#Lucy's scrawlings

[chen-chen-chen-again-chen]

WIP Wednesday / Carry On Countdown Day 7: Veil

Hello!! Happy Odin’s Day and thank you very kindly for the tags, @whogaveyoupermission​, @ionlydrinkhotwater​, @cutestkilla​, @fatalfangirl​​, @facewithoutheart​, @larkral​​, and @martsonmars​! Beautiful souls, all. ❤️❤️❤️

Here’s another piece of art from the Rosethorn girl universe. I’m a cheating a bit and posting for tomorrow’s COC theme, Veil.

We called our sons’ names, but our voices were as wind

By Lucy Winifred Salisbury

Oil pastel

Excerpt from an interview with the artist:

A: “I dreamed we were ghosts.”

Q: “Ghosts?”

A: “Yeah. We were at Watford, in Simon and Basil’s room. In the dream, they were older, and they were roommates. Simon didn’t have wings or a tail, but it made sense - you know, the way it does in dreams. I was trying to talk to Simon, but he couldn’t hear me. And you were just staring at Baz’s empty bed. We didn’t know where he was. I tried to reach out to you, but my hand went right through you, so we just looked at each other. And then I woke up.”

Q: “…” 

A: “Natasha, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

(Afterwards, Lucy and Natasha went outside to the lawn at Pitch Manor, where Baz and Simon were playing football. They called a time out for hugs and hot cocoa, though neither of the boys knew why.) 

Personal blather & hello tags under the cut!

It’s been a very rough week. I haven’t drafted much for the Rosethorn girl universe in the past few days, and I was going to be down on myself, but instead I am going to remind myself that I: 

- worded words for the incredible Legoscape that @larkral​ cooked up (the moving version, the still version). 

- shared snippets of six (!) different fics on Sunday.

- accidentally created a sideship (Swithin/OMC) and am already trying to think of how can I write more for these sweet nerd boys. (They play a lot of Magic: The Gathering together and Swithin learns how to play Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 not because of Yo-Yo Ma but because [1] Gregory’s into Neon Genesis Evangelion and [2] Gregory’s cute when he cries.)

And like, I have also done real life stuff like feed myself, sleep, come back to work in person while recovering from COVID, worked with my therapist, cried INTENSELY after working with my therapist, and facilitated two workshops. So yes: I Did Things This Week!! Win condition met!! 

Hello hello hello: @artsyunderstudy,@bookish-bogwitch, @captain-aralias, @excalisbury, @hushed-chorus, @johnwgrey​, @moodandmist, @nightimedreamersworld, @raenestee, @sailor-blossoms​, @thewholelemon, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe  

[some-bunniii]

ayo some luci angst just popped into my head, like….

imagine Lucifer falling in love with an employee at the hotel but their soul is owned by alastor and like?? luci is not happy about that.

*slams google docs on table, opens random 1.2k wrd snippet #234* behold…

x: GN!reader, no use of y/n

EDIT: read the full fic here

“What is this?” 

Lucifer had asked suddenly, his pupils dilated, trained on something against your throat. 

You sat on the edge of your bed, thumbs rubbing together in a soothing motion as you watched him move closer to you. Gulping, you parted your lips to speak.

You didn’t get a chance to say anything, before his hand gingerly lifted towards you. His nail grazed against your collarbone, and heat blossomed underneath your skin from his touch. 

‘Please, just stop here,’ you silently begged, eyes squeezing shut as his finger rested against your figure, ‘don’t ruin this moment by digging any farther.’

Your reaction only spurred him, however. Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his pupils thin slits now as he watched you.

Slowly, his finger trailed upward, skin brushing softly against yours as he traced the invisible force only a powerful demon could see. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest, every movement of his only quickening its pace. 

Until his hand stopped, right in the middle of your neck, and you felt a sizzling against your skin. The heat was becoming too much, and you wanted to pull away from his touch. You didn’t, instead, you tensed, deathly still before him.

A soft golden light illuminated from Lucifer’s palm, as his fingers wrapped around an invisible object. A shadow formed in his grip, and he tugged at it, that glow in his palm growing stronger.

Backing away, he pulled a long, thin chain from your figure, it snaked from your throat as it followed his grasp.

He yanked it harshly, as if trying to free you of a parasite that found a home deep in your bones. But it only dragged across the floor, refusing to dislodge itself from your body.

A thick, metal collar snuggly encompassed your throat. The chain locked tightly against it, a vivid reminder of your poor decisions.

Lucifer’s palm slid across the cold, metal links. Eldritch magic seeped from its form in the shroud of thick fog. Archaic symbols danced at the edge of your vision as its glow illuminated Lucifer’s unreadable expression.

The chain was a sickly green, its harsh glow an annoyance to his eyes. It was embedded with a dark, chilling magic. Whispers of untold horrors and ancient curses coiling around you, promises of a fate worse than death. 

Lucifer could practically smell it, that red demon's aura as it encircled around your frame. A twisted signature, practically scrawled across your forehead like a stamp of ownership.

Oh, the audacity of a person to take such a kind, selfless soul and rip it away from its owner. 

You weren’t some dog to be beckoned at the flick of a wrist. You were so much more than that, you deserved so much more than that. 

Yet here you were, the clasp around your neck like a shadowed hand, softly squeezing the life out of your eyes. He could see it, clear as day.

Small, white horns protruded from his head as he clenched the chain tighter. He tugged it once, twice, as if testing its durability. You leaned back slightly, the chain becoming taught between the two of you.

That collar around your throat kept you locked in place, as you watched him turn the chain in his hands. For a moment, Lucifer’s figure melded into the horrid shadow of your owner, and your eyes widened in fear at your delusion.

You could see it, feel it. Your stomach brushing the stained carpet beneath you with that haunting figure bent in a sickly, twisted angle in front you. That chain wrapped around the radio demon’s hand as he threatened you with terrible acts if you failed to stay in line.

Seeing your face contort into pained anguish only caused Lucifer to bare his teeth slightly, the sharp edges glinting in the light.

Seeing it so deeply entwined with your very being only further spurred the king’s anger. It seeped quietly from him, his grip tight against the chains as if trying to snap them with his bare hands.

“Who did this?” He hissed, his gaze boring into yours. He wanted to hear you say that demon’s name, wanted to hear you confirm the truth that was so obvious in front of him. 

You knew he wasn’t angry at you, but still you bowed your head slightly. Averting your gaze from his pleading eyes, shame slowly clawing at your stomach. For a moment, you felt like throwing up. Wanting to rid yourself of the terrible feeling that was seeping into your skin.

You felt like crying, or throwing yourself into his arms. Wanting to melt into his hold, and be told again and again that everything would be alright. That the most powerful man in hell would come to your rescue.

But, deals that bartered in souls are a much more difficult magic to conquer.

Fighting the urge to collapse into his embrace, you steeled yourself. Hands planted against your knees, back straight in a pathetic attempt to have some kind of power in this moment. 

Your eyes sullenly traced across the harsh links of the chain, its form all too familiar by now. Yet, it still caused such grief in your bones no matter how many times you looked upon it over the years.

Slowly, your eyes shifted to meet his gaze. Your lips curved into a frown at his expression, and your predicament.

How were you supposed to tell the love of your life your soul didn’t belong to you? That you were trapped in a deal of your own making? 

Curse that little fine line in your deal that kept your mouth sealed shut, that prevented you from uttering his name.

“I-I..” You desperately tried to speak, to tell him the truth, but that invisible hand that pulled at your tongue forced your silence. Tears pricked at your eyes, the desperation in them evident as your attempts to explain only died behind those pretty lips of yours.

As your mouth shut in frustration, Lucifer’s anger only heightened. His eyes flared into a blood-red glow, a harsh change from that soft yellow radiance you often found yourself lost in.

He pivoted harshly away, his voice contorting into a snarl as he stalked out of the room. His overcoat appeared atop his shoulders, and it swished behind him as he moved. 

Lucifer’s thoughts were too tangled with the images of his claws wrapping around the deal-makers throat to sit there and console you.

The tears that had threatened to spill finally rolled down your cheeks, your lip quivering as your eyes lingered on the doorway he had just exited. His thoughts too mangled with the image of his claws wrapping around the deal-makers throat to sit there and console you.

Placing your face into your hands, you sobbed quietly. 

Oh, how that regret had begun to consume you as you continued to wallow in your self-pity. 

Regret, for thinking that giving away your soul was a simple feat. That somehow, you’d still be happy after the fact. 

Regret, for falling in love when you knew the deal that kept you to that deer demon’s side would never allow you to enjoy such a fleeting emotion. No matter how hard you clawed to Lucifer’s soft embrace, that chain would always be there to drag you back. 

Those soft whispers of affections, of promises you couldn’t keep. Knowing, one day, that constant-smiling demon could play his little games and tear you away from your lover’s hold forever.

Oh, what a lovestruck idiot you are. 

thoughts?? this is just an interesting concept to me and i rlly wanted to share it with you guys! i woke up at like 4:30 am today and was like ‘what if..’ and this is what came of it haha

and mmm alastor makes a such a good bad guy too depending on the context x)

[b14augrana]

Portrait

When Alexia decides to give into her curiosity and sit down at one of the street artist stalls stationed on a busy Parisian road, she leaves with something more special than a self portrait.

Alexia Putellas x reader

masterlist

Warnings: straight fluff and bad translations but dont worry its only short x

A/N: ALE RENEWED WE CAN ALL REJOICE!! 🙏

The strong Parisian sun beat down on the heads of locals and tourists alike as they walked down the crowded streets. You were perched on a stool, staring intently at your canvas as you gently painted the smile lines of a lovely old lady that stopped by your stall.

You loved your job for this very reason. You knew how hard it was to love yourself from your own perspective; you hoped to do every individual person’s beauty justice with your paintings.

Of course that wasn’t enough income on its own so every morning you found yourself in one of the local bakeries either working behind the scenes or at the front counter. Baking and painting were jobs you loved and found so similar because they both resonated with your desire to indulge in art wherever you could find it, and to you they were the simplest forms of art.

“And… I’m done. Here’s your finished portrait, madame,” you said with a smile, lifting the canvas off the easel and gently setting it into the woman’s arms.

“Je ne peux pas te remercier assez, ma chérie ! C'est beau, merci,” she replied, admiring it with tear-brimmed eyes hidden behind her glasses. You said your goodbyes and watched her walk off with a grin on her face, and then you picked up a fresh canvas and placed it on your easel.

You didn’t have time to shake your head at the many smudges of paint on your clothes as another person approached you.

“Hola!” a woman’s voice spoke, making you look up curiously. Standing before you was a blonde woman smiling slightly, gesturing to the stool behind the easel. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” you nodded, returning her smile and swirling your paintbrush in some fresh water as you prepared to paint her. “You’d like a painting, no?”

“Yes please. Also, forgive me for saying hola — I forget that I’m not in Spain,” she laughed, inciting a giggle from you.

“It’s okay. I do the same when I’m outside of France,” you added, dipping the paintbrush into some fresh paint before grazing the canvas. “So, you’re Spanish.. what’s your name?”

“Alexia. I’m here for a holiday, because I’ve finally got some time off work,” she explained with a huff. You smiled behind your easel, painting the woman’s chiseled bone structure with intricacy as you added to her face.

You liked her already. You had barely said anything to her, but something about her was genuine.

“Are you with anybody?” you asked, curious to know more about her. She nodded her head, “Only two other people, my friends Lucy and Ona. They’ve gone on a wine tasting date, which is why I’m here.”

You laughed softly as you rinsed your paintbrush. “And you? Do you have anyone to go wine tasting with?”

“Next question,” Alexia responded, smiling through laughter. You began to paint her eyes and faintly outline her nose.

The rest of the time you spent painting every detail of her face flew by as you two talked and got to know more about each other. You learned that she was a professional footballer and lived in Barcelona, which you thought was very cool. She asked about your life and you told her that you were a born and raised Parisian who spent the rest of her days at home or in the bakery. You weren’t really concerned about yourself though; you were busy looking at her, and not for the purpose of the painting.

When you had completed the last strand of hair and placed the last freckle on her portrait, the sun had dried most of it already. As she stood up and picked her purse up, you flipped the canvas around and scrawled something on the back with a slight smile.

“There you go. Thank you, Alexia,” you said, handing her the painting. She gasped quietly as she admired it, and she looked at you for a moment before pulling you into a hug. “Thank you, chica!”

Even after she pulled away, her perfume clung to your skin like glue. It smelled sweet but not overwhelming… like coconut and caramel with an undertone of musk and vanilla hints. It smelled exactly how you imagined it to smell.

As you said goodbye, you didn’t reach for a fresh canvas. Alexia turned away, holding the newly painted canvas in her hands with her head down, her eyes fixed on it. She stood stagnant for a moment, scoping out every detail, and then she turned it over.

“Llámame, hermosa :)” was written on the back, followed with your phone number and a quick sketch of a flower bouquet. She immediately turned her head to glance at you over her shoulder, but you were occupied with someone else.

When she turned back around, a smitten smile was plastered across her face and she couldn’t help but feel giddy to get back to her hotel.

After another second, you looked up from your canvas, your eyes completely skipping the person sat in front of you and wandering over to the direction that she had walked in, watching the blonde woman disappear down the street.

“Est-ce que tu vas peindre ou quoi?” an irritated voice snapped from behind your easel.

“Désolé!”

[woso-dreamzzz]

New Girlfriend II

Lucy Bronze x Teen!Reader

Ona Batlle x Teen!Reader

Summary: Ona's tipsy

It's hard to hate Ona.

You kind of wish you could regardless of the truce you have going on with her.

She's over all the time. She's always in your house and your face and you hate that she asks about school.

It was always Keira's job to help you with your homework. You miss Keira a lot which is probably why you stick heavily to her side when your Mum hosts a bonding night for the team.

You sit next to her and let her give you a hug that you sag happily into. You used to see Keira all the time but it's Ona that you see more often now.

It's strange but you're working on it because you think your Mum is really in love with Ona and she's so happy so you're sucking it up.

It doesn't mean that you don't stick to Keira whenever you can.

Originally, you thought it would get you some respite from Ona but it seemed that even Keira had a good relationship with her so, as you sat at the kitchen table, leaning against Keira as she helped you with your homework, Ona appeared out of seemingly thin air.

Her cheeks have a red kind of sheen that you know comes from the alcohol in her glass. She's a little tipsy, just like most of the girls in the house.

"You're so smart," She giggles as you scrawl down the equation Keira explains to you," Both of you. So smart." She breaks off into a fit of giggles and Keira leaves your side to guide Ona into a chair.

"How about we sit down?" Keira says as she takes the drink from Ona," And have some water."

Ona's giggling again and it's a little unnerving. She reaches across the table and holds the hand you're not using to write. Another wave of giggles. "You're so smart. Is it hard? Being smart all the time?"

"It must be," You mutter," Because this is my birthday party and I'm stuck doing homework."

You hadn't really wanted to do anything for your birthday. You didn't have any friends at your new school (the accent of your spoken Spanish tended to put people off) but your Mum took any excuse to get a bit tipsy without consequences and the team had ended up around your place to 'celebrate' which really acted as a dual celebration of the big one they just had over Real Madrid.

"That's sad," Ona says," I wasn't good at school. You're doing it in a different language."

You sigh softly, shaking your head in amusement as she continues to talk earnestly to you, making sure to keep eye contact so she's sure that you're understanding her.

"Lucy's so proud of you, she tells me all the time."

