Okay I know this is going to sound crazy but I picked up on Moonbin. I can't explain why as I didn't know him very well. But I thought of him as soon as I wrote that channeled message you are gonna read in the next section. Aside from that, I can definitely tell that whoever is trying to reach out to you has passed on. This person was full of life and ideas, there were many things they wanted to say and do but they didn't get the chance to give life to all their dreams. They were young. Very young. This person wanted to fight the darkness and be a ray of hope in a world of doom. They had great ambitions and though they were battling their own demons, they truly believed in good and wanted to be good. They believed that they could weave their destiny as they wanted and that they could change the world if they tried real hard. They wanted to leave a positive impact around them. Heal the world. I'm also picking up on Michael Jackson energy. Maybe you or this person was a Michael Jackson fan. They may have been misunderstood by people around them when they were living. Maybe they were made fun of as a child because of their peculiar personality and talents. Maybe this person saw or did things that people didn't believe in or were afraid of. They were the first in their family to be like that. Maybe they were the first to be queer or the first that had a special talent that was deemed out of the ordinary. Could have been an artistic talent but also something related to the unseen. Maybe they could sense ghosts or they had downloads about specific events. They could have been the first to break from the family patterns and traditions. Like maybe in this person's family people were carpenters or automobile constructors from father to son and they chose to be an artist instead. I'm drawn to the snake on the Weaver card. Maybe snakes were important to this person. Like it is a symbol that represents them or this could be their chinese zodiac sign. Years of the snake are 1905, 1917, 1929, 1941, 1953, 1965, 1977, 1989, 2001 or 2013 and the next one will be 2025. But more than zodiac, I feel like they related to snakes in the sense that these animals are often feared and viewed as negative when they are neither good nor bad. They hold the potential for both and will only be "bad" if you threaten them. The reason I got drawn to the snake is because I know of an artist that passed on whose clothing brand logo was a snake. If any of you are familiar with The GazettE, I'm talking about Reita and his brand SNAKEDLOWS. Especially the one with the Ouroboros that was used in 2022. If you don't resonate with any of these artists, this could have been a family member, whether you knew them during their lifetime or not.

What they want to say to you :

"Dear love, I cannot stress enough how much I love you. You lit up my life in so many ways. I can never thank you enough for the support and love you have given me over the years. I owe so much to you. I was able to live a good life because of you. Please allow me to return the favor by being your n° 1 fan from now on <3 Fighting!"

Complementary info - The wildling, take risk, the pillar, connect to heart, The Void, 7 of pentacles, 7 of swords, page of cups rx, 3 of wands rx, King of pentacles

They are trapped in a state of limbo and they want to connect with you to be free. But they also want to help you set yourself free from patterns and obligations that you don't resonate with anymore. You are lying to yourself about the state you are in. You keep working and working without taking into account how you feel. Your life has become more of a routine and less of an adventure. You closed your heart to favor your mind. It's like you no longer marvel at life and try to run from your truth. They want to connect with you because they don't want you to do the same mistakes as them and ignore the signs that you are not okay. They want to help you ground yourself into an environment and a state of being that is healthy. Behind the Void hides Get curious. Behind the king of pentacles hides the knight of cups. They want you to be curious about love again. To open your heart again. To fight for your happiness because they don't want you to know the same fate as them. It's like they're saying "there are things I wish I knew sooner because if I'd known them maybe I wouldn't have had as hard of a time as I did". "If I'd known, I'd have told people how I felt. Maybe I would have been saved from my own sorrow. I don't want you to drown in your feelings like I did". There's a theme of mental health issues, suicidal tendencies and/or abuse from close circle like family members, friends. It's like this person in their life time chose to prioritize their job and the well being of others to the detriment of their own health and emotional security. They withheld information, pretended that they were fine when they were not. They hid behind their success and their career and most likely worked themselves until it was too much for them to handle.

Advice from your guides - 3 of swords, the world, The Pillar, Ask Body

Don't isolate yourself and remain in your anger or sadness. Speak up to somebody, reach out, open your heart to the world. There are other people who share your pain and doubts, who will be able to relate to what you go through and help you on your journey. Strengthen your body but also pay attention to the signs it is sending you. If you feel unusual pain, pay attention to it. Your third eye is opening. You are becoming more sensitive to spirit and other's emotions. So make sure you build strong enough walls to protect yourself from spiritual attacks. Ask your guides for help if you feel like you can't rely on anyone. Spend time in contemplation and prayer. The spirit of the cheetah is here to remind you that it's important to save your energy and only spend it for what matters. You need to find your center back instead of dispersing your energy in many projects at a time. "It is not unusual for the Cheetah Spirit Animal to come as a guide and support for people who have intense feelings. If you are empathetic, Cheetah reminds you it’s okay and healthy to cry. It releases all the excess input bumping around in your aura while cleansing and decreasing stress. Pause for a moment. Cry and then give yourself something wonderful afterward." You are asked to slow down and take time to let your emotions be expressed instead of repressing them. [Source : what is my spiritanimal]

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Group 2

Letters : D R A A E T U E E O O Q A U E Keywords : tour, route, area, Qatar, road, dare, tear, deer, dear, rate, root, tora (Japanese for tiger), rat, door, eau (French for water)

Who is trying to reach out?

Cancer I FEEL July 20 to August 10 | Model | Heterochromia | Healer | Musician | Dorky/quirky | 7th house Awareness of others I CONNECT | 10 th house Outerworld I ACHIEVE | 8 of pentacles, 6 of cups, King of swords, Self love, The Void, The Seeker rx

I get two possibilities for this group. Some of you could have a passed on ancestor / parent trying to contact you. For others, this person is living but you are not in contact with them at the moment. In both cases, I get this feeling of communication being blocked. It's as if you refuse to be in contact with them or you delay the moments when you are in contact with them. No matter the situation, you are taking refuge in your work as a way to avoid them. This person could be a soulmate and/or someone from your childhood. I get the feeling of a dynamic between someone that is quite old and someone that is quite young. Like a clash of generations. This is just one example between many but think of a parent and their child or a mentor and their protégé. This person could have had a higher status than yours. Aside from the careers mentioned by the tissue box messages I also sense law enforcement, military, politics. Positions of authority in general. It's like you've created a bubble around you and you stay in that bubble. No matter how hard this person is trying to reach out, their attempts are cut short by the distance between you. It's like you voluntarily keep them at bay. I feel a lot of sadness and worry coming from them. It feels like they're afraid that they can't help you. They can sense that something is troubling you and they wish to help you in any way they can but you refuse their help. They feel lonely and left out. It saddens them to see that you don't seem to trust them as much as you used to. They understand and recognize your need for space and independance, your passion and goals, your personal legend. But they also wish that you would let them be a part of it, let them in into your world and give them the opportunity to contribute to it even just a little. More than anything they want to reconnect with you and go back to lighter and innocent moments, where you share memories and try to build a future together. This doesn't have to be a romantic thing. Actually I feel more of a parental vibe than a romantic one. But of course it's going to vary depending on people so for some it could be a romantic partner that is/was very protective of you and kind of acted as a parental figure.

What they want to say to you :

"My child, you need not to cry. Our fate isn't one to worry about. I cry for all of you who are here on Earth, who do not know the taste of true love. I cry for my brothers and sisters who still have to fight the same battles, though I've fought them before. I wish I could heal the world. I wish I could heal you too. <3"

Complementary info - Underworld, Seeker rx, Paradox, The Revolutionary, knight of pentacles, 3 of pentacles, knight of pentacles, Judgement

They wish that instead of giving a lot of attention to others you would allow yourself to receive help and attention from them. That you would stop keeping them at bay and let them show you a new perspective, a different way of doing things. That you would let them pave the way a little more for you and shed light onto other paths, other skills, other people that could be helpful. They want to find a common ground with you and create something stable, fruitful. They want to team up with you in order to restore balance in your life. If some of you are facing legal matters or have been wronged, they want to help you get retribution. They wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself and stop fighting your battles alone. It's like they're saying "it doesn't have to be just you against the whole world, you don't even have to fight if you don't want to ; if you truly want it, let me stand by your side". For a lot of you this concerns your career or your studies. They wish that you would share your load with them. They wish that you would come to them for advice instead of trying to save them the worry because they're going to worry anyway so they might as well worry with you. They wish that you wouldn't be so harsh on them and judge them so harshly. You underestimate this person's ability to understand you. They wish to say "I've been there to and I know how you feel". They want to let you know that you are not alone, they fully support you in your decisions and choices. They're ready to fight for and with you. All they need is your command. They're saying "tell me what you need and I'll be getting it for you, tell me your fears and I'll send them away". Just one word from you and they will serve justice. There's also a theme about prayer, similarily to group 1. I heard "God is mighty and if you ask you shall receive". I know religion is a touchy subject so I don't want to force beliefs on anyone but if that is something you resonate with then they encourage you to keep going and turn to God for help.

Advice from your guides - Death, Versatility rx, page of cups, 4 of swords

They want you to take rest and do things that you enjoy. You may want to get your health checked. Put an end to connections and habits that are detrimental to you.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

Enclosed

When he's far away at sea, Tom finds himself infinitely grateful that you found work at a photography studio.

Author's Note: This fic, two days late? Noooooo.... Also! I've inadvertently made all the Tommy B smuff fics connected, so this can either be read alone or as a sequel to "After the War"

Pairing: Tom Bennett x Reader (2nd person)

Warnings: masturbation (m), lingerie, references to oral sex (f receiving) and p in v sex

This work is a part of my 12 Days of Smuff event! Read the rest here.

My Masterlist

Enclosed

Prompt: Letters & Lingerie

Tom lay in his bunk with a cocky smile on his lips. He cast his eyes around the rest of the room, finding only one or two other sailors, both asleep and far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear him.

This ritual was well worth skipping his mid-day meal.

He weighed the envelopes in his hands for a moment. It felt heavier than it usually did – that boded well for him. After taking a moment to inhale the perfume you had lovingly sprayed on the envelope, Tom dug into your letter.

Tom, my strapping husband,

You said in your last letter that your life in His Majesty’s Nave was ‘fucking boring.’ Shall I tell you how exciting my life back home is?

My uncle has changed the studio’s opening to eleven in the morning so he can get some sleep after staying up all night as an air raid warden. Which means I must find a way to fill that time, assuming I am not also sleeping as I often do after spending a night crammed into a shelter with every screaming and crying child in the whole goddamn neighborhood.

But when I am not sleeping, I often find myself doing the chores that Mum no longer has the energy to do. I swear, if I didn’t do the shopping and cooking, we’d all be eating nothing but bread. Since dad left, she just hasn’t been the same. I think him leaving again reminds her of the last war. He went missing for seven months, seven! I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for her.

Don’t you ever put me through that, Tom Bennett. Not even for a week. I swear I’d come to France myself to drag you back here by your ear.

Now that’s out of the way, I do have something somewhat exciting to tell you. My uncle’s been letting me use the camera a lot more than before he signed up to be a warden. I even got to do a family’s christening portrait all on my own! He wants me to be able to handle the studio on my own, should he ever get called up (not that we’re even slightly concerned about that, considering his age). Or – oh no. That’s not really why he’s doing it, is it? He wants me to be able to run it in case one day he doesn’t come back after the sirens go off, doesn’t he? I’m going to try not to think about that.

I brought it up because he’s allowed me to start using the portable camera rather than the big one in the studio. This way, I won’t always have to be nervous that he will walk in on me when I take pictures for you.

Speaking of, I think you’ll like what I enclosed today. I borrowed Mum’s, just as you asked.

Your adoring wife,

Tom stared at those two wonderful words. Husband. Wife.

He wished he’d been able to give you the ceremony you deserved. Not simply standing in the register office with all your parents looking on with half-hearted smiles before being rushed out almost immediately so the next couple could come in. You deserved so much more than that, roses and a band and a grand hall and all that shit. Once he was home, for good, he’d give it to you. All of it. Most of all, a big honeymoon. Not the one night in a shabby local hotel your parents, your uncle, and even his sister Lois had helped pitch in to get you. Only for him to have to leave again the next day.

The fact that he was leaving you as his wife instead of just as his best girl made it somehow so much harder.

But this helped.

He started by writing his reply to the actual content of your letter. If he started with the pictures, he knew he wouldn’t give a shit about whatever you’d written by the end.

My sweet darling wife,

I am so very sorry that you have things to do all day. Whenever I feel bad about sitting at the prow and staring at the endless ocean, I will remind myself that you are enduring such tortures as shopping and taking undoubtedly lovely family portraits. It will remind me that I should be eternally grateful that the king himself has sent me on the world’s most boring cruise.

Joking aside, I am very sorry you’re stressed. Give your mum my love and tell your uncle that I’m counting on him to look after you while I’m gone, and thank him for his good work (with the warden thing, not the photography). Please take care of yourself. I know you’re willing to stretch yourself thin for the people you love, but I love you too, and I’ll be pissed if I come home to a wife too exhausted to even fuck me.

I actually might not be bored for a few days. They’re sending us to do a job, even if I will be stuck in a rowboat for a day, maybe more. Ah well, at least I won’t be the one rowing, at least.

I’m very happy about you getting more responsibility at the studio. Of course, most of that is for selfish reasons, but I’m still proud of you, love. Can’t wait to see what you’ve enclosed. Oh and before I forget, I’d like to request something… red in your next letter.

Your proud husband,

Tom Bennett

He never wrote as much as you did, but he knew you didn’t mind. You didn’t want any details about the horrible, upsetting things he’d seen, it would only worry you too much. Besides, you knew what he really loved about your letters.

After taking another deep breath, Tom set the paper aside and finally allowed himself to look at your pictures.

“Oh, you gorgeous, gorgeous girl…”

The pearl necklace you wore was a little off-center, but Tom hardly noticed it. He was solely focused on what you were wearing—a full corset, in some kind of shiny, light-colored fabric. The top of it only held half of your perfect tits inside, allowing him to admire their smooth curves. What he wouldn’t give to hold them in his hands. Once he got home, he’d do just that for an hour at least.

Over your delightfully cinched waist, you’d worn a sheer petticoat with ruffles at the bottom – exactly like one you might have worn under your wedding dress, if you’d been able to wear one. He’d get you that, too. Even if only to go to your uncle’s studio to take pictures. Tom wouldn’t need to rent a morning coat, as he’d just wear his uniform, so he could spend extra getting you the perfect dress.

Maybe you could even redo the wedding night.

Tom surveyed the room again before lying back and sliding his hand below his waistband. He’d done this so many times that now, he got hard the instant he picked up the envelope, so he was still relatively proud of his restraint, and was sure you would be, too.

He started slowly, imagining slipping the petticoat off you. Imagine how you’d shiver as his finger ever so slightly brushed your skin. The sounds you’d make – sighs and little whimpers. He loved those little whimpers so much.

He let out his own soft sigh as he began to move his hand faster. Once the petticoat was down, he’d kneel in front of you and make quick work of your shoes, then take his sweet time unbuckling and lowering your stocking.

God, how he missed those legs, shapely and soft. He loved touching them, kissing them, laying between them. His hips kicked up as he imagined himself kissing his way up them when he got home, all the way up to that delightful place where your knickers dug into the little dip between your leg and your hips.

It was hard to hold back his moan at the thought.

He’d lower your knickers first, he decided. So he could bury himself in you until he was satisfied. Yours was a taste he craved as badly as he did for decent cigarettes. He sometimes woke from dreams of devouring you, thinking he could still taste you on his tongue.

Only when your legs were shaking would he stand, prowling behind you with his hands on your waist. He’d kiss your neck as he untied your corset. Or unhooked? He didn’t know, but he hoped it was untie – it was sexier.

The pearls would stay on the whole time as he kissed you, touched you, fucked you. He’d put them between your teeth to help you soften your cries and moans, then watch them fall back on your chest when you came. You always came with your mouth wide open as you screamed his name.

That memory of your voice and the way your nails would dig into his skin is what drove him over the edge, spilling himself into his hand.

Tom lay there, reliving his imaginings, until a bell rang, signaling it was time to get in the rowboats. He made sure to wipe his hand on the mattress of one of the rich cunts who mocked him and the other working-class boys before leaving, his own letter in hand.

He stopped by the room where they kept their post on his way to the rowboats, quickly folding his paper to stuff it into an envelope. A smile crept over his features as he addressed it to ‘Mrs. Tom Bennett,’ before filling out the rest. He was glad that you were living in your parent’s house, but he couldn’t wait until he could get a place just for the two of you.

Lastly, he wrote the date in the corner of the envelope, as you always liked to know when he received yours, so you could be sure to include all the relevant gossip he’d missed.

26 May, 1940

[animentality]

So I’ve been scrolling through the Durgetash tag and wtf.

First I’m fcking heartbroken that my Durge will not experience the moment of finding the letter/s to Franc in it’s original form or at all(?)

And THEN I FIND queerphobic posts and insane comments about Gortash “definitely not” being queer or “just having had a “business relationship” with Durge..? Even tho there’s enough evidence✨

Now… remember when we all adored Astarion and then more and more ppl started joining the tags, groups whatever and now it’s a whole toxic mess that you cannot scroll thru without getting a headache? (It’s sad the magic of it all is kinda dare I say gone.. I just look at it/him idk different, involuntarily at that, but I’m glad that Durgetash is giving all that back in insane amounts that let’s my adhd feet kick in dopamine fully-sated energy *incoherent babbling*)

I think the same is (bhaal forbid) maybe swapping over to Durgetash and I’m scared … cuz this, here… what y’all create! (art, hc’s, stories & just fun post’s overall) is so fxking special and so lovely🌷

And I really fxing hope that the ppl at bg3/larian have a REALLY good reason to *cough cough* meddle in each other’s I MEAN OUR affairs, when we already barely have anything, WHAT WAS THE REASON– just why, there’s enough bugs and crashes or other stuff that needs tending WHY TAKE AWAY?!

Good day and thank you for sharing your thoughts with us and without sugarcoating anything ❤️

I hope a build-a-bear lil dragon or whatever appears outta nowhere for you, that says stuff when you squeeze too hard (just like Durge–) like “ah my favorite bhaalspawn/ my favorite assassin” :)

First off, I hear that some people still see the letter, and others do not. Apparently, it's SUPPOSED to have replaced it, but some people just have computers that are built different, I guess. So you might possibly see it. Not sure.

As for if toxicity is spilling into the Durgetash fandom...maybe? I don't know. We were all pretty civil. I admit, I lost my cool for a minute there, but to be FAIR TO ME, I have not STARTED anything with anyone in literal years.

This was someone sending ME a reply that really pissed me off with its biphobia, like, absolutely ticked me off in one foul swoop.

But for the most part, it's not THAT Combative. But this note changing HAS divided people quite a bit.

So I don't know.. I want to believe durgetash and gortash love are still not mainstream enough to maintain the levels of toxicity that astarion fans seem to cultivate like horticulture.

We'll see.

As for why they changed it...I don't know?

Really seems odd. Maybe they didn't like the tone of it.

Truthfully, as much as I love that note for just being so out of pocket and weird, I admit it's more in character for Gortie to be a more serious guy...but honestly?

It's the fucking game's fault that they made Gortash a boring villain. They FORCED us to cling to his every note. To read more into his interactions with the Dark Urge.

To love that one iconic letter from him.

So they can't walk back on their weirdness....unless....they're planning on....expanding his role....

O.o

We'll see on that too.

Anyway. Thanks for the ask and glad I can entertain! By being an asshole! And a lunatic!

I NEED a Gortash plushie to keep my Dark Urge company!!!

If anyone knows where I can get one, I need that ASK or DM.

[braveclementine]

Chapter 1

Warnings: None, Readers under 18 can read this book. It is solely fluff- nothing sexual

Copyright: I do not own any Wizarding World characters that J.K. Rowling wrote. I do however own Elizabeth Kane (main character) and Trang Nyguen (best friend). There should be no use of these two names without my permission. I also do not condone any copying of this.

.💚💚.

Dear Harry, Answer your letters damnit Love, Elizabeth

I attached the note to Sadie's leg and sent her off out the window. He wouldn't answer, I knew that. I just kept sending letters, hoping that eventually he'd see Sadie outside his window, and get the hint. I knew Hedwig was locked up in her cage and he couldn't write back. I also knew that someone was stealing his letters. But if he at least saw my owl, then maybe he would remember that he did have friends.

Once Sadie was gone, I wrote a much longer letter to Hermione, the only one who knew, how I knew, why Harry wasn't writing back.

Dear Hermione, Harry still can't answer his letters. For one thing, his Uncle padlocked Hedwig in her cage. I feel bad for both of them. For another thing, someone keeps taking his letters so he doesn't even know we're writing to him. I'm not sure if it's one of his relatives, or something/someone else. I feel terrible. He thinks we're not his friends! But, I suspect Ron will go and get him eventually. By the way, Ron asked me to go and stay with him, I imagine he also invited you and Harry? Are you going? I suspect you're not- at least I'm not seeing you going- but I suppose that could change. I'll keep you updated when I see something- or if I see something interesting for that matter. Love, Elizabeth

I sighed, setting that aside to dry. I pulled over Ron's letter which had arrived earlier that day.

Elizabeth, I said I'd invite you, Hermione, and Harry to stay at my house. I can't get through to Harry at all though! You had any luck? Oh and you can come to my house if you want! Just send a letter my way. Ron

I pulled out a blank piece of parchment, not sure of what to say. It'd be great to go and spend time with the Weasley family, but without Hermione there, I wasn't sure I wanted to go. Ron wasn't really my friend as much as Harry and Hermione were. . . Although, there was the plus side of seeing Fred. . .

The doorbell rang and I set aside my ink and quill. I preferred pens, but when corresponding with wizards and witches, I used my magical items. I ran down the stairs and opened the door.

"Hey Elizabeth!" Trang said, standing there. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." I said, opening the door and letting her through. I led her to the tiny kitchen of the house. "How are you doing?"

"Great!" She said happily.

"How was France?"

She launched into all the details of France and everything she had done there. I listened, a little envious though I tried to push that emotion away.

Hi. My name is Elizabeth Kane Potter. I'm the twin sister of Harry Potter. No one knows I exist, my parents kept me a secret. While this is the case, my adopted father- werewolf Remus Lupin- knows my true identity and also the only person alive to know. (Besides Sirius Black). I don't look much like my brother, I look more like my mum (so Lupin says. Personally, I think I look more like Lupin). I also receive visions of the future that sometimes- always- come true, depending on the actions of other people.

But anyways. . .

"So what about you?" Trang asked, catching her breath after recounting a tale about the ocean shores in France. "Have you done anything exciting? And how was school?"

Trang was my Muggle friend, meaning that she wasn't a witch. And of course, she had no idea where I had gone to school or that I wasn't learning maths or science. That didn't stop me though. Summer and Christmas breaks I would set aside my wizarding studies and start on my Muggle ones.

Trang was incredibly bright- like me if I may be so humble. She had long black hair that she dyed ombre in either gold or silver-blue colors. It suited her, though I usually preferred the gold. She wore glasses most of the time, giving her face a round image. She had bright brown eyes and dressed rather stylishly. She was taller than me by a few inches and beautiful.

"Nah, I haven't really done anything except pick my job back up." I said, twirling a pen in my hand. Not to mention I was grounded for a night escapade at school where I stopped Voldemort from stealing the Sorcerer's stone. But Trang didn't need to know about that. "School was slow but it was all easy."

Trang nodded. "Of course, school in America is a bit different than here in Britain. Their history especially. I had to study extra hard since I didn't grow up knowing any American history."

"American history is probably very fascinating." I said, continuing to twirl the pen in my fingers like a baton. "I'd love to learn it."

"Well you only have one more year of middle school and then you're going into a trade school, right?" Trang asked.

"Maybe." I said slowly deftly sweeping my long brown hair over my shoulder. "I haven't given it much thought."

"Do you know what trade schools you want to go into?" Trang asked, sounding incredulous.

"I haven't given it much thought." I repeated, amused.

Trang rolled her eyes, grabbing the pen from my hand. I glared at her. "If you had to go to a trade school or gymnasium today, which one would you go to?"

I sighed, snatching my pen back, and continuing to spin it in my hand. "Yeesh, I guess something that would help me for a medical program. I don't know. I was thinking about American college instead."

Trang's eyes lit up, "You're kidding? Maybe we could got to the same college!"

I shook my head, being legitimately serious about the subject- or as serious as I would be if magical school didn't exist. "I don't know. They certainly have a better school system." I sighed, leaning back in my chair, "And American hospitals have better pay."

Trang nodded, more serious now. "That is true. The downside of American hospitals though, is that they are open 24-7 so you may work longer hours. Here, the hospitals are only open 9-5."