That shocks you a little bit. You hadn't really considered what your Mum and Ona talked about when you weren't there. Truly, you had imagined that their time was taken up by kissing.

"I want you to like me," Ona continues, still giggling and completely flushed in the face," How can I make you like me more? Arcade? Food? Food! Let's order food!"

"Let's not order food," Mum says as she approaches. She's not as tipsy as Ona is but there's a little flush to her skin. "Because then we've got to pay for everyone's."

"No!" Ona says with that dopey smile that she always gets when your Mum is holding her. "Just for the birthday girl." She looks at you again. "Ooh! Let's get cake!"

Mum laughs, leaning down to whisper in Ona's ear about something.

Keira, who you thought would be fairly awkward around the couple, just shakes her head fondly. "You two are gross," She declares with a laugh, confiscating both of their drinks. She's the most sober person in the house. "You're already lovey-dovey at practice."

Mum laughs. "This is my house, Kei. I can be lovey-dovey if I want."

"You're scarring her!" She says," Look at her!"

You've got your nose all wrinkled up in disgust and Mum leans over to pinch at her cheek.

"Don't lie, Kei! She loves this!"

You push her away in annoyance and try to throw your pen at her but you're caught off guard by Ona hugging you tight. You didn't realise she was such a sentimental drunk.

"You're so smart."

Oh, she's back on that.

"Lucy, tell her she's smart!"

"Very smart," Mum says. You're trapped by Ona so can't escape when Mum places a big, wet kiss on your cheek and then grabs you in a headlock. "My smart little girl!"

"Mum!" You cry out," Let go! Come on, let go!"

"No!" Mum laughs," You're a proper teenager now! My little birthday girl!"

"It's your birthday!" Ona exclaims like it's the first time she's heard the news," I got you a gift!" She pats wildly at her pockets before coming up empty. "Lucy, where's my gift?"

Mum's only half paying attention as she rubs her knuckles against your hair as you fight to get away, tears of laughter streaming down your cheeks. "Er...I don't know? I think you called it an experience?"

"Ah! Ah!" You had to admit (begrudgingly), Ona jumping up and down in triumph was kind of cute. "We will go to the beach! There is an arcade there! A big one! Bigger than the one here!"

It stumped you for a moment. Your love for arcades wasn't something that you talked a lot about but clearly, Ona remembered. She's smiling at you now and you tear your gaze away to look at your Mum.

"Really? And you're okay with going?"

"I'm going to the beach," Mum says," You and Ona can waste all the money you want but I'm working on my tan."

Ona sticks her tongue out. "Buzzkill."

[the-jules-world]

thoughts on the Pevensies returning home

Peter Pevensie was a strange boy. His mind is too old for his body, too quick, too sharp for a boy. He walks with a presence expected of a king or a royal, with blue eyes that darken like storms. He holds anger and a distance seen in veterans, his hand moving to his hip for a scabbard that isn't there - knuckles white. He moves like a warless soldier, an unexplained limp throwing his balance. He writes in an intricate scrawl unseen before the war, his letters curving in a foreign way untaught in his education. Peter returned a stranger from the war, silent, removed, an island onto himself with a burden too heavy for a child to bear.

Only in the aftermath of a fight do his eyes shine; nose burst, blood dripping, smudged across his cheek, knuckles bruised, and hands shaking; he's alive. He rises from the floor, knighted, his eyes searching for his sisters in the crowd. His brother doesn't leave his side. They move as one, the Pevensies, in a way their peers can't comprehend as they watch all four fall naturally in line.

But Peter is quiet, studious, and knowledgeable, seen only by his teachers as they read pages and pages of analytical political study and wonderful fictional tales. "The Pevensie boy will go far," they say, not knowing he already has.

His mother doesn't recognize him after the war. She watches distrustfully from a corner. She sobs at night, listening to her son's screams, knowing nothing she can do will ease their pain. Helen ran on the first night, throwing Peter's door open to find her children by his bedside - her eldest thrashing uncontrollably off the mattress with a sheen of sweat across his skin. Susan sings a mellow tune in a language Helen doesn't know, a hymn, that brings Peter back to them. He looks to Edmund for something and finds comfort in his eyes, a shared knowing. Her sons, who couldn't agree on the simplest of discussions, fall in line. But Peter sleeps with a knife under his cushion. She found out the hard way, reaching for him during one of his nightmares only to find herself pinned against the wall - a wild look in Peter's eye before he staggered back and dropped the knife.

Edmund throws himself into books, taking Lucy with him. They sit for hours in the library in harmony, not saying a word. His balance is thrown too, his mind searching for a limp that he doesn't have, missing the weight of his scabbard at his side. He joins the fencing club and takes Peter with him. They fence like no one else; without a worthy adversary, the boys take to each other with a wildness in their grins and a skillset unforeseen in beginner fencers. Their rapiers are an exertion of their bodies, as natural as shaking hands, and for the briefest time, they seem at peace. He shrinks away from the snow when it comes, thrust into the darkest places of his mind, unwilling to leave the house. He sits by the chessboard for hours, enveloped in his studies until stirred.

Susan turns silent, her mind somewhere far as she holds her book. Her hands twitch too, a wince when the door slams, her hand flying to her back where her quiver isn't. She hums a sad melody that no one can place, mourning something no one can find. She takes up archery again when she can bear a bow in her hands without crying, her callous-less palms unfamiliar to her, her mind trapped behind the wall of adolescence. She loses her friends to girlishness and youth, unable to go back to what she was. Eventually, she loses Narnia too. It's easier, she tells herself, to grow up and move on and return to what is. But her mourning doesn't leave her; she just forgets.

Lucy remains bright, carrying a happier song than her sister. She dances endlessly, her bare feet in the grass, and sings the most beautiful songs that make the flowers grow and the sun glisten. Though she has grown too, shed her childhood with the end of the war. She stands around the table with her sister, watching, brow furrowed as her brothers play chess. She comments and predicts, and makes suggestions that they take. She reads, curled into Edmund's side as his high voice lulls her to sleep with tales of Arthurian legends. She swims, her form wild and graceful as she vanishes into the water. They can't figure out how she does it - a girl so small holding her breath for so long. She cries into her sister, weeping at the loss of her friends, her too-small hands too clumsy for her will.

"I don't know our children anymore," Helen writes to her husband, overcome by grief as she realizes her children haven't grown up but away into a place she cannot follow.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Things Learned and Unlearned Ch. 11

Series Summary: Y/N has spent her life trying to outrun her mother's reputation. When she meets the rich and successful playboy, Dean Winchester, how quickly can he get her to stop running?

Pairings/Characters: Dean Winchester x Y/N, Sam Winchester, Jessica Winchester, Lucy Winchester (OC)

Warnings: Each chapter will have it's own warnings, but there will be smut, seduction, virgin!reader, playboy!dean, Edwardian era BS attitudes surrounding sex and women. (Technically it's set in 1900 and the Edwardian era started in 1901, but you get it.) Angst, Fluff, all the good stuff that regularly pops up in my series. 😁

Chapter Warnings: Blowjob, oral (f. receiving), sort of dirty talk, praise!kink if you squint.

Word Count: 4,418

A/N: Here's Ch. 11. I so appreciate all the love and support you're all giving this series. Hope you enjoy the latest installment. ❤️

Series Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

Y/N had a very hard time falling asleep that night. The bed was too big, the room was too dark, and there were strange noises around the room that she never even noticed when she was wrapped up in Dean's arms. 

She missed him. And the more she missed him, the guiltier she felt for hurting him. She knew, of course, that he would never force himself on her. That wasn't what she'd meant, but she saw now, that was exactly how it sounded to Dean. 

But she'd been genuinely curious and very worried about the expectations that went along with being a mistress. She knew if she said no, Dean wouldn't ignore her wishes and just attack her. But she'd wondered if there was a limit on how often she could refuse before she got tossed aside. 

Not that she imagined she'd be saying no or turning him down very often…or ever. All the man had to do was kiss her, or touch her lightly and she was gone. But all of the unknowns of this life he was asking her to commit to, still terrified her.

She hated the uncertainty of it all. When it was only the two of them, there were no uncertainties, everything was perfect. But they couldn't simply exist outside the world they lived in.

And the reality was that the world they lived in wouldn't bat an eyelash at Dean for keeping a mistress, but as his mistress, her entire world and place within it would be forever changed and she couldn't ever go back.

She simply had to decide if a finite amount of time spent with Dean was worth infinite ostracism from society. What would she do when Dean was done with her? Would she simply move into someone else's bed? Would she sell off her beautiful Tiffany's bracelet so she could go without a new protector for a little longer?

Her questions and their fearful answers kept her tossing and turning all night. In the morning, a soft knock at her hotel door pulled her easily from her restless slumber. 

She wrapped her dressing gown around her and opened the door a crack. Outside a young maid bobbed a curtsy and handed her a sealed envelope. 

“Just arrived for you, ma’am.”

Y/N took it, and called the maid back as she turned to leave.

“Could I please have a cup of coffee with scones and jam?”

She knew she wasn't going to be able to sleep anymore, so she might as well start her day. The maid nodded and hurried on her way.

The letter had obviously been hand delivered, since there was no return address or postage stamp on it. But she recognized Jessica's writing on the envelope.

Y/N sat in the green chair and tore it open.

Y/N smiled softly as she read the letter and then quickly scrawled a note, accepting the invitation, at the bottom of the page.

She put the letter in a fresh envelope with Jessica's name on the front, and gave it back to the maid when she came with her breakfast.

"Can you have a messenger take this back to 1511 Riverside?"

"Yes Ma'am." The maid said with another quick curtsy and a friendly smile.

After breakfast, Y/N bathed, and dressed in a simple day gown that she didn't need help to get into, and sat down to read. But her mind was far too distracted to concentrate on it.

She thought about going for a walk through the gardens, but it was a particularly frigid day and the idea didn't really appeal to her. 

So, for most of the day she stayed bundled up in the green chair, with a book that she paid no attention to, open in her lap.

Darkness came early, the winter sun setting before the evening had truly even begun. Y/N lit one small lamp, leaving the room dimly lit. Lord knew, she didn't need the light to read.

A delicious supper arrived and she picked at it, somehow both hungry and slightly nauseous at the same time. 

Finally, not long after the clock struck eight, Y/N decided to simply go to bed and possibly make up for the terrible sleep she'd had the night before. 

However, as she was about to stand up, a knock at the garden doors startled her. 

Dean stood on the other side of the doors as the wind and snow swirled around him. Y/N went to the door hesitantly at first, but then hurried the last few feet, wanting to let him in out of the cold.

She opened the door and waved him in. A gust of wind and snow followed him into the room and Y/N shivered. Dean closed and locked the doors behind him. Then he pulled the thick, heavy, velvet curtains across the doors to better keep out the cold.

"Freezing out there tonight." He said as he stomped his boots and shook his head lightly, knocking loose a few more fistfuls of snow. 

When he was finished, silence enveloped them and the tension expanded between them. Finally Dean waved to the unread book Y/N still held in her hands.

“Didn't mean to interrupt you.”

Y/N shook her head and walked back to the chair, setting down the book before perching on the edge of the seat 

“No, I wasn't really reading.”

More silence stretched between them, making Y/N wring her hands in her lap. Eventually she couldn't take it and the words just burst out of her as she looked up at him. 

“I'm so sorry, Dean. I never meant to make it seem like I thought you were some kind of monster.”

Dean shook his head, a few more snowflakes falling to the ground as he strode to the chair and dropped down onto his haunches.

“No Y/N, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten so angry. I just…” He trailed off, looking to the side and then at the floor. “I need you to tell me something honestly.”

Dean's voice sounded  unusual - strained and tight. Y/N nodded. “Of course.”

He looked back at her, his eyes level with hers. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, before letting the words tumble slowly out of his mouth.

“Have there ever been times-” He dropped his gaze again, staring at her lap. “Have you ever…said y-yes, when you meant-”

“No.” Y/N said firmly, shaking her head. She cupped Dean's cheek and raised his gaze back to hers. She felt her heart clutch at the look of fear that he tried to keep out of his expression.

“God no, Dean. Never.” She felt tears gather at the look of profound relief that spread over his features. Had he spent the whole night and day worried and guilty he'd done something wrong?

She leaned forward and pressed a petal soft kiss to his lips and then rested her forehead against his. 

“I will always want you.” She said quietly. “It never stops actually. It's slightly inconvenient.” 

Dean exhaled a chuckle. “Tell me about it, sweetheart.” 

She was happy to hear his voice closer to normal and she kissed him again briefly, before rising from the chair and moving past him. 

She shook her head. “It's just…those women last night, they…”

She turned back to face him where he still crouched by the chair. “They were all talking about their lives and they made everything seem so…” 

She took a deep breath, searching for the word. “Transactional.” She finished, her shoulders slumping as her breath rushed out. 

Dean nodded slowly as he rose to his full height and walked towards her, pausing with barely two feet between them.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I suppose the truth is that, a lot of the time…it can be sort of, transactional.” He shrugged gently. Y/N nodded and looked at the floor.

Dean stepped even closer and raised her chin with his fingertips. “But that's not what I want with you.” He said, his voice adamant.

He sighed softly and his face was earnest as he spoke. 

“Look, I buy you things, and spoil you a little because…” He shrugged. “Because you deserve to be spoiled. You deserve beautiful things.” 

He let his knuckles trail down her cheek. “And I can give them to you, which makes me happy.” 

He cupped her cheeks in both hands and stared directly, and fiercely, into her eyes, taking in a deep breath. “But you don't have to…” He exhaled slowly. “You don't have to earn them. Do you understand?”

Y/N nodded and felt her heart ease slightly. But she bit her lip; something was still worrying her.

“I need you to tell me something honestly.” She said, echoing his earlier words.

“Of course.” He said, echoing hers with a slight smile.

Y/N began wringing her hands again, not sure how to word her question.

“Doesn’t it ever bother you that…I mean does it annoy you that you can't…or, I mean, that I won't…let you…bed me properly?”

Dean's eyes widened and then his expression settled into a frown. He opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again. 

He was quiet for a moment before stepping closer and taking hold of Y/N's hands in his to stop her squeezing and rubbing them over and over.

“Look,” he said, his voice low and deep, “I'm not gonna lie and act as though I don't wanna…” 

His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath. “...don't wanna take possession of all of you, every inch of you. Or pretend like I don't wanna bury myself so deep inside you that I forget my own name.” 

His voice was rough now and his eyes blazed with heat, making Y/N's core clench and her body ache a little. 

“But,” he exhaled roughly. “I understand. I realize that…no decisions have been made about your future. And you don't want to commit to such a permanent action when this may be a temporary situation.”

Y/N was immensely grateful for the way he understood her. She never would have been able to say it so concisely.

He continued with a smile. “So, I can wait. There's no rush, and I'm perfectly happy with what we have here and now.” 

Without warning, he yanked her flush against him and she gasped as he breathed against her lips.

“Speaking of the here and now, are we finished this here fight now?”

She chuckled breathlessly as he tilted his head so he was almost kissing her, holding back slightly, waiting for her answer.

She nodded quickly. “Yes, god yes.”

That was all he needed to hear for him to crash his lips down on hers and simply inhale her. His fingers bit into her hips as he tried to press her even tighter against him.

She pushed his heavy coat off his shoulders, sending his suit coat with it. Grasping frantically, she was tugging on the buttons of his waistcoat and then his shirt, desperate to feel his taut skin and firm muscles under her fingers. 

Dean pulled away with an annoyed growl to unlace his boots and kick them off. The task was made more difficult by Y/N's refusal to stop running her hands over his shoulders and back while he crouched in front of her. 

Finally his boots were off and he stood up quickly, driving Y/N backwards, till he could slam her against the wall.

“Sorry.” He said gruffly, but Y/N shook her head. 

“Doesn't matter.”

She pulled at his hair as he bent his head to suck bruises into her neck.  He pushed open the sides of her dressing gown and cupped her breasts through the thin silk nightgown underneath, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples.

“Dean!” She shouted as he tugged on one roughly.

He pushed off her dressing gown completely and then pulled the straps of her nightgown down over her shoulders, so that it slipped down her body and settled at her hips. He dipped his head and nipped at her breast, making her gasp before he smoothed over the spot with his wide tongue, and the gasp turned into a moan.

Dean’s voice was harsh as he spoke against her skin. “Goddamn, I missed you last night. Did you miss me?”

Y/N did her best to answer but it mostly came out as a whimper when he pushed her nightgown up between her legs, pressing against her soft mound, and warming the silk under his hand.

He chuckled darkly. “Yeah, I think you missed me.”

He pressed the material of the gown more tightly against her, rubbing at that overly sensitive button through the silk. The incredible feeling of the material, so soft and wet, as Dean rubbed it against her, quickly had her standing on tiptoe, grabbing at Dean’s shoulders for balance. Dean took away his hand but quickly slid his knee between her legs and pushed it hard against her aching core 

She knew what she was doing this time, and quickly began riding his thick thigh, rubbing back and forth on it, occasionally lifting herself an inch or two and shuddering at the impact when she pushed herself back down against the hard ridge of muscle in his leg. 

Dean raised the pooled silk at her waist and lifted it off over her head, tossing it aside. As she rode him, he trailed his fingers across every inch of her flushed skin. 

Finally he slipped his middle finger into her slick, swirling the rough pad of his fingertip against that magic button only a handful of times before she was exploding, shaking with her release. He held her against the wall for a long time, kissing her, licking and nipping at different parts of her naked body. 

He eventually eased back slightly when she could stand on her own, tilting his head forward to kiss the tip of her nose. 

As her heart fluttered at the sweet gesture, a thought entered Y/N’s mind and it wouldn’t leave. Dean’s head was dipped slightly, kissing the tops of her breasts. She ran her fingers through his hair and then spoke softly into the silky aftermath surrounding them.

“Dean, would you explain something to me?”

Dean murmured against her breast, making a sound in the affirmative.

“Could you explain…I think I know, but I’m not sure…” Her hesitation brought Dean’s gaze up to hers, and he arched an eyebrow. “Um…what exactly does it mean if I say I want to ‘get on my knees for you’?”

Dean’s eyes were nearly obliterated by his black pupils spreading over his mossy green irises. His breathing was slightly shallow as he spoke.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Last night some of the women were talking about being ‘on their knees’. Some of them seemed to like it, some of them didn't, so I thought I’d ask what it means.”

Dean’s jaw ticked and his whole body was hard. She could feel the telltale evidence of his desire as it pressed through his pants and into her thigh.

“What do you think it means?” Dean asked, his voice rough.

Y/N felt herself blush. “Well, I’m not sure, but it seemed like a way to pleasure you.”

Dean nodded. “Yes, it’s,” he cleared his throat, “it’s referring to you being on your knees in front of me, so I can…” He seemed to struggle for a minute, swallowing several times. Finally he cupped her cheek, and ran his thumb heavily over her lips.

“I’d use your mouth instead of your body, for pleasure. I would…push in and out of your mouth instead of…” He cupped his hand between her legs. “Instead of here. 

He licked his lips. “We’ve already done something similar before, I mean you’ve put your lips around me, and that was…incredible.” He shook his head. “But this would be a little more intense.”

Y/N nodded. “And it gives you pleasure? Can it make a baby?”

Dean shook his head and then clarified. “I mean, yes it would give me immense pleasure, and no, you can’t make a baby that way.”

Y/N bit her lip. “Then I want to do it. Would you help me? Tell me what you want, what I should do?”

Dean closed his eyes. “Yes, I can tell you. But,” he opened his eyes again quickly and smoothed his hands over the curve of her hips. “Y/N you don’t have to do it. I don’t want you to think, just because you heard those other women talking, that it’s something that’s…expected of you.”

Y/N shook her head. “No, Dean I want to…” She kissed him softly and spoke against his lips. “Don't you enjoy giving me pleasure? With your mouth?”

Dean groaned roughly. “Yeah.” He croaked, his eyes closed.

“Then let me do the same.”

She pulled back from him a little and he opened his eyes again to stare deeply into her for a moment. Finally he backed away, nodding slowly. When he was a few feet away from her, he crooked his finger at her.

“Come here, and get down on your knees.”

Y/N felt a slight shiver race through her body as she stepped forward. She knelt slowly in front of him; the plush wool rug was soft under her knees.

Dean reached out to trail his fingertips down her jaw. Again he rubbed his thumb across her lips, softer this time. He dropped his hand and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth before continuing his instructions.

“Open your mouth.”

Y/N dropped her jaw into a small O, but Dean shook his head. “No, wider.”

She stretched her mouth open wide and Dean nodded. “Stick out your tongue.”

Y/N felt a little odd, but she did it, and the look in Dean’s eye was worth it. His body, towering above her, was hard and thick with rigid muscle and he looked primitive, like something wild and untamed. 

He stepped closer and reached out his arm. “I’m going to show you what to do using my fingers first.” 

He took two thick fingers and laid them against her tongue. She tasted the saltiness of his skin and began drooling. Dean pushed his fingers in and out a few times. Then he pressed them far back in her throat and she gagged a little. 

Dean pulled them out quickly. “Are you alright?” 

Y/N nodded and wiped away the drool on her chin. “I'm fine. Keep teaching.” She said with a mischievous smile. 

Dean's eyes glowed with approval as he continued.

“This time, I want you to lick my fingers, roll your tongue around the tips of them, and suck on them, lightly at first, then harder as you pull off.”

She nodded, understanding immediately, thinking of all the times Dean had done exactly that to her little bundle of nerves - sucking softly and then tighter and tighter until the pleasure spiked in her blood and she exploded into a million pieces.

God, I want to give that to him. She thought as she closed her lips around his fingers again.

She did as he directed and as she pulled off of his fingers with a pop, she could feel the way heat and wet pooled between her thighs. Pleasuring Dean was making her desperate for more of him.

Dean nodded at her, his eyes nearly black. “That's good. Very good.” He whispered.

He licked his lips, his eyes hooded as he looked down at her.

“Take off my belt.”

Y/N reached up and opened the buckle before sliding the long, supple piece of leather from around his waist. She touched the button on his pants and looked up at him, a question in her gaze.

“Yeah, take them off, underwear too.”

Y/N slid his clothes down over his hips and thick thighs, releasing his rock hard shaft to slap loudly against his lower stomach.

Her mouth began watering as she leaned forward to take him between her lips. She flicked her tongue over his tip, since she always loved it when Dean used his tongue like that on her. 

It seemed to work for him too, because he groaned and bit into his bottom lip. She stretched her lips around his girth and slid down his length reveling in the harsh groan that seemed torn from Dean's throat.

His shaft was much wider and thicker than his fingers had been and her lips fit very tightly around him. She moved slowly up and down on him as she got into the feel and rhythm of it. 

Dean tangled his fist in her hair as he coaxed her to take him a little deeper and then a little deeper still. 

His voice was a harsh rasp. “Drop your jaw, sweetheart, I think you can take a little more.”

He hit the back of her throat and made her gag again, but as he tried to pull back, she pushed further, taking the last inch of him down her throat. 

She pressed her nose against the springy hair at the base of his shaft for a moment before pulling off of him with a gasp. She coughed a couple of times, but then sank back down on him again. 

“Y/N,” Dean ground out through gritted teeth. “look at me. I want to see your beautiful face while you take every inch of me down your throat.”

She looked up at him and felt more pleasure sing through her veins at the look of absolute, aching need on his face. She bobbed up and down on him faster and faster. He was hitting the back of her throat over and over, but she didn't gag again. 

He rubbed his thumb across her cheekbone, and shook his head, his voice barely more than a growl. “You're so goddamn beautiful, sweetheart. So perfect.” 

He thrust into her mouth hard and fast three times. Then he pushed on her shoulders. 

“I'm almost there, Y/N.”

He pulled out of her mouth but she wanted to feel him explode against her the way she exploded against him. 

So she sank back onto him just as his hips jerked forward. Suddenly she felt warm liquid shoot out of his shaft, filling her mouth. She swallowed quickly, but a lot of it still spilled out of her mouth and down over her breasts. 

Watching Dean shuddering above her, his face fixed in an expression of pleasure so intense it almost looked like pain, she slipped her hand down to rub against that aching bundle of nerves, trying to relieve the intense throbbing that watching his pleasure had caused.

Finally Dean's breathing began to return to normal and he groaned again as he looked down at her, covered in his seed.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N. You're a vision like this. The most beautiful creature I've ever known.” 

He saw her hand between her legs and the way she bit her lip as she chased her climax and his expression softened. 

“It's alright, baby.” He said, pulling her hand away and helping her to her feet. “I'll take care of you.” 

He led her into the bathroom and began to run a bath. While the tub filled, he wet a cloth and wiped away the remnants of him from her skin. 

Then he turned her so she faced the tub and pressed his big hand against the middle of her back, bending her over to rest her hands on the side of the tub.

She felt his fingers slip between her folds to find her button and circle it lightly. But then he lowered himself down and sank his mouth into her her from behind. 

Within seconds she was screaming out another climax as Dean held her tight against his mouth. As it receded, she slumped over the side of the tub, her hands and hair dangling in the water.

Dean made quick work of shutting off the taps, tying her hair back out of her face and then helping her step into the tub on her wobbly legs.

He settled her back against his chest and washed her completely with slow, soft strokes. When he was finished, they soaked in the warm water for a little longer, until Y/N felt like she was boneless and floating. 

Dean finally stepped out as the water cooled, and then bent slightly so Y/N could reach up and wrap her arms around his neck, letting him lift her from the tub. As he carried her to the vanity seat to dry her, she shook her head.

“You know, you indulge me a little too much. I'm going to get far too used to being spoiled and pampered.”

Dean grinned at her and then caught her lips in a warm, slow kiss. “Good.” He said, dipping his head to place soft kisses below her jaw. “That's exactly what I want. You should expect indulgence and pampering.”

He finished drying her and braided her still damp hair; he didn't bother dressing either of them again and simply laid Y/N down naked against the cool sheets. He warmed her up as he climbed in beside her and pulled her close. 

They were quiet for a little while, and Y/N was close to drifting off when Dean pressed his lips to her temple and spoke softly. 

“Thank you for tonight, sweetheart. It was incredible; you are incredible.”

Y/N pulled back slightly, looking up at him, so he'd kiss her. He took the hint and his lips pressed against hers only briefly, just a fleeting brush of his lips, but as she looked up into his soft, mossy green eyes, Y/N knew beyond a doubt, something that she'd suspected for a long time.

This man is the love of my life.

The thought made her stomach clench and her heart hurt as Jessica's voice came back to her, the warning ringing in her ears. 

"I just want you to know the truth of the situation, so you don't go into this time with Dean holding on to some kind romantic notion. He is who he is and you can't change that.”

Y/N felt her aching heart sink a little further as she laid back down on Dean's chest, one question plaguing her.

What am I supposed to do now?

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

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Dean Fics Only:

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Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

@kazsrm67

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Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

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[onas-batlle]

like daylight (part 1/?)

pairing: lucy bronze x ona batlle

warnings: none

synopsis: When you are both eighteen, anything your soulmate writes on their skin will be reflected on that of your own. Words in swirly, glowing, shimmering gold, these markings will link you forever to the one soul that is destined to intertwine with yours.

a/n: the soulmate au begins! this is kind of an intro chapter, so fair warning this first part will have a lot of keira x lucy (while they don't do anything romantic, they are in a relationship), and ona only makes one (brief) appearance. anyway, I hope the whole thing isn't super confusing, and ignore any mistakes lol.

Ao3 Link

When you are both eighteen, anything your soulmate writes on their skin will be reflected on that of your own. Words in swirly, glowing, shimmering gold, these markings will link you forever to the one soul that is destined to intertwine with yours.

It was the 27th of October, and Lucy lay stretched out on her bed on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, her mind a mess of thoughts as she grappled with the excitement of potentially being able to get in contact with her soulmate in only a few minutes.

11:57… 11:58…

She knew that it was probably going to be a girl; that realisation had already occurred and been faced head-on several years before that day, and she found that she was more concerned with whether or not her soulmate would also share her love of football than their gender identity.

She glanced at the clock again. 11:59. Lucy flopped her head back down onto her pillow and let out a groan at the slow-moving minutes, it almost seeming like the seconds were trapped in molasses. She hated to admit it, but Lucy had secretly been a romantic all her life and the idea that someone was out there in the world, crafted to fit with her exactly, was something that she had treasured forever.

12:00. Midnight.

As soon as the clock struck midnight, she eagerly grabbed a marker, pondering what her first message to her soulmate should be. She couldn't introduce herself by name - the magic didn’t allow that - so instead she tentatively wrote ‘Hi’, and waited for a response. When it didn’t come for an hour, she supposed that maybe her soulmate didn’t notice, or was busy.

When it had been a few months, she supposed that maybe her soulmate was a bit younger than her, and that was fine, she could wait.

Three, four, five, years passed and soon Lucy accepted that maybe she was just one of the unlucky ones who didn’t have a soulmate. Neither of her parents had lost hope, always having faith that one day her skin would be covered in words of gold, but after the third year ticked past, Lucy had resigned herself to the fact that there was no one written in the stars for her. Not that she cared for that fate stuff anyway, she often told herself.

So she fell into Keira. Keira, who was about as cynical as she was. Keira, who dismissed the soulmate stuff and said that they could write their own destiny. And Keira, whose hands were always covered in golden scrawls of unintelligible German. They loved each other as best as they could, anyway.

Lucy was twenty-five when a word showed up on her palm - bright and glowing gold. She kept it from Keira and hid in the bathroom to study it. It was a simple word - in Spanish, of course - Hola in loopy, curly writing. A small smiley face was dotted at the end of the word, and Lucy knew that it was for her.

So she did have a soulmate after all. One who was likely to be quite a bit younger than her, but a soulmate nonetheless.

Excitement flashed in her gut before she immediately felt guilty. Here she was, crouched in the bathroom, giddy with happiness, while her girlfriend was out in the lounge unassuming. Keira had chosen her despite knowing she had a soulmate of her own, so Lucy ignored the writing on her hand and exited the bathroom.

“You good?” Keira spoke, and Lucy just nodded, tucking her hand into her pocket. And if Keira noticed that she seemed a bit off for the next few days, she didn’t say anything.

A few more words came from her soulmate. A ‘cómo estuva tu día?’, and a ‘espero que estés bien!’ There was even some Catalan, which clued Lucy into the fact that her soulmate was from Catalonia, probably Barcelona. But as much as it pained her, Lucy ignored it all.

After that, Lucy’s soulmate didn’t write again.