I shook my head. "That's the downside of European hospitals. Imagine having a heart attack at two in the morning in American vs. Europe. Which country are you more likely to get care at? The one that's open or the one that's closed?"

"Huh, you know, I never thought of it like that" Trang answered thoughtfully, pushing her glasses up on her nose. That seemed to remind her of something because she peered at me for a second and then asked, "Where are your glasses?"

I blushed. "I don't wear them anymore unless I really have to. They were for reading anyways so I didn't have to wear them all the time before. Now, I only wear them if I have to."

Plus, I didn't like how they made my cheeks look fat. Since meeting Fred, I had a very self-conscious body image. I was only seventy-two pounds and very skinny- but still! I had to keep an image. Round glasses make a round face. Though admittedly, being only twelve years old didn't help me look any older. But maybe it would make me prettier.

Trang nodded, "Makes sense."

Our conversations were always intelligent ones, like the "hospital-hour conversation". Trang rarely showed interest in anything that wasn't politics, maths, science, or history. Though she did take out subscriptions to a few magazines, we both had particular cartoons that we fancied and liked to talk about. Sometimes music too, our tastes were very similar; though she'd branched out since she'd gone to America.

We sat in silence for a moment. I was itching to go upstairs and finish my last wizarding assignment before working on my Muggle work. It was for Potions, the subject I'd left for last, and it was about the side effects of a strengthening potion if you took to much of a dosage than recommended for your body weight. I wished I could've talked to Trang about it, but I couldn't.

"Want to go to a café and get something to eat?" Trang asked, looking around the house. "Well, just a malt anyways."

I pushed the thought of homework aside with the mention of dessert. "Absolutely, I just got to go and get some money."

"Sure, I'll wait for you outside." Trang said, standing up, putting her hands in her skirt pockets. "Be quick though. It's always better to get there at four."

I ran up the stairs, looking at how messy my bedroom had become. Wizarding and Muggle textbooks were thrown on the bed and floor. Multiple quills were in different cups on my desk. Pieces of parchment with all my homework lay on the floor under the window, drying. Being grounded hadn't given me a lot of room to roam, so I'd pretty much started living up here when I wasn't a work.

Luckily, my sentence had ended two weeks ago. Also, now that I'd unlocked my Gingotts vault, I actually had my own allowance, which meant I didn't have to feel bad about asking Dad for money or having to pay Trang back for a simple malt or shake.

I quickly grabbed my leather purse, checking to make sure there was money in it. Muggle money, at least. I was in luck, I had about £25. I also put in my wand, under an eye cloth in case of emergency. It was a rule since becoming a student at Hogwarts- don't go anywhere without your wand.

I checked myself in the mirror. I was wearing a blue blouse, a large blue ribbon decorating the front of it by my neck, and a white skirt that ended at my knees. I pulled my hair back into a long ponytail, adding a blue ribbon in it. Then I slung my purse across my body and ran back downstairs.

I locked the door behind me, joining Trang on the sidewalk.

We rode our bikes into town, stopping at a pop shop. It was freezing inside, even for the summer. It was the kind of malt shop that hadn't exited the old days yet. The waitresses still wore poodle skirts, the floor was checkered black and white, the counters were metal, red barstools, red booths to sit in, low-hanging white lights above the plastic tables, large glass windows. We ordered two vanilla shakes, red licorice, and chocolate.

We sat outside a table, drinking our shakes. The candy we were eating now got us talking about the candy we sent each other for Christmas the past year.

"I was shocked that the sugar quills were actually for eating." Trang said, unwrapping a chocolate with Carmel filling. "They looked so realistic."

"Did you try writing with it?" I asked, amused, before taking a bite from the red licorice string.

"No, I didn't want to ruin the chocolate nub with ink!" Trang exclaimed, laughing. "What about you?"

I thought about all the candy she'd sent me. There was a lot to sort through. "I loved the pop rocks." I finally said. "I think they were my favorite along with the warheads. Although, it should be noted that one should only eat a warhead at a time because more than one makes a hole in your tongue. I'm also speaking from experience."

Trang giggled, looking delighted. "When I first had a pop rock, I thought I was going to be electrocuted!"

"Yes!" I exclaimed, also laughing. "That's what I thought too!"

We headed home around dinner time, Trang coming with me.

I made mac and cheese. We waited for dad to come home before we ate. Meanwhile, Trang boiled water for tea. She sorted through the assortment of tea boxes we had in the cupboard. "You do have proper English breakfast tea, don't you?"

I grinned, "Sure. But why not try the Watermelon Lime tea first? Taste better cold, especially as it's summer."

Trang raised a skeptical eyebrow.

I put down the spoon and told her to move aside. I sorted through the tea flavors: Cranberry Apple, Lemon, Raspberry, Red Zinger, Tangerine Orange, Watermelon Lime, Sangaria Zinger, Wild Berry, Sleepytime Honey, Sleepytime Mint, Chamomile, Green Tea, Mandarin Orange Spice, Cinnamon Apple Spice, Caramel Apple Dream, Honey Vanilla Chamomile, Black Tea, White tea, Herbal tea-

"Ah, here it is. English Breakfast tea." I said, finally finding the box in the back of the cupboard. Unlike the other boxes made by Celestial Seasonings, the box was bland looking (to me). The box was gray with a small cottage with dull green bushes. The other boxes were usually much more colourful, in bright reds, yellows, greens, and purples. But I suppose to some, gray is a relaxing colour, and English breakfast tea was fairly calming.

"Why do you have so many different types of tea?" Trang asked, looking overwhelmed at the boxes that had stacked up around our heads.

"Because I haven't tried all of them yet to find out which ones are my favorite." I said with a nonchalant shrug. "Besides, we're British and Dad loves tea. And I'm weird and don't like normal flavors."

Suddenly, before my eyes there was a strange creature with large green eyes, wearing a pillowcase. A house-elf. I blinked, and it was gone. Strange. Perhaps it had been a vision. Of course it had, what else could it have been?

The front door opened, announcing dad's arrival, and I started scooping mac and cheese out into bowls as quickly as possible.

Dad exchanged a tired look with me when he came in the room before greeting Trang. He hugged me, kissed my cheek, and said, "I'm gonna take this up to my room with me, okay sweetheart?"

"Are you okay?" I asked urgently under my breath so that Trang didn't hear my next sentence. "It's not even close to full moon."

"I know. I just need to think about some things, okay?" Dad said, picking up his bowl of mac and cheese.

I nodded and let him go. We had no secrets. If he was having to think about something, he'd probably been let go again. I gritted my teeth. Stupid bias.

Dad turned and stopped, looking at the boxes stacked up, "Tea party?" He asked with a bit of a smile.

I blushed. "Er- something like that."

He chuckled half-heartedly before leaving the room.

"Where's your dad going?" Trang asked in concern. Trang had grown up around him almost as much as I had grown up around her mother (her Dad was usually at work) so she could read him almost as easily as I could. Same with her mother- I could read her fairly easily.

"Sick. He's going to stay in his room." I said dully.

"Oh." Trang said. She looked at the wolf calendar we kept in the room. It was a joke between Dad and I; the wolves decorating the calendar.

I think she was distracting herself from the situation. Then, looking strangely puzzled, she went into the small dining room. We talked a bit while we ate, but we kept our voices down in case dad was trying to sleep. She left around eight and as I had nothing else to do, I washed the dishes, dried them, put them away, and then checked on my rabbit- Sushi.

He was the most adorable bunny you've ever seen. He had gray and white colouring, one ear pointed upwards, one laying flat. He was a lionlop which is a lionhead, English lop mix. Just pure adorableness in other words. He was so soft and fluffy. He also had complete run of the house, jumping up on the kitchen table when we were eating, trying to steal bits of our fruit or whatever we were eating. He liked peppermint tea- if it was cold- and would stick his nose into our tea if we weren't keeping a careful enough eye on him.

He also wasn't allowed upstairs, as Dad fretted he might fall down the stairs or one of us would trip over him one day. And for the most part, Sushi stayed on the bottom floor anyways. I put him in his cage at the moment, filling his water bowl with fresh water, and hay tray with more hay. I mixed in a few pieces of cilantro and made sure that some of his favorite chew toys were in the cage with him. I petted him a few times, feeling melancholy, then closed the cage door, and headed upstairs to my room.

I shut the door behind me. Sadie was back with a mouse. I stroked her head feathers. "Maybe Harry'll have gotten the letter this time." I said with a sigh.

I grabbed a quill and a piece of parchment and quickly wrote my last letter.

Dear Ron, I haven't heard from Harry. I think, knowing his family, he probably can't get our letters or if he is getting our letters, has no way of replying. I can't say yet on the idea of coming to your house. But I do reckon I might see you guys in Diagon Alley. Hermione said she'll send me a date. Take care and let me know if you happen to hear from Harry. Love, Elizabeth

I set that aside and tossed my books that were on my bed onto the floor. I shut off the light and crawled under the covers. "Night Sadie." I murmured. I rolled over and fell asleep.

⬅️➡️

[fdelopera]

Welcome to the 44th installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 113 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part II of Chapter 18, “Révélations étonnantes de Mme Giry, relatives à ses relations personnelles avec le fantôme de l’Opéra” (“Mme Giry’s Astonishing Revelations, Regarding Her Personal Relations with the Phantom of the Opera”).

This section was first printed on Friday, 3 December, 1909.

For anyone following along in David Coward’s translation (the link is to the Kindle edition on Amazon US), the text starts in Chapter 17 with, “In the morning, a note from the Phantom reminded that payment was due,” and goes to, “...'All it takes is an accomplice...' '...who could be male or female, Moncharmin added casually.”

There are some differences between the standard 1st Edition text and the Gaulois text. In this section, these include (highlighted in red above):

1) Chapter XVIII was printed as Chapter XIX. This numbering error was made in Chapter VII, and was not corrected, so it was propagated throughout the Gaulois publication.

2) Compare the Gaulois text:

Il lui avait dit cela le matin même en lui montrant une nouvelle missive du Fantôme qui leur rappelait l'échéance.

(He [Richard] said this to him [Moncharmin] that very morning, while showing him a new letter from the Phantom which reminded them that payment was due.)

To the 1st Edition:

Le matin, une missive du fantôme qui leur rappelait l'échéance.

(That morning, a letter from the Phantom reminded them that payment was due.)

3) "mam' Giry" in the Gaulois became "Mame Giry" in the 1st Edition. Both mean roughly Ma Giry, or Mama Giry.

4) When Leroux rewrote "Mme Giry's Astonishing Revelations" for his 1st Edition, he added in a number of details that are absent from the Gaulois text. I have indicated where these additional passages exist using Coward's translation.

Regarding Mme Giry's dialogue, Coward translates her words using Cockney speech patterns, making her sound much more affected than she does in Leroux's text. So, please take Coward’s translation with several grains of salt in this instance. To be sure, Mme Giry doesn't speak with a “posh” accent, but she isn't at the level of "Ello gov'na!" either.

5) This passage was added to the 1st Edition:

Begin (Coward translation): "Are you still on good terms with the Phantom?"

End: "I'll have you know that nobody's ever had any doubts on that score!"

6) Leroux reworked this passage in the 1st Edition, expanding on the Managers' interactions with Mme Giry. In the Gaulois, this section reads:

"I am going to have you arrested, Mme Giry, as a thief!"

Amazingly, Mama Giry suddenly seemed to calm down.

"If that's on account of the twenty thousand francs," she said, almost serenely, "you, Monsieur Richard, you should know better than me where they got to, those twenty thousand francs!"

In the 1st Edition, Leroux added this extended section:

Begin (Coward translation): The two black feathers on her shabby hat, which usually looked like question marks, immediately changed into exclamation marks, while the hat itself wobbled wildly, threatening the frayed chignon beneath.

End: "And another thing, M. Richard, you should know better than me what happened to them twenty thousand francs!"

7) Leroux added another section in his 1st Edition, immediately after Richard's line: "Me?" said Richard, looked stunned. "And how should I know?"

Begin (Coward translation): But Moncharmin, suddenly grave and looking worried, wanted her to explain.

End: "Why do I know better than you about what happened to the twenty thousand francs? Tell me!"

8) Another extended section added to the 1st Edition, starting after: "Because they ended up in your pocket!..." gulped the old woman, staring at him as if he were the Devil in person.

Begin (Coward translation): It was now M. Richard's turn to be blasted by this bolt from the blue and then withered by M. Moncharmin's increasingly suspicious eye.

End: "I never said no such thing!" said Mme Giry, "seeing as how it was me in person that put the money in M. Richard's pocket!"

9) Compare the Gaulois text:

Pardon ! Pardon ! Pardon ! Laisse cette femme s'expliquer !

("Please! Please! Please! Let the woman explain!")

To the 1st Edition:

Pardon ! Pardon ! Pardon ! Laisse cette femme s'expliquer ! Laisse-moi l'interroger. 

("Please! Please! Please! Let the woman explain! Let me question her.")

10) Compare the Gaulois text:

Mais Richard qui touche à l'apoplexie :

— Moi ! j'aurais mis les vingt mille francs dans ma poche ! Tu veux que je lui laisse dire cela !

(But Richard, who was becoming apoplectic, said:

"Me! I put the twenty thousand francs in my pocket! You want me to allow her say such things?")

To the 1st Edition:

Et il [Moncharmin] ajoute :

« Il est vraiment étrange que tu le prennes sur un ton pareil !... Nous touchons au moment où tout ce mystère va s'éclaircir ! Tu es furieux ! Tu as tort... Moi, je m'amuse beaucoup. »

(And he [Moncharmin] added:

"It's truly odd that you are behaving in such a manner! We are nearing the moment where this whole mystery shall be cleared up, and you are irate! You are misguided... As for me, I'm rather enjoying myself.")

11) Compare the Gaulois text:

Je n'ai pas pu dire cela ! déclare-t-elle, attendu que c'était moi qui mettais, en personne, les vingt mille francs dans la poche de M. Richard ! si toutefois il y avait vingt mille francs dans l'enveloppe ; car moi, je le répète, je n'en savais rien... Ni M. Richard plus, du reste !

("I couldn't have said that!" she proclaimed, "since it was me that personally put the twenty thousand francs in M. Richard's pocket! If there ever was twenty thousand francs in the envelope, because I tell you again, I didn't know anything about it... Nor did M. Richard, neither!")

To the 1st Edition:

Vous me dites qu'il y avait vingt mille francs dans l'enveloppe que je mettais dans la poche de M. Richard, mais, moi je le répète, je n'en savais rien... Ni M. Richard non plus, du reste !

("You say there were twenty thousand francs in the envelope that I put in M. Richard's pocket, but I tell you again, I didn't know anything about it... Nor did M. Richard, neither!")

12) Compare the Gaulois:

Quant à celle que je déposais dans la loge du fantôme, c'était une autre enveloppe exactement pareille, et que j'avais, toute préparée, dans ma manche.

("As for the one that I put in the Phantom's box, it was another envelope that was exactly the same, and that I had all ready up my sleeve.")

To the 1st Edition:

Quant à celle que je déposais dans la loge du fantôme, c'était une autre enveloppe exactement pareille, et que j'avais, toute préparée, dans ma manche, et qui m'était donnée par le fantôme !

("As for the one that I put in the Phantom's box, it was another envelope that was exactly the same, and that I had all ready up my sleeve. It was given to me by the Phantom!")

13) Compare the Gaulois text:

Ce disant, mame Giry sort de sa poche ...

(Having said this, Mama Giry pulled from her pocket ...)

To the 1st Edition:

Ce disant, Mame Giry sort de sa manche ...

(Having said this, Mama Giry pulled from her sleeve ...)

14) Compare the Gaulois text:

MM. les directeurs s'en emparent. Ils l'ouvrent...

(The Managers grabbed it. They opened it...)

To the 1st Edition:

MM. les directeurs s'en emparent. Ils l'examinent, ils constatent que des cachets cachetés de leur propre cachet directorial, la ferment. Ils l'ouvrent...

(The Managers grabbed it. They examined it, and noted that a seal stamped with their own managerial seal closed it. They opened it...)

15) Minor differences in punctuation.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 3 December, 1909. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.

[latibvles]

SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful, tragic. // word on the street

extra, extra, read all about it!

TAGLIST: @softguarnere , @liebgotts-lovergirl , @brassknucklespeirs , @monalisastwin

WARNINGS: discussions of disownment & brief discussion of suicide, descriptions of combat fatigue

SUMMARY: Daisy has never seen what she does as anything more than her duty based on her oath. She wonders why that’s begun to change now.

She’s in the newspaper back home.

Of course, it isn’t just pictures of her that are spread across a page of Stars and Stripes. A handful of pictures of the Aid Station and the ambulances on the dirt roads all paint the dire picture. EINDHOVEN BURNS. The ANC’s Guardian Angels Save 150 Lives in an Eindhoven Bombing! is the title, in big blocky letters. She’s about a paragraph in, accredited for “leading the charge” and there’s a recollection of the events themselves, a quick note about how they’ve been unable to grab anyone for a quote. There’s no mention of the subsequent reprimand from an angry officer, and after reading it thrice she’s certain there’s no mention of insubordination.

The clipping from home is a much more personal affair. South Weymouth’s Own GI Angel. They’d used her old yearbook photo from five years ago, which is just minorly embarrassing. Daisy Elizabeth Clarke is an alumni of the English High School… a small blurb about her achievements (which were getting more praise now than when she actually achieved them), which military camp she attended, flowery words singing praises she doesn’t feel entirely deserving of.

And to top it all off, the latter clipping is from her father — who’d wrapped the rosary she’d left at home in the paper, who’s letter is filled with pleas for a response, complaints that it isn’t fair of her to refuse to speak to him. Those pleas only lead to more irritation, and she winds up balling the letter up and throwing it away. They’d finally been pulled off the line and moved to Mourmelon-le-Grande, in France.

It’s been over a month since she last saw Ronnie. Soon, it’ll be two months.

She gets a new jacket, without a hole in the sleeve. The wound itself has scarred over in a dark brown uneven swatch on her arm. No raised skin or divots, just the discoloration.

“203rd General, in Garches,” Ginny tells her as she’s pulling on the new jacket. “That’s the last place with a record of him, as far as I know. I don’t know if he’s still there but it’s worth a shot.”

She sends out her letter within hours of that —all  two pages of it — and can’t help but pray for the letter to reach him in time. She’d spent a whole night on it, pouring out the things she didn’t get to say — the explanations owed, the apologies needed.

“My mom wrote to me,” Rita starts out, handing Daisy a crumpled piece of paper. Rita’s hand ghosts over her arm to keep her from colliding into anything as they exit the movie that’s playing in the hall. Daisy takes it, looking over it. Her brows furrow and her lips tug into a frown. “Said if I came home now we could still fix everything and it’ll go back to normal or something.” Daisy looks up at Rita, handing the letter back.

“But she doesn’t want your dad knowing she wrote to you?” Daisy scoffs, rolling her eyes. Rita laughs bitterly, rolling her eyes as she takes it, balls it, and stuffs it in her pocket. “Did you write her back?” Rita smirks a bit.

“Oh definitely.”

“And what’d you say?” The girl runs her fingers through her curls for a moment. Daisy watches as they bounce right back into their proper places.

“Told her that unless she wants me back pregnant and unmarried that she and Robert can go kick a rock for all I care,” Rita declares with her hands on her hips. “Which I’m certain will just go great. Robby McCarney’s precious daughter coming home knocked up by some no-name GI. As if I wasn’t already embarrassing enough, right?” There’s sarcasm laced in every single word, overflowing. Even if there are notes of sincerity, Daisy isn’t going to pry her about it out in the open.

“And have your sisters written at all?” Rita shakes her head, letting out another laugh.

“And dare to upset Robert? Cuando Colón baje el dedo, Daisy.” When pigs fly, essentially, Daisy nods grimly.

“My dad wrote to me. I ended up throwing out the whole letter so you might be a little nicer than me.”

“Or you’re just less spiteful.”

“Well that’s one way of looking at it,” She laughs, partially because if anyone were privy to this conversation, they’d be concerned, and partly because they both know if they don’t laugh, they’ll just get angry. And it’s easier to laugh than fester in their shared anger.

Rita didn’t talk much about her family — and when she did it was always in this way. Calling her four sisters idiots or mindless, or doormats. Get a couple of drinks in her and she’ll use some very colorful words to describe her parents, too. They’d essentially told her that if she left and joined the army, she could never step back into their home. So Rita “packed a bag and left with a middle-finger to the door” as she put it. Their laughter eventually lapses, before Rita’s face takes on a properly grim expression.

“Did you hear about what happened to that Sergeant and staff officer?” she starts out. Daisy shakes her head, and raises a brow. “Apparently both of them took two .45 calibers and just,” she pauses, makes a gun with her fingers and gestures to her lips. “Bang. Right through the head. Guess… everything’s catchin’ up to everybody. I saw Lieutenant Compton earlier just kind of… blank-starin’. Don’t even think he noticed me wave.” Daisy cringes, taking a quick scan of the GIs walking around the camp. Some of them wear the exhaustion blatant on their faces, others don’t.

“Did you get any names?”

“Not yet. But I think—”

“Excuse me! Lieutenant Clarke?”

Both women snap to look at the person calling. A GI in a neat olive-green dress uniform, garrison cap tilted just so on his head. His face is youthful and lively as he approaches with a big, boxy camera in his hands. Daisy tries not to outwardly grimace, but Rita doesn’t hide her irritation, muttering a quiet “Get a load of this fuckin’ twit.” But rather than verbally agree, Daisy just smiles as politely as she can as the reporter approaches.

“Yes, that’s… me. Did you need something?” As though he’s just won the lottery, his grin grows impossibly wider, his eyes all starry and full of excitability.

“Yes! Well… I was hoping to get a few comments from you on the situation in Eindhoven back in September. Seems like no one was able to get a comment from you when it happened but with word finally reaching the States and all…” It’s almost like I was doing my job. In the middle of a war. That’s what she wants to say. But she doesn’t say that. Daisy does however, give Rita an apologetic look. She waves her hand dismissively, before continuing to walk, leaving Daisy alone with an all-too-eager reporter.

“They’re still talking about that? It’s been nearly three months. And I don’t think I… got your name.”

“Lieutenant Walter Cunningham for Stars and Stripes, ma’am,” he states proudly. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it’s been trying to catch one of you girls for comment. They’re talking about everything you ladies have been doing. Company One here with the paratroops, Company Two with 30th Infantry. Can’t forget the ladies up with 10th Armored while we’re at it…” Cunningham continues to prattle on in a quick way that’s honestly a little dizzying. But what she does gather is that the companies are so busy it’s hard to grab any of them for an interview. He even throws something about ‘carpe diem’ in there, on the topic of finding nurses to talk to, but she doesn’t know how applicable the phrase would be to this.

Regardless, she tries to keep up as he throws questions at her. What was the training like? Different, intense, rigorous. She tries to paint the picture of seventy women working in cohesion, but she isn’t too sure her words properly depict it. What were the biggest challenges you faced? Daisy tries to put it eloquently — the differences in experience, combined with the abrupt shifts for some women who were used to hospitals and wards. She throws in a few good comments about Ginny and Rita and Catherine, her confidence in their leadership and their determination.

And then he asks it.

“The accounts of your actions after the Eindhoven bombing are quite limited, so I have to ask — do you think I could get a firsthand account of what happened? It’s my understanding that Jane Gray, Catherine Ward, and yourself were leading so-to-speak, but you gave the order.”

Daisy bites the inside of her cheek, tensing up.

Ginny had told her it would all be okay, and she believed her friend — but she doesn’t like the way Cunningham is looking at her. Like it’s something that makes her special, as an individual. He looks almost hungry — like it’s his big break. He stares at her expectantly and for a moment, she stands there, grasping for a way to put all of her thoughts into cohesive words.

“...It was a team effort,” Daisy starts with, tentatively. Her palms are sweaty and she decides not to wipe them to maintain some mirage of confidence. “When you’re sworn into cadets you take an oath. We get these pamphlets with it written as reminders once we get our uniforms. Me, the women I’m with, we all knew we had to uphold that oath, no matter what. I really was just… the one who voiced it. I really just said what everyone was thinking.”

She leaves out Gray’s hesitance. She leaves out her own doubts. Her own remorse and how an angry Captain had taken it all the way to the Colonel after learning her CO was dead set on protecting her. But she leaves in every moment that she and Gray shared the weight of a wounded man. She names every woman that joined her, makes a point to mention the men of the RAMC as well. Daisy only hopes that her answers are satisfactory.

He wraps it up with a photo of her face, and a promise to get the next issue of Stars and Stripes to her. What she wants to say is ‘take all the time you need,’ but she’ll save the man from her snark in favor of scurrying off and away to find adequate distraction.