A few months later, Lucy was in France. France which bordered Spain. Spain which was where her soulmate was from. She had always been drawn to Spain, even before finding out her soulmate was Spanish, but she urged herself to ignore it and just focus on football. She still had traces of gold - numbers and scrawled words, sometimes a sentence - but most of the time it was kept to a minimum.

She did know that her soulmate had tattoos though, several pieces having been marked into her skin for weeks until they faded, and several weeks where she was forced to wear long sleeve shirts to hide the swirling lines on her bicep that made up a map of the world.

She remembered one time when she awoke and went to take a shower, spotting yet another piece of inkwork. It was a lioness, glowing brightly on her shoulder blade, and Lucy had to choke back a laugh at the irony. She was unsure if her soulmate knew who she was, but their souls were intrinsically linked, so she shouldn’t really be surprised.

Keira eventually found out about Lucy’s soulmate, of course. She always knew when the fullback was keeping a secret, and it was stupid to assume that she could have kept something that big under wraps.

During one of the England camps, Lucy was walking to breakfast when someone suddenly caught her wrist and tugged her down a hallway, the English woman unable to stifle her small scream of surprise. When she finally got her bearings, she focused on Keira stood in front of her, a frown on her face.

“What’s wrong?” Lucy questioned, blinking in confusion at Keira’s expression, the midfielder’s eyes boring into her, unimpressed. Keira just let out a sigh at her question and grabbed Lucy’s hand, turning it over so her palm was facing down, revealing the glittering gold words on the back of it.

“Why not,” Keira read out and dropped Lucy’s hand, who had the decency to look a little sheepish. “Don’t think you went out and wrote this in gold ink by yourself, did you?” the midfielder stated and levelled the fullback with a pointed look. Lucy opened her mouth to respond when Keira sighed again and uncrossed her arms.

“Luce, I’m not angry. I mean I have a soulmate too. I just wish that you would’ve told me.” 

“I’m sorry. I- I don’t really know why I hid it from you, because you told me about yours and it was fine. It was shitty of me,” Lucy responded, hanging head slightly. She never meant to hurt Keira, after all.

Keira graced her with a small smile and shook her head before waving her hand to dismiss Lucy’s words. “Well, at the end of the day, we picked each other, didn’t we?”

Lucy was relieved to hear those words, glad her moments of weakness had not ruined their relationship, and so they went on with their lives, mostly unchanged. There was always that niggling thought in the back of her mind though, the one that belonged to a hopeful little girl who wanted to find the one person that had been made especially for her. But she was not a little girl anymore, and she had Keira now, so Lucy shoved those traitorous thoughts aside and tried her best to focus on her current relationship. The one that she chose .

When was twenty-nine, Lucy found herself back in Manchester. The return was mostly for Keira - the distance having put a slight strain on their relationship, and truthfully, Lucy had felt a little bit homesick anyway.

She’d always enjoyed just simply watching football, and naturally, she loved to take notice of the skills of other players who played alongside and against her.

It was the Manchester Derby when she spotted her , the right back for the other team. She was small but quick and hurtled up the right wing with a passion that Lucy hadn’t seen in a long time. While United did lose the Derby, the unnamed player still marched up to all of the City players, jaw set, and offered them a handshake in thanks.

Something tugged in Lucy’s heart as the short woman made her way around all of Lucy’s teammates, and she watched on until she was standing directly in front of her. 

“Good game,” the player spoke, extending her hand in front of her and tilting her chin up to meet Lucy’s eyes. The English fullback, almost involuntarily,  dragged her eyes over the features of the other defender, drinking in the constellations of freckles that dotted across tanned skin, the shiny brown eyes that were filled with a fiery determination, and the full lips that were currently pressed into a firm line. 

“Oh!” Lucy exclaimed as she realised that had been looking for a bit too long and reached out to grasp the other woman’s hand. “You guys had a good game too!”

As their skin made contact, the English woman flinched momentarily as she swore she could feel sparks pass between them and mentally berated herself at the physical reaction. An odd look passed across the other woman’s face, and before Lucy could even blink, she was gone, but not before the City player caught a glimpse of something tattooed on the departing player’s right hand.

She stood, stock still in shock for a few minutes until Keira came up to her and tilted her head inquisitively, before leading Lucy off the pitch and down the tunnel. She enquired about the player afterwards (“sizing up the competition are we Bronzey?”), and she was told that her name was Ona Batlle and that she was from Spain. The mention of that country caused Lucy’s stomach to twist, and she told herself off for the hope that flickered in her stomach at the idea that she could have just met her soulmate.

When home, she opened her phone to look at Ona’s Instagram, just to figure out if the other woman had those tattoos that had shown up on her own skin for a short period, but one glance at Keira who was washing her hands in the kitchen had her closing the app. She couldn’t go there. It wouldn’t be fair.

The next couple of years passed rather uneventfully, in terms of her personal life anyway, but soon she found herself starting to feel the boredom again, Manchester City not really ticking all her boxes anymore. 

Lucy wanted to win, win something big like the UWCL, and City just wasn’t cutting it. When she got the offer from Barcelona her first instinct was to immediately agree, but she had to pause to weigh the decision that she was facing.

Firstly there was the thing about her soulmate. She hated that that was the first thing her mind went to, but she’d spent several years grappling with her relationship with Keira and with the potential person that was predestined for her, so moving to Spain - which could place her within meeting distance of her soulmate - could cause all sorts of problems. The second thing she had to consider was that she might have had to do long distance with Keira again, but that was quickly forgotten when the midfielder told her that Barcelona wanted her as well. 

After a few weeks of discussion, they decided to make the move to Barcelona.

Several months later, after an amazing Euros that left them Champions of Europe, Lucy and Keira packed up to go to Spain. All seemed to have been going well - they were winning their games, and they were settling in well, but over the weeks, the romance between them came to a grinding halt and they found their relationship evolving into something merely platonic. It only took a few more weeks until it all came to a head.

Lucy came home from the shops one day and saw Keira standing there, waiting for her with red-rimmed eyes and a sniffle. She didn’t even have time to reach out to ask what was wrong before Keira spoke, a distressed look painting her features.

“Lucy, I’m sorry.”

It was silent for a few beats, but Lucy knew what words Keira was about to follow up with before she even opened her mouth to speak them.

“I’ve met my soulmate.”

The words hung in the air, and for some reason, it was relieving. They had only really been glorified roommates the past few months, anyway, and suddenly a weight felt like it had been lifted off Lucy’s chest.

“I know that I said soulmates are bullshit and we can choose who we want to be with but..” Keira trailed off and bit her lip. “Her name is Laura, and she’s lovely, and Lucy I think I would hate myself if I didn’t even try.”

“We haven’t done anything, by the way. I would never. It wouldn’t be fair to you. Even if we haven’t really been all that romantic lately, I wouldn’t betray you like that,” Keira rushed to get out, eyes beginning to fill with tears. 

Lucy offered her a small smile. “Keira, it’s okay. Honest.”

They parted ways amicably, and while she did feel a bit sad that she no longer had a companion to spend her time with, she was okay. And when Keira posted a photo of her and Laura to her close friends’ story, Lucy was the first to like it.

A few more weeks passed, and it was only then that she allowed herself to even think about her own soulmate again. They hadn’t written to each other at all since Lucy had ignored the messages all those years ago, but the random doodles and numbers didn’t once cease. Her mind still lingered on that one Manchester United defender she had shaken hands with while she was still at City, but it had been so long now that she’d kind of abandoned the idea, so Lucy just decided to park that theory for the time being.

And then came Lucy Staniforth’s wedding.

[novelizt]

THIS LOVE CAME BACK TO ME ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

GENRE ➺ fluff with a little angst, friends to lovers (everyone can see it)

SYNOPSIS ➺ you're back in town. as promised, lockwood welcomes you with open arms. the only difficulty was the fact that you kissed the last time you saw each other.

WC ➺ 4.8k

DISCLAIMER ➺ fem! wedding planner! reader, and i try to write a more descriptive kiss scene (i apologize in advance), the trio has been aged up to about 18-19, and lockwood calls reader 'sweetheart' but in a totally (not) platonic way.

WARNINGS ➺ profanity (one curse word), reader is briefly jealous of lucy, QUILL KIPPS, description of pools and being underwater, a little suggestive but nothing graphic

NOTE ➺ here's the beginning of my 1989 TV sonfic collection!! (full collection masterlist will be out on oct 27.) belly and jeremiah's pool kiss popped into my head while writing. do with that information as you will. this also came out fluffier than i intended it to be. @t2sh0 , here's one of your favorite 1989 tracks turned into a fic, i hope you enjoy 💙

Anthony Lockwood had a way of charming people. You knew you were a goner the second he flashed his teeth at you.

In the eleven months you were employed in Lockwood & Co., you hoped that the subtle touches over case files or the longing glances across the table meant the same to him as it did to you.

That said, you weren't sure what to make of it when he did kiss you—right before you boarded a plane out of the country. You tried to imagine it to be as magical as you dreamed of, but the only impression it left was a confusing one.

Did he kiss you out of pity? Did he do it because you might never come back? Did he do it because it was a spur of the moment thing?

Luckily, your studies distracted you enough to give you some peace. It's only when the world settled into night that you pondered it over and over again, until you agonized over it enough to cry yourself to sleep.

Your contemplations still haunted you as you lugged your bag off the conveyor belt, actually breathing in London air for the first time in three years. When you centered yourself, you scanned the crowd and found your name scrawled in messy, familiar handwriting. The person that held the sign hadn't aged a day.

Lockwood looked older than he did when you first met him, but, now, he had grown into himself. His smile remained unchanged. It speared you in the heart, just like it did the first time.

"Hello, stranger." He was first to speak.

"Hi," you said. You considered adding a witty remark but found that you couldn't conjure one up as quickly as you used to. Instead, you smiled to fill in the awkward silence.

He returned your grin but it didn't reach his eyes. You didn't say anything else before he lowered the sign and held out his arm. You let out an uneasy laugh as you shrugged your bag off your shoulder and onto his.

Even if your mind grappled for something to start with, small talk didn't pick up like how you imagined it would. How could it? The last time he walked beside you, you two were different people. At least, you were.

You were never going to be the kids who bumped fists or laughed at jokes only you two knew again. You were never going to be his partner in crime the same way you were years ago.

Your talent had nulled, leaving you with the only choice to pursue a new life elsewhere, in another country. You knew you had changed, but did Lockwood? The uncertainty was a stake between you. He was acting like nothing was wrong, which made it difficult to gauge whether his lack of speaking was on purpose or he was as lost as you were.

He had taken the side of the walk closest to the road—like he always did. You remembered that he said it was the "most gentlemanly thing to do in the presence of a lady." You called bullshit, but you found yourself softening 'round the edges thanks to his chivalry.

You paced a ways behind him, watching his back and the swish of his coat tails. Like a dagger to the heart, you realized that his coat was new.

"What happened to the trusty old boy?"

It was your first attempt at a conversation. You hoped your voice didn't quiver.

Lockwood slowed his pace to fall in line beside you before shooting you a confused look. Realization hit shortly after. He pinched the lapels of his coat. "You mean my old coat?"

"Yeah." You smiled, forcing yourself to make it convincing. "What happened to it?"

"Lost it," he explained. He chuckled with a far-off look in his eye. It was a fond memory by the looks of it. "Smeared in plasma. There was no salvaging it. Why, you miss it?"

"A little bit," you lied.

He had kept you warm under that coat on more than one occasion. You knew where the seams unraveled, and you knew what he put in each of its pockets. You missed it terribly, and it wasn't even yours. Just like a certain someone. It was pathetic, really.

If he had caught on to your disappointment, he didn't show it. Instead, he teased you with a smile. "Life goes on, sweetheart." He closed the space between you to nudge your arm, just like the good ole days. "There's plenty of coats in the sea."

You stiffle a laugh behind your hand. The endearment had brought the butterflies in your belly back to life. Three years and that hadn't changed at all, and only Anthony could make you chuckle over a bad joke. "Yeah? Where did this one come from?"

He shrugged, pursing his lips. "I haven't got a clue. George and Lucy got it for me."

George, you knew. He was the grump who refused to say one good thing about you but didn't hesitate to make you lime pie when you were in low spirits.

Lucy . . . Lucy was new. Her name had made your hair stand. "Lucy?"

Lockwood snapped his fingers. "Ah, that's what I forgot to tell you." He looked both ways before taking your arm and crossing the street. Portland Row was standing right in front of you, but it felt different now that you knew that someone else was occupying your old room. "Lucy Carlyle is our newest recruit. A Listener. A bloody good one, at that."

He looked elated, so you knew she was doing good for the agency. Something about the way he talked about her made your heart sink.

You were still coming up with a reply when Portland Row cracked open and George Karim's face entered your periphery. He wasn't the type to smile widely, but you took the minute tilt of his lips as an attempt at one.

Perhaps the trip had warped your senses because that was probably the most enthusiastic you'd ever heard him. "About time you came back, trouble."

Aww, he remembered you. The sentiment comforted you more than you cared to admit.

—

Lucy Carlyle's eyes widened the moment Lockwood introduced you. Something finally clicked for her, yet you didn't know what it was. All you really did was shuffle awkwardly and utter a feeble "nice to meet you."

"Oh my God . . . You're the agent they can't shut up about," she grinned.

Lockwood's nettled eyes darted to you. "'Can't shut up about' is being generous."

"Come off it," Lucy scoffed, swatting him away as if he were nothing more than a mosquito. "I was wondering if your name was some weird code. "You-know-who would know what to do", "I'd kill to have her help right about now." Ugh! Now it makes sense!"

Lockwood set his fists on his hips, licking his lips in search of an alibi. "George brought you up more often than not."

George shot him a glare—one that threatened to break the biscuit rule. "Because you'd start. Then you'd talk even louder if I told you to shut up."

"You were part of the conversation regardless."

"Well, she wasn't! You just couldn't quit your yap—"

Lucy kicked out one of the chairs at the table. You smiled gratefully as you took the seat, the boys' bickering melting into the background.

"Are you rejoining the agency?" Lucy asked, propping her elbow on the table. "I'm on the brink of going insane, so I could use a friend. One that doesn't think it's normal to walk around without a shirt or trousers."

You graced her with a gentle laugh. "That's the boys for you, but I'm afraid not, no. I no longer have the Talent to stay in this line of work..." You look down at your hands, remembering the countless stars you wished on to fix you. None of them granted your wish. Your Touch never came back to you. You'd abscessed over the same issue countless times before but now that you were back, you were writing a new chapter of your life. You clenched your fist with reborn determination. "Lockwood promised that I would always have a place here while I get back on my feet, and it would be lovely to be friends with you. Right now, I'm looking for places to bring my other skills. Just because my abilities changed doesn't mean the world will wait for me to get used to it."

When you looked up, you were surprised to not only find Lucy's glazed eyes on you, but George and Lockwood's, too. George coughed into his fist, turning away and finding interest in the kettle. Lockwood's brows furrowed, etching lines of sadness across his face. Lucy tried to plaster on a smile.

"You're very brave. I wouldn't know what to do if my Talent started to fade," Lucy said, hoping the vote of confidence would do what she intended it to.

You appreciated the sentiment but the sorrow in the recess of your mind would always stick at the mention of Talent. "Thank you, Lucy. And you don't have to worry about that right now. From what I hear, you're the best Listener in London." You placed your elbow on the table then set your cheek on your palm. "Tell me, what is the most horrendous thing you've heard?"

—

"I wouldn't mind sharing a room, really."