Eugene is easy to find — but that may be in part because Laura’s bright voice carries far distances. She’s chattering away while he and one of the other medics, Spina, play cards. Based on the lack of money between them — she assumes they aren’t playing for keeps. Laura looks up, notices her, and bounces towards her.

“Daisy! I— Is everything alright?” she asks, immediately going to grab at her hands. Daisy laughs a bit at that, nodding.

“Just didn’t realize how draining one interview could be ‘till I caught it. Other than that I’m fine.” Laura smiles, pulling Daisy towards the two men as they continue to talk.

“Sounds like hell. Mm. Boys, wrap this up then let me n’ Daisy in on it yeah?” And then, to her, “They’re playin’ Pinochle. I think I’m startin’ to get it after watchin’ ‘em for so long.”

They play pinochle, all four of them, and Laura pokes and prods about Cunningham, Daisy expresses her bewilderment and Eugene offers his familiar support in quiet smiles and the occasional elbow nudge. At some point Spina takes over the conversation. They all go grab a bite to eat and Laura excitedly tells her about what she’s calling ‘Jane and Floyd developments.’

“Y’know me n’ Jane were in cadets together and I’ve never seen her keep a fella around this long. Or ever, really. I said good for her, maybe a quick roll around’ll do her some good. Been hung up on her ex for quite some time. I’m glad she’s letting loose a little. She's even stopped wearin' the ring!” Laura doesn’t elaborate more on the ex, but Daisy catches on to it pretty quick. She thinks back to Jane’s comments in Aldbourne. Her quiet mutter of ‘I wish’ when Daisy asked if she lost anyone in the service. She tries to suppress her cringe.

For a moment, she gets to stave off her own thoughts, try to reset herself even if the next operation looms imminently in a shadow three months away. They’ll work it out, they’ll end the war, and then she can deal with the mess that seems to be getting progressively more complicated at home. At home there will be James, and Ronnie, and maybe even Carolyn, if she wants.

When a runner approaches her two days later, and hands her an envelope, she’s excited. Something from James, or maybe her mother, maybe Ronnie got her letter and this is his response. As long as it isn’t her father, or another letter telling her to write to her father — then she thinks she’ll be okay.

But it’s not her father, or her mother, or Ronnie or James. Her own handwriting smacks her in the face. And then faded red words, stamped onto the envelope.

Return to sender.

[theodorebasmanov]

I’ve watched “Bright Young Things”. I believe you sure know why I did it – because there are young Michael Sheen and David Tennant in this movie. However, never in one shot, but still – two for one. Also, on the side note – I haven’t read the book, so I can’t say anything about it. I’ve never noticed, Michael Sheen has such a lovely nose! Maybe it’s makeup, but still. Also, I have never imagined, that young James McAvoy is so cute – it just never occurred to me. Also, third time – British accent, of my Lord, it’s so good. The film doesn’t have an actual plot it just shows episodes of the life of a group of friends and acquaintances, in London in the thirties of the previous century. They have their problems (mostly with money), their pleasures – they have way too many parties. The reporters follow them all the time because their readers are hungry for scandals. The main character is a writer, who wants to marry his beloved - Nina, but he has no money, so the whole movie he tries to get some and the situation changes several times throughout the film. David Tennant plays a stinking rich (is this even a thing, or just a quote from “Jekyll and Hyde”?) guy, Nina’s childhood friend, who (Spoilers!) marries her for some time, but at the very end leaves. He has funny moustaches. Michael Sheen plays a guy from the friend group. He’s gay, absolutely fabulous, but has to leave for France because one of his lovers left his letters and the police found out. Two more things: It’s so funny how all the elder mistaken cocaine for something else. 

Manuscripts don't burn.

[lumosandnoxwriting]

Photoshoot Fantasies - Fred Weasley

Title: Photoshoot Fantasies Pairing: Fred x Fem!Reader Warnings: NSFW!!! Dom!Fred, daddy kink, spanking, masturbation (male and female) oral (male receiving), unprotected sex, choking, begging, dirty talk Summary: Fred doesn’t like it when his girlfriend gets naughty without his permission A/N: this is….pure filth. For the anon who wanted some smut with dom!fred. this is literally like 3% plot and 97% smut lmao so I hope you enjoy!! Requests are open and feedback is always welcomed!!

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“Oi, lover boy! You’ve got a letter from your girlfriend,” George calls teasingly from the kitchen.

Fred groans as he rolls over in bed, his hands coming up to rub the last bits of sleep from his eyes. He squints as he opens his eyes, due to the bright streaks of sunlight coming in from the break in his curtains. Fred takes a moment to mentally prepare himself for the day before he heaves himself out of bed, and shuffles into the kitchen.

“Good morning dear brother of mine,” George greets far too cheerily for the early hour.

Fred grunts in response and takes a seat across from George, waving his wand so a cup of coffee lands in front of him. He usually isn’t one to need caffeine in the morning, his own natural energy is usually enough to clear the sleep induced fog from his head, but he’s been having trouble sleeping lately since Y/N hasn’t been by his side.

After graduation, Y/N landed her dream job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry. Fred had been so proud of her, and he loved how excited she was each night as she told him about her day over dinner. Unfortunately, her job had one huge drawback: traveling. Every so often Y/N would travel to different parts of the UK and Europe to get updates on the population of certain magical creatures or to help develop and implement conservation plans. A week ago, she left for her longest trip yet, an entire month, and Fred hasn’t been able to sleep well since.

“Where’s this letter then?” Fred asks after he has a few sips of coffee. He can feel the caffeine working its’ magic, and his brain is finally clear enough to string a sentence together.

George rolls his eyes and tosses a thick envelope at Fred. “You two are sickening, you know that? I think she wrote you a bloody novel about how much she loves you and misses you,” George says, pretending to throw up.

Fred flips George off, trying to contain the blush forming on his face. “Don’t act like you didn’t stand in the doorway for 15 minutes last night kissing Angelina goodbye, git.” Fred can feel George’s eyes on him as he fiddles with the envelope. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he bites.

“Someone is feeling feisty,” George retorts with a laugh. “Come on then, open the damn letter. Let’s see how long it takes her to start waxing poetically about your eyes.”

Fred glares at George as his fingers quickly rip open the envelope. Normally he would wait for George to go and busy himself with something else or he’d retreat to his room so he could bask in Y/N’s words by himself, but it’s been far too long since he’s seen her and Fred thinks he might explode if he waits any longer to read her letter. “Oh,” he says softly in surprise, when he only pulls out one piece of parchment. The envelope hadn’t been bulky from the lovely letter she wrote him, but the half a dozen photographs she had included. His eyes scan over the short note, a small smile appearing on his face.

To my dearest Freddie Eddie Spaghetti,

Things are going well up in Scotland, Niffler birth rates are through the roof thanks to the plan we implemented last year. We’ve spent the last few days prepping a large cohort of them to send off to Egypt to assist the rune breakers Gringotts has out there. I’ll be off to France in a day or so to check up on some of the Thestrals we brought to a conservatory outside of Nice a few months ago, hopefully they’ve acclimated well.

I’ve been missing you like crazy, Freddie. You’re all I seem to think about these days, it’s been quite hard to focus on my work. I don’t know how I’m going to manage going three more weeks without seeing your face or being held in your arms. You better rest up, because you won’t be getting any sleep for days once I’m finally back home with you.

I’ve included a few photos that will hopefully keep you company while I’m still away.

Love you lots and lots and lots, Y/N

“That’s it? One stinky piece of parchment?” George asks, clearly annoyed. “There’s my day, ruined. Thought I’d get a nice laugh at least since you’ve been so miserable. What else is in the envelope then?”

Fred’s eyes are still scanning the letter, trying to commit the words to memory and he absentmindedly grabs the stack of photos to show George. “She sent photos,” he responds, finally putting the letter to the side. “Probably of all the baby Nifflers,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Let me see, then,” George says excitedly, reaching his hand out. “Remember when she sent those photos of the baby dragons dressed up in onesies? That was jokes. Bet she put hats on them this time.”

As Fred goes to hand George the stack of photos he gets a glimpse of the one on top. His eyes widen and he quickly pulls his arm back, cradling the photos against his chest. “Nope, sorry. You can’t see them.”

“What? Why not?” George watches as Fred starts to fidget in his seat and a red flush starts to take over his face. “Oh my god!” he says suddenly with a laugh, realization hitting him. “She sent you nudes! What a little minx. You two are far more disgusting than I ever could have imagined.”

Fred clears his throat, choosing to ignore George. “Well I’m going to go back to my room and uh, respond to this letter. See you later.” Fred tries to act as normal as possible as he heads back to his room, desperately trying to ignore George’s cackling. He breathes a sigh of relief as he shuts his door behind him, leaning on it for a moment.

Fred rids himself of his T-shirt and climbs back onto his bed in nothing but his boxers. This isn’t how he planned on spending his morning, but Fred is more than happy to change his plans. He sits up in bed, his back pressed up against his cold wall and his legs splayed out. While Fred would consider himself adventurous in the bedroom, this is the first time Y/N has ever done anything like this, and he can feel himself getting aroused already.

“Merlin,” he groans as he allows himself to look at the first photo. Y/N is laying in the middle of a bed wearing nothing but a lacy red bra and the matching pair of panties, a set Fred is all too familiar with.  Her whole face isn’t visible, just her mouth, and as the photo moves her tongue comes out to lick her bottom lip and her hand lightly trails down her torso to her thigh.

He balances the stack of photos on his lap for a moment, his right hand pushing his boxers down to his thighs. Fred had planned on drawing out the experience, but he’s already rock hard from the first photo. He throws the first photo on the bed beside him as he wraps his hand around himself, and he picks the stack back up.

Fred starts to slowly stroke himself as his eyes rake over the next photograph, his mouth running dry. Y/N is laying in the same position as before, but the bra she was wearing in the first photo has been discarded, and as the photo moves her hands massage her breasts and she bites her lip.

“Oh fuck,” he moans, as he moves onto the next photo. Y/N is now completely naked, and as the photo moves one of her hands trails down her front from her breast to her core while her other hand pinches and toys with one of her nipples.

Fred starts to stroke himself faster and is unable to contain the grunts that fall from his mouth as he moves to the next photo. His thumb rubs the sensitive tip of his cock, spreading around the precum that has started to accumulate, helping his hand glide easier as he strokes. In the next photo, Y/N’s mouth is open, and Fred is sure a breathy moan is leaving her lips, as the movement of the photo shows Y/N starting to slowly rub her clit as her other hand fists in the sheets underneath her.

“Oh, fucking shit,” Fred groans as he looks at the second to last photo, his hand stilling on his cock to stop himself from finishing just yet. Y/N’s feet are now flat against the bed, her knees bent and open wide. As the photo moves Fred can clearly see Y/N sink two fingers into herself as her thumb rubs at her clit. Her other hand tugs at the sheets and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, a telltale sign that she’s on the brink of her release.

Fred starts to stroke himself again as he reveals the last photo, his orgasm quickly approaching. Y/N’s entire body is flushed red and as the photo moves her back arches, her toes curl, and her whole body trembles as she reaches her orgasm.

Fred’s thumb teases the sensitive head of his cock as his eyes wander over all of the photos. He focuses on the last one, and as Y/N once again reaches her climax Fred does as well. His head tips back and he lets out a low moan as he releases all over his stomach, his cock twitching in his hand. Fred continues to lightly stroke himself as he comes down from his high, his breath coming out in hard pants.

When he gets to be too sensitive he releases himself, letting his cock lay against his stomach. He reaches for his wand so he can clean himself off with a simple spell. But an even better idea pops into his head.

“Accio, camera,” he casts, watching as the top drawer of their dresser opens and his camera starts to fly over to him. He grips the camera and points it at himself, so his body from his torso to the tops of his thighs are in shot. Fred makes sure that his limp cock and the come on his stomach is the center of the photo, and once he’s pleased with the shot he clicks the shutter button.

Fred places the camera on his bed as the photo prints and develops, grabbing his wand and cleaning himself off with a spell. He pulls his boxers back up and gets out of bed, rummaging around for some parchment and a quill. Once he finds what he needs he writes out a quick letter to Y/N.

To my dearest Y/N,

I’m glad to hear everything is going well with work. I’m so proud of you and the things you do. Things at the shop are going well, the new range of whiz-bangs sold out in just a few days. I’m missing you like mad, I can’t wait for you to get home.

Those photos you sent me were very naughty. How dare you pleasure yourself like that without Daddy’s permission. I think Daddy’s going to have to punish you when he finally gets his hands on you. 10 spanks sounds fair, doesn’t it princess? I think you deserve it, after the mess you caused Daddy to make all over himself.

Love you lots and lots and lots and lots, Freddie Eddie Spaghetti

Fred grabs the now developed photo from his bed as he reads over the letter, a satisfied smile on his face. He folds up the letter and tucks it into an envelope along with the photo before he seals it and addresses it to Y/N. As he goes to leave his room he spots a piece of folded up parchment on his floor and he grabs it, opening it up as he heads towards the window in the kitchen.

I’m going to Angelina’s. Use a silencing charm next time you perv.

Fred laughs at George’s note as he sends their owl away with his letter, already thinking about taking advantage of his brother’s absence.

-

“Someone is in a good mood this morning,” George muses as Fred saunters down into the shop just before opening.

Fred adjusts his tie as he joins his brother at the till, a huge smile on his face. Just like last week, a letter had arrived from Y/N this morning with another filthy set of photos. This time she was in a lingerie set that Fred didn’t recognize, and she brought herself to her climax using one of the toys Fred had purchased for her as a Valentine’s Day present earlier in the year. Fred had just enough time to bring himself to his own orgasm and write her back before he had to get dressed and head down to work.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” Fred asks as he unlocks the door and turns the open sign on with a wave of his wand. “The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. It’s a beautiful day, Georgie.”

George looks Fred over before he scrunches his face up in disgust. “Y/N sent you another letter today didn’t she?” When Fred sends George a wink he gags. “Bloody disgusting. I hope you washed your hands.”

“And why would Fred need to be washing his hands?” Verity asks as she comes back from the storeroom with some more love potions to be stocked.

Fred’s face flushes red as George start to laugh. “No reason in particular,” he stutters out. Fred turns to George and glares at him. “You’re such an arse.” Fred moves to hit George upside the head, but he ducks his brother’s advance and heads over to help the two customers that have just walked in the door.

“You lot don’t pay me enough to deal with this,” Verity says as she chuckles and shakes her head.

-

Fred sighs to himself as he sits up in bed, his eyes scanning over some of his notes. He and George are in the early days of developing some new products, and he’s working out some of the initial bugs before they start production next week. At least that’s what he’s supposed to be doing, but his mind is definitely elsewhere. Y/N’s third letter had arrived a few days ago, and he can’t help but let his mind wander to the new photoset sitting in his bedside drawer. It seems that his threats of punishment have fallen on deaf ears, because the photos Y/N has sent have been dirtier each time, and he can’t help but imagine what will be waiting for him in the envelope when her final letter arrives in a few days.

“What do you want?” Fred asks dully when there’s a knock at his door, not bothering to look up at George.

“That’s an awfully rude way to greet your girlfriend after you haven’t seen her for nearly a month,” Y/N says, the smile evident in her voice.

Fred’s head snaps up immediately, a smile taking over his face. “Y/N? What are you doing here?” He immediately climbs off the bed and heads over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Y/N drops her bag on the ground and wraps her arms around Fred’s neck, pulling him down so she can kiss him sweetly. “We finished everything up a few days early. Figured I’d come home and surprise you.”

Fred presses their lips together again hotly, his hands moving down to Y/N’s thighs. He lifts her up, his hands gripping her tightly and moves her over to the bed. “God I missed you,” he murmurs into their kiss, before he tosses her onto the bed.

“Couldn’t have missed me too much, not with all the photos I sent you,” Y/N giggles as she lays back on the bed.

Fred’s eyes darken and he can’t help but let out a groan as he thinks about those pictures. He can feel himself start to get aroused, and he grabs his wand, waving it so that his door slams shut, and locks and a silencing charm falls around his room.

“Such a naughty girl you were, Y/N. Taking those photos without Daddy’s permission,” he scolds, his voice low and rough.

Y/N squirms on the bed, looking up at Fred as innocent as possible. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just wanted to make you feel good while I was gone,” she explains sweetly. “And clearly it worked, that photo you sent me made me so wet, Daddy.”

Fred bites his lip as he watches her squirm on the bed, taking pride in the fact that he can see a blush forming on her cheeks. “Oh, you made Daddy feel very good, princess. But you were still being a little brat. And you know what happens to brats? Don’t you?”

Y/N can feel herself getting wet as arousal starts to build in her stomach. She’s been waiting for this moment since Fred mentioned spanking her in his first letter. “They get punished,” she responds airily, fists clenching to keep from touching herself.

“That’s right princess, they get punished.” Fred pauses, letting his eyes roam up and down Y/N’s body. “Daddy think 30 swats is good, 15 on each cheek. Don’t you think, princess?” Fred smirks when Y/N lets out a whine as she nods wildly. “What should I use, hm? My hand? Or should I get the paddle?”

“Your hand, please,” Y/N begs. As much as she loves the paddle, she craves the feeling of Fred’s hand on her ass.

Fred smirks down at her. “Normally brats don’t get what they want. But you asked so nicely, princess.” Fred tears his gaze away from Y/N and takes seat on the end of their bed. “Get naked for Daddy and come stand in front of me.”

Y/N immediately gets off of the bed and rids herself of all of her clothing. Normally when they play this game she loves to drag it out and tease Fred endlessly. But she’s been on the edge for nearly 4 weeks and Fred has already been preparing to punish her, and she doesn’t want to find out what he’ll do if she’s even more naughty now that they’re finally back together. Y/N comes to stand in front of Fred, feeling shy under his intense gaze.

“God you are so gorgeous, princess,” Fred compliments, his hand reaching out to lightly grip her hip. He rubs circles into the bare skin, reassuring her. “Come on then. Get in Daddy’s lap.” Fred helps Y/N get situated across his lap, laying on her front. “Such a good girl,” he whispers, letting his hand run down her back, over her bum and to her thigh. “Do you have anything to say to Daddy? Before he gives you your punishment,” he drawls, his hand pushing in between her legs to rub at her wet folds.

Y/N gasps at his touch, her eyes falling closed. “I’m sorry for being a naughty girl, Daddy,” she moans out as Fred rubs her clit ever so slightly.

“Thank you princess,” he says softly, removing his hand from her core. He places it on her bum instead, lightly massaging one of her cheeks. “Daddy’s not mad at you, princess. But you still have to be punished, do you understand?” When Y/N nods he smiles. “Good girl. I want you to count for me, okay?”

“Yes Daddy,” Y/N responds, getting comfortable in Fred’s lap. A squeak leaves her mouth as Fred lands the first slap to her ass. “One,” she counts breathily. Before she has a chance to recover from the first hit, Fred is landing another hit to her cheek causing her to moan. “Two.”

Fred smirks down at the writhing mess Y/N has turned into after her first 15 spanks. Her right bum cheek is bright red, and Fred resists his urge to lean down to kiss it. “Are you doing alright, Princess? Can you take 15 more?” Fred asks quietly, reaching up to stroke Y/N’s hair. As much as he loves being rough with her, he never wants to hurt her or make her uncomfortable in any way. He’s rock hard in his trousers already, and he wants to make sure she’s getting as much pleasure from this as he is.

“Yes, Daddy. Need more. ‘M a naughty girl, I need to be punished,” she responds desperately. Y/N is soaking wet and her stomach is a pool of arousal. A few tears have snuck out of her eyes from how turned on she is, and she’s basking in the warmth left behind on her bum from Fred’s hand.

“Good girl,” Fred praises, leaning down to press a few kisses to Y/N’s shoulder. “You can use your safe word at any time, you know that right?” When Y/N nods he presses another kiss to her shoulder and starts to massage the bum cheek he hasn’t hit yet. “Count for me again, princess, okay?”

Y/N nods, letting out a moan a Fred lands the first hit to her cheek. “One,” she whines, lifting her hips up to encourage him to spank her again. Fred suddenly lands three hits in a row, causing a few more tears to leak out of her eyes as she moans. “Two, three, four,” she stutters out.

By the time Fred lands the last hit to her ass, Y/N is desperate for release. She’s slowly moving her hips forward, desperate for any kind of friction against her clit. “Daddy please,” she begs.

“Look at my desperate little baby,” he coos, moving Y/N’s hair out of her face so he can see the desperation on it. “Such a good girl you were, princess. Such a good girl for Daddy. C’mere let me kiss you.”

Fred helps Y/N straddle his waist and tucks a few stray hairs behind her ear. He kisses her deeply, his tongue immediately licking into her mouth. Y/N moans into the kiss, rolling her hips against the rough fabric of Fred’s trousers. Fred groans at the contact on his clothed cock, his hips rolling up to meet hers. “God, so fucking desperate for it aren’t you, princess?” he asks as his lips start to trail kisses down her neck.

Y/N nods, tipping her head back to give Fred more room to kiss. “Need you so bad, Daddy. Missed your cock. That’s what I was thinkin’ about in all those photos. Thinkin’ about how much I love your cock and how good it feels inside of me.”

Fred groans into Y/N’s neck and pulls away so he can look at her. “That’s so fucking hot, princess. Imagining you lying in bed, touching yourself and thinking of me.” Fred kisses Y/N again. “Go on and show Daddy how you touch yourself, princess. Get in bed and pleasure yourself for me.”

Y/N crawls off of Fred’s lap and onto the bed, settling down in the middle of it. One of her hands starts to pinch and twist her nipple, while the other runs down her body and settles at her core. She watches as Fred stands up and starts to undress himself, her index finger starting to rub small circles on her clit. “Oh fuck,” she moans, tilting her head back.

Once Fred is fully nude he kneels on the bed next to Y/N’s head and takes himself in his hand. He starts to slowly stroke his cock, his eyes crawling over every inch of Y/N’s body. There’s a flush that creeps up her chest, over her neck and to her cheeks and her hips are slowly rocking as she teases her clit.

“So pretty, princess. You look so pretty touching yourself for Daddy,” Fred praises.

Y/N turns her head to look at Fred as she feels her orgasm approaching. She opens her mouth, silently asking Fred to let her suck him off. When he doesn’t immediately give in, she whines. “Please let me suck your cock, Daddy. Please.”

Fred reaches down with his free hand to cup Y/N’s cheek. “Fucking hell you’re desperate for it princess.” He pushes his hips forward just enough so Y/N can wrap her lips around the head of his cock.

Y/N whines around Fred’s cock, her head starting to move up and down. She lets her tongue wrap around the head on each pull back, wanting Fred to release into her mouth. When he starts to slowly fuck his hips forward she hums around him in encouragement. As her climax builds she starts to rub harder circles on her clit, desperate for release.

“Fuck princess, gonna make Daddy come,” Fred moans, his eyes watching his cock disappear into her mouth.

Y/N’s eyes flutter shut as she reaches her orgasm, her whole body trembling. She moans around Fred’s cock as pleasure flows through her, causing him to suddenly release into her mouth. Her motions on her clit slow down as Fred’s cock twitches in her mouth and she swallows his release. As Fred slowly pulls his cock out of her mouth Y/N stops her movement on her clit, bringing her hand up to clean off her finger.

“Holy fuck,” Fred pants, watching Y/N’s lips wrap around her finger. “You are so fucking amazing,” he says in awe. Fred’s cock which hadn’t even gone fully soft starts to harden again as Y/N looks up at him. “Look at what you do to Daddy, princess. His cock is already hard for you again.”

Y/N smiles as she gets up to her knees. She wraps one hand around his cock and starts to slowly stroke it, while her other goes to his neck so she can pull their lips together. Fred’s mouth immediately overpowers hers, and he forces his tongue into her mouth. Fred is fully hard in Y/N’s hand now, and as they kiss he maneuvers them so he’s sitting with his back up against the wall, and Y/N is sitting in his lap.

“Need your cock Daddy,” Y/N whines, pulling her mouth away from Fred’s. “Fuck me Daddy, please.”

Fred chuckles, his hands falling onto Y/N’s hips. “Go on then, princess. Fuck yourself on my cock since you’re so desperate for it.” Fred suppresses a groan as Y/N grinds down against him. Fred and Y/N have tried nearly every sexual position either of them could think of, and they both know that being on top is low on Y/N’s list of favorites; she much prefers it when Fred holds her down and fucks her into the mattress.

“Daddy,” she pouts, grinding down against him again.

Fred narrows his eyes at her and resists his urge to kiss her. “Princess,” he warns. “If you wanna be a desperate cock slut, then be a desperate cock slut and fuck yourself on Daddy’s cock. Maybe if you’re a good girl and you come on Daddy’s cock he’ll give you what you want.”