Despite Lucy's willingness, Lockwood refuted it. "Nice as you are, Luce, half the things you keep up there will unsettle her. Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

You shook your head, an amused smile on your face. "I was an agent, too. It takes a lot to bother me, Anthony. I didn't turn into a wuss just because I've been out of the country."

"Yes, well," Lockwood flourished his hand. "She keeps a jarred skull swimming in sludge with her. Letting you witness that tragedy would be unjust of me."

"I can handle it," you reassure positively. Skull in a jar sounded intriguing. The bigger question was why Lucy kept it in her room, but the was a question for another day.

Lockwood shook his head. When he crossed his arms, you knew the meeting had been adjourned.

"Are we really surprised?" George whispered to you on the way upstairs.

You chuckled and shook your head. "Not really."

—

The only reason you were familiar with Lockwood's room involved chess matches at the most ungodly hours of night. When insomnia had troubled you, you'd come right down, plop the board in the middle of the bed, and play until one or both of you would slump over.

You wondered if he was itching to even the score from three years ago, but you were surprised by the order in which he put his room in. Lockwood wasn't one to worry about a mess, but he was conscious enough to put it away that day. It was the tidiest you'd ever seen the place.

The only stain was the chessboard on the bed and your luggage that had taken over the ottoman at the foot of said bed.

When you rounded on him to ask, he presented you with a smug smile. "We have a lot to catch up on. What better way than over a game of chess?"

You crossed your arms, shifting your weight onto one leg. "Because I won last time?"

"And that," he admitted, shuffling over to his side of the bed and claiming the white pieces. "You know me so well, sweets."

You shook your head in a beguiled way, charmed by his truthfulness. "You're so predictable."

His eyes lit up, like they always did when he was presented a challenge. "See if you can say the same when I check your king."

"In your dreams, Anthony Lockwood." The bed dipped as you sat on your side, mentally prepping yourself to spend the night humbling him whilst trying not to stare at the motions of his hands for too long.

He moved the first pawn, and the game began.

You were so immersed, you missed the book folded open on his bedside table. In it was highlighted: 'the best way to beat jet lag; stay awake for as long as you can.'

—

You finally had a foot in the door three weeks after arriving in London. Sure, it wasn't glamorous and you spent more time advertising yourself than making money, but it was progress nonetheless.

Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but the fact that Quill Kipps was also a resident in these parts completely went over your head. You received your reminder when he had reached for the book you wanted for you. It took a little effort not to sneer at him—muscle memory.

You wouldn't have obliged but Kipps had already started a conversation. "Thought I'd never see you here again, trouble." As nasty as he usually was, he didn't show it. Dare you say he was civil? He even smiled at you. Chills. "Does Tony know?"

You clutched the book to your chest, disconcerted by how kind he was being. "He does, yeah. I'm staying with him until I can afford a place of my own."

"Figures," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. He was looking a lot like himself. "I'm surprised he hasn't popped the question."

Your jaw tensed. You had a sudden urge to thunk him over the head to get his mind back in order. "That's because there is no question to pop, Kipps." You looked away, mustering the last of your patience. "My Talent faded. I plan weddings for a living now. I don't have much of a name here yet so business is quite slow."

You didn't see his face change but you sure heard it. "Sorry to hear that..."

"Me, too. I guess."

"Don't give me cheek. I quit because my Talent faded, too."

Your eyes bugged out. The admission was like a carpet being pulled out from under you. "You're kidding."

He chuckled morosely. "I wish I was. I'm trying to find my way but it is challenging."

"With that attitude, of course it is."

Kipps snorted, squaring his shoulders. It didn't do much. He looked as punchable as he usually did. "You sound like him."

"I don't think so. He has more to say about you than I do. He makes me look nice."

Kipps nodded, giving you an invisible tip of a hat. There was a period of brief silence before he opened his mouth again. "Say, the complex I live in has a vacancy on the third floor. If you're interested, I can give you the address."

You tapped the cover of your book, mentally tallying the pros and cons before shrugging. "What's the harm in asking? I have a yellow note in my bag, let me fetch it.

"I'll come along. I'm about to get my books checked anyway."

You allowed him to follow you to your table and bade your tense farewells after he had scribbled down the address and the custodian's telephone.

—

It was no mystery that Lockwood had caught wind of the momentary interaction. You were unaware of how, but he had ways, apparently. He caught up to you on your walk home.

"Was he bothering you?" was the first thing he asked.

He came out of nowhere, so it was reasonable that his voice made you jump. You didn't expect to be intercepted at a cross-walk, of all places. With one look at his face, you relaxed then resumed your steps. "Who are you talking about, Lockwood?"

"Kipps," he said quickly. "was he bothering you?"

"Oh," you look down at the yellow note wedged in the cover of your book. "no. He just gave me a referral for a flat."

Lockwood disappeared from your periphery. For a moment, you thought that would be the end of it, but then you remembered that whenever it involved Quill Kipps, he would never keep his nose out of it. Lockwood returned to your side not long after. "You're staying in Portland Row," he said with the conviction of a hundred unspoken confessions. "You don't need rubbish referrals."

"I can't room with you forever," you replied. You faltered because of the hurt on his face. You must have imagined it because he was back to normal in a blink of an eye. You steeled yourself. "Lockwood & Co. is a psychical agency, not a rental place. And I have weddings to plan. I need more space."

"We can make room in the library," he bargained.

You halted in your steps, raising a brow at him. "You've never seen a proper wedding planning if you think that little room will suffice. You need that space for your case documents."

"We can move them to the office," he insisted, stopping in front of you. He thought a smile would work but you didn't budge, even after he showed you his best grin. "We can make it work."

You sighed, exasperated. The street was empty, so you had nothing else to preoccupy your mind with. "Lockwood... I can't plan weddings in the same house George rants about the Problem in."

"I really don't see the issue there."

He sealed his lips when you narrowed your eyes at him.

—

If Anthony Lockwood was anything, it was petty. A few nights later, he deposited himself in the seat beside you and decided to made your business his business.

"I think the ivory looks better with that shade of violet."

You cocked a brow at him, flipping to the next page of your photo book. "Pray tell, what are you doing here?"

With an unmoving smile, he said, "Learning a thing or two about wedding planning, so I can gauge just how much room you need."

"Lockwood... You don't have to be here."

"Oh, but I do," he retorted. "Lest you make a hasty decision, like living in a flat with Quill Kipps."

He flinched when you shut the book. The cold stare you gave him was just as paralyzing. "I won't be living in a flat with Kipps. He'd be living in the floor below mine. And for your peace of mind, this isn't a hasty decision. I'm only staying here until I can afford to rent my own place."

He bit the inside of his cheek. "Why do you have to go? We're perfectly happy here, aren't we? George knows your favorite recipes, Lucy's ecstatic to have another girl around, and I— well, I . . ."

"You . . . ?" Hope, like you've never felt before, rushed through you. Your ears could hear a pin drop with how attentive you were then.

Much to your disappointment, he cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. "I would hate to lose a friend."

It was flattering, truly, but you were hoping for more than that. Perhaps an indication that the kiss three years ago had actually meant something. When he said nothing about it, you reverted back to assuming your affections were unrequited. Dejected, you thumbed at the pages of the photobook.

"I won't be leaving soon, and we'd still be friends when I move somewhere else," you reassure. You found it hard to get the words out. There was a prickling feeling behind your eyes you tried to bat away. You turned your attention to the flower options splayed on the coffee table. You were seeing, but you weren't absorbing anything. "I'll be here a while so you don't have to worry."

"Right..." He sounded even more dejected than you. You fought the urge to look up at him with every fiber of your being.

Your heart fell when he got up and abandoned you in the library. Even if you were surrounded by photographs of weddings—the happiest day of some lucky people's lives—you couldn't find a drop of joy when Lockwood had taken all of it with him.

—

The thing about realizations were that they always came late. Especially for someone as dense as Anthony Lockwood.

When he had turned the events of that night over in his head, he realized that he had been a fool. He was saying something, but he wasn't actually getting a message across. For someone who valued verbal affirmation, you must have felt alienated.

He had resolved to apologize, and apologize thoroughly. He had put on his best suit under his coat and picked his best shoes (the only ones without plasma burns) before heading to the site you told Lucy you were heading to that day. He sacrificed his five turns in the biscuit rotation to get the information from her, but he couldn't be too mad about it when he finally laid his eyes on you.

You traded your usual trousers and blouse in for a dress. Not that you weren't pretty in trousers and blouses, but the fact that your dress was white altered something in his brain. Something was wrong with him. Could have been anticipation. Could have been the terrible urge to get down on one knee.

He shook his head, putting that idea on the back burner. He was there to grovel for forgiveness. He had to apologize before all else.

Lockwood, with reborn inspiration, approached. Striding closer and closer—eyes trained on you.

Only one thing was on his mind, and that one fact may have been the cause of his downfall, because he hadn't seen the toy at the lip of the pool before it was too late.

Your face grew further and further until his body had broke the surface of the water. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. All he could see was blue. All he could feel was the cold. A sharp inhale hurt. Opening his eyes stung.

Once his feet reached the bottom of the pool, sense returned to him. He kicked off, gasping for air when he reached the surface. Another splash forced him to shut his eyes.

Then he heard it: The frantic way you were calling his name.

Your hair was matted to your head and drips of water slid down your face, yet, you looked as majestic as ever. You were a vision. His voice had been stolen, perhaps his heart, too (as if it wasn't already).

He regained feeling in his face when you set your hands on his cheeks. Then the world came rushing back. The splashing of water, the commotion that caused passerbys to run, and your voice that called to him above all that.

"Anthony? Anthony! Oh, heavens, are you okay?" You smoothed the hair away from his eyes. He wondered if you knew that it made him love you even more. "That was terrible fall. Are you hurt? Bleeding?"

He shouldn't be enjoying your doting when you were so obviously stressed over his condition, but how could he think straight when you were at arm's length—just this close to touching lips with him.

And you were touching him. Your palms were warm on his cheeks, cozied up under his ears. You could feel him smile if you wanted to.

It was no place or time to think about kissing you. He had talked himself out of it countless times before, but his restraint crumbled the moment he witnessed your teeth sink into the plush of your bottom lip.

He knew it was your nervoud tick, but his mind went blank. He seared every detail into his memory before he threw caution to the wind.

He found your waist, clutched your dress, and drew you to him with the urgency that had been restrained for years.

He's not sure whether you kissed back right away, but he did know that you were. Just as eager as he was.

With ignited confidence, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers carded into his hair and you clung to his shoulders for stability.

It was painfully obvious that Touch was your specialty. Every brush of your fingertips set fire across his skin. He wouldn't forget it, even if he tried. His arms wound around you, his palm finding the back of your neck to hold you fast to him.

For a second, you parted. He caught a glimpse of your dazed eyes and ephemeral smile before you brought your lips down on his once more. You could very well be the death of him.

The belief grew stronger as you grew bolder, shifting to be able to wrap your legs around him. Squeezing your thighs against waist and warranting a gasp. You felt the rumble against your lips and beneath your fingers, earning a smile.

You would have done so much worse if a rigid scoff hadn't cut through the lavender haze.

He pulled away. You blinked, still encroached by the spur of the moment. The smell of chlorine polluted the space between you, but that only made your senses heighten. You were staring at Lockwood as water clung to his lashes. He was smiling at you, and you were smiling just as much. His thumb drew circled into your waist, and your fingers grazed the nape of his neck. It was chilling, in the best way.

The scoff came again, stealing your attention. Both of you looked up at the hotel manager with sheepish grins.

"Hello, sir," Lockwood started, amping up his charm with a disarming laugh. "Contrary to what you may be thinking, this didn't happen in purpose."

The hotel manager didn't buy any of it. He raised a practiced brow and regarded Lockwood with a frown that rivaled a wishbone.

There was no corporate talk that would get you out of this. You chuckled, patting Lockwood's back for the good try, but you already knew security was on the way.

"I take it that you're not hurt?" you murmured to Lockwood.

"No. In case I am, would you like to take my shirt off and take a look for yourself?"

You two had to walk home in soaked clothes, but you did take him up on his offer. Excitedly, too. Suffice to say, he didn't have a bruise on him.

—

You and Lockwood had returned to your roots; a peaceful game of chess. You had the upper hand on the board but Lockwood felt like a winner just seeing you in his shirt.

"Just in case it wasn't clear, I'd like to be more than friends," he said. He had lost another bishop but he was fine with it because you smiled at him.

"Yes. I know that now, Anthony."

"I don't want to just be friends with benefits either."

You snorted, amused. "I understand that, too."

He didn't move a piece until you looked at him. "It would pain me if you moved out. Three years apart was bad enough."

Your gaze softened and you reached across the board to hold his hand. He was the one who laced your fingers together. "I won't be going anywhere."

"Good," he chirped, eyes alight. "because I've already began moving the shelves into the office. You can have the library for work."

Even with your best efforts, you couldn't help but laugh. He bent toward you, wishing he could bottle the sound. "You are ridiculous, you know that?"

"I do," he said, inflating his chest. "and I'd like to be your lover as well."

You cocked a brow. "Would you?"

He squeezed your hand lightly, eyes shining with determination. "I can hear you thinking, sweetheart. What do I have to do to get you to say 'yes'?"

If he hadn't stolen your heart already, the way he raised your hands to his lips and planted a kiss on each of your knuckles would have. His eyes never strayed, honey brown eyes placating yours.

"Sweetheart?" he hummed, pleading for an answer.

You drew out the silence for a little longer. You felt that it was fair for him to suffer, just for a little while. He was the catalyst for years upon years of emotional turmoil.

But he had resolved it all with another kiss, this time on the sweet spot on your wrist—just over your racing pulse.

You were kind enough to put him out of his misery. "Kiss me again."

You were weak for how he smiled then.

"Gladly," he whispered, sliding the board aside and sending the chess pieces toppling to the floor to fulfill your request.

Your complaints were squashed down by his lips. He'd never forget the way you laughed as he tackled you into his bed.

Well, it was yours now, too.

NOTE ➺ did you notice that everyone calls reader 'trouble' but lockwood calls her 'sweetheart' 👀👀 i want what they have.

i have so many ideas lined up for my boy, but i just don't have much time to write them. life got busy lol.

anyway, this is the first of many 1989 TV songfics!! master list for the whole collection will be out on 1989 TV release day, I promise. i'll do my best to finish more wips because you can never have too much anthony lockwood.

i've also been thinking about making a tag list but I'm not sure how to go about that...

as always, don't be shy to leave some feedback, constructive criticism, or cute lil comments! i love raving about my boy 💙 i hope you enjoyed this one, because this isn't the last of me!

⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

[gayandfairycore]

Marmalade and mischievous mornings

Summary: spending a morning in 35 portland row, regular shenanigans ensue between the four of you.

Word count: roughly 800 words(?)

A/n: this is my first time writing for lockwood and co. So I hope I did the characters justice! Feedback is muchly appreciated but please do be kind, This is not proof read.

The smell of toast, and marmalade filled the little kitchen at 35 Portland row, the comforting yellow light of the kitchen casted a warm shadow over the inhabitants of the house. The thinking cloth white, and yet covered in inky black doodles, and words scrawled messily down on the white tablecloth. the biscuit crumbs that seeming always found home on the table had began to make your arms itch as you sat next to your friends around the table, a warm cup of tea in hand.