Y/N perks up at that, and she leans forward to kiss Fred slowly as she rises to her knees. One of her hands’ rests on his shoulder, while the other reaches back to grasp the base of his cock.

Fred breaks their kiss so he can watch as Y/N lines him up with her entrance. Y/N whines as she sinks down, her eyes fluttering shut at how full she feels. She sinks down until their hips meet and Fred is fully inside of her.

“Fuck you’re tight, princess. Always so tight for Daddy,” he praises. He groans as Y/N starts to roll her hips, his grip on her tightening. “Go on, baby,” he encourages. “Get yourself off on my cock.”

“Oh,” Y/N moans, her hands gripping Fred’s shoulders tightly. She starts to slowly pick herself up, stopping when Fred is only halfway inside her, before she slams herself back down. “So good, Daddy,” she pants.

Y/N fucks herself on Fred’s cock like that for a few minutes, growing frustrated when she fails to hit the spot inside of her that will bring her to her orgasm. “Daddy please,” she whines.

“Come on, princess. You know how to fuck yourself on Daddy’s cock. Come around Daddy’s cock and he’ll give you what you want,” he encourages.

Y/N leans back, placing a hand on each of Fred’s thighs and uses the leverage to lift herself up. “Oh fuck,” she gasps as she sinks back down, the tip of Fred’s cock finally brushing her sweet spot.

“You look so pretty, princess. Getting yourself off on my cock,” Fred praises, helping Y/N to lift her hips off of him. “Such a good girl.”

Y/N moans as she fucks herself on Fred’s cock, already feeling her orgasm approaching. She starts to move her hips desperately, searching for her release. “So close, Daddy. Touch me Daddy please,” she pleads.

Fred smirks before he leans forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to Y/N’s lips. “Come on, Princess, come on Daddy’s cock,” he encourages, one of his hands leaving her hip so he can rub circles on her clit.

With one more downwards movement of her hips Y/N’s walls tighten around Fred as she comes, her body shaking as her orgasm rolls through her. “That’s it, princess. Such a good girl,” Fred coos quietly, his thumb slowing its motion and his hips rocking slightly to help her through her orgasm.

Fred kisses Y/N slowly as her breathing starts to return to normal. She shifts around on his cock as their lips move together and it takes everything in Fred to not come right there. “You’ve been such a good girl for me tonight, princess. Doing so well,” he says, breaking their kiss. “Can you take more, baby? D’you want Daddy to fuck you into the mattress?” Fred pecks Y/N’s lips. “It’s okay if you don’t baby. Daddy just wants to take care of you.”

“Want you to come inside me Daddy,” Y/N tells him, looking into Fred’s eyes. “Want you to pin me down and fuck me into the mattress.”

Fred doesn’t need to be told twice. He kisses Y/N hard and flips them over so her back is on the bed and he’s hovering over her. He throws both of her legs over his shoulders, pinning her to the mattress with his hips. He braces himself with one hand as his other comes up to grip Y/N’s throat and he pulls all the way out before he slams back into her.

“Oh fuck, Daddy,” Y/N moans as Fred starts to fuck into her relentlessly. The tip of his cock is brushing the spot inside of her and she’s already so sensitive from her previous two orgasms, and with the way Fred is gripping the side of her neck she knows she won’t last long.

“God, princess,” Fred grunts as Y/N’s walls clench around him. “Such a good pussy. You always feel go good wrapped around Daddy.” Fred lands a particularly hard slam as Y/N moves to touch herself. “Hands off, princess. Want you to come just from my cock. Can you do that for Daddy?”

Y/N nods, too busy moaning and whining to answer Fred verbally. Her body feels like it’s on fire, her toes curling and her back arching as she reaches her climax. “Daddy,” she moans lowly, as she comes around Fred’s cock, a few stray tears falling from the corners of her eyes.

“Fuck princess,” Fred moans. Y/N’s walls tighten and twitch around him, bringing him to his own release. His hips still as he empties himself inside of her and he crashes their lips together. Fred slows their kiss down as they both recover, unable to stop the smirk that forms on his mouth when Y/N whines as he slowly pulls out of her. Fred collapses on the bed next to Y/N and she immediately cuddles into his side as he wraps his arm around her.

“I love you,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth.  

Fred turns his head so he can kiss her properly, not pulling away until they both need to breathe. “I love you too, Y/N,” he says softly. “Are you alright? Did I go too far?”

Y/N shakes her head, chuckling at Fred’s concern. “Not at all, love. It was incredible.” She pauses so she can press a kiss to his neck. “I’m glad I have the next few days off, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk tomorrow.”

Fred laughs and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Good thing I have you all to myself because I have quite a few plans for us.”

Y/N looks up at him, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Oh yeah? What might those be?”

“Let’s just say our cameras are definitely going to need more film when I’m done with you.”

[dem-obscure-imagines]

Nightcrawler and the Princess

Kurt Wagner x Reader

Fandom: Marvel/X-Men

Summary: Being the princess of a small kingdom has its perks. However, you’re not sure this is a secret you can share with the rest of your friends…

Note: Did I make this a subtle crossover with the Princess Diaries? Yes. Yes I did. Don’t worry about it.

Reader is: Female

Warnings: Swears

Word Count: 1.8k

You carried the large box to the lunch table and set it there, in the middle of your friend group. Jean eyed it curiously.

“What’s that?”

“Care package from my mom.” You replied, using the pair of scissors you kept in your school bag to cut open the packing tape. “She said there’s stuff for the rest of you in here too. Probably candy or something.”

“That’s nice of her.” Scott smiled, watching as you opened the cardboard box.

“Ah, yep.” You reached into the bag and pulled out several packages of Genovian chocolates. “Here you go, guys.” You told them.

Kurt’s eyes narrowed at the bags, his tail hovering behind him curiously. He recognized that packaging. “These…I know these chocolates. Does your mother live in Genovia?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’m from there, actually.”

Peter thought for a second, already munching on chocolate. “Wait, I thought you were American.”

“Nope.” You laughed, reaching further into the box and pulling out a handful of little Genovian flags she’d sent. “Ah, right. Independence day is coming up.”

“Where even is Genovia anyway?” Warren asked, admiring the little flag once you handed it to him.

“It’s a tiny little country between France and Italy.” You explained. “It’s really beautiful there, though.”

“It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.” Kurt reminisced, sighing fondly.

“When did you visit?” You asked him.

“Several years ago.” He said. “The circus had a few shows there when I was young. The people were so kind, and the coast sparkled like diamonds.”

“You were with the Munich circus, right?” You asked him, trying to remember. He nodded proudly, a smile settling onto his face. “I was at one of your shows! I knew you looked familiar! Oh my god…” You laughed and shook your head. “I should have put those pieces together sooner.”

“You were there?”

“Yeah! My mom took me for my birthday.” You smiled, remembering the show fondly.

And Kurt knew then the information that you were withholding from the rest of the group. His eyes widened slightly and he studied your features. He remembered you. He remembered that day and he remembered the feeling of his heart hammering when after the show, the Queen of Genovia herself introduced him to her daughter, who was about his age. She’d taken her there because it was the princess’ birthday. Though your meeting was brief, he’d remembered it all this time, thinking of it every once in a while…the time he’d met a princess.

You didn’t look all that different now than you had then. Why you hadn’t told the rest of your friend group, he wasn’t sure, but he would keep the secret for you. Of course he would. He smiled softly, admiring you with his new revelation in mind. Even before he’d figured it out, you’d already been a princess to him anyway.

Peter studied the look on Kurt’s face and squinted. Something was going on. Something was going on and he would get to the bottom of it…

***

Over the weekend, your friend group had decided to go to the mall, but before you left, Kurt knocked on the door to your room.

“It’s open, come on in.” You told him.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the room timidly. You were at your desk, reading what appeared to be a letter written on a piece of paper.

“What’s up?” You asked, not looking up from the letter when you asked it.

“You’re coming to the mall, right?”

“Yeah, what time is it?” You glanced down at your watch. “Oh shit. Sorry I’m late.” You chuckled, folding the note and tucking it into your dress drawer. “My mom wrote me a letter with her package.” You explained.

“How nice!” Kurt smiled and you couldn’t stop your heart from fluttering at the way it lit up his face. “Do you write each other letters back and forth?”

“When I have time to, yeah.” You nodded, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Well, shall we?”

Kurt nodded and offered you his arm. You took it and in a poof of smoke, suddenly, you were standing in the living room, where the others were all standing.

Peter had a weird look on his face and you weren’t sure why, but you knew he was up to no good. He always seemed to be…

The squad piled into the car, as usual, and arrived at the mall in under thirty minutes. Jubilee picked the tunes, which was always a good choice, so the ride there was pleasant and relatively uneventful.

You all walked inside and started the routine of shopping around in all of your usual stores. The prom was coming up, so you all spent some time in the dress place on the upper level of the store.

“What color dress do you think you’re going to get, (Y/N)?”

“Mmm, I’m not sure.” You thought for a moment. “Maybe something pink. Or…blue?”

“I think blue would look great on you.” Jubilee grinned, flipping through the rack of blue dresses.

“I agree.” Jean smiled, her eyes flicking over towards Kurt, who was on the other side of the store with the boys.

“Hey now.” You warned, your cheeks warming at the thought. “What did I say about reading my mind?”

“I didn’t need to read your mind. You’re more obvious than you think you are.” She chuckled.

“What she said,” Ororo agreed, causing your cheeks to flush even hotter. “Why don’t we ask the boys which one you should wear?”

“That’s a great idea.” Jubilee agreed, despite your shaking head. “Hey boys!”

“Yes? What’s going on?” Kurt bamfed over beside you, looking at Jubilee curiously.

“Which dress should (Y/N) wear to prom?” Ororo held up one pink dress and one blue dress.

“The blue one.” Scott said knowingly, crossing his arms and smirking. Okay. So he and Jean had talked, then. “Definitely the blue one.”

“I agree.” Warren nodded.

“What do you think, Kurt?” Scott nudged the teleporter.

“I think you’d look beautiful in anything. But I do like the blue one. It brings out your eyes.”

“T-thanks.” You blushed, giggling. None of you committed to dresses, so after looking around for a while the squad decided to hit the food court while looking over movie times.

“So…” Peter looked up at you and cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the rest of the group. “When were you planning to spill the beans…your highness?”

You swore your blood ran cold. You looked up at him, your heart racing in your chest and the color drained from your face. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me.” Peter raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair confidently. “When were you going to tell the rest of us your little royal secret?”

You froze, staring at him for a long time. “Maximoff,” you said through gritted teeth, your eyes glowing faintly. “Choose your next few words very carefully.”

“Oh I have. (Y/N)’s the princess of Genovia.”

“Pfft. As if.” Scott scoffed, chuckling, but he stopped when he looked at the look on your face. “Oh shit, is he serious?”

“Who the fuck told you?!” You asked him, your voice raising the teeniest bit. “The only people who know are Professor Xavier and Dr. McCoy, so which one do I have to kill when we get home?”

“Neither. I snooped in Xavier’s office. Found your file.” Peter shrugged. “And of course, that begs the question: Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Listen…” You exhaled a long breath, looking to each of your friends faces for a moment before fixing your eyes on the table. “When people know, they treat me differently. I don’t think they mean to, but they do and it sucks. I like having friends and I love hanging out with you guys and I didn’t want to ruin that because of something as stupid as status.”

“You’ve got us.” Jean promised. “We’re not going anywhere. This doesn’t change anything. And…I already kind of knew. Not that you think about it often, but every once in a while…”

“I figured that might happen, yeah.” You chuckled. “Thanks for keeping it on the DL.”

“Of course.” She nodded.

“I knew too…” Kurt confessed, looking you in the eye.

You crinkled your eyebrows and then nodded, understanding. Of course he knew. You two had met before, after the show. You’d asked your mother if you could meet some of the performers, and she’d pulled some strings to make it happen. You distinctly remembered meeting Kurt. You remembered his smile and his adorable pointy ears.

“That’s right.” You smiled. “We met.”

“We did.” He agreed, nodding, a smile tugging at his lips and a faintly purple color creeping across his cheeks. “Although, I’ll admit, I didn’t realize it was you until…very recently. We aren’t kids anymore.”

“We sure aren’t.” You agreed, a chuckle escaping your lips.

And it was fine after that. It was normal. Much more normal than you’d expected it to be. Another week came and went. You finished your letter to your mom, Queen Clarisse, and when its response came back in the mail, you found it accompanied by a small picture she had saved all these years. As soon as you looked at it, a smile on your face, you knew you had to show Kurt.

So, you ran out to the courtyard, where you knew he was, and found him reading under the shade of a large tree in the front yard.

“Kurt!”

“What’s up?”

“My mom sent a few copies of this photo. Do you want one?” You asked, sitting next to him in the grass and handing him the photo. He looked it over, holding it very carefully in a large, three-fingered hand.

“This is us, ja?”

“Mmhmm.” You hummed, nodding. “A very long time ago.”

“We were so young…” He murmured, admiring the smile on his face as well as yours. He remembered you’d been nervous to meet him and at first, he thought it was because of the way he looked, but quickly learned it was because you’d been enamored by his performance. Absolutely blown away. You’d been so kind to him then, just as you were so kind to him now.

“We really were.”

“Do you mind if I keep this?”

“It’s all yours.” You told him. “So, what’cha reading?”

“Beauty and the Beast.” He told you. Ever since remembering that one of his best friends was a princess, he’d been on a bit of a fairytale kick.

“Mmm, that’s a good one.” You smiled and tilted your head, your eyes sparkling. “Read to me?”

“Of course.” He laid back against the tree again, holding the book open with his tail.

You got closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting your head against his lean chest. His arm wrapped around you and tugged you closer, and without even thinking about it twice, he pressed a soft kiss to your hairline before starting to read again.

Kurt decided then that there was no place in the world he’d rather be than under his favorite tree, a princess resting contently against his chest.

Part 2?

[theotherackerman]

Summary:

BEACH READ ROMCOM AU

Eren Jaeger is not having the life he thought he would. His engagement ended. His father died. He found out his father had a son in high school, meaning Eren has an older brother out there. He also found out that Grisha continued the affair while Carla knew all about it. Grisha also left Eren this strange cabin in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. Now Eren has to leave his life in New York city and return to a small town in the Midwest, 2 hours away from his hometown.

His novel continues to not be able to beat his old college’s rival, Mikasa Ackerman on the charts. She’s a literary success and he’s just a romance novel writer. It turns out she’s living in the cabin right next door to the cabin Grisha left Eren.

The two of them never had much in common. They were always exact opposites. Through chance meetings, they realize they do have one thing in common, they both had horrible writer’s block. So they make a bet. They’ll switch genres. Mikasa will write romance and Eren will write “the depressing emo shit” that Mikasa writes. They’ll teach other the ways of both which means cheesy dates and exploring a haunted factory. Whoever wins will promote the other’s book. Simple enough. What could possibly go wrong?

RATING: MATURE

Ships: Eren x Mikasa, Levi x Hange, Past Eren X  Carly Stratmann, Past Mikasa x Porco, Dina x Grisha, Carla x Grisha, Pieck x Jean

COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: Any recognizable elements belong to Attack on Titan or the Beach Read

NOTES: This was called Beach Read but I changed the name. This fic will also have social media posts and texts incorporated into it. 

CHAPTER ONE: 

Eren looked around the cabin. 

He still couldn't believe it. 

His dad had cheated on his mom. 

The same parent who used to dance around the kitchen to Stevie Nicks and get all dressed up for no reason other than the fact they loved each other.

They had been goals. 

They had been what Eren thought his life would be. 

That was the whole reason why he had dated Carly Stratmann. 

Carly had been perfect. 

She was good looking, she was smart. They had met at the same age as his parents did in college. They were perfect. She took him to France for their first anniversary. They went skiing in the alps one Christmas. It had all looked so beautiful on her Instagram. 

Then his father died from a stroke. 

Father.

Sounded better than Dad.

Because Dad wouldn’t cheat on Mom especially not when she had fucking cancer. He couldn’t even figure out how he had cheated on her. He had been there for every appointment, every moment of Mom’s cancer. 

Eren dropped her bags on the floor in the living room. 

His life was a fucking wreck. 

Carly had dumped him about three months ago. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Eren! You’re not yourself!” she had exclaimed as she began to move out of their New York City apartment. 

“I’m sorry,” Eren choked back the tears. “I’m just…I’ve never been sunshine all the time. You know that.” 

“Yeah, well now you’re nothing. You don’t even care. You don’t even write. Isn’t your book due in a few months? When was the last time we have had sex? When was the last time you wanted to?” 

“My father just died of a stroke!” 

“Almost six months ago!” 

“I didn’t know grieving had a time limit!”

“Do you even love me, Eren? Truly?” 

The words just sat in Eren’s throat. 

He couldn’t answer.

He didn’t have an answer. 

He had loved her at one point or maybe he only loved the idea of it. 

He sat on the floor of the cabin. He didn’t dare go upstairs and look to see what the master bedroom looked like. 

Dina Fritz. 

The name was stuck in his head. 

The name of the woman who had come up to him at the funeral with the letter, the address, and the key to this very cabin. 

If that wasn’t bad enough, apparently Grisha had a child with this woman when they were in high school. 

Eren had an older brother. 

It was all too much. 

Music could be heard from the cabin next door. There was bad singing echoing. 

Great. 

Just what he wanted to hear right now. 

He couldn't be mad. It was a Saturday in the summer. Besides, just because he was miserable didn't mean the rest of the world had to be. 

Eren sighed to himself as he walked out the back door. He might as well see what the back of the cabin looked like. 

There was a path lined with little small lanterns that were staked to the ground. It looked as if the path led to the beach of some lake. 

"It's open to either cabin. Private entrance to the lake," the voice came from the back deck of the other cabin. A woman who Eren couldn't see. There was just the red glow of a cigarette on her hand. 

"Oh. I had no idea," Eren said simply. 

"Most people don't."

"Did you know the last owners well?"

Eren secretly hoped that this woman did. Maybe she could tell him some horrible thing about Grisha to make this whole thing make sense. 

"No. I'm a writer, I keep to myself."

A writer.

Like him. 

Eren had yet to reach the top ten of the best sellers list. He was firmly at number fifteen and his college crush was firmly at number ten. 

Mikasa Ackerman. 

She always wrote what Eren called sad emo novels. 

Always about how dark and awful the world was and yet she sold more copies. 

Maybe it was because Eren was a romance writer. The market was still there. He didn't want to defend to this writer why romance was his favorite genre to write. 

Mikasa had looked at one of his pieces in college and just stared at him. 

"Do they always end in a happy ending?" She had asked him in their creative writing class. 

"Well…yeah. I mean the world is already bad enough. Why not create a happy ending?" He had argued. 

Mikasa had just stared at him. 

Eren later heard from his best friend Armin that Mikasa had called him a fairy tale prince. From that, Eren had decided that Mikasa was his rival. One day, he would beat her at writing. One day he would sell more copies than her. 

Sadly, it hadn't been his last book. 

Now his editor Pieck was on his ass because he hasn't written anything new. He had until the first of September to write something for it to be published. 

He desperately needed the money. It was the reason why he had come here. He wanted to sell what was left of his dad's stuff and have a place to live rent free. He could then use that money to get an apartment somewhere until he sold his next book. 

Hopefully. 

But right now, those happy endings that were known to come to him weren't. He was miserable. 

The singing continued. The woman groaned. 

"If you hate it, why is the party here?" Eren finally asked her. 

"Because…..because it is. I'm not going to argue with them. It's not worth it. Besides, they'll be gone tomorrow and I'll be back to being on my own."

That sounded depressing. 

"Should you be telling me you're going to be on your own? I could be an axe murder."

The woman laughed. It was familiar but he couldn't place it. "I know you're not an axe murderer. They'll be out of here in an hour. You should get some sleep. You look…"

"Like shit?"

"I was going to say exhausted."

Eren laughed. "No, it's fine. I know I do. I drove for a long time today."

"Well. Have a good night."

He saw the cigarette fall to the ground and be stepped on. Next the woman disappeared into her house. Eren decided to do the same. He locked the back door and collapsed on the couch. 

Grisha had a bad back injury and due to that, Eren knew there was no way his father had sex on the too low of a couch. 

So he would sleep here tonight and figure the rest out in the morning. 

—-

Every year on Mikasa's divorce Sasha threw this stupid big party. 

Mikasa had moved to the middle of nowhere so she didn't have to think of her ex husband. The thoughts still came. So Sasha threw a party and Mikasa pretended to care about it. 

But tonight had brought something interesting next door. 

Well someone. 

Eren Jaeger. 

She hadn't seen him since college but she had read all of his books. In fact, they sat on the top shelf of her bookshelf. 

Mikasa had had a huge crush on Eren for all of college and desperately tried to get him to notice her. They often got paired up in their creative writing classes. 

Their styles could not have been more different. Eren had been someone who knew exactly who he was, what he wanted to do. He wrote stories with happy endings. Romance stories that weren't like the typical male author romance. The female characters were relatable and he got the biology write.  She'd read enough romance novels to know a bad one. If she had to hear a male author speak about ovaries quaking during sex one more time, she was going to scream. 

She had given him shit back then for his happy endings. Maybe it was because of all the bad things that happened to her. Mikasa didn't see the light at the end of the tunnel no matter how badly she wanted to. 

Which is why her marriage had failed. 

She shouldn't have gotten married. She thought about it everyday. What a regret. 

But now Eren had moved in next door.

There had been a moment at a house party that she would never forget. 

They had met on the dance floor. He had come up behind her. She had felt him behind her. He had put one hand on her waist while she continued to move to the beat. The spot where his hand rested on her waist felt like it was on fire. 

She could hear him breathing. She could feel him through his jeans. 

She had never wanted anyone more in that moment. 

"You're beautiful," he said to her. 

She looked up into those green eyes and that was it. She was in love with him. 

But the party ended up getting raided by police and they never spoke about it. 

She always wondered what would have happened if the cops hadn't shown up. 

She knew what she wanted to happen.

She knew exactly where they would have ended up. Either in his bed or hers. 

Frankly, it didn't matter to her. 

The party cleared out pretty quickly when Mikasa came inside. The annoyed look on her face and smell of cigarette smoke told everyone what they needed to know. 

When Mikasa climbed into bed that night, she couldn't get Eren Jaeger off of her mind. 

—-

Mikasa woke up to her cell phone ringing at full volume. 

Too.

Fucking. 

Loud.

She brushed her bangs out of her face. 

"Hello?" She said into the phone. 

"It's one in the afternoon and you're still asleep? You're not working on the book? The book that is due for publication in September?!” Jean's voice grated through the phone. 

Some days, she really hated him. 

"It'll be done. I've never let you down."

"I know. And I called to tell you they want you posting on social media again."

Mikasa sighed. She never did anything interesting enough to post. 

"Are you doing okay?" Jean asked. 

"I'm fine."

"I just know with the anniversary of the divorce between you and…"

"It was bound to happen."

"Still doesn't make it easy."

"I'm fine. I'm actually going to check out this haunted building for research in a few days."

"Good. Let me know if you need anything."

"Will do."

She ended the call and collapsed back onto her bed. 

She hadn't been able to tell Jean the truth. She'd had writer's block for weeks now. 

What was she going to do?

—

Eren's neck hurt. 

Sleeping on the couch had been a bad idea but he was not sleeping in any of the beds. 

He didn't want to think about what Dina and Grisha had done in them. 

He stumbled to the bathroom, dragging his suitcase behind him. 

He quickly showered and brushed his teeth before pulling his hair up on top of his head. 

His mom had tried to get him to cut it. He hadn't cut it since Grisha had died. He didn't see the point. The man he had looked up to for so many years….the relationship that had defined his books, the romance. It was all a fucking lie. 

He stared in the mirror, seeing parts of his father staring back. It was bad enough that his dad had an affair but a kid too? 

Zeke. 

His older half brother.

Apparently, he was a top surgeon at the local hospital. He could have moved anywhere but he chose to stay close to home. 

Eren had run to another state and then an even further state after college. 

He had wanted nothing more than to take on the world. 

He wondered if he should have stayed closer. 

He had flown back so many times when his mom had been getting treatment for cancer the second time. He had spent every moment he possibly could with her. Grisha seemed to do the same. He did have to travel for work….

It hadn't been for work. 

It had been to see Dina. 

Eren slammed the bathroom door behind him. 

His mom had been so close to dying and his dad took off to see another woman. 

Who did that? 

Who saw someone suffering and thought I want to fuck someone else?

Apparently, Grisha had. 

And the worst part?

Carla had known. 