As an ever drying pen is left uncapped, and discarded. The soft linen curtains blew in the mid morning air a conversation started to arise between the group of four. The conversation went a little something like George rattling on about the case they had just completed, Lucy calling the fact that it was clearly was not a low level type one and was actually very strong type two and that George was getting rusty on his research skills.

you couldn’t help finding it a bit funny that everyone around the table were in their pjs having a slow morning like usual to rejuvenate themselves after exhausting nightly escapades.

you couldn’t help finding it a bit funny that everyone around the table were in their pjs having a slow morning like usual to rejuvenate themselves after exhausting nightly escapades.

you couldn’t help finding it a bit funny that everyone around the table were in their pjs having a slow morning like usual to rejuvenate themselves after exhausting nightly escapades.

you couldn’t help finding it a bit funny that everyone around the table were in their pjs having a slow morning like usual to rejuvenate themselves after exhausting nightly escapades.

you couldn’t help finding it a bit funny that everyone around the table were in their pjs having a slow morning like usual to rejuvenate themselves after exhausting nightly escapades.

you couldn’t help finding it a bit funny that everyone around the table were in their pjs having a slow morning like usual to rejuvenate themselves after exhausting nightly escapades.

George had yet again refused to wear trousers, Lockwood a plain white tshirt on, as opposed to his regular suit and cut tie. Lucy an oversized shirt, and some comfy shorts, you having adorned something quite similar to Lucy. opting for a band shirt, pj shorts and some fluffy socks. It didn’t look like only last night three out of the four had almost died, in fact it looked as if the four of them had just had a slumber party.

Sadly it wasn’t a slumber party, instead they spent majority of last night running for their lives in a panic, away from a powerful ghost that they were unprepared to face. so majority of the group were surely going to be aching for the next few days.

munching down on a piece of toast and sipping your tea, the warmth from the chipped glass radiated to your hands, the steam from your tea momentarily being inhaled. a soft smile graced your features as you sipped your tea, Lucy and George’s bicker had yet to be stifled.

When you joined the agency Lockwood had actually warned you to usually just tune them out, that’s what he did. It made you laugh originally but dwelling on it now you’ve decided tonight you’ll pull him aside an ask him to teach you to tune out the friendly bickering.

“clearly you’re just a bit rubbish of a ghost hunter then!” George yelled, clutching his biscuit as he swung out his hands, shrugging his shoulders.

“Rubbish?!” Lucy exclaimed in faux outrage, a piece of buttered toast hanging from her mouth as she spoke the gravity of her exclamation declining as it came out muffled by the aforementioned toast.

“I am not rubbish, george karim! how many times have I come to your rescue? Hmm. You wouldn’t call me rubbish then!” The brunette persisted pointing her half eaten toast piece at him her eyes glared at the boy.

Knocking the piece of toast away from himself, “that’s different!” He retorted as slumped back in his chair slightly coy smile adorning his features.

“Oh is it?” The brunette raised her eyebrows her voice no longer yelling, George gulped quietly slumping impossibly deeper in his chair at the girl, her voice lowered in a warning. The same warning voice she used when they had first met. Watching the scene play out from across the table, toothy grin on your face as you admired your friends, your eyes caught Lockwoods. majority of his face hidden behind a crumpled and tea stained newspaper.

You watched as he shook his head at his friends antics, chuckling into his tea cup. Your eyes meeting in a silent melancholic comforting moment.

your attention only moving when you heard your name called, ”cmon y/n back me up!” Lucy’s expecting gaze told you that you had missed something.

Your eyes darting between the pair nodding unsurely and feigning confidence as you replied with an “oh yeah, absolutely what she said.” Before tilting your head in subtle exasperation taking a large sip of your tea, to mask your embarrassment of admiring Lockwood so much that you had managed to tune out the pair.

“No! Y/n how could you!” George exclaimed mock outraged taking over his expression as he slumped back in defeat, Lucy’s laughter filled the air, a lost expression passed over your face as you glanced between the pair, Lockwood pulling you into his side to answer your unspoken question,

“she just stated she’s the better researcher than him, and that anyone would agree she could do it with her eyes closed.” Lockwood smirked stifling a chuckle as he let go of your arms “and you just agreed with her”

The boy smirked, flicking out his news paper with flourish.

Your mouth formed a ‘o’ at the revelation, before a cocky smirk overtook your face “I mean George may be a the best researcher- No offence, Luce-” you pause, looking at their confused and impatient faces with a coy smile hands in in the air as you point to them.

“But what I want to know is, whose the best ghost hunter?” Leaning back in your chair you watch as chaos ensues clasping your hands tigether like you were an old villain

“I’m sorry?”

“Excuse me?”

Both Lucy and Lockwood exclaim, the latter dropping his news paper onto the table and the force shaking and spilling his tea.

A silence formed over the room, as George watched as his competitive friends began to turn on eachother in friendly competition.

“No offence Lockwood, you may be a prodigy and all that but it’s got to go to Lucy!”

“Y/n!” Lockwood exclaimed his eyes darting wildly as his mouth agape

George reclining in his seat as he stifles a laugh lockwood whirling around to face the boy attempting to look serious and upset.

“George- do you think this is funny?!” The ebony haired boy exclaims, as a chuckle breaks midway through his facade as he speaks.

A mischievous grin adorns George’s face as he replies “I do actually I think this is very funny!”

“Lucy cmon back me up here!?” Lockwood pleads his hands together in a prayer eyebrows raised

“Sorry Lockwood!” Lucy retorts “But y/ns right I’m just the superior ghost hunter.” The girl replies straightening her posture and flipping up imaginary jacket cuffs.

A plan begins to formulate in lockwoods mind “Well if it’s like that then” he states before pulling you into him and tickling you

Between bouts of giggles you exclaim “lockwood! Lockwood! No! Oh cmon!”

His fingers never stopping their assault at your side no matter how much you try to wriggle away, he only stops tickling you to bargain

“Say that I’m the best ghost hunter you’ve ever known!”

Struggling to breathe through your laughter you chuckle out an estranged “No!”

Lockwood smirks “Alright then.”

His fingers moving at your sides painfully fast breathlessness taking over you, as tears well in your eyes loud laughter fills the kitchen.

pouting your lips you exclaim in defeat“okay! Okay! You’re the best ghost hunter I’ve ever known!”

Lockwood stops his assault at your sides smiling and slinging his arm over your shoulder before he taunts the brown eyed girl

“see Luce, there’s only one person here whose the best ghost hunter-“ mischievous looks are shared between you, George, and Lucy. As you move yourself from under the arms of the boy.

Lucy exclaims a “sorry Lockwood! But it’s not you, george get him!” And with her exclamation both you and george begin to ambush the boy flinging your body onto his back watching as he loses his footing. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck like he was giving you a piggyback.

“Ah- uh oh!” His yells voice high pitched and shrieking laughter fills the room despite the mess that had somehow accumulated over the time you had been in a tickle fight.

The spilled tea over old newspaper clippings a spilled tub Or marmalade staining the thinking cloth

As the sound of a camera flashing momentarily blinds both you and Lockwood as you both come toppling down the wooden floor your body above lockwoods.

Bashfulness blooms in your chest “oh uh sorry-“

Lockwoods narrows his eyes in disappointment “No it’s quite alright” he murmurs. Moving to sit up on his elbows a look of surprise takes over his face as you turn to look behind you

Your two friends about to dog pile you both both you and Lockwood exclaim almost at the same time “George, Lucy you don’t have to do this!”

The two share a glance at eachother before flinging their bodies onto you both collectively collapsing your attempts to get up. groans leaving you and Lockwood at the added weight.

[oraeliaa]

Mortem Obire

Chapter 1 is up! This is a new project I've been working on, a Dark Academia Supernatural Ghoulcy AU - summary below!

Link

Summary

When Lucy MacLean starts studying in the town her father went missing in, so many years ago, she does so with a mission - to find answers. Why did he leave her and her brother? Was he a man struggling with the mental load of raising two children after the loss of his wife, or was there something more?

When she’s sent to do a profile on a nocturnal, elusive archivist, however, she finds more than she ever could have imagined. Why had so many people gone missing, all around the same time? Who was this Moldaver figure, their name scrawled in the corner of so many ancient newspapers, and why does Professor Cooper - frustrating, arrogant, handsome - insult the authors of the classics like he knew them, over a hundred years ago?

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Janthony

barbie dolls: Anthony Lockwood x you

word: 3k ish

summary: Anthony has a secret admirer who can't seem to figure out his middle name

warnings: you rude bike, also eat twizzlers bc I associate twizzlers with bikes and before you say anything no it doesn't have anything to do with Juno leave me alone, Lockwood's parents death mentioned, mentions of blowing heads off, you'll probably cringe at the one note I did write but I'm just four squirrels stacked on top of each other what more do you want from me, George and Lucy are certified haters but it's in a loving way

The first note confused him. Lockwood went out to get the mail but he paused when he reached the gate. There, tied to the pole, was a flower and a small piece of paper. He gently untied the ribbon.

Lockwood initially thought it was for George. His initials scrawled across the top of the paper made him reconsider. He read the note and realized he had just gained a secret admirer.

With that, the notes kept coming. Some had poetry describing his looks, some had a gift waiting in the mailbox, and some were just a good old-fashioned letter. All of them were signed the same.

‘Lukewarm regards,’ and then his full name was written out. His middle name was always different. It was Jacqueline, Jordan, Jack, Jason, and James, but his admirer’s favorite? Janthony. The first time he read it Lockwood had laughed. The second he chuckled. By the third time, George was calling him Janthony every time he got the chance.

George easily found out, seeing the notes and growing population of flowers in the kitchen. He saw Lockwood’s smile when he came back from getting the mail. He thought it was cute.

Lockwood wanted to respond and wanted to see you. But it was entirely impossible. He felt like he was trying to catch smoke, with the lights off and his eyes closed. Every time he would stare out the window and watch the gate, the second he left to use the bathroom when he came back there was a note waiting for him. It was entirely impossible how fast you moved. Lockwood thought it was silly that it was harder to catch his admirer than it was to catch a ghost. He started tying notes to the gate himself, in response to yours. They would disappear with a new one. You became pen pals with extra steps.

Once George asked him what he thought his admirer looked like, it was a flabby attempt at trying to see if Lockwood could be swayed by physical appearance. Lockwood had sighed and stared out the window, all dreamy. ‘it doesn't matter, they're already the most beautiful person to me.’ George gagged.

Eventually, Lucy moved in and Lockwood was still chasing his smoke. Lucy and George started conspiring who they thought it was. George said the old woman down the street. Lucy said the post-boy. With a lot of frustration boiling inside of Lockwood, he decided he would stay up all night, staring out the window. He felt like a child trying to catch the tooth fairy.

Lucy accompanied him, George saying there was no point before tucking himself into bed. So Lucy and Lockwood stayed up the whole night, staring out the window. Lockwood was more determined. Lucy would get up every once and a while to make sure they were fed. Eventually, as the hours went on, fog settled over the street, and they started losing hope. Lockwood was struggling to keep his eyes open. Lucy was still hyped up on her handful of pixie sticks she had no plans of going to sleep. She knew Lockwood wouldn't make it through the whole night. He fell asleep with his legs thrown over her lap. Lucy kept her eyes trained outside, ignoring Lockwood's snores.

Just as the sun was peaking over the horizon she saw movement out in the fog. There you came, rolling around the corner of the street on your bike. You had a sweet aura about you. Maybe it was your small smile tugging at your lips, maybe it was the twizzle sticking out the corner of your mouth, maybe it was your sweater. Whatever it was Lucy wanted to be friends with you, know your every thought, know your favorite color and drink. She wanted to look across the room to make sure you heard something and thought what she did. At first, she just assumed you were some innocent bystander, riding your bike out for fun. Then you stopped by the gate. Flicking out your kickstand with your ankle as you dismounted. Lucy's grin grew as she realized she was witnessing Lockwood's admirer while he was passed out.

You pulled out a box out of your backpack. You dropped it into the mailbox and tied a small note to the gate’s pole. As you got back on your bike, Lucy slammed her palm on the window pane. Your head shot up, making eye contact with her. Lucy gave you a bright smile, waving rapidly at you. You pressed your finger to your lips before turning back and riding your bike off into the fog.

When Lockwood finally woke up he looked out the window and slumped when he saw a note. He heard Lucy in the kitchen. Lockwood flung himself into the nearest chair.

“We missed them, again.” He muttered, defeated.

“Correction. You missed them, again. I saw them just fine.” Lockwood gaped at Lucy. George joined them looking between their faces.

“The hell happened to you two?” George asked, pouring himself orange juice.

“I saw Lockwood's admirer and he didn't because he was snoring away,” Lucy said with a proud grin. Lockwood shook his head.

“Are they hot?” George asked. Lockwood snapped his head at George.

“George.” He said in a scolding tone.

“Yes,” Lucy said with a smile.

“Lucy.” Lockwood glared at them both.

“Oh, you're just pissed you didn't get to see them yourself,” George muttered. Lockwood shrugged.

“Next question,” Lockwood muttered. Lucy clicked her tongue.

“Are you going to go get the mail?” Lucy asked. Lockwood shook his head.

“It'll just rub my failure in my face.” Lucy sighed at him, leaving to get the mail herself. She brought back the box and note among the junk mail. She gently set the box and note in front of Lockwood’s pouting face. He stared at it for a moment before sitting up. Lockwood first read the note, a disgustingly beautiful letter that made him flush. He was worried about opening the gift. It could easily be a tarantula though he doubted you'd do that. Lockwood steeled himself pulling the lid off the box.

He found a leather-bound journal, with his initials in gold paint on the front. Lockwood opened it to find your handwriting.

‘For your wild mind, Dear Anthony Janthony Lockwood.’ sealed off with a little heart next to the words. He traced over the lines with his fingertips. Lockwood flicked through the pages, maybe you left another note. He reached the back cover and slumped at nothing but the stamp from the craftsman. George stared over Lockwood's shoulder, picking up the journal himself.

“Your wild mind?” George muttered in a teasing tone. Lockwood sighed.

“I told them about how I used to journal as a kid and I just couldn't bring myself to do it anymore after my parents passed. So it's actually quite thoughtful.” Lockwood let out a loud sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Oh look at that,” George muttered. Lockwood sat up, trying to look at what he was pointing at. George moved the book away from him, showing Lucy.

“Oh, hey, look at that.” She nodded approvingly before taking a sip out of her mug.

“What? What is it?” Lockwood asked, looking between them. Maybe he missed a note. George turned the book around, showing him the stamp. Lockwood shook his head, slumping again.

“It's the manufacturer, it's handmade in town.” Lockwood sighed again, ignoring George. He already knew that. “Meaning they'd have to get it done personally, a handmade custom journal done in town.” Lockwood stared out the window.

“Meaning, you could go ask the person who made this who your admirer is,” Lucy stated, trying to make it more plain for Lockwood. Lockwood paused, looking over at them. He looked back out the window.

“We have a new errand on the itinerary today.” He muttered.

They found the bookbinder easily, the logo stamped in the back of his journal. When they got inside it was small and dark but it felt warm. There were books along most of the walls and a desk in the back. Lockwood, George, and Lucy made it to the desk and waited silently. There was a small silver bell on the side, next to the register. George reached out and rang it before Lucy could stop him. While the group quietly argued over the politeness or ringing a bell, an old man's head popped out from around the corner. He was balding and looked mean. Lockwood explained to him the situation, asking who asked for the journal to be made.

“You must be Janthony. I told them I wasn't doing nothing for free. I have a card for you.” The old man pulled an envelope out from under the register and held it out to Lockwood. Lockwood thanked him and quickly ripped into it.

Paperbacks

Candle wax

Bookshelves

Reading by themselves

Books in a pile

Your next clue is held by a vampire

Lockwood pressed his lips together. It appears his one more errand has turned into two. Lockwood dragged them across town to the Library. He paused when he realized he didn't know any vampires nearby. George called him an idiot and stalked off to a bookshelf. Lockwood glanced at Lucy. She shrugged. They waited patiently as George walked over to them again, a book in his hands. He flashed the cover. Dracula. George flipped the book upside down and flipped through the pages. Another letter floated to the ground. George looked up at Lockwood with an ‘I told you so' before heading back towards the shelf.

Lockwood yanked the letter off the ground, before tearing into it. He scanned over the words quickly. The letter was taken out of his hands by Lucy.

“This one’s lamer than the last,” Lucy whispered. Lockwood glared at her, taking the letter back.

“Don’t be rude.” Lockwood folded the letter. Lucy sighed, placing her hands on her hips.

“Well glad we’re off to Satchell’s. We needed to go anyways.” Lucy muttered, just as George joined them.

“This might be a strange question, but was there something left here by someone?” The cashier stared at him blankly. They raised an eyebrow.

“Another place, I kinda wished I went and got the mail every morning,” George said, following after them.

When they did make it to Satcchell’s, they split up instantly. George and Lucy split up the list of things they needed. Lockwood busied himself by reading the back of the closest item to him. Eventually, Lucy and George returned to Lockwood with their arms full of supplies. He led them to the register, greeting the cashier as they left the products on the counter. Lockwood paid the cashier before speaking up about something that wasn’t about the weather.

“Possibly for an Anthony?” Lockwood asked. the cashier shook his head.

“No, don’t think so.” The cashier said as they bagged the items.

“Try Janthony,” George muttered, he meant it mainly as a joke but no one laughed.

“For a Janthony?” Lockwood asked, avoiding eye contact with the cashier. The cashier looked up at him.

“Yeah actually.” They reached under the countertop. They stuck out a letter to Lockwood. Lockwood recognized the handwriting on the back. Lockwood thanked the cashier, handing the bags to George and Lucy. They all headed towards the door, standing by the wall as Lockwood stared down at the letter. He smiled at the name on the back. He laughed at Janthony at first, then he hated it mostly because of George, and now he was finding it a symbol of your care. You probably thought it was a joke too, but every time he read it in your handwriting he wanted to hear it from your mouth more. The letter was passed around the three of them, George groaning. Lucy shrugged, handing the letter back to Lockwood.

“Another errand across town, why couldn’t they just tell you their name?” George complained. Lockwood pressed his lips together. He lightly smacked George in the chest with the letter.

“Well off we go, George. On an adventure, to find my caring and loving penpal who has done nothing to you.” Lockwood said, walking off in the direction of where the letter described. Lockwood heard George groan again.

“I personally found it cute Lockwood likes them so much he’s willing to travel all across the city just to maybe see them.” Lucy declared, clasping her hands behind her back with a pep in her step. George scoffed. Lockwood shook his head.

“But you see, I’ve already seen them. I know what your little lover looks like and you don't.” Lucy said the Lockwood with a mocking tone. ; Lockwood felt his face warming.

“Firstly, not my lover. We’re peculiar pen pals. Secondly, I have no opinion on their looks. I’ll love them until my last breath exits my lungs. I’ll smile at their voice until my hearing vanishes from old age. My heart will sing at their words until it pumps its last beat.” Lockwood explained, keeping his fast pace. Lucy and George stopped abruptly. Lockwood heard the lack of their steps, turning around. They stared at him.

“What?”

“How can you speak that way about them and then say you aren’t lovers?” Lucy muttered. Lockwood shook his head. George huffed.

“You’re so whipped. I'm not sure if you two actually talk I can handle it. You’ll be drooling the whole time. I’ll have to pick up your jaw to sweep under it.” he whispered, angrily. Lucy nodded.

“Truly, they’re already insufferable. Not sure if I could resist the urge to blow my head off if they kiss.” Lucy said, tossing in an eye-roll. Lockwood felt someone could cook an egg on his cheeks. Lockwood opened his mouth before closing it. he spun around, his coat adding a flare. He stalked off, hearing George and Lucy following after him. They stepped through the door of Arif’s, the bell ringing above them.

Lockwood felt anxiety pull at his stomach. He clutched the letter tighter. George pulled the letter out of his hands and stared at the side of his face.

“Why is your face doing that?” George muttered.

“I’m not sure what to do. The letter just tells me to come here, not where to find the next clue.” Lockwood said, glancing around the shop. No one was behind the counter. There was only one other person in the room, a man sitting in the back hunched over paperwork.

“Maybe we are at the last clue. Maybe they’re here, Lockwood.” Lucy muttered. “I think that's them over there.” She pointed over at the balding man in the corner. Lockwood faked a laugh.

“Please take this seriously.” He whispered. Lucy sighed, placing her hands on her hips. Geoge tutted.

“You should ring the bell, Lockwood,” George muttered. Lockwood steeled himself, marching to the counter and ringing the silver bell. A head popped out from behind the curtain that led to the back. Lucy let out a small gasp. She leaned into Lockwood’s ear.

“That’s them.” Lockwood felt his stomach drop and his heart palpate. He was looking at the kindest person he's ever talked to. He suddenly felt very real. A real human with the chance of being judged. A real person who was extremely vulnerable with someone all because he’d only ever seen their handwriting. and now he was looking into your eyes, knowing you knew more about him than both his friends standing next to him combined. He was right, though. You were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. He felt a sense of dread wash over him, you could easily insult him right now. You could easily crawl over the countertop and strangle him. Or worse, judge him. Lockwood felt his cheeks heat as you smiled brightly at him.

“I see you’ve found me.” Lockwood felt the tension in his body release, his shoulder drop. That's what you decided to do when you first met him, smile. Lockwood felt his own smile peak at his lips.

“I did.” He muttered, glancing down at the letter in his hands. You stood across from the other side of the counter.

“Are you disappointed?” You asked. Lockwood’s head shot up, staring at you shocked.

“I could never be dissapointed by you.” You scoffed at him.

“My my you're even cheesier in person.” Lockwood laughed at you, giving you a one-shouldered shrug.

“Are you? Disappointed that is?” Lockwood asked, staring into your eyes. Lockwood noticed his friends had left, sitting at a table. They were staring at him blatantly.

“No. You’re-“ you paused. “You’re, well, Anthony Janthony Lockwood. What isn’t there to like?” Lockwood snorted at his fake middle name. He was right again, Janthony sounded much nicer falling from your lips than George’s. Lockwood jumped at the sound of the owner yelling at you. He mentioned something about not paying you to stand around. You handed Lockwood a donut. He quickly paid you.

“You know, now that we’ve met face-to-face. Would you accompany me on a date?” Lockwood avoided eye contact with you, staring at the doughnut.

“I’d love to.” Lockwood released a breath. He relaxed his shoulders.

“Oh thank god.” You laughed at Lockwood, handing him his change. He smiled at you. Lockwood felt his body heat when your fingers touched. You waved Lockwood off and walked to the table with George and Lucy pretending to gag.

“Glad you met your lover, can we go home now? I'm tired.” George asked. Lockwood nodded.

“Yes, we’re going home now.” Lucy shot up out of her chair, dashing out the door. Lockwood and George were quick to follow. When Lockwood passed the windows to Arif’s he triumphantly pumped his fist. The next morning he found the details of your date tied to his front gate in your handwriting.

[chen-chen-chen-again-chen]

Six Sentence Sunday

Thank you for the tags, @larkral, @cutestkilla, @bookish-bogwitch, and @sailorblossoms​! I love seeing everyone’s work, in all of its different stages and forms. 

Progress on Rosethorn girl continues to crawl along. It’s funny - most of the time when my brain is in Depresso Mode, I give up on writing. But I really wanted to keep writing through this episode, because I am stubborn and I love this universe. SSS in particular has been good for me, since even when I am struggling with drafting a fic, I can always write at least six sentences; bless the Muses and praise their names.  

Since there has been much excitement about this in the tags -- yes, baby Simon in this series has wings and a tail! ! I think our robot overlord DALL-E 2 did a pretty good job with this art; it’s only a wee bit cursed. 

Simon Snow Salisbury: The mountains danced when he was born

By Lucy Winifred Salisbury

Oil on canvas

Excerpt from an interview with the artist

A: “His hair came out more red than I intended, I’ll have to fix it. And I haven’t put in his freckles yet-”

Q: “It’s lovely, dear. You’ve captured a very good likeness of him.” 

A: “Do you think, when he’s grown, that he’ll- that he’ll look like-” (inaudible) 

Q: (inaudible) 

A: (rustling, furniture moving, birdsong?, crying?, inaudible) 

Q: (inaudible) “…. Matter what, Simon will always look like himself.”  

(Tags under the cut)

Pressure-free tags: @artsyunderstudy, @captain-aralias, @excalisbury, @facewithoutheart, @fatalfangirl, @hushed-chorus, @ionlydrinkhotwater, @johnwgrey, @martsonmars, @moodandmist, @nightimedreamersworld, @raenestee, @thewholelemon,  @whogaveyoupermission, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe  

[emeritusemeritus]

One for George and y/n: Easter egg hunting at the Burrow with all the Weasleys (George's siblings and their children)

Such a cute idea! 🖤

Warnings: Minor swearing, mentions of pregnancy, cute Weasley fun and fluff.

Words: 1.3k

Easter Bunny's gift.

Easter at the Burrow was always one of the things you looked forward to the most, especially now you had children of your own with George.

Ever since the first grandchild had arrived, Molly and Arthur had started a wonderful tradition of a magical Easter egg hunt on the land surrounding the house.

Your daughters were 5 and 3, both now at the age that they took the egg hunt very seriously, especially as they were essentially competing against their cousins. George had given them tips before hand, because of course he had, and you'd arrived at the Burrow with two very excited children. And a very excited husband, who had been to set up the race with Arthur earlier that morning, no doubt putting his own mischievous twist on the egg hunt.

The wonderful thing about Molly and Arthur having seven children was that as you all grew up, the number of family members inevitably doubled and then tripled, at least. Siblings, spouses, children, cousins; everyone packed in to the space you'd always loved, the heart of the family- the Burrow.

You were immediately greeted by most of the Weasley siblings and their partners, the kids all chasing each other and giggling in glee with squeals of delight echoing through the open fields. Bill and Fleur, Ron and Hermione, Harry and Ginny, all of them stood around tables of food and drink that you knew Molly would have agonised over all morning. You couldn't see Percy or Audrey but you could see little Molly and Lucy running around with Victoire, Rose and Lily and so assumed that they were around somewhere. It was always funny to see the entire family gathered together, the sea of Red hair only broken up by a few blonde and brunette children running around.

"Rory! Poppy!" Dominique squeals in excitement, spotting your daughters and immediately falling into an excited conversation that was almost too high for adults to hear, their excited squeals and giggles so loud it almost made you wince. She pauses briefly to flash you a smile, missing her two front teeth. "Hi aunt y/n, hi unky George! Come on, Granny's got toffee!"

Now child free, George smiles at you as he takes your hand and leads you down the path towards the Burrow, greeting his family with warmth. You mingle through the crowd until you make your way inside, offering Molly some help in the kitchen.

"Oh y/n dear, you just get prettier!" She says with a wide and motherly smile, approaching you with hands outstretched as she pulls you in for a tight hug. She's all dressed up in her most vibrant colours, a glittery beret clip in her hair with the signature apron tied around her waist.

"Right, almost time!" Molly says with delight as she steps outside, giving Arthur a little nod who claps his hands together and smiles, walking off towards the back lawn.

You shoot George a little smile as you look over at your daughters, huddled together with the other cousins almost bouncing with excitement. Molly had made a ridiculous number of little eggs for the children, some with chocolate, marshmallow, toffee, everything that would keep your girls up way past their bedtime if they ate too much.

"Right Weasleys," Arthur says, taking lead of the gaggle of excitable children. "Two rules only. Number 1, share and be mindful of your cousins, we want everyone to have fun. Number 2, grab as much as you can! Ready... set.... Go!"

Just as Arthur said the words, a little firework shot up into the sky which transformed into the shape of a bunny in the sky, the words 'this way' scrawled out next to it as it moved towards the start line that Arthur had made. Your mouth opened in disbelief and turned towards your husband who was putting his wand back in his pocket with a mischievous grin. He turned to you and gave you a little wink, little butterflies erupting in your tummy at the look even after all these years.

With a resounding squeal of excitement, the children ran off, following the rabbit, each of them clutching their little baskets ready to swoop on the eggs that had been meticulously placed by their grandad. You watched and laughed as they giggled, all of them picking up little eggs and slinging them into their baskets.

Some were suspended in the air by magic, others tucked into trees and the ground as normal. George had jinxed the tree near the border to rain eggs when the kids ran under it. You laughed as you watched Hugo and Albus scream in sheer delight when they stepped under the tree and hundreds of little eggs rained down on them, dropping into their baskets. They immediately called the girls over to look at what had just happened, all fo the adults watching beginning to laugh when the girls also squealed out in delight as the eggs rained down on them.

"Y/n, can you please watch Louis whilst I go to the loo?" Fleur said from beside you, her French accept as strong at ever, holding out baby Louis, his little blanket covered body making him look like a beautiful little bundle.

"Of course I can," you say with a smile, readily accepting your youngest nephew into your arms, he was crying a little, whimpering and trying to break free from the blanket. Fleur thanked you profusely as she handed over her youngest before walking quickly back to the house.

"Ssssh, it's okay sweetheart, your mummy will be back soon," you coo, assuring little Louis as you rocked him in your arms. He was beautiful, a little patch of striking blonde hair beginning to grow on his head. You adjusted his blankets just slightly to keep his fingers in and swayed with him in your arms as you watched your daughters giggling from higher up the field. The enchanted bunny firework had started dancing around the kids, dodging them and attempting to steal their eggs making them all giggle.

When you looked down at Louis, he was asleep, his eyes closed and looking the definition of comfy, all snuggled in his warm and soft blanket.

"I'll never get over how much that suits you," you hear your husband say, appearing behind you, looking down at the baby in your arms.

"Oh yeah?" You smile, looking up at him as his arm slips onto your shoulder, his lips descending upon your hair to press a gentle kiss just above your ear.

"I think it's your best look," he pauses, "though I do like you pregnant too."

"Well... I'd say you're in luck Mr Weasley," you say with a glint in your eye, watching as his eyes light up even more than the kids collecting their chocolate once he realises what you were telling him.

"What do you think? I think a little boy would be a nice addition," you say, looking down at the sleeping little boy in your arms, imagining one of your own.

"I'll have a word with the Easter bunny," George says with a smirk, leaning down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, both of you sharing a little moment.

"No way Hermione," you hear from the side, Ron's dead set voice drawing your attention away from George.

"Oh come on Ron!" Hermione says, getting frustrated with him. "For Hugo and Rose."

"You're not transfiguring me into a bloody rabbit!"

[lipstickghoulie]

Walkin’ the Floor over You

Lucy MacLean/Cooper Howard, eventual smut, mind the future tags.

In which Cooper yaps and Lucy is fed the hell up with him.