About all of it. 

About Dina. 

About Zeke. 

And she had just left Eren in the dark. 

He angrily put on his clothes which probably looked as dumb as he felt doing so. 

He needed to go into town, get some groceries, and see if there were any bookstores. Pieck always said that small bookstores and book clubs were what sold his books. 

 He sighed as he pulled out his phone and looked up the closest grocery store. It looked like there was one bookstore in town. Privately owned. Well, that was good. 

He could stop by before he got groceries. He had a plan. 

—--

Mikasa's hand was starting to cramp. 

"Are you really selling these or is Kenny just giving them out to whoever he sees?" Mikasa asked her cousin as he dropped another stack of books in front of her to sign. 

Their uncle Kenny was very proud of Mikasa making it into the top ten best sellers. He told anyone who would listen about it. 

"They actually sell," Petra said from behind the register. "Are you ever going to do a series or just standalones?"

Mikasa shrugged. She hadn't thought of a series. She liked to write whatever she could. That was probably why she was all over the place with her genres.

The only thing she couldn't write?

Romance. 

"That would require her to not kill everyone in the end," Levi replied as he walked away from the table. 

"Hey! Not everyone died in my last book!" Mikasa argued as she stood up and stretched. 

"The woman driving away after avenging her family and having no one left, no money, it's not a happy ending," Levi said as he grabbed the broom from behind the counter. 

"Life isn't happy," Mikasa argued. 

"You know I thought when you stopped wearing all that goth shit in college that you'd be a little more positive later in life."

"HEY!"

"You can't keep living with regrets, Mikasa. You've been dealt some bad cards but you can't blame the world forever."

Mikasa scoffed. 

"Dead parents, divorce, those are two seriously bad cards, Levi. Give the girl a break," Petra argued as she sat on the counter. 

Levi poked her with the broom. 

Petra jumped down and rolled her eyes. 

"I'm going to get coffee," Mikasa said before walking out of the bookstore. 

She needed to clear her mind. 

—-----

Eren parked in the very small parking lot behind the bookstore. 

The bell above the door rang once he walked it. 

"Hello!" The woman behind the counter smiled and waved. "How can I help you today?" 

Eren immediately noticed the stack of books on the counter. 

It was Mikasa's book, To the Boy who Craved Freedom, Goodbye.  Eren had yet to buy or read either of her books. He knew they existed as they constantly out did his on the bestsellers list.

"I'm…I'm a writer. I'm staying at a cabin a little bit north of here. I just wanted to pop in and say hello," he explained. 

"Really? Let me get the owner. I'm Petra," she smiled at Eren. "LEVI! WE'VE GOT ANOTHER WRITER HERE! THINK HANGE WILL WANT HIM FOR THEIR BOOK CLUB?"

Well, this was going to be easier than Eren thought. 

"He should be out in a minute. Feel free to browse around," Petra smiled. 

Eren nodded before he began to do just that. He noticed on an end cap of one the aisles was Mikasa's other book, Small Blade. That had outsold his debut book as well. He picked the book up before setting back down on the shelf. 

Nope. He wasn't going there. He wasn't  going to think about the girl who constantly critiqued his work. He wouldn't think of that night of dancing until the party got broken up by cops. He would not think about it. 

The bell on the door rang again as Eren moved through the store. 

"You Eren?" A short man asked Eren. 

He was intimidating. There was just something about this man that made Eren fear for his life. Maybe it was the scar on his face. 

"Yes, sir. I'm Eren Jaeger. I'm a romance writer and uh…"

"Ah. You want to do a talk or something?"

"Yes, sir. If it's not too troubling, of course."

"I'll have to order more of your books."

Eren didn't know why that statement surprised him. He was a best seller and this was a bookstore. 

"There's a talk coming up in a month. Our resident author will be here. If you don't mind sharing the spotlight."

"That sounds great, actually."

"Let me get the exact date from up front."

Eren nodded as he followed Levi. As they walked to the front, Eren saw her. 

Her hair was shorter than it was in college. It was cut into a pixie cut. 

"Brat! Say hello. He's going to do the talk with you."

"I'm not ten anymore, Levi. You can't…." Mikasa trailed off as she looked up from the book she was signing. 

"Hi," Eren said simply. 

"Eren?" Mikasa asked as she put her pen down. 

"Yeah. I'm surprised you remember me," he touched the back of his neck as he looked down. 

"He's staying at a cabin up north of here. Is it the empty one by you?" Petra asked from her spot behind the counter. 

"Oh I don't…." 

"Yeah, I thought it was you last night."

It had been Mikasa he had talked to last night. 

[littlemisslipbalm]

Little Border Town

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

AKA: Harry and Y/N are neighbors that fight all the time, the whole town wants to know when they’ll just fuck. 

Featuring italrry as well as mustachrry! and running italrry... I hope y’all like! this is just part one, so much more is in store so pls let me know what you think :) lots of love - first fic that’s not named from a quote said in the story I’m shook!! the growth, the range...she has it apparently! side note: i had to change the gif from italrry/mustachrry bc something is whack with the formatting and either the keep reading or the title keeps disappearing so i tried some stuff to resolve it *sobbing*

Word Count: 8.5k | Warnings: swearing, mentions of relatives death, bickering, otherwise tame for now?

Pt. 2

-

There’s a little town that straddles the border between Italy and France. It’s just a little ways from Nice on the French side and Ventimiglia on the Italian side. The population is rather small and the tourists who come are usually either returners or are very very lost. One street you’re in France and the next you’re in Italy. It can be confusing to newcomers, but the locals love it -- for the most part. These streets are easily delineating as French or Italian by the little country flags that hang above all the shops or in the windows.

It’s a coastal town with cobblestone everywhere and bright painted buildings. The water is a soft blue and the wind barely ever brings any waves greater than a foot high. There’s a shop for everything and it seems to be frozen in the past from the outside, thankfully if you step into the tiny bed and breakfast there is wifi. The sun almost always shines down on this sweet piece of paradise, the winter does however bring gusting winds and thunderstorms. Those storms rattle the little town and afterwards you’ll find the residents picking up the pieces that have fallen off the shops.

Now, this little border town, with its streets separated by French and Italian customs, well almost all of them, it seems imperative to mention. There, in the exact middle of the little town, is one street that is split down the middle, half in France and half in Italy. The locals from the French and the Italian sides love that street the most because it has this certain dynamic spark of change that brings them together, makes them unique. Except for two locals that seemingly hate this street. These two locals aren’t actually true locals either. They both moved there a couple years ago.

Harry, from the Italian side, owns the shoemaker and repair shop. He hailed from England and moved to the little town when his great uncle, Joe, had sent him a letter pleading for him to take over his shop so that he could retire. Harry, ever the traveler, hopped on the next flight out to Italy and then traversed by train and bus until he reached his Joe’s home. Like most of the shops, there was a living space above the shop area. Harry lived there with Joe until he passed away a few years back leaving Harry to tend the store alone. He didn’t mind too much, being left there alone. He had always loved Italy and to get to live in the countryside in a little cobblestone town and own a shop was a dream come true. After living there for two years, he had bought a sailboat that he would take out when the shop was closed. He also had bought himself a motorcycle that he would ride to the next greatest city if he was ever in dire need of more of a nightlife as a 26 year old. He loved it, his own slice of paradise… except for his thorn in his side.

Y/N, from the French side, owns the bookstore, which carries lots of vintage books and records. She had moved there after college. In school, she had studied French and taken a year abroad in Paris and had traveled down to Nice for a month. While in Nice she had made a few friends and one of them had come from the little border town. They had insisted they all go there for a weekend. When Y/N stepped foot onto the street she now lived on a few years before, she fell in love. Seeing the little Italian and French flags in the windows and potted plants with a view of the sea had been so endearing to her.

She was drawn to the bookshop and had chatted up the old French woman who ran it. The woman had reminded Y/N of someone but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it. It was strange for her because she often found these connections with older people, she felt like she had known this woman her whole life. Y/N went back into the store the next two days she was there to talk to the woman again, Marie, she had learned. Before she left the little town she left her number with Marie and kept in some contact with her. After about a year though, their communication fell off. Y/N was sad but understood that life can be busy for people and that she obviously wasn’t the most important woman in the little border town bookkeeper’s life. Or so she thought. In the middle of the summer after she graduated college, Y/N was backpacking through Iceland and got a call from who she assumed was Marie. She was ecstatic and answered the call immediately. Sadly, it wasn’t Marie, instead a friend who had been given her will to execute. In her will she had left Y/N the bookshop. Her reasoning was similar to why Y/N had liked Marie so much, she said that Y/N had reminded her of her sister who had died unexpectedly in her teenage years. Being so far from home at the time and completely consumed with love and loss, Y/N had agreed to take over the shop without any hesitation.

She got home and informed her parents of her choice and moved to the little border town as soon as she could. She lived in the little area above the shop that Marie had also gifted to her and she tended the shop downstairs. The living area hadn’t really been cleaned out and Y/N had found an old collection of vinyls in the corner of the bedroom. As much as she wanted to keep them to herself, she thought it would be a good addition to the shop and had made a section for records in memory of Marie. She loved France and the coast, she bought a little car and would drive to Nice every so often or to the more sandy beaches along the French coast. It was quiet and different from the life she had maybe expected, but taking over a bookshop because a kind stranger had gifted it to you as one of their dying wishes wasn’t something Y/N could ever turn down. Her soul was too sweet. At least it was for most people, not for her neighbor though.

Her neighbor was the shoemaker, Harry. Their shops lived against one another even though he was on the Italian side and she was on the French. They were located exactly at the split between France and Italy. With less than a foot between the buildings, they saw a lot of each other. On their first interaction, Y/N had seen too much of her neighbor, meaning she had seen all of him. Their shops were similar to track homes, meaning they were built completely the same only mirrored. This meant that the windows of their bedrooms matched up exactly, she wondered who had thought that was a good idea after her first night. When Y/N had first moved in it was August, she left her window open and without the shade down to let as much fresh cool air in as possible. With her jet lag, she had found herself wide awake at about three am. Pacing around her room in the pink silk tank dress she had decided to sleep in, her eyes froze on her window - or rather, who she saw through her window. The light from her room and the moon were strong enough to illuminate the tanned and tattooed skin of the naked man in the room next to her. He held a bowl in his large hands that he seemed to be spooning cereal into his mouth from.

His half-lidded eyes flickered to the light coming from the place next door. The bookshop had been closed all summer and no one had been living in the upper area for a little longer than that so he had gotten into the habit of leaving his window open. He was half drunk after stumbling his way home from the tiny bar down the street. He had decided a naked cereal run would be a good idea to tide over his cravings. But upon seeing the girl wearing lingerie a mere two feet away from him, separated by the screens on their open windows, he realized that wasn’t actually true. His eyes widened only slightly as he saw her, his drunkenness allowing him to keep his blushing to a minimum. His drunken confidence kept him from covering himself as he lifted a single brow and made a salute with his spoon hand before going back to his bed.

She stayed at the window for a moment after the naked man disappeared and then quickly ran back to her bed. She shut off her light and tried not to think about everything she had seen. She tried to not think about his toned arms that flexed as he moved around his food, or the tattoos that lined every part of his body (the tiger and ferns seared into her mind specifically), or his tousled chestnut hair, or his searing green eyes, or the full mustache that held a little milk from his cereal. She tried, she really did. But how was she supposed to face her neighbor ever again after that. Maybe he wasn’t her neighbor, she reasoned, maybe he was an acquaintance her neighbor had just spent the night with. That wouldn’t be better! Her hands grabbed her other pillow and shoved it over her face trying to force herself to go to bed.

The next day, she had been working out front of the bookshop, beginning to repaint the windowsills of the shop with some navy paint she had found in the back to give it an updated look. It was early and she hadn’t expected to see anyone at all. Her jet lag still ailed her and caused her to be up bright and early. This was her second run in with the shoemaker, this time though, both to her dismay and joy, he was fully clothed. He wasn’t watching where he was going and almost toppled the both of them over as he left his store front, locked the door behind him, and then set off down the street. His large body, covered in short black running shorts and a mesh grey tank top, bumped into her almost immediately. He was still fiddling with his music on his phone as he began his run. She jumped back and dropped the paintbrush from her hand. She yelped as his body collided with hers and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned her and took in the light wash cuffed jeans and moss ribbed tank top she was wearing. They widened when he recognized her face, the expression of shock similar to that of last night when she had seen him in his bedroom. He smirked and took out one of his earbuds. She grabbed her paintbrush from the ground as he extended his hand to her.

“I’m Harry,” his hand is greeted with hers. He speaks to her in English and she decides it’s probably best to follow along with whatever someone else began with. She worried that she’d run into a lot of Italians who didn’t know French or English and she’d have some trouble. His eyes flicker to the bits of blue already littered on her hands and in her hair.

“Y/N.” She nods, avoiding eye contact with the man she had already seen too much of. At least he’s not your neighbor’s lover, he’s just your neighbor. She also notices how he doesn’t apologize for running into her.

“You were spying on me last night,” his hand returns to his side and his smile quirks up again as he watches her face flush. His nicely groomed mustache twitches, trying to contain his laughter.

“I was not!” She finally looks up at the taller man and takes in his tanned face that is even more attractive in the morning light and up so close. The hat he wears is funny, a blue trucker’s hat that read ���If you ain’t a fisherman, you ain’t shit!”, and she would laugh if she couldn’t already tell he was going to be extremely annoying.

His smirk continues and he barks out a laugh. He removes his sunglasses to really look at her now. “It’s alright, I work hard for this,” he gestures to his body, “glad someone appreciates it. Just means I’ll need to be installing a shade now, I guess.”

“You don’t have a shade and you walk around your room naked?” She ignores his first bit of conversation. She can’t think about his body or how it had looked last night. She sets down her paintbrush and folds her arms across her chest, trying to figure the man in front of her out.

“No… but it’s not all my fault. You had your shade open too! Who’s willingly up at that time of night anyway? I was just fixing myself a snack after the pub.” He raises his brows triumphantly at her, feeling confident that he has gotten the upperhand in the conversation.

She narrows her eyes at him as she finally registers that his accent isn’t Italian or French. He’s British and she wonders what he’s done to get himself in this little border town. He also seems to own the shop beside her since he locked the door behind him. He was peculiar, but she couldn’t dwell on what she thought about him since he had just accused her of being a peeping tom.

“Someone is up at that hour because she just moved and has terrible jet lag and can’t sleep. The place has been completely closed up for months and I needed to get as much cool air in as possible before the hot day. That’s why I was up and that’s why my shade wasn’t down.” She stands up straighter and rolls her eyes at him, muttering something in French to herself about annoying men. She smiles to herself when Harry doesn’t seem to understand. He obviously can tell she said something, but he doesn’t know exactly what. He could understand a good bit of French and he could speak some, but if someone spoke quickly and quietly, like she had just done, he wouldn’t be able to make it out. He figured it was something rude, though, with the way she sounds and begins to turn from him.

“Are you here to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Well, welcome to the best place in the world. It was so nice, two countries couldn’t decide who got to keep it and decided to split it.”

His arm sweeps out around him, gesturing to the street around him. She smiles up at him before following his arms movement. His arm had more tattoos than she had realized from her eyeful last night. She noticed the intricacies of all the black ink and again she had a million questions that she had to keep to herself. He was arrogant, conceited, impatient and a little bit odd and she knew all of this after barely one conversation. At least they could agree on one thing, they loved this town.

He looked back at her after scanning the street and saw her smiling in wonderment at everything around her. This brought a fleeting genuine smile to his face, knowing she was happy to be there. He had known Marie and was sad to see her go less than a year after his great uncle. He had always thought that Marie and Joe were both secretly pining over each other. Constantly stopping into each other’s shops and waving from their windows at each other, but Joe had always shaken his head at Harry when he mentioned it.

His smile faded when her eyes came back to his fac face face. Her smile disappeared as well. “Right, so, see you around…?” He said, already forgetting her name. She scoffs when she realizes what happened and then repeats her name. He nods curtly before replacing his sunglasses and single airpod and starts running again. She calls after him, “Thanks for the apology!” and then mutters to herself, “le con” knowing she shouldn’t shout that down the street where other people speak French. He doesn’t hear any part of it, his music up high enough to drown out the sounds of the world.

-

Y/N settled into the bookshop fairly easily, but she never failed to mention how unhelpful Harry had been:

“Yes, well, it’s been going pretty good...except for this one man. Well, I’d hardly call him a man -  a boy. My neighbor, actually, he owns the shoe shop...no, nevermind that, he practically made it his mission to make my move the hardest thing in the world...Harry -- yes, that’s his name, Mama… well I don’t know, It’s just Harry. - it doesn’t matter! He’s been in my way at every turn… yes, both physically and metaphorically...I’m not kidding! And I’m not being dramatic… Well, It was nice talking to you. Love you, talk soon.”

That was her first telephone conversation with her mother since arriving in the little town. Maybe ten days after she arrived. Naturally, she had it in the downstairs area of her home, the bookstore. And naturally, Harry had wandered in, to discuss one of their shared planters, and overheard her entire side of the conversation and gathered the rest from his own imagination. When she had laid eyes on him after setting down her phone, she rolled her eyes at the smirking Chesire cat look on his face.

“You would be the kind of man to eavesdrop, hm?” She restacked a group of books that were already in order.

“Thought I was a boy?” his smirk remained on his face. He strided closer to the counter she stood behind.

“Like I said...What can I help you with?” Her voice drips with venom as she finally turns her eyes to look at Harry. His smirk still remains on his face now that she is making eye contact with him. He’s clad in a t-shirt that has some baseball team on it with burgundy corduroy flared jeans. She notices the strain of the shirt over his chest and biceps and avoids the scoff of how vain he must be to keep himself in that good of shape for tending a shoe store in the South of France, or rather Northern Italy…

“Right, Thought I’d pop in and tell you that one of our planters is shared. So you’ll have to talk to me before replanting anything. I noticed you coming in with tulips the other day.”

“The ones on the front of the street?” He nods as her head turns to glance out the front window. “Why the hell do we share a planter?”

“Because, my late great Uncle Joe and Marie fancied each other.” Her eyes went wide at his words, trying to think of Marie having a crush on someone. “They were never together, never admitted the fancying, but they always did the planters together. They each had one of their own and then bought the third together, said it made sense to make the shops look nice...I know it was just so they had more to tend to - together.”

She hums, taking in everything that he said and how his eyes shine slightly just at the mention of his uncle. His voice had perked at the story he had just spun for her and she smiles thinking about the idea of love and loving someone so much that you’re content with simply planting flowers together. It seemed really old-fashioned to her, but it also brought even more charm to the town she now called home. Romance was still alive here, or so she hoped.

“Okay, I’ll make sure to let you know when I’ve decided what flowers I want to put in there.” She turns around, assuming the end of the conversation and getting back to work. She doesn’t really find a reason to entertain Harry anymore than necessary. Like she told her mother, he was constantly in her way or being naked in his room, something she had chosen to leave out of her conversation with her mom.

“You’ve misunderstood me. Maybe my English is getting rusty, I rarely speak it since everyone else knows Italian.” She flips around at his rude comment, eyes alight with fire once again. “If you want to replant anything, which I don’t understand why you would, the flowers I put are wonderful, we’ll have to discuss it. It’s not you just telling me you’ll be doing it. We own it equally and I won’t let you bulldoze my hard work.”

“On a planter?!”

She sticks on a sickly sweet smile as she tries to refrain from laughing. “I guess the countryside really can make some people enjoy the simpler things in life…” With that she walks to the back of the shop, leaving the stunned Harry to see himself out of it. When the little bell rings, her stifled laughter can be heard among the books.

-

It doesn’t matter what it is, Harry and Y/N are able to make a fuss about anything and the whole street, if not the whole town, had quickly figured that out. No one had a problem with Y/N, they welcomed her with open arms. Marie had told the entire French side and a good amount of the Italian side how wonderful and tenacious she was. How Y/N reminded Marie of her sister and upon meeting her, many agreed. But the first time Harry and Y/N had a public row, at the bakery in the center of town, on the French side, everyone was quick to realize that there was bound to be trouble between the two. It was a stark contrast to the loving comments and endearing looks the previous owners had always engaged in when they were still alive. This fight was maybe a few days after the planter business and Y/N had tried in the following days to get him to change the planters to no avail so she was in an especially pissed off mood towards Harry.

“Could you be taking any longer?” Y/N rolled her eyes as she stood behind her tall neighbor, her foot impatiently tapping a beat against the stone floor.

Harry stood hunched in front of the display case, scanning for exactly what he wanted and desperately trying to remember what he had come here for. He was a bit more dressed up that day, his mother had been coming to visit him for the first time in a while and he wanted to look nice and have a special treat for her when she arrived. His trousers were a deep navy that matched the navy of the stripes on his sweater vest, the blue pinstripes of the button down underneath was a slightly lighter shade, but blue nonetheless. He had rolled up his sleeves past his elbows, showing off his various tattoos and sinewy arms. As his eyes scanned over the case again, he ran through his mental list and bit at his lip, knowing he was forgetting something. He barely even heard her drawl out her insult, the tapping of her foot eventually getting his attention due to its faltering.

She straightened upright from her hip jutted position when he didn’t even bite at her unkind words. Her foot stopping its melody. As she was about to give another go, Harry turned around and she gave him her full look of displeasure.

“Country life requires a bit of patience. I doubt you’ve ever had to wait your turn in your life, but you’ll have to get used to it here.”

Her eyes roll instinctively. She noticed that they seemed to do it just at the mention of his name or the sound of his voice. She had always thought herself a lover of the British accent, citing Downton Abbey and various famous musicians - Freddie Mercury, George Harrison, Elton John, etc. - as members of that little island who were formative to her identity, loving them for their talents as well as their accent. Yet with Harry’s deep meandering British voice, she found herself wishing to be anywhere but in its presence. She found that he took so long to ever get out an actual full thought and when he did it was barely coherent. He also never failed to let his sarcasm or smugness drip into his tone, causing her to audibly be aware of the smirk on his face even if she couldn’t see it. The image flashing across her mind no matter what.

“You’ll have to let me know when you’ll be here again…” His eyebrows quirk at her odd response and it’s her turn to smirk up at him. She’s already satisfied with her quip even though she’s only gotten half of it out. His mouth opens to question her, but she finishes her thought. “That is, so I can plan around you. If I have to alot a whole day to the boulangerie just waiting for you… I’ll never get settled.”  

Harry scoffs and a fleeting expression of actual offense flashes across his features before turning around to finish his order. The others in line and the worker are all equally wide eyed and she hears some hushed whispering behind her, but it’s in Italian so she can’t make it out. The worker eyes Y/N as she rings up the rest of Harry’s chosen items. The worker smiles softly at Harry, feeling for the man she had known long enough to know that he wasn’t as rude as he was being with Y/N. She was also taken aback at Y/N’s response, but hadn’t seen her be rude otherwise so she had to assume it simply had something to do with the man.

When Harry is all set, he turns to leave and pass Y/N again. His eyes narrow and his words once again are turned nasty. “I wouldn’t mind if you never got settled,” he said before muttering something in Italian under his breath and leaving the store. She assumed it to be nasty as she eyed the couple behind her giggling, before walking to talk with the worker.

She shook her head trying to rid herself of her cold exterior that she kept having to conjure up for Harry. Now smiling, she asks for her items in French, happy to be speaking the language that brought her so much joy rather than English which seemed to be reserved only for Harry now. She hadn’t gone to the Italian side very much yet and the people she had met over there so far had spoken French to her once she had introduced herself.

As the worker finished with Y/N’s order, she asked in a hushed tone, in French, “How do you know Mr. Styles?”

“Harry?” Y/N guessed, not actually knowing Harry’s last name until now. The girl behind the counter smiles quickly before nodding. “Mon voison” she sighs and contains the accompanying eye roll when she sees the girl blush at the idea of being neighbors with Harry. “He’s a brat,” she continues and the girl laughs lightly before saying, “I think he’s rather sweet… not bad to look at either.” She looks out the window of the shop wistfully, like Harry’s still there and Y/N whips her head around, afraid he knew that she was talking about him. Thankfully, he was gone and Y/N laughs to herself when she feels the anxiety that had gripped her for a moment dissipates. Shaking her head at the girl, she grabs her items and change from her before making a break for the door.

It was soon after that incident that Harry and Y/N’s squabbles became notorious throughout the little town. Drama wasn’t common there and any sort of excitement was the talk of the town. It made sense that this was snapped up by the gossipers from the French and Italian sides alike.