Chapter One (word count nearly 2.5k, not explicit)

In the house that Cooper had grown up in, there had been a tangle of ivy going up one side of the stucco outside. It had been one of his favorite features of the old homestead, the beautiful and verdant green splayed out across the brownish-red like a scrawl of cursive. One day, he’d come home to the plants all gone and pitted cracks in the masonry all that remained of where they had been. His parents had explained to him that as pretty as it had been, it was actually damaging and needed to go. He had nodded sagely at the time, already an old-hand at pretending to understand the serious adult issues of the world even as a pre-teen, and put on the most brave face possible. If he felt a twinge of resentment for the ivy being removed at all, then that was between him and his god, wasn’t it?

Still, Cooper found himself thinking of that ivy and its soft and lively little leaves whenever he had to dash out his autograph as an adult, the ink across his own awkwardly smiling photo making him think of grasping vines. He grieved it in his own way even years later, the loss of such a sweet piece of nostalgic scenery. He always felt bittersweet tug on his heartstrings when he would drive past some adorable starter home and see the wisp of green creeping up a wall.

Maybe deep down, Cooper didn’t care that much if the things he enjoyed were destructive… especially if they were easy on the eyes.

It shouldn’t have been surprising that he had developed such a soft spot for the vault girl. She certainly was as pretty as a picture; those big waifish eyes like something some lovestruck painter would have committed to canvas with oil paints. At first, Cooper thought to himself that Lucy seemed better suited for his time than her own, even considering the vaults. But now that he really thought about it, she seemed too good even for the time before the bombs laid waste to all the American dream coated shells of ivy-decorated ranches and idealistic men that used to believe in doing the right thing.

Lucy was a creature that seemed outside of time and more like a perfect caricature of one of those superheroes from an Unstoppables comic book.

The memory of her biting off his finger and showing a shimmery vein of something darker underneath all that golden girl can-do attitude made him smile and Cooper’s cock twitch whenever he thought on it too long. It was gratifying in an odd way that he had been the only one to bring that out in her, to see that secret side of her that he felt like Lucy probably kept hidden even from herself. It felt like he knew her more than people she had spent her entire life with in that safe little vault of hers.

Sometimes Cooper looked down at his hand where his trigger finger had been replaced with hers, the image of herself with blood-greased teeth bared and eyes flashing and he knew that he was letting Lucy creep into the cracks of his heart and cause some damage already.

After so much time alone, Cooper was admittedly open to her causing some damage. For years, Cooper used to fantasize about traveling with someone else that he could trust and who wasn’t just waiting to sink a knife or a bullet into his back for their own benefit. The New York Times had articles about maladaptive daydreaming that he could remember surprisingly well after all these years; he could barely remember what his older sister’s voice sounded like but he could recall the exact font in the newspapers he’d pore over at breakfast while Janey giggled over the funny pages. But for Cooper, he didn’t think about it as maladaptive daydreaming, just hypothetical situations. Something harmless to help him survive each day out here in this terrible and brutal world, imagining the ‘what-ifs’. And hypothetically, he had always wanted someone at his side that was clever, beautiful, adapted well to problems…

If only she would talk to him right now.

Ever since they had started on this leg of their journey together, any ghosts of cheerful smiles and conversation seemed reserved for the dog alone and Cooper himself had been met with terse silence. At first, it didn’t irk him much since part of him thrilled at simply being near her, at having Lucy in his orbit. There was something thrilling about not only hearing the dull clap of his own boot soles hitting the ground as they traveled, at always hearing the answering echo of Lucy’s own and the patter of Dogmeat padding after them. Cooper hadn’t realized how painfully lonely he had been until even little reminders that he had company were enough to quirk up the corner of his mouth. His loneliness had settled into his bones like a break that had never quite healed right and now, the ghoul felt aware of it in a way that he had never quite allowed himself to be before.

It wasn’t until they were crossing what passed for a river around here, carefully making their way across the derelict remains of a bridge across it, that Lucy’s change in demeanor started to actually bother him. Cooper hummed to himself as he looked out over the brackish, murky water, remembering a time when it was clean and clear. When he used to see young kids with fishing poles and lunch pails trying to catch some wily fish on his drive to filming on set. Back when he used to wake up all hopeful and optimistic at what each day would bring.

Cooper peered over the worn guard railings thoughtfully, remarking, “Y’know, I heard some do-gooder had gotten some water purification project runnin’ some years back. It was supposed to provide free, clean water to all of the people across the Capital Wasteland…”

Lucy didn’t comment or ask any questions like he thought she might, her eyes fixed on the concrete underneath her feet. Cooper frowned, though he didn’t let that deter him from talking. Maybe she was keeping an eye out for possible danger, especially since feral ghouls had a liking for hiding underneath abandoned cars littering the roads and bridges. You never knew when dry-rotted and vicious arms might shoot out from under some mass of rusted metal and grab at you.

“Of course, whole thing got mismanaged to hell. Brotherhood of Steel spent more time arguing over how to best distribute the water and who was deservin’ of it than actually helping folks-“

“You certainly like the sound of your own voice,” Lucy interrupted flatly, her small little mouth a straight line of annoyance.

Cooper barked out a laugh despite himself, though it was fueled more by surprise than anything else. Well. It seemed the kitten was in a bitey mood. At least she was saying something, even if it was rude (or was by her Vault-Tec approved therapy speak standards anyways).

“Aw, vaultie, I thought you’d be happy to have some conversation about how things have operated out here in the real world. You seem the type to be real keen on learnin’ and absorbing information,” Cooper crooned, only partially mockingly. A lot of his barbs at her had less vitriol these days than they would have when they first met.

Lucy gave him a tired and annoyed look and said nothing else before glancing away to keep her eyes fixed in front of her. It was the same kind of look that one might turn on an unruly toddler throwing a tantrum at bedtime. Her patience had run out with him probably around the time of the Super Mart debacle.

Cooper was not a man who could let this go though. Despite his insistence on “taking things as they come”, it disquieted him more than he’d like to admit to see her sullen and silent. During his time ‘hypothesizing’ about what it would be like to have a traveling companion, he used to imagine all kinds of scenarios where he could discuss books he had read (and still occasionally skimmed through before trading for caps when he could find one intact), events from pre-bomb drop, etc. Lucy seemed particularly interesting to have conversations with, based on his previous interactions with her… if he could get her out of this funk.

Dogmeat stalked along, unbothered, alongside them, silent except for the sound of her panting. Cooper watched her for a few moments, trying to think of something else to say. Finally, he cleared his throat and tried again, “I used to have a dog back before the world went to hell. A beautiful creature named Roosevelt-“

Lucy came to an abrupt stop where she had been walking in front of him, whirling around to stare at him. Her eyes were incredulous, exasperated. Cooper found them easy to get lost in; huge, limpid pools that made his head spin faster than a hit of Jet. Even after everything, even with her shiny brown hair mussed and disheveled, her Vault jumpsuit rucked down and undershirt coated in grime and sweat… Her beauty was almost too much when turned on him directly. Like staring directly into the sun.

“Mister Ghoul-“ She started to say but this time, Cooper cut in to correct her.

“Cooper Howard. You can call me Cooper.”

He had expected a bit more fanfare from the only I person he had willingly shared his real name with in years but she merely huffed out a ‘I’m so done with you’-style breath and steamrolled right over his dramatic revelation. If Lucy recognized the name at all, she evidently didn’t care enough to comment on it at this moment.

“Mister Cooper,” Lucy began again, annoyance coloring her tone in a way that he’d imagine would be similar in shade to a red Nuka-cola cap if it was visible and not just audible.* “You have been a downright beast to me and this has been one heck of a week. You can’t blame me if I’m not feeling particularly eager to listen to you monologue.”

Cooper hummed a bit, undeterred by her aggravation at him. Reasonably (or at least he thought so), he suggested, “Well, sweetie, it wouldn’t be a monologue if you would join in and ask some questions. Then it would be a downright conversation, wouldn’t it?”

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his previous behavior towards her, per se. He supposed that in an abstract way, he felt a little bad about it, in the way that one might if a prank goes wrong. Cooper merely hadn’t seen her as much of a person back then and more so a walking, talking Vault-Tec advertisement in the flesh. It’s not like he had held it against her; after all, hadn’t he once been that naive? He just wasn’t going to give her any extra allowances beyond conversation for her idealistic views. Besides, he had stopped looking at most others as more than inconvenient obstacles to his goals at best and dangerous enemies-turned-possible-food at worst. People had shown Cooper over these past two hundred years that they were only looking out for themselves so why waste any consideration or kindness on them himself when it was emotionally exhausting to care at all?

But now that Lucy had proven him wrong, that she alone was different, and had done something nice for him without any benefit to herself? Cooper saw her as a person and a very, very interesting one at that. He had enjoyed messing with her admittedly and he suspected he'd have an even better time now if they could warm up to each other a bit.

Lucy was apparently not on the same page at all judging by how she was slowly blinking at him, taken aback by how casual he seemed in his response. Tersely, she spat out, “I don't want to ask you questions. I don't want to be… buddies and have conversations. I want to find my father, put this whole catastrophic section of my life to bed and see my brother again. We aren't friends, Mister Cooper.”

He couldn't help but smile crookedly at how the vaultie seemed to say “buddies” as if the taste of the word was sour on her tongue, like the very thought of it was too disgusting to even consider. Cooper would be offended if he didn't find it so damn cute.

Besides, he was confident that he could wear her down, ooze into her cracks the way that Lucy had with him. They were going to be spending a lot of time together on the road and Cooper Howard could be a persistent, dogged man when it came to getting what he wanted. He’d weave his way into her good graces steadily and surely until he found some fissures in her heart’s foundation in which to make his home. The Ghoul was not a man who was known to give up easily.

Still, Cooper held up his hands in a placating gesture, chuckling wryly as he murmured, “Alright, alright, sweetheart. I get the message, loud and clear. You aren't going to be making us friendship bracelets and carving our initials together in a little heart on a tree trunk any time soon. I completely understand.”

Lucy stared him down for a few stony moments before grumbling that she didn't understand half of what he had just said to her and turning away to keep walking. She seemed at least slightly mollified and satisfied that she had gotten her point across. Dogmeat chuffed out a happy noise and stopped her sniffing of some nearby concrete to pad after her.

Minutes passed in silence, the only noises the dog’s excited breathing and the dull swish of Cooper’s coat. He couldn't help himself though and remarked out loud, “Back before the bombs made everything so fucked, you used to be able to fish by this bridge-”

Lucy made a high pitched noise of fury similar to a tea kettle indicating it was ready on the stove top. It's funny what sounds you remembered even after not hearing them for decades. It was wild what memories your brain chose to hang onto even if they were irrelevant in the scheme of more important things.

“I. Don't. Care,” Lucy hissed out through gritted teeth, not turning to address him this time, her spine ramrod straight and tense from where he could see the lines of her back from behind.

Cooper attempted to bite back a grin and failed. Oh, he would wear her down alright. She just didn't know it yet.

But he’d get there and he’d have fun doing it.

[woso-dreamzzz]

New Girlfriend

Lucy Bronze x Teen!Reader

Ona Batlle x Bronze!Reader

Summary: You adjust to your Mum's new girlfriend

Lucy rolls over in her sleep, blinking awake slowly.

She jerks away when she comes face to face with you.

"It's two in the morning!" She whisper-yells," How did you get in here?!"

"Are you sleeping with Ona Batlle?"

"What?!"

You roll over onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. "Well...you're not sleeping with Keira anymore."

Lucy groans, wiping a hand over her face. She'd recently given you the sex talk (you had just turned thirteen and she'd decided it was time) and was now regretting it.

"Did you really sneak in here to ask me that at...Two in the morning?!"

You ignore her question. "And everyone online is speculating about it. You drive her to training a lot. Are you sleeping with her?"

"This isn't a conversation we need to be having."

"How long have you been sleeping with her?" You ask," You were all cosy after the World Cup and she's been around her a few times. Are you sleeping with her?"

"Do you really need to know this?"

"I'd like to know if my mother's sleeping with someone regularly," You reply," Especially if that person comes around as often as Ona is."

"Go back to your room," Lucy orders," It's too early. I'm too tired. We'll talk later."

Only...she doesn't talk to you later and you grow more suspicious of Ona every time she comes to visit.

You're sitting at the kitchen table, answering questions on your mind-numbingly boring homework worksheet.

Mum and Ona are cuddled up together on the sofa before Mum gets up to get more popcorn, ruffling your hair as she passes you to get to the microwave.

Your eyes track her as she goes so you don't even notice Ona until she's standing in front of you.

She looks a little awkward as she smiles. "How is school?"

You don't quite know what to think of her since your revelation that she and your Mum were kind of sleeping together. So, you just offer her a blunt answer. "Fine."

She nods once, suddenly stumped at having to carry on the conversation.

You don't offer her any leeway and go back to your question, scrawling something randomly. You sweep your textbooks into your arms and whistle for Narla, retreating into your room.

"Why do you keep coming in here?!" Your mum demands that night when she wakes up to find you on the other side of her bed.

"If you and Ona are sleeping together," You say, ignoring her outrage," Does this mean we have to move? Or is she moving in with us? Keira used to live with us."

Mum rolls over and screams her annoyance into her pillow. "Do we really have to have these conversations when I'm trying to sleep?"

"Well, maybe, if you stopped avoiding them when you're awake then we wouldn't have to do them now."

She swats at you with her pillow. "Where is this coming from? Why, do you not like Ona?"

"Would it matter if I didn't?"

"You were all for Ona before you realised we were together."

"Because I thought you were making friends," You admit," Is she going to be here all the time?"

"Go back to bed," Mum says like every time you drift into a conversation she doesn't want to have with you," It's too early for this."

Mum gets sick a few weeks later and takes the day off training. Usually, this means you take the day off school because it's too far for you to walk and, with Mum ill, it means she can't drive either.

You've already begun to plan your day off (you got a new video game from Keira for your birthday and are ready to try it out) when the front door opens and Ona walks in.

You didn't even know she had a key.

"Hey," She says," Are you ready to go?"

You frown. "Where?"

"To school? Lucy called me to pick you up."

You send a wounded look over to your mother, who has made herself comfortable on the sofa and doesn't look to be moving for the foreseeable future.

She waves you away with her hand. "Off you go. Don't you have that test today?"

Begrudgingly, you change into your uniform, grab your bag and moodily follow Ona out to her car.

"So," She says, drumming her fingers against the wheel," Are you prepared for your test?"

"We don't need to make small talk," You say bluntly, staring out the window.

She's silent for a moment, no sound over the gentle hum of the car.

The light turns green and she takes a left turn instead of a right.

"You're going the wrong way," You say with an eye roll, slumping in your seat.

Ona fishes her phone out of her pocket and throws it at you. You glare at her but catch it, typing in the password she tells you to.

"Your school should already be saved," She says as she takes another turn, taking you further and further away from school," Dial them and put it on speaker."

Ona makes up an excuse that you're sick just as she pulls up in front of an arcade. She gets out and you stumble after her.

"I'm meant to be at school! You told Mum you'd take me to school!"

"Yes," Ona says," I did but I thought we could spend the day together."

You give her a look and cross your arms over your chest. "I have a test today."

"That you actually want to do?"

She's got you there but you refuse to give her satisfaction.

"I don't have money."

"I do."

You narrow your eyes at her and huff. "Fine! But I'm not going to be happy about this!" It's a complete lie. Mum doesn't like arcades