Anne, Harry’s mother, was stopped the next day, when she was out for coffee and Harry was still at the shop, and was asked why her son was so angry at the new bookshop owner. She thought it made sense for her to drop into the bookshop next to her son’s shop after hearing that. Walking into the shop, she was greeted with the smell of lavender and the sweet melody of a love song. She immediately smiled at the charm of the bookstore, feeling like there was a bit more life in it then there had been the last time she had come in. Harry had told her that Marie had passed, but not that someone new had taken over and she was eager to meet them, especially now that she had been told about the town gossip.

A messy haired, but bright eyed Y/N came trotting out of the bookshelves at the sound of the door opening. A smile beamed on her face when she saw the mature brunette woman standing just inside the doorway. “Bonjour! Bienvenue!” She greets as she smooths some of her unkempt hair. Y/N had been digging around the back shelves of the store searching for a specific book one of her other customers had asked about yesterday. And much to her dismay, she wasn’t being very successful. When the woman only says “Bonjour” and makes no inclination that she plans to speak more French, Y/N believes it’s safe to assume she’s a tourist and switches to English. “Can I help you?”

Anne laughs happily to hear English and walks over to the counter that Y/N had walked behind. “Yes, Hi! My son lives here and I’ve just come to visit him. He didn’t tell me someone had taken over Marie’s shop.” Y/N perks at the name of Marie and she smiles sincerely at the woman now. Not quite a tourist, yet not quite a local, she noted for herself.

“Yeah, I’m Y/N. I was a friend of Marie’s, so to say, and she left me the place.” Pausing, Y/N turns over the vinyl that had just finished side A, and then returns to her place at the counter. “I’m still really new, but it’s a small town. I don’t know of many other people who weren’t born here who live here, though, who’s your son?” She rests her elbows on the counter and leans on them while staring at the kind woman. She had noticed the British accent, but hadn’t connected the dots yet. It wasn’t uncommon for people to have a British accent when they spoke English so it didn’t necessarily mean she was from England. But maybe Y/N should have noticed the light eyes and brown hair, maybe that should have been an indicator as well. Or the way she had said ‘my son’ and nodded in the way of the shoe shop. But no matter what, it came as a shock when the woman with the coffee in hand said what she said next.

“My son is your neighbor! He runs the shoe repair shop. His great uncle, my ex-husband’s uncle, left it to him a couple years ago.”  Y/N’s eyes widen so much so that she has to blink a few times to assure herself they haven’t popped out of her head.

“Harry...is your son?” She speaks slowly and Anne smiles at the girl. She nods and Y/N nods back, taking the news in. He has a mother...she guessed she should have expected that. It had been unlikely that her theory of him being sent straight from hell to make her life just like it was accurate.

“Here you are mum! What are you doin’ in here?” Harry rushes through the door when he sees his mother inside from the window. Y/N rolls her eyes on cue, but still notices the soft adoring look on his face while he gazes at his mother. She supposes she can concede that he isn’t the spawn of satan now. His look hardens when he turns to Y/N, who has straightened up to her full height upon his arrival.

“I was just meeting the new bookshop owner, Y/N!” She looks between Harry and Y/N. “What’s this about you being angry with her?” She asks more to Harry, but Y/N hears easily. Harry’s eyes flash at Y/N and her eyes widen once again, but shrugs to Harry, having no idea where his mother had gotten that idea.

“What did you say-”

“I didn’t say anything! I’d just realized she was your mother right before you walked in!”

“It’s true. Someone said something about it to me at the coffee shop. Of course, I didn’t even know the book shop even had a new owner, so I decided to come by.”

“It’s nothing, mum,” Harry insists.

“Harry and I...we just don’t exactly see eye to eye. But, I’m sure we’ll warm up to each other eventually,” she easily lies through her teeth, knowing she really couldn’t see herself ever being friends with this prick. “Feel free to look around the shop, it’s not exactly to my liking yet, but then again, I am just getting settled. Otherwise, you two should enjoy your time together. I’m sure it’s not often you can make the time to journey all the way out here.” She smiles sweetly at Anne, choosing to ignore Harry completely.

“Thank you, Y/N. Harry can be an acquired taste for some, but just below that exterior of his, he’s a giant softy.” Harry groans at his words, Y/N’s smile only grew.

“Au revoir! Good Day!” She calls when they leave the shop rather swiftly. It seemed to her that Harry was desperate to get his mother out of the shop as soon as possible, while Anne was happy to browse and look at what had been changed in the shop.  

-

Their early unhappy encounters were now months ago. But encounters of a similar caliber happened at least once a week. It’s hard to avoid a neighbor who you seem to find anything they do to be an annoyance, even their existence. They saw each other around town and at their shops and in their bedrooms. Even though they didn’t particularly like each other, hated was actually the correct word, the drawing of the shades was a near impossible task with the heat that plagued the little town between August and Mid-October.

They had fought over who could leave their shade open and who couldn’t because Harry believed only one of them had to close it to maintain privacy but then he wouldn’t settle on an agreement on taking turns closing shades. Y/N argued that they could both leave them open if he would agree to stop walking around his room naked all the time, but he refused that as well, at first. He conceded after a week of having his shade drawn that he would wear boxers. Therefore, practically every night, Y/N and Harry would see each other before bed since they actually seemed to have the same sleep habits. Sometimes she would have to yell at him to close his window if he came home with a guest and he would yell at her to turn off her light if she was reading or watching television in bed too late.

Thankfully, it was approaching the end of October and the weather would begin to change. There wouldn’t be a reason to have the window or shade open and they at least wouldn’t have to see each other right before bed.

This morning, Y/N is up early, she found it amazing to wake up early here, something she had never done before this little border town. It was teaching her new things about herself and changing her, but she liked it. In deep forest green flared pants and a long sleeved rainbow striped shirt, Y/N is watering the planters in front of her shop as well as the little ones attached below the windows. It was always a little cool in the mornings, but she had checked her weather app and seen that it was actually going to be the first cold day of the season. The first cold day since she had arrived actually. As much as she liked the sun, she also loved fall and winter, so she was excited to experience them for the first time in the little border town.

She smiles to herself as she moves around gracefully. In her back pocket, her music plays softly, Paul Simon sings lovingly to her. She hums along and moves to deal with the planter at the edge of the sidewalk. But she’s foiled by a man she seems to think about far too much for how much she says she dislikes him. Harry jogs back a half step upon realizing he has run into her yet again. One would assume that one of them would either change their routine or know to step out of the way or really just be a little bit more aware of their surroundings with how many times this has happened since Y/N’s arrival. Of course, their stubborn personalities actually require them to be unrelenting in this area of their lives as well. Much like the shade debate, the who was in the way of who debate is still majorly undecided.

“Oi!” He looks down at his shirt and it has a substantial wet spot on it. She had spilled some of the watering can’s contents.

“Excuse you!” She says simultaneously, not realizing she’d gotten water on him.

“I’m not the one who just threw water on someone.”

“Neither am I. You ran into me, it’s not my fault you never look where you’re going.”

“You’re just always in my way. This has been my route for ages, I’m not going to change it just because you moved in next door.” His hands fly around in annoyance and anger.

“You’re unbelievable!”

“Well! I can’t stand you!

“Clearly!” “Cleary.” They’re both huffing out insults that don’t seem to really be going anywhere. Harry has straightened his posture for once and she actually finds his true height slightly intimidating. They both breath for a moment, finding no other words to fill the tranquil morning silence that they had just disturbed.

“Are we ever going to have a conversation where we’re not at each other’s throats?” She sighs, feeling upset that the nice Fall day was suddenly ruined for the rest of time just because of this.The bickering with Harry was tedious and she couldn’t keep going like this. Being in a completely new place and running a small business was hard enough as it is. Something snapped in her just then, hoping to squash a part of her life that is causing her stress and exhaustion.

Harry’s expression falters, his eyes losing that glint of angered passion for a moment, he wasn’t expecting that response. It wasn’t necessarily mean, it was more like she was resigned. Simply done with the conversation. He felt his anger and annoyance slip away rather quickly at her question. She sees his mustache twitch, which she realized happened when he was either amused or confused. She didn’t think what she said was funny so she presumed he wasn’t sure what to make of what she had just said. Her head tilts to the side and waits for his response. Her watering can falls to her side now, making herself a little more comfortable and leaving only a small amount of air between her and Harry.

“Tired out already? Thought you were more of a competitor than that.” He mirrors her by tilting his head as well.

“I didn’t realize we were in any sort of competition.” She stepped forward and straightened her posture a little, feeling challenged by the tone he had taken. She may have a kind and soft exterior for most, but she was nothing if not fierce in her core. She was an Aries afterall. She wondered what Harry might be, she wasn’t super into astrology, but she was sure that he wasn’t an Aries. Aries were fiery and passionate and were very unwilling to admit defeat, so he had just hit the exact right note to keep her from squashing their now long-standing quarrel.

“We’re not. I just thought I had met my match, guess I was wrong.”

He looks off in the distance to be nonchalant, like he wasn’t trying to bait her even if that’s exactly what he was going for. Sure, he found her annoying, for whatever reason. But he had realized when she had posed the question, that he hadn’t had this much excitement in a while. Nothing and no one really challenged him in the little border town, his work was easy enough, money wasn’t tight, friends were easily made, and partners for the night were easy to find. He didn’t dislike any of those facts, truly, he counted himself lucky and was overjoyed that he lived there. But the verbal sparring he engaged in with Y/N fulfilled a need he hadn’t realized was going unsatisfied. He would never admit it, but she was often a highlight of his day. Getting into a little quarrel with her brought a smile to his face when he recalled it later. The bird she had started to flip him before bed made him genuinely laugh. He liked it, so when she seemed to want it to end, he did what he knew would make her change her mind. Tease her.

“I see...bonne journée, cul.” She decided to bid him farewell, knowing he didn’t plan on apologizing any time soon. She turned her body from him and Harry understood enough French that she had ended the conversation with a “good day”. He also knew that she had called him an “ass” as well. His brows raised for a moment at the insult before giving a flicked salute in her direction and jogging off for his morning run.

For some reason, after a moment of knowing Harry had gone she glanced up in his direction and watched his retreating figure. And for some reason she found herself looking back down at the flowers and smiling to herself. Somewhere inside her she was glad Harry hadn’t given into her veiled request to stop fighting. It was a strange sensation because as tiring it was to bicker with him, she feared if they stopped then they would stop talking at all and her heart panged at the thought. She didn’t know why and she didn’t care to know why either.

-

The bell of the book shop chimes and Y/N pops up from behind the counter. She had been crouched out of sight trying to organize the books of notes on customers Marie had left that Y/N had only just found. She hadn’t realized the cabinet existed in the counter so when she accidentally slid it open she was a little taken aback. Still, she was quickly distracted by the new customer. Her cream collared shirt was unbuttoned to where her collarbone and decalotage were on display, some gold medallions hanging around her neck today. Her worn light wash blue jeans were barely visible behind the counter due to her height. In her hair was a classic red bandana, pulling back her hair out of her face save for the strands that worked themselves free on their own accord.

Her smile was wide, happy to see the first customer of the day as she pinched at her shirt to make sure it was in place. Her posture slumped immediately when she realized that her first customer wasn’t a likely customer at all, instead who else but Harry. A mischievous glint in his eyes as he strolled in and right up to the counter. He leaned his large body down to rest his head in his hands and look up at her. He crossed one ankle over his other, getting comfortable as he stared wickedly up at her.

She wet her lips and took a step back. It was her first look at him today, apparently missing him on his morning run. Maybe she should have thought something of that after their encounter yesterday, but she didn’t. Like most days, his trousers were high waisted, Gucci likely - how he afforded them, she had no clue - and his usual shirt had now been accompanied with a striped red, black, and yellow open cardigan. His hair looked wet like he had just taken a shower, most of it was pushed up but a few strands fell over his large forehead. His mustache looked freshly trimmed and the rest of his facial hair had yet to leave any shadow after his obvious shave.

“Harry.” She says definitively, regarding him with even contempt.

“Ice Queen.” He levels, eyes narrowing.

She scoffs immediately. “At least give me something original...or accurate maybe. I may not like you, but ice queen? Hardly.”

He genuinely chuckles at her quick response and nods, agreeing easily with her for once. “You’re right. It was weak, I’ll admit. Feel like you need a nickname though, thought something really rude might upset you.” He smirks cheekily. His agreement doesn’t make her feel like she’s won at all, unsurprisingly.

She rolls her eyes at his comment. “Care to let me know why you’re gracing me with your presence today, Mr. Styles?” Moving around the counter, she begins to walk to the back of the shop, assuming Harry would follow her if he needed to. He apparently did and walked after her after realizing she wasn’t coming back.

He gives a half-laugh, “Yeah, I came in for a new record. I saw you decided to restock them...thought I’d pop in. It’s easier to get them here than order online...Curtain-hater.” He adds the name as an afterthought.

She glances at him from the bookcase she’s standing at, her eyes shifting to meet his. A smile fades into her features as she can’t contain the giggle at his new attempt at a nickname. She then wrinkles her nose, “That isn’t good either, but proficient try, I guess.” She gives him points for actually relating the name to her in some way, but it still doesn’t incite any anger in her which she knows is what he is going for. She probably should question herself why she’s helping Harry to nickname her something rude, but alas, she doesn’t. He nods solemnly, knowing she’s right again. He needs to find a nickname for her and he doesn’t know why, but he’s glad she seems alright with him giving her one, so long as it is fitting.

Her body shifts from the bookcase over to the boxes she had gotten to hold the vinyls. She had a small collection since the place was small overall, but Marie’s old collection had sold successfully so she had restocked afterwards, this time choosing some of her personal favorites.

“I’m not sure of your taste...I know you bought Marie’s Ella Fitzgerald album last time.” She sifts through the records, trying to find something she thought he might want. Like she said, she didn’t know what he liked, but she prided herself on knowing music and as an owner helping a customer, she wanted to please Harry. She knew he liked Ella from his previous purchase and she knew he liked Marvin Gaye in the evenings when he had guests - how very cliche she would add. “I mostly got in 70’s/80’s rock...Elton, Queen -”

“Got any Paul Simon?” Harry cuts her off and she looks at him surprised. Her fingers stopped when she looked up at him, their tips placed on the peaks of the albums covers. “Thought I heard it here the other day?”  

Her face perks up at the mention, she loved Paul Simon. “That was on my phone, but I do actually. Well, it’s Simon & Garkunkel. I can order something from just Paul Simon whenever I have to order again if you want?” Their gazes are holding each other’s, her fingers still rubbing over the pointed edges of the two albums she had between her hands. Harry’s watching her and leaning against the table the boxes sit on.

He nods after a moment. “That’d be great.”

“You’ll have to tell me which records of his you already have so I can order something new for you.” She grabs the Simon & Garfunkel album and flips it to Harry so he can look it over.

He regards the Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thyme cover reading over the fine print with all the tracks listed on the bottom right. “Thanks,” he mutters out after another moment of silence. It was rarely this quiet between these two, so it was different. “I’ll take it, Shrimp.”

“Oh my god!” She gasps before bursting into a fit of laughter. He had actually made her laugh and his eyes widen at the sound, almost confused that she hadn’t scoffed. Her laughter was far louder now then the half-hearted chuckle she had given earlier, which really was probably just another scoff. This laugh was loud and unbridled, but melodic and fun. In the back of Harry’s mind, he noted that he liked it. The first bullet point on a list that was likely to grow.  “That works, just the perfect amount of rude. I love and hate it at the same time.” She finishes before walking back to the front. Harry saunters after her, pleased with himself.  

“I’d like to say I wasn’t looking for your approval, but I guess I sorta was,” he ponders out loud as she takes the record back from him to type in the correct spelling into her relatively new computerized system. She twists her mouth to the side of her face to refrain from smiling anymore and then hums. Her eyes flit back up to Harry’s triumphant smile and for once she doesn’t want to slap it off of him.

“People-pleaser…” She prods him easily. His smile falters only slightly, not out of unhappiness, but of borderline jealousy.

“How do you come up with that so easily? It just rolls off the tongue,” He asks seriously, confused by the woman before him. This time she laughs as she hands him back the record and a copy of his receipt.

“I’m well read, that usually helps, but maybe it’s just my intrinsic wit that gives me an edge,” she raises her brows slightly, before beginning to walk off now that their exchange is done. She’s surprised she doesn’t want to rip her hair out after that encounter, but she figures she should simply count her blessings. “Au revoir, trouser-boy!”

He rolls his eyes as he turns on his heel and exits the shop, amused rather than annoyed with the bookkeeper.

-

enjoy! lmk what you thought :) part 2

[themaribatpit]

Saturday Challenge: Double Crossover

Written by: The Maribat Pit   Prompt: Double Crossover Rated: M rating just to be safe (sexual references, mostly because of some very unsavory things Lila thinks and implies about Marinette.) Marinette x Jason Phantom of the Opera (specifically Hush Jason, from 2020′s Death in the Family).

A/N (Maribat fangirl): There is going to be a lot of class salt, Lila salt and some heavy duty character bashing.  I’m going to be upfront, there’s characters being called harlots. A/N (DC fanboy): My S.O. and I pretty much did karaoke while writing this.

Paris, 1875. Marinette worked in her parents bakery, while she loved her family dearly, she was dissatisfied with her current lot in life. She wished to become a singer, and everyday as she walked in the streets of Paris to bring flour to the bakery, she would stop and stare at the Conservatoire de Paris. The enchanting music and singing could be heard even in the streets.

Listening to music always reminded her of her favourite fairy tale told by her father, the one about  ‘Angel of Music’. She would sit on the street across the Conservatoire, close her eyes and listen to the beautiful music emanating from it. Once she tried to sing along, but passersby would be swift to yell at her to stop. They described her voice sounding like a rusty hinge.

Upon her 15th birthday, her parents presented to her a once in a lifetime opportunity. They had presented her with an approved application to the Conservatoire, they had saved enough money for tuition and would be sending her there to chase her dreams as an opera singer. Marinette held her parents tightly, thanking them constantly for the amazing opportunity.

That night, Marinette was unable to sleep, she was beaming with energy and excitement. She could not believe how her luck was changing, how she would be going to the musical academy of her dreams.

The next morning however she would be in a nervous panic for her first day of lessons. Running about the home, getting prepared, packing her bags. She even forgot to eat breakfast, she ran out the door with a croissant in her mouth, much to the chagrin of her parents.

However, her dream academy soon became a waking nightmare to her. She would be tormented daily by all her peers, especially one Lila Rossi, the prima donna of the academy. Every professor would sneer at her low birth, and did nothing when the others tried to sabotage her standing at the Academy.  She tried to keep her head held high, even as everyone else looked down on her for being a baker’s daughter. Marinette ignored the comments and rumours about how she was able to attend the prestigious academy.  Rumours that she dared not repeat, about how she and her parents must be criminals if they were able to afford to send her to the academy.  

It wasn’t enough for her to be stuck in the chorus, Lila Rossi wanted to make sure her place as prima donna of the academy was ironclad. A couple of the teachers felt that she was growing more temperamental, more complacent, and their eyes began to wander for a dancer to take her place.  The other dancers were unwilling to take her place, all except for Marinette, who saw it as a shining opportunity.  For Lila, this simply would not stand.  

The one time Marinette found a pair of scissors that had been used to cut the laces on her pointe shoes.  The same scissors that were missing from her sewing box days earlier. She decided that the time had come to confront Lila once and for all.

Marinette confronted her just before rehearsals began, scissors in hand, in front of everyone.  “Is it true?” she called, everyone turned to look at them.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Lila gasped.  She looked down to see her wearing her worn out slippers, before looking back up at her face.  “You do know you’re meant to be wearing your toe shoes now, right? The show is in a few days.” she reminded her.

“I do,” she breathed, “I also know it was you, you’re the one who cut the laces on my pointe shoes.”

Lila gasped and stepped back, everyone else was shocked by the accusation. She looked away for a moment, and squeezed her eyes shut.  Marinette knew the trick well from their acting classes at the academy, she was getting ready to make it look like she was crying.  “Why? Why would you accuse me of something like this?” she made sure her voice wavered as she spoke, “what reason do I have to sabotage a background dancer’s shoes?”

Marinette knew she had lost the battle before it had even begun, every dancer would move to protect Lila and her crocodile tears.  Lila was the prima donna, the daughter of a diplomat, and she had the entire academy in the palm of her hand.  “Perhaps there was some mistake,” she muttered, walking away from her classmates rushing to defend Lila’s fake tears.  It was useless trying to explain that the scissors were stolen from her, and that this was an elaborate setup.  It was her word against Lila’s, as the directors tried to command the dancer’s attention, Marinette ran.  

Once again, she tried to keep her head held high, it wasn’t as if anyone would believe her when she told them about Lila’s machinations.   She made a habit of keeping her costumes and pointe shoes hidden.  On occasion bringing them home whenever she visited her parent’s bakery, somewhere that little saboteur would not even think to look for them.

Months later, tragedy struck again when she received a letter informing her that her parent’s bakery had been burned.  Her parents, her hopes, her dreams all burned to ash in one night.  It was made worse by the fact that one rehearsal, Lila snatched the letter out of her hands and read it aloud for the entire company of dancers and singers to hear.   She assumed that it would be some kind of love note, probably preparing to spread rumours about Marinette sneaking off into the night with a mystery lover.  Instead, Lila simply made a show of pitying Marinette, “poor thing, it’s worse than I thought.  Unless you can find a patron to support you, your days at the academy are going to be numbered.”

Just as the theatre managers had arrived, Marinette fled, keeping her head down as tears were welling up in her eyes and blurring her vision.  Since the day she arrived she had been mocked, humiliated, tormented simply so that one girl could have the adoration and sympathy of her fellow performers.  Through all the salacious rumours and lies, she tried her best to ignore them and carry herself through it all.  The loss of her parents, their bakery, and now Marinette’s hopes and dreams, it was all too much to bear.  

Marinette ran to an empty music room to cry her heart out, she sat right against the wall, knees curled up to her chest and sobbed into her legs. In this state of absolute despair, she began to sing a song of her favourite fairy tale that her father would sing to her whenever she had a nightmare.  She sang a soft, painful prayer for the Angel of Music and a farewell to her lost parents. “Think of me, think of me fondly, when we say goodbye…”, her singing was hoarse, off key, full of sorrow.

The more she sang, the harder she cried. Soon to the point that she could not complete the song. However, a disembodied voice sang the remaining verse for her. Marinette paused from her crying to look for the voice, it felt as if it came from everywhere and nowhere. It was hypnotising, elegant, enchanting. She walked out of the music room to try to find the source of the singing.

“Come to me, Angel of Music.” The voice sang, in a smooth tenor voice, luring Marinette as if she was a moth attracted to a flame. The voice led her to a musical hall, reserved only for the academy’s annual showcase. She turned the door knob, to her surprise, the door was unlocked. She peeked her head through the door to see a cloaked figure playing the organ, the source of the enchanting voice. “Insolent girl, this slave of fashion. Basking in your glory.” The figure angrily sang “Ignorant fool, this prima donna.”

“Angel of Music, is that you?” Marinette tentatively asked the figure. The figure stopped playing, and turned around to face her. Marinette was taken aback by the figure, he was a tall man, wearing a red mask on the left side of his face. Another distinctive feature other than his magnificent voice was the white streak of hair and piercing green eyes.

“You are unlike any of the fools in this academy. You did not join this academy for fame or fortune. No, you came here because of your love of music.” The figure told her. He took a deep breath and composed himself, straightening his jacket. Then he raised an arm, reaching out to Marinette. “I am your Angel of Music, come to me Angel of Music.”  Marinette walks forward and accepts the Angel’s hand, thus beginning their first musical lesson together.

Marinette’s talent and ability in music skyrocketed with her extra-curricular lessons.   Her mysterious patron was also the one continuing to fund her education at the academy.  Meanwhile, no one else had the time to spread rumours about Marinette, not when there were rumours of a ghost haunting the Conservatoire.  

Unbeknownst to Marinette, she was the key to establishing control over a very profitable endeavour for her mysterious patron. The managers were being extorted to the tune of 20,000 francs and requested that box five remain open.  This money was nothing to them, especially when the sons and daughters of the wealthy and powerful were attending.  Very few had seen Jason’s face, and if they did, they would draw back in fear.   It was the result of a boyhood accident that left him changed and altered in more ways than one.  Taking control of the Conservatoire was merely the first step in taking control of an entire city.  This girl, Marinette, was the key to captivating their attention.  She would hold their attention and adoration as the rising star of the academy, drawing their eyes away from his growing influence and power.  Using talents and potential that they had cast aside, twisting their own hubris against them.  

Months later, everyone in the academy worked towards its annual showcase for its patrons, the nobility and all family members of its students. Lila had grown bored of tormenting Marinette, and had moved on to other victims.  She had her other dancers and singers wrapped around her little finger, and all eyes would be on her at the annual showcase.  

At last the day of the annual showcase had arrived, Lila sat at her personal preparation room, after all she would be the star of the show. She walked over to her wardrobe and opened it, she then screamed in horror to see her dress tattered and in pieces.

In the days leading to the showcase the Director of Conservatoire de Paris had received threatening letters demanding 20,000 Francs, box 5 to remain vacant and worse of all to replace Lila Rossi with some baker’s daughter. Director Bourgeois scoffed at the threats, tossing the letter away.

The next day during the rehearsal for one of the ballet numbers, students and teachers paid no mind to the threats that were outlined in the letter. Until one of the dancers looked up and gasped in horror. The other dancers looked up to find the stagehand hanging from the rafters. The theatre soon bursts into screams of fear as they all see the dead body of the stagehand.   Director Bourgeois ordered all faculty members and students present to remain silent of the murder. This prestigious institution could not afford such a scandal this close to such an important showcase. As the Director inspected the body, he found a letter titled to him attached to the corpse of a stagehand.

Director Bourgeois read the second letter with shaky hands, it read “Monsieur Bourgeois, good day to you. It seems you did not take my threat seriously. I present to you this corpse to show my sincerity. I see you have a young daughter, pray that no harm would befall her. I shall reiterate my demands, 20,000 francs, box five remain vacant and Mademoiselle Marinette shall replace the harlot Lila Rossi.”

Director Bourgeois collapsed into his chair, wiping his sweat. Until he heard a scream from outside his office. He ran out as fast as he could to see Lila Rossi confronting Marinette. Crocodile tears flowed from Lila’s eyes as she accused Marinette of sabotage, purposefully doing so in front of the Director's office.  

“How could you Marinette?” Lila wailed, “Whatever your reasons, how could you do this to me? To the Conservatoire?”

Marinette merely said “Lila, don’t you stay in a private room with guards patrolling the hallway outside?” She shrugs, “I was in my dormitory last night. Besides, how could anyone sneak into your room at night, unless they were a phantom?”

Director Bourgeois goes pale at Marinette’s implication, he had to intervene quickly, before the situation got worse. He attempted to placate Lila, “Now now mademoiselles, I can’t punish anybody unless we have solid evidence. As the saying goes ‘the show must go on.’ Signora Rossi, as you are currently unable to perform, I’m afraid Mademoiselle Marinette will have to take your place.”

Marinette’s eyes widened at the offer given to her, she could not believe it. Director Bourgeois himself offered her the star role for this year’s showcase. It is all as her Angel of Music said would happen. She accepted the role wholeheartedly and thanked the director profusely, she skipped back to the musical hall to begin rehearsals, now as the main lead.

Lila’s jaw dropped to see the director siding against her, how he gave away her role to that peasant without any hesitation. She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, she stomped her way back to her bedroom to begin scheming the ultimate humiliation for Marinette. She was so distracted with her rage, she had not noticed a shadowy figure following her.

Lila planned to show the entire Opera house just who Marinette was, little more than a filthy peasant who got lucky.  She was supposed to have packed her bags and left months ago, after her parents and their pathetic little bakery burned down.  “This Opera Phantom had a lot of nerve calling me a harlot, when Marinette is probably his little harlot.” she muttered harshly in the darkness.  She searched the costume room for the lead actress’ dress, a long flowing gown that brushed against the floor.  It was made with the finest fabrics that money could buy, it almost broke Lila’s heart to sabotage it.  She would rather die than see it worn by some peasant girl, a pretender, a talentless sham of a performer.  Before she can lay hand on the dress to destroy it, a gloved hand reaches out and grabs her by the wrist.  A voice interrupts her, “What do you think you are doing with that?”

Lila slowly turns around to see a grotesque figure staring at her.  In the candlelight, she was horrified by the person she saw. The left half of his face was severely burned, almost completely disfigured. His bright green eyes flared with a fury that genuinely terrified Lila as the figure glared at her. She immediately drops everything and screams, as she runs out the door as fast as her legs would carry her, wailing and screaming how the ghost is trying to kill her. “He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera!” she wails as he chases her down. The Phantom pursues his prey. Just as Lila runs around a corner, the ghost is there waiting for her. She gives another horrified scream, falling to the floor and trying to crawl in the opposite direction. “No no no, please don't kill me!” She begged as tears blurred her vision.

Her howls and pleas of mercy attract nearby students, teachers and guards. They all arrive to see Lila screaming like a maniac on the floor, alone and raving about some ghost hunting her down. “The ghost is real! He is real I tell you! He’s going to kill me!” she sobbed. As Lila was being escorted out of the academy, gossip spread like wildfire. Within hours everyone would be talking about how Lila had lost all of her sanity because of the ghost.

They had no other choice at that moment, the show had to go on.  If they wanted the night to go smoothly, with no one noticing anything strange or peculiar, they had to meet the Phantom’s demands.  Marinette stood there, centre stage, with all of Paris’ most influential in the audience. She began to sing her show stopping aria.  

As she glided across the stage and looked out into the audience, her eyes searched for the man in the red mask.  She liked to imagine her Angel of Music beaming at her with pride, without him, she would still be that sad little girl crying in the music room.  She sang as loudly and as clearly as she could, hoping that her voice would pierce the heavens clearly enough for her mother and father to hear.  

As she reached her crescendo, she peaked with an E6. Her voice echoed across the entire hall with the sharpness and perfection of a veteran soprano singer. The audience collective dropped their jaws at the spectacle. Marinette ended her aria with a bow, and the theatre erupted with a thunderous round of applause.  

Jason watched from his seat in box five, with a self satisfied smile on his face.  From that day forth, he would see to it that all eyes were on her.  

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

the best by far is you: chapter 17

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Previous Chapter

For all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you -  Cecilia and the satellite

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Summary: An exploration of Claire & Jamie’s story if their firstborn had lived and they had the chance to be parents together of wee Faith Fraser before the Battle of Culloden.

Chapter 17

Edinburgh

June 1746

Edinburgh proved difficult to search. One lone carriage was hardly something of note for residents of Edinburgh, and that besides, Claire was quite certain this was where that particular journey had ended. They had no way of knowing where in the city Jamie and Faith would’ve gone once they’d arrived. So they checked every tavern, inn, and boarding house they could find, hoping they weren’t too late, that Jamie and Faith hadn’t moved on to some other place.

It was once again the horse, of all things, that gave them hope.

They were walking through a bustling market when Fergus stopped so abruptly in front of Claire that she nearly knocked him over. “Fergus, what are you‒”

His gaze was frozen on something ahead. “It’s Donas, Milady.”

“What?”

He didn't wait another second and surged forward into the crowd, leaving Claire and Murtagh to scramble after him. When they caught up to him, they were both brought almost nose-to-nose with a black horse that was unmistakable to them.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” Claire whispered tightly, eyes widening at the sight before her. Donas was tucked back into a stall just off the busy street, but his head swung curiously over the wooden gate.

She glanced about, trying to get her bearings. If Donas was here, then‒

“Get back!”

The three of them startled at the sharp voice, Claire’s hand flying to Fergus’s shoulder as if that could shield him. Off to their right, a man had appeared ‒ a blacksmith by trade if his gritty, grimy appearance was any indication. “Unless ye want tae lose a hand. That beast is the devil’s own.”

Donas reared back suddenly, as if he understood and took offense. Claire was used to the horse’s attitude, but his timing always was something else, she thought. The blacksmith only took this as confirmation of what he’d just said, nodding sharply toward the horse with wide-eyed suspicion.

“See? He kens it.”

“That is not‒” Fergus began. Claire squeezed his shoulder.

“Please, can you tell us where we might find the owner of this horse?”

The blacksmith’s gaze shifted over the three of them, considering. Finally, he folded his arms over his chest and leveled a withering gaze at Claire. “Ye’re lookin’ at ‘im.”

“What?” She balked. Her gaze flew back to Donas, looking him over more discerningly. It had to be him. Then…?

“When did you acquire him?”

“I dinna see why ye need tae know.”

It was clear the man was growing tired of them, but before Claire could respond, Murtagh had fired back a reply. “I dinna see what harm there is in answering the lass.”

The blacksmith hardly concealed his annoyance but threw his hands up in defeat. “If it’ll make ye leave. A man brought him ‘round last week and sold him to me‒”

Claire felt her breath leave her lungs in a rush. A week ago. They’d never been this close before. A light, buoyant feeling filled her.

“‒ under false pretenses, mind. Tha’ horse was docile as a wee lamb when he brought ‘im here. Soon as he’s gone, I was dealing wi’ a demon.”

“Maybe you should‒”

Whatever Fergus was about to say, Claire was certain it wouldn’t have been flattering. And she needed more from this conversation still.

“Last question and then we’re out of your hair.” She felt an odd flutter in her stomach at the thought of what answers they might be able to walk away with. “What can you tell me about the man who sold you the horse?”

  They’d come to stay so long in Edinburgh that Faith’s understanding of “home” was beginning to solidify around the place they’d resided there: Mary’s aunt’s house. And while the streets were still crawling with soldiers, Jamie had gone so long without incident or recognition that the wariness was fading each time he stepped outside.

Mary's aunt had been hospitable in opening her home to Jamie and Faith when they arrived with Mary, though Jamie got the distinct impression that she wasn't exactly thrilled with this arrangement, given that she knew he was a Scot.

Still, it was a safe haven while they waited for sea passage to open up again.

Jamie entered the house, lugging his bundle of purchases, and was almost immediately greeted by Faith's high-pitch squeal from the other room. He paused, wondering if it was a squeal of excitement or some sort of fit.

There was a bustle of movement up ahead from the parlor and then Faith tumbled out into the hallway, tripping on the hem of her dress. It was new to her, an old dress belonging to one of Mary's cousins, and they were adjusting it for Faith.

"Da!"

Happy squeal, then.

He grinned broadly and dropped to one knee as Faith toddled over to him, nearly tripping again as she reached him. "Did ye behave for yer Auntie Mary, then?"

She didn't respond to him, only looped her slight arms around his neck and started to hang from him, giggling all the while.

"Alright then, ye wee fiend," he laughed, scooping her up as he moved to stand.

By now, Mary had appeared at the threshold and greeted him before they all moved into the parlor. Jamie noted that none of the other inhabitants of the house were in the room and breathed a sigh of relief. He was abundantly grateful to be able to keep Faith sheltered here, but he had no great desire for the company of near strangers ‒ especially those who looked down their nose at him.

“I’ve had a letter from my father,” Mary announced.

“Aye?”

“He’s sending my younger brother to escort me back to my father’s estate.”

Jamie nodded at that, though he wasn’t sure how he should feel. “And how did he take yer news?”

“Oh quite well,” Mary said swiftly. “I knew he would. Of course he wishes I wasn’t so recently widowed, since he’ll have to make arrangements for me to be married again. But there’s no shame in being widowed and with child.”

Jamie took a deep breath, ready to dive in on that comment, but thought better of interfering in her family matters and bit his tongue instead.

“Find everything you were looking for?” Mary asked.

“Oh aye.” Jamie pulled out the fresh ginger he’d purchased. There had been a number of items he’d needed to prepare for the upcoming voyage, but none quite so important as the very thing he held up for Mary to see. “For my seasickness,” he explained and then grinned ruefully. “Canna seem to so much as set foot on a ship wi’out getting sick.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s no’ a pretty sight, I’m sure.”

“What will you do with Faith?”

Jamie’s gaze dropped to Faith in his lap and he swallowed roughly. “I dinna have much choice but to pray the ginger tea keeps me standing. I canna afford to get sick.”

Mary fell silent at that, her hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap.

But he knew even without her saying it that it was a foolish endeavor. He knew how sick he became on sea voyages and without anyone else with them, he ran the risk of becoming too sick to care for his child. But what other choice did he have?

“I could go with you.”

Mary’s words were spoken so softly, he almost didn’t catch them. His head snapped up and he stared at her. “You canna be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!”

“It’s‒ I mean no offense to ye, Mary. It’s only… well, yer brother is already on his way and‒”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll just leave word here with my aunt telling him where we’ve gone. He can follow after and escort me back, same as he intended before.”

“That hardly seems fair to him. How old is the lad?”

Mary hesitated briefly. “George is fifteen, he’s old enough.”

Jamie swore under his breath. “We dinna even know where we’re headed yet. Could be as far as the colonies. And even if ye did accompany us on the journey and instructed yer wee brother to follow us… by time he arrives, ye willna be fit to make the journey again wi’ the bairn coming. You’ll have to have the baby in another country, alone.”

“I’ll be alone no matter where I am,” Mary pointed out and Jamie immediately regretted his words. “Doesn’t matter if I’m in Italy or France, the colonies or my father’s estate.”

Jamie sighed. “I still dinna like the idea. Ye’re finally safe here and under no obligation to help us further. I’m already indebted to ye for getting us this far. No, I couldna ask that of ye.”

“Good thing you didn’t ask then.” Mary straightened her spine. “And it’s… it’s me who’s indebted to you. If you hadn’t come to Inverness, I’d still be‒”

Jamie raised a hand in silent pleading. After all they’d been through since he’d knocked on her door in Inverness, there simply was no keeping score of how they’d aided one another. And he valued her friendship too highly to think of it as mere transactions.

He sighed loudly, hating the idea but seeing that determined look in Mary’s eye.

“Besides,” Mary added, “I’m not really doing this for you.”

He smiled cheerlessly, once again turning his gaze back to the red-headed toddler in his lap. For Claire, she’d said at the start. And it had never escaped his notice just how much Mary risked to repay Claire’s kindness, her friendship. “Well, I thank ye for it. Truly. Ye’re a good friend, Mary Hawkins.”

The evenings were always bittersweet in Edinburgh. It meant putting Faith to bed, a small routine that they’d carved out no matter where they were, and a time that Jamie always treasured. And it also meant once his child was asleep that there was nothing to preoccupy his mind, to keep his anguished thoughts at bay.

But before then, his complete attention was always on Faith.

“C’mere, lass.”

He scooped her up and headed toward the nursery where Faith slept. He felt her head rest heavy on his shoulder as they went, and her small hand patted his opposite shoulder gently.

He was helping her change into her nightgown when she sneezed. Three times in quick succession.

“Something tickling yer nose, a nighean?” he said lightly, though his hand went to her forehead and tried to gauge her temperature. Felt normal, but there was a small voice in the back of his mind ‒ Claire’s voice ‒ reminding him that unless the fever was very high, it was often hard to discern if someone had a fever by merely feeling for it.

Faith rubbed her nose with the back of her pudgy hand and looked up at him with glassy eyes. “Christ, I hope ye’re not sick.”

He took her wee face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her hairline, then rested his cheek there for a moment. She felt a little warm, but did that mean…?

Faith’s little hands wormed their way between them and pushed his face away. “No’ sick.”

He chuckled and pulled back, startled by her boldness, her certainty. A pint-sized force of nature, even if she was ‒ perhaps ‒ feeling under the weather.

But God in Heaven! He wished Claire was here for this. For all of it with Faith, but especially this. She would know better than him what to do if Faith got sick.

“Ye ready for bed then?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No’ yet, Da.”

“Not yet?”

Again, she shook her head, this time with a hint of a smile on her face. The more she learned to talk, the better she became at delaying her dreaded bedtime. She burst into a flood of speech ‒ not much of which was intelligible to Jamie, but she had something to say nonetheless ‒ which ended promptly with the word “story.”

“Ah. Ye’ll be wanting yer bedtime story then, is tha’ it?”

A curt nod from Faith.

“Aye, I can oblige ye there, mo chridhe.”

He stood and watched Faith scurry over to the small bed that was all her own. As was their nightly ritual, he situated Faith off to one side and pulled the covers up for her before carefully easing his six-foot-four frame onto the comically small bed, curled onto his side with his feet hanging over the ledge. A gentle breeze could’ve knocked him backwards off of the bed, but this was what he’d done the first night in this strange house when Faith had been too scared to sleep alone. Now, she slept well enough so long as he was there to tuck her in, give her a story. Once she was asleep, he would move her more towards the center of the bed before he left and retired to his own room.

“What story would ye like tonight, a nighean?”

“My mam?”

He exhaled a laugh. They were always about Faith’s mam. Even while he worried that Faith would never truly know Claire, it couldn’t stop him from wanting to talk about her to Faith. To help her understand the magnitude of Claire’s love for her, and that it wasn’t Claire’s fault that she wasn’t here now with Faith.

“Aye, I can tell ye about yer mam,” Jamie agreed softly. He started as he always did ‒ with a memory of Claire, whatever came to him in the moment. And he’d simply talk for as long as Faith needed, weaving one memory into another until he noticed her eyelids getting heavy, her breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.

“Ken yer mother was verra canny,” he prefaced his next story, slipping subconsciously into past-tense when he spoke of Claire. “What she didna ken about healing could fit in a shoe. After the Battle of Prestonpans, I was so weary and hurting ‒ got stepped on by a horse that day, ye ken, and och yer mam was furious wi’ me ‒ but I came back into the cottage to watch her, tending to the injured men. She was tireless and so determined…”

When Faith was finally out, he reached over and felt her forehead again, battling a sinking feeling that Faith truly was coming down with an illness. She’d been sniffling and sneezing, but that could be nothing. Or it could be the first sign of something more.

“A Dhia…”

He ached for Claire every minute of the day ‒ needed her like the very breath in his lungs ‒ but he’d never felt so wretchedly helpless without her until this moment. What would he do if Faith became sick?

Panic squeezed his heart in a vice grip. She was all he had now. Faith, still so wee and fragile, was the only thing keeping Jamie from careening off into the dark. And suddenly, he wasn’t even sure he could do this on his own.

He wanted to steal away back to the stones with Faith, to find some way to fix this. She should be with Claire ‒ she should’ve always been with Claire ‒ and it wasn’t right that they had been separated. That Faith couldn’t travel like her mother could.

Since he was a lad, he had a habit of speaking to his departed brother, Willie. Since Willie had been the oldest, he rightly should’ve been laird. So much of Jamie’s life growing up had been the result of Willie’s death. Honors that would normally befall the oldest son passed to Jamie instead, like fostering with his Uncle Dougal or continuing his studies in Paris. This had always been front of mind for Jamie, and when faced with a decision as Laird, he found it only respectful of Willie’s memory to ask his older brother’s thoughts on choices that should’ve been his to make.

Aye, the dead had a way of living with Jamie. He hadn’t only talked to Willie, but to the plovers along the shore, which legend said carried the souls of young mothers lost in childbirth. And he’d done this for years before he lost his da, but never once in the time since Brian Fraser’s death had he spoken to his father.

But suddenly, he found himself longing to pour his heart out to his departed father, in conversations he’d been too hesitant to have with the weight of Jamie’s misplaced guilt over Brian’s death. Suddenly, more than anything, he ached for one last conversation with his da.

“How did ye do it, Athair?” he whispered in the still room the question that had been plaguing him. He was intimately familiar with the pain his father would’ve suffered when his mam died. “How did you keep on living wi’out yer heart?”

The answer was there before him in the sleeping form of Faith. His father had survived for his and Jenny’s sakes, carried them through their grief and gave them hope. And though it felt impossible, though everything within him screamed that this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, Jamie would do the same for Faith as his father did for him. “I ken now the pain ye were trying to hide, Athair. But ye raised me and Jenny well despite it all. Help me do the same.”

His hand gently brushed over Faith’s wispy curls as he then addressed his sleeping child. “I’ve told ye plenty about yer mam, but nothing of my mam and da. We’ll need tae remedy that. Another time.”

He breathed in deep and then sighed heavily. “My da only ever kent me as a lad. Sometimes I wonder… if he saw me as I am today, would he be proud of me now? Would he approve of who I’ve become? And would I be much different from who I was before... or would he still recognize me as his son?”

His thumb softly stroked at her hair just above her temple before tucking a few wayward locks behind one tiny ear. “But I look at ye, Faith, and… there’s nothing ye could do that would ever change how I love ye. How I’m bursting at the seams with pride o’er ye. And that’s one thing I ken my da would’ve been very proud of,” he shifted slowly and pressed a kiss to Faith’s head before he finally stood, “My bairns.”

  It had been a week since they’d found Donas and they still didn’t have a crumb of information for where Jamie and Faith might be.

“Would it have been better to wait at Lallybroch in case he sent word? Before we went trampling across the country in search of him…” Claire wondered aloud.

“That would have taken months to wait for news to arrive.” Murtagh eyed her protruding belly, just starting to appear noticeable to others under all her layers of clothing. “Ye dinna have that kind of time to wait around.”

Claire sighed. “Aren’t we just waiting here, until we find a trace of him? Doesn’t feel much different.”

Murtagh didn’t reply, just made that Scottish sound low in the throat and eased into a chair.

There was a boyish shout from outside and Claire’s gaze flickered over to the window. Fergus was out in the street with another boy, playing some sort of game. She’d told him to go run some energy off after he’d been driving her up a wall all afternoon within the cramped confines of their rented room. They’d had no lead on Jamie even after finding Donas and that had hit Fergus hard. But even worse had been walking away without the horse that Fergus had loved so dearly ‒ all the time wondering why Jamie had sold him in the first place.

“What if they’re already gone from here? How long do we wait ‒ how long can we wait before the money is gone?”

They’d had no collateral of their own to offer up for the horse and even though they had some money ‒ money that they’d carefully skimped and saved during their journey before arriving in Edinburgh ‒ it wouldn’t last forever.

Murtagh grunted softly again. He’d heard her, he just didn’t have an answer.

Claire had even tried offering her services as a healer here when they first arrived. But Edinburgh was a bustling Lowland city, not a remote Highland village, and where those small populations would flock to Claire, the people of Edinburgh turned their nose up at her ‒ a strange woman they had no cause to trust or even to need in a large city such as this. So even the small hope of word getting out to Jamie of a Sassenach woman healer had quickly been dashed.

Her gaze sought out Fergus again and her heart sank in her chest. She wasn’t sure how much more disappointment they could shoulder before it became all too much. Or how much longer they could search before the only obvious solution was to turn home for Lallybroch.

Her hand fell to her belly. Murtagh was right about that at least. They didn’t have all that much time before there would be a baby to consider as well.

  The ports had reopened in Edinburgh ‒ but not without British control over what came in and out of the harbor. The sale of Donas helped provide enough to book passage on a ship, but they’d had to be careful in arranging it. Jamie had begun to notice the new broadsheets going up around Edinburgh and among them, one for Red Jamie. No doubt as the dust from Culloden began to settle, his disappearance hadn’t gone completely unnoticed.

He had followed the captain of a cargo ship recently docked in Edinburgh into a tavern one night. The captain ‒ a Scot through and through ‒ and Jamie swapped tales over drinks well into the night and only once he was sure the good captain had been plied with enough drink to make him amiable did he bring up the request to book passage with him.

“Ye dinna even ken where we’re going,” the captain laughed, his cheeks ruddy from drink.

Jamie laughed too, though he realized he’d made a misstep. That it might sound more suspicious now than if he’d learned of the destination first. Instead he tried to play it off as being cavalier. “Tell ye the truth… it doesna really matter where ye’re going, so long as it’s away from here.”

The captain chuckled and shook his head. They negotiated the price and sealed the deal there at that tavern table. “Write yer names down for me. I’ll have them added to the ship’s manifest. We sail in three days. Dinna be late.”

“And where are we sailing for?” Jamie finally asked.

“Och I thought it didna matter!” The captain roared with laughter again and Jamie reminded himself he couldn’t strike the captain that was giving him a way out of Scotland.

The captain stood to his feet, a bit wobbly at first try. Jamie thought of Mary and how she planned to leave a letter for her brother to be able to follow. How could he follow if he didn’t know where they went?

He opened his mouth to speak, but the captain clapped him hard on the shoulder and said, “Le Havre, man. We’re only going so far as Le Havre.”

In three days’ time, Jamie, Mary, and Faith were at the docks ‒ Jamie with his hair recently dyed black to cover his roots and Faith with her red hair tucked under a bonnet and then the hood of her cape as a precaution.

They would need to be allowed past by the Redcoat checking the ship’s manifest, the only hurdle standing between them and freedom. And having spoken with the captain that night in the tavern, they couldn’t fall back on their old gimmick of Jamie-as-a-mute. But this was a calculated risk he knew he would take, hoping that the time and miles between here and Culloden would be enough to shed any suspicion that he might be Red Jamie.

“Name?”

He met the eye of the Redcoat staring him down. “Alexandre Beauchamp,” he said evenly, letting a little bit of his admittedly imperfect French accent bleed into his thick Highlander dialect in hopes that it would at least confuse him. Off the surprised look from the man, he added with an easy smile, “I get that look a lot. My father was a Frenchman but my mother a Scot. Ye can see for yerself which side I favored in looks.” He could hide the red hair, but the towering height, the build of a man descended from Vikings… that could not be so easily hidden.

“And your companions?”

“My daughter, Faith Beauchamp, and Mary Hawkins.”

The man’s gaze flicked between Jamie and Mary, and though Jamie’s heart felt as though it might beat right out of his chest, this conversation was flowing exactly as he’d anticipated. They were almost through.

“And your relation to Mistress Hawkins?”

“My late wife’s sister. She’s accompanying me to care for my child.” It wasn’t terribly far from the truth ‒ and it was a necessity now to be able to explain why Faith called her Auntie Mary.

“And your reason for journeying to Le Havre?”

“My father’s family is there. My grandfather is in poor health and I must return.”

The Redcoat looked him in the eye again and Jamie knew what question came next. “And are you a Jacobite or have you ever aided the Jacobites in any way, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“No.” He was met with a look of vague suspicion and he mustered every ounce of easy confidence into next words. “I am not nor have I ever been a Jacobite, or a Jacobite sympathizer for that matter. And I never aided their cause in any way. I am loyal to the crown.”

The Redcoat quirked one eyebrow at that and Jamie felt his stomach twisting into knots. “They all say that… now.”

But with a quick jerk of his head, the Redcoat dismissed them. Jamie blinked, stunned for a moment that it had been that easy. Because even without proof… the Redcoats could have treated him any way they wanted. That was their claim as victors. They didn’t need a reason to not let him through and that had been the one variable Jamie couldn’t have planned for ‒ the mercy of a Redcoat.

He shifted Faith to one arm and moved past the man, ushering Mary ahead of him up the gangway to the ship.

“Sir! Wait.”

He froze, hearing the Redcoat’s voice ring out. Mary stopped too and whirled around to look back at him. His hold on Faith tightened and he turned slowly.

The Redcoat stared at him curiously.

Jamie forced a smile. “Have I forgotten something?”

“As a matter of fact…” the man held out his hand. In his palm was Sawny, which Jamie had given to Faith to keep her occupied. She must’ve dropped it.

“Ah. I thank ye, Corporal.” He grabbed Sawny and handed it back to Faith. “I would’ve had a verra unhappy child on my hands had that been left behind.”

He wasted no time waiting for a response and turned with Faith to head back up the gangway where Mary still stood. “Let’s go,” he uttered under his breath when they reached her. The sooner they could be at sea, the safer he would feel.

What he hadn’t expected to feel was the loss.

He held Faith in his arms as he stood by the railing and watched Edinburgh fade farther and farther away. Watched his homeland fade away, knowing they’d likely never return.

“Christ,” he muttered, blinking fast against the unexpected sting of tears.

Faith stretched her arm out in front of her, towards land, and waved.

“Ye saying goodbye, a leannan?”

“G’bye,” she echoed in a soft, song-like voice.

Ah but he would do it all again in a heartbeat for her, no matter the cost. It was always for her, for her wellbeing and chance at a happy life.

She grinned up at him ‒ not a trace of sickness, though they’d dealt with the sneezing and runny nose for a few days before she was back to her usual self. “Ken you’re mine, a nighean, but ye dinna have to rub my nose in it that yer stomach is as hearty as a sailor’s,” he teased her before moving below deck, where Mary was waiting. His stomach was already rolling and it was only a matter of time…

 July 1746

Claire was writing a letter to Jenny ‒ an update without much news, but she still wanted to keep Jenny apprised ‒ when Murtagh burst into the room, startling her violently.

“Jesus Christ!”

Without giving her much time to recover, he dove breathlessly into the reason for his unsettling arrival.

“I just spoke with a deckhand down at the docks, just come back from Le Havre.” Murtagh’s eyes were aglow and Claire tried to temper the hope buoying in her chest. “He said he remembers someone that looked like Jamie who booked passage on the ship last time they came through here. Said he was sick as a dog the whole trip… and he had a wee lass with him.”

Claire was trembling and her simple question came out in a frantic whisper. “When?”

Murtagh smiled broadly, his chest still heaving as he tried to get the words out without stopping for a breath. “Just last month. They’re in France, a nighean. We found them.”

She hardly recalled how she went from sitting at the desk to being wrapped up in an almost painful hug from Murtagh, shouting with joy to keep herself from bursting into tears.

“What’s going on?”

She pulled away from Murtagh to see Fergus enter the room, concern etched into his face.

“What happened?” he asked.

Claire couldn’t keep the smile from her face even as her vision misted over with tears. Not just for her joy of being reunited with Jamie and Faith, but for Fergus’s as well. “Murtagh found them, love. We’re going home!”

When Fergus ran to embrace her, she nearly stumbled backwards from the impact of it. She cupped the back of his head and held him tight, rocking slightly.

“We’re going home.”

“D’ye have everything then, Mary?”

“I believe so.”

Jamie turned to help Mary up into the carriage. Upon arriving in France, they’d gone first to Jamie’s Uncle Alexander at the Abbey of Ste. Anne de Beaupré, that being the closest and safest place to turn to. Jamie and Faith meant to stay on at the abbey a bit longer, but Mary needed to return to Paris, to her aunt and uncle who would welcome her into their home until her younger brother arrived.

“Wait. No. I did forget something in my room.” Mary turned and stepped down from the carriage. “I’ll be right back,” she yelled over her shoulder.

“It’s alright, lass. We have time.”

“Jamie!”

He turned to find his uncle exiting the abbey, making a path towards him. “Aye?”

“We’re expecting a delivery to the abbey today. Could you help them unload when it arrives?”

“Aye of course.”

It wasn’t long after his uncle had left him that he noticed the wagon jolting down the dirt road towards the abbey.

Nobody saw what spooked the horse pulling the wagon as it neared the carriage.

It happened too fast, the one horse trying to buck itself free of the wagon, and the team of horses hitched to the carriage panicking as a result.

One moment, Jamie was standing beside a carriage and the next, he was flat on his back with a searing pain in his leg and a crushing weight pinning his body down.

And then it all went black.

[thesibfiles]

Courtney going on tour right after?

Theres a misconception that after Kurts death, Courtney went straight on tour right away. This is false. The album was already set to release a few days after and they couldnt change that on such a short notice. Promotion for the album was cancelled and she pushed back the tour 4 months.

“Live Through This was supposed to provide Love an opportunity to step out from her famous husband’s shadow. “It’s annoying now, and it’s been annoying for nine years, Love said in a 1999 Jane Magazine interview of always being connected to Cobain. Released four days after Cobain’s body was found, the album’s promotion was put on hold. Rather than retreat from the public eye, Love openly mourned and helped fans of Cobain and Nirvana make sense of the singer’s death. She sat with grieving teenagers gathered outside the couple’s Seattle home and recorded a reading of parts of his suicide note that was played at the singer’s memorial that gathered near the Space Needle. In the days following his death, Love showed a very raw and emotional side and admitted that, like many fans, she didn’t have all the answers. 

It was, and still is, impossible for people to discuss Live Through This without noting the irony of the album’s title. Love has said the name was not a prediction at all, but instead a reflection of all she had endured in the months leading up to its release, including a very public custody fight with the Los Angeles Department of Family Services over daughter Frances Bean. Rumors suggested that Cobain had written much of Live Through This (it’s Miss World, not Mister, just FYI). “I’d be proud as hell to say that he wrote something on it, but I wouldn’t let him. It was too Yoko for me. It’s like, ‘No fucking way, man! I’ve got a good band, I don’t fucking need your help,’” was Love’s response to critics in Spin’s oral history of Live Through This. Love and Cobain often shared notebooks and lyrics with each other, and while there is talk of Cobain’s influence on Love’s work, or the writing of all of it, less is mentioned in the press of her impact on his lyrics and music. Rather than sucking all the life out of Nirvana or threatening the success of the band, like many assumed she would do, she inspired Cobain. Fun fact: In Utero, Nirvana’s last album, was named after a line from one of Love’s poems.

Sadly, songwriting rumors would be replaced by other rumors. Women are often vilified and condemned for the deaths of their male partners. Love, like all women, was supposed to save her partner from death and addiction. Fans of Cobain projected all their anger and resentment over the loss of the Nirvana front man onto Love, and soon she was blamed for not only his addiction but also his death. There are even two movies devoted to the theory that Courtney killed Kurt: the awful Soaked in Bleach (2015) and the equally awful Kurt & Courtney (1998). If you think we’ve come a long way, baby, sadly we haven’t. 

One year after Anthony Bourdain’s death, Asia Argento is still being blamed, and in September 2018, Ariana Grande had to take a break from social media after fans blamed her for the death of her ex Mac Miller. A few months later, she would be blamed for new beau Pete Davidson’s mental health and addiction issues. It’s amazing she finds the time to write hit songs what with all the dude destruction she has going on. When women are not being blamed for the deaths of the men in their lives, they are being attacked for not grieving properly. “She wasn’t crying. She’s got $30 million coming to her. Do you blame her for being so cool?” a hospital staffer said of Yoko Ono following John Lennon’s murder in 1980. 

About four months after Cobain’s death, Love went on tour to promote her new album. Some questioned and judged why she would go on tour so soon, but Love has said it was a necessity. She had a young daughter to support. She needed to work. She also, sadly, still needed to prove herself. “I would like to think that I’m not getting the sympathy vote, and the only way to do that is to prove that what I’ve got is real,” Love told Rolling Stone in 1994.

Twenty-five years later, Cobain’s death still hangs over Live Through This. In the days leading up to the anniversary of Cobain’s death, former Hole bassist Melissa Auf der Maur wrote an open letter to music magazine Kerrang saying she “would not stand for Kurt’s death overshadowing the life and work of the women he left behind this year.”

“We were extremely well designed for each other,” Love has said of her relationship with Cobain. In a letter reprinted in Dirty Blonde: The Diaries of Courtney Love, she calls him “my everything. the top half on my fraction.” The two had similar upbringings, both came from broken homes and spent childhoods shuttling between relatives and friends. They both grew up longing for love and acceptance. When we tell the story of Kurt and Courtney we talk about drugs and destruction, but we don’t talk enough about love.

The two also shared an intense drive and ambition. “I didn’t want to marry a rock star, I wanted to be one,” Love said in a 1992 Sassy interview. Evidence of her drive can be found in the many notes and to-do lists she kept, some of which are collected in Dirty Blonde. There are reminders to send her acting résumé to agencies, to write three to four new songs a week, to “achieve L.A. visibility.” A scene in the documentary Kurt & Courtney features an ex of Love’s reading from one of her to-do lists, which has “become friends with Michael Stipe” as the number one task to complete (not only did Love do this, but he is her daughter’s godfather). This ambition is not surprising from a woman who, when she was younger, mailed a tape of herself singing to Neil Sedaka in hopes of getting signed. Love knew what she wanted at an early age, and what she wanted was fame.

She was certainly living by the “do not hurt yourself, destroy yourself, mangle yourself to get the football captain. Be the football captain!” motto she championed in the 1995 documentary Not Bad for a Girl. Ambition is often a dirty word when it is used to describe women and Love is no exception. She has been repeatedly described as calculating and controlling when she should be rewarded for her blond ambition and viewed as an inspiration. Critics and the press often call her a gold digger who only married Cobain for fame and money. They fail to mention that when the two met Pretty on the Inside was actually selling more copies than Bleach, Nirvana’s debut album. Even post-Kurt, Love’s intentions were always under scrutiny. On the Today Show to do press for The People vs. Larry Flynt, Love refused to talk about her past drug use, despite the host’s repeated questions, saying the topic was not an appropriate fit for the show’s demographic. She was right, but it didn’t stop a writer from describing the move as “calculating” in a 1998 Spin piece.

Cobain was ambitious too; he was just much slyer and more secretive about it. He was known to call his manager and complain when MTV didn’t play Nirvana’s videos enough, and he would correct journalists who misquoted the band’s sales figures in interviews. While success is typically celebrated and rewarded for men and it certainly was for Cobain, he also had to be mindful of the slacker generation that loved Nirvana and greeted success — and especially mainstream success —

While female celebrities like Love are criticized for their rebellion, male celebrities, like Cobain for example, are celebrated and mythologized for it. Cobain and Love both struggled with addiction, but it is Love who is repeatedly vilified for her drug use. “She was vilified for being a mess, for being a drug addict, for not being a great parent — in other words, all of the things we expect in a male rock star,” said Bust magazine in a piece in the magazine’s 20th anniversary issue, which featured Love on the cover.

We make jokes about the drug antics of male celebrities from Keith Richards to Charlie Sheen, idolizing their debauchery and depravity. The new Netflix/Lifetime movie by Jack Daniels, The Dirt, about Mötley Crüe, takes the band’s excesses to almost comic levels. Check out crazy tourmate Ozzy Osbourne snorting a line of ants by a hotel pool! Such zany antics! I would love to see Lindsay Lohan try to get away with that. We never allow women to live down their arrests and their addictions, but we repeatedly allow men to have a redemption arc. Robert Downey Jr. was in and out of jail and on and off drugs for much of the mid to late ’90s, but we rarely, if ever, talk about his past.

When Love isn’t being attacked for her addiction issues, she is being judged for her parenting. Love’s first unflattering press was “Strange Love,” the much publicized 1992 Vanity Fair profile by Lynn Hirschberg. While the piece talks at length about Love’s drug use and constantly questions her parenting ability, it doesn’t paint Cobain in the same light. “It is appalling to think that she would be taking drugs when she knew she was pregnant,” says one close friend in the piece. Hirschberg relies on many unnamed sources and focuses often on the tabloid-like aspects of Love’s life and addictions. “Courtney has a long history with drugs. She loves Percodans (‘They make me vacuum’), and has dabbled with heroin off and on since she was eighteen, once even snorting it in Room 101 of the Chelsea Hotel, where Nancy Spungen died,” she writes. “Reportedly, Kurt didn’t do much more than drink until he met Courtney.” (Even when it is reported by Kurt and Krist that Kurt tried heroin in 1989, way before Courtney, It was also known that he smoked weed and used caugh syrup to get high in 1989 and 1990.)

This double standard was common in coverage of the couple. In Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck, the 2015 documentary by Brett Morgen, Love asks her husband, “Why does everyone think you’re the good one and I’m the bad one?” Later in the film we see a scene of Frances Bean’s first haircut. The child sits on Cobain’s lap while Love searches for a comb and scissors. The camera shows Cobain nodding off, and while he maintains that he is just tired, it’s clear he’s not. The scene is painful to watch, especially because those around Cobain carry on like nothing in wrong, giving the feeling this is just like any other day in the Love-Cobain household. The scene is a reminder of how the press treated Cobain’s addiction when he was alive. They just carried on like nothing was wrong, instead directing all their judgement at Love.

[dracosathenaeum]

OBLIVIATE | D.M.  ABANDONED FIC OUTLINE

Hello~

I’ve had this fic for @fuckingdraco ‘s writing challenge outlined for almost a year now. Half of it is a skeleton; i have some scenes which are fully written out and others which are just first drafts and idea dumps. this is quite literally copied and pasted so good luck if you read it.

I never had the heart to completely delete it but never liked it enough to write it; so here is my 2.2k draft fo what would’ve been a series. 

If anyone decides to read it, be warned, it’s a mess. i just didnt want it to die in my notes so it’s having a life here, in my new section of my masterlist ‘fics that never saw the light of day’.

warnings: memory loss, fight scenes, gore, fighting

//

Being in a secret relationships had its ups and downs

You had to sneak around

But that just made the moments you were together so much more meaningful

You couldn’t brag about him to your friends

But the both of you were quite private people anyways, explaining your absences as studying in odd places

No one ever found out

It was just you and draco

The summer of 5th year was hard as he spent all of it in the south of France with his family

But it made coming back in 6th year so much more exciting

your fingers ached to touch him as you walked past his carriage

It was moments like this that you wish you could openly love him

But when your friends started gossiping about how Harry Potter thought he’d become a death eater, you were suddenly glad you weren’t linked to him publicly

That thought itself set a heavy weight of guilt on you

He came back in 6th year and he had changed

His kisses lost their spark

His eyes lost their light

He’d fuck you rough and hard, almost as if forgetting himself. Before making it up to you in the next instance

Slow love making that made you feel like you had just slept with an entirely different person

You followed him

You supposed you shouldn’t have

But he was skipping meals and you couldn’t exactly talk to his friends when they didn’t know you

You couldn’t confide in your friends as they wouldn’t understand

So you had no other choice

You followed him throughout the nights, and every time you would find him slipping into the room of requirement when he should’ve been slipping into bed with you

Once you had gauged what time he usually went and on what days you yourself went, 10 minutes before he was due

You watch as he fiddles around some ancient looking cupboard and you wonder why you’re jealous of a dead tree taking up dracos time

You watch as he sends things through, until finally it works for him

But its not happiness on his face nor relief

It looks like dread

He doesn’t look like he’s accomplished something, no there was no way

You watch as he takes off his tie, throwing it in the pile of robes and jumper

You watch as he rolled up the sleeves to his arms, the arms that had held you up more times than you could count

And you watch as the dark snaking lines of the dark mark are exposed on your lovers skin

His eyes whip round to see yours, instantly widening in fear

It isn’t until you try to walk towards him and he throws his hands up to stop you do you realise the shattered glass littered around you

He flicks his wand and you walk over, standing in front of him trying to figure out why

“How did you hide it from me for so long.”

“Simple charms, I was hoping you wouldn’t have to find out.”

More dialogue where he explains

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

Draco please

“I can’t, I had to take this on my skin because my father fucked up”

“If I, if I stop now, I cant save my mother”

“Draco please, we can find a way around this”

You kiss him

And it feels like you’ve both gone back to before 6th year

When times were simpler

When he loved you and you loved him and that was it

No other interruptions

“Oblivate”

PART 1

“Y/n?”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Draco Malfoy, we share some classes but we haven’t spoken before.”

“Oh, im sorry, of course. I’m really tired I dont usually forget peoples names I swear. I must’ve been so tired I wandered in, I apologise.”

“It’s okay, the doors over there.” You take that as his polite cue of asking you to leave

He offers a tight smile, one you remember from first year, one you remember seeing across the hall as he’s shut down by Harry Potter

Poor guy must be going through something

“Y/n”

you turn, you dont even hesitate. You dont know what it is but you feel as if you’ve known him all your life

You change and you see a gold ring dangling from a dainty gold chain. You ask your friends if they’ve seen it before

im forgetting so much these days

But you keep it on, it brings you an odd sense of comfort

You keep it tucked beneath your blouse, bringing it to you lips on occasion when youre anxious.

//

He had forgotten about his ring, the very ring you had clasped between your thumb and finger as you worked on your essay. How was he possibly supposed to get it from you

he’s well aware he’s staring but his mind is whirling

He needs that ring

“Draco, isn’t that your ring?”

He should’ve obligated himself, that might’ve been easier

“I’m sure it just looks similar.”

“Draco, we both know that’s the Malfoy famlily crest, I wondered why you stopped wearing it.”

“Wait did she steal it?”

misplaced it

She picked it up

He had to awkwardly walk over to pick it up

“That’s my ring.” You had told him all about how your friends hated him and how you had feigned indifference the entire time

He had to act the part

Youre flustered, eyes flicking between the ring and him, fingers clasping it tighter as if not wanting to let it go

He notices and his heart clenches at the sight

Remembering the night he gave it to you

*flash back*

“I’m so sorry, I must’ve picked it up by accident here.”

“Wait, how do you even know it’s his, prove it Malfoy.”

“My vaults could buy Hogwarts, why would I be stealing gold from a nobody?”

Your cheeks flare up and your friends glare at him but see his side

You struggle to unclasp it, and of course you fucking do because his stupid fucking ass charmed it so only he could take it off

he watches as you struggle with it, turning to a friend to help before you have 6 girls pulling at the very expensive chain on your neck

“For fucks sake youre going to damage it, let me.”

Your breath hitches as his surprisingly warm fingers brush your hair out of the way, fingers working quick to unclasp the necklace, the weight of it leaving your neck and you feel surprisingly empty

“Thank you.”

You watch as he goes, your fingers scratching over your neck, feeling something bubble in your throat

This was pathetic, you were so sad over something that was never yours in the first place

You spend the remainder of the time trying to figure out how you cam to be in possession of it in the first place

//

your name is written in beautiful cursive on a letter that you cannot help but love

You turn it over to see a beautiful wax seal on it, fingers trembling as you break it

The chain is yours.

d.m.

You tilt the envelope over into your hand to feel the familiar weight of the chain in your hand, clasping it around you neck in an instant

You look in the mirror but you dont recognise yourself

Your friends are surprised when you study with them

When you go back to your dorm room at a reasonable time

And you dont have a clue where it is they think you go

But how could you possibly explain to someone what you font remember

The chain is too light around you neck, its just not the same, it feels as if it’s chocking you rather than bringing you comfort

You start digging through your trunk and draws, looking for something to act as a pendant before you finally do.

Hidden at the back of one of your draws you find a little velvet box you dont remember stashing away. But then again, you dont seem to be remembering much these days.

Its a tiny little constellation of stars, charmed to sparkle and you heart wonders why you had never worn it before. It was a simple little charm but once hooked onto the necklace, you look at yourself in the mirror and finally feel as though a little part of you has returned.

PART 2 THE CONSTELLATION IS DRACO

6th and 7th years are a blur

A blur of horror

You dont really understand how life had changed so abruptly

You dont know how you end up fighting in a war at the age of just 18 but here you are

Draco stands with Hogwarts

And then his mother calls

You’ve seen him

Of course you have

You know what he is, know what his parents are

But you also know what he has done to make Hogwarts more bearable for you under the Carrows watch

The small things, diverging attention away from you and your friends

He wasn’t evil and some part of you knew that

You watch as he takes a shuddering breath and starts to walk

You watch as no one stops him

You watch as he loses more of his soul with each step towards mr no-nose

You dont know why you do it

You run

Your friends call your names, teachers joining in

They think youre joining the other side, they think youre fucked in the head, as they had since that incident in 6th year

But no, you were just missing something

you catch up to him pretty quickly, pulling him to a stop

“Ah, another to join my cause. Welcome young lady.”

“You know me. Im missing something but whenever I’m with you, whenever im holding this stupid constellation close to my heart, I feel at ease. Why”

he stares at you incredulously, and why wouldn’t he. Youre in the middle of a battlefield, Harry Potter has just been declared dead and Voldemort is less than a meter away

But you dont feel scared

And you feel stupid for not feeling scared

“It has felt like I dont even know who I am for the past 2 years, what did you do to me?”

You know everyones watching, you can hear the gasps on both sides as they think the worst of him

“I did what was necessary.” That was the first time he had spoken more than 2 words to you since he had gotten his necklace back that day in the library

“Draco, this is no time to be flirting. Come join me, bring her with you if you want.”

He tenses as voldy rests a boney hand on his shoulder, pulling him towards the other side, away from you

“If you won’t be joining us, we will use you an example of what will happen if you dont join us.”

You stare at him unfazed, fear was something you had gotten used to

Your fingers grip your wand in hand, running through all the spell harry had taught you in the da but its not enough

You are no match for voldy as he throws an unforgivable at you

You hear screams around you but all you hear is silence, as if the world had finally gone silent

//

Draco watched as the spell hit you directly in the chest. He had spent 2 years living with his actions all for it to have gone to naught in a single second

He watched as the light from his wand hits you

Before rebounding off you as if it hit a shield

There’s a flash of black and his mother is infront of him, wand out from deflecting the spell from bouncing back and hitting him

“Mother?”

“She’s important to you?”

“She gave him one of the fucking family heirlooms, either she’s important to him or he’s an idiot”

His parents were… bickering in the middle of a battle

voldy recollects himself but before he can talk neville speaks up “I have no idea what’s going on but-”

Draco drowns out the noise as he stares at you on the floor, youre covered in dust and in blood but youre alive

He hears screams as harry rolls from hatreds arms, he hears the cries from death eaters but all can see is you

“We’re switching sides now?”

“I mean he’s fairly distracted, he won’t have time to hunt us down, we owe it to our son.”

Fight scene

You remember everything

Fred Weasley teases the both of you, “we have a war to win, you can fuck later.”

He copy his lazy grin, a grin that lights you up, a grin that reminds you what’s left to fight for

You see the spell before he does

Youre in an arms reach of him but Draco cant reach you in time

You push Fred to the floor, putting yourself in the line of fire by default and draco has to watch you get hit all over again

“We need to talk about what exactly it is ive been wearing around my neck this entire time.”

“I think only my mother can answer that.”

[if you made it this far, send me an ask with the word ‘chicken’ and i’ll send you a cursed photo xx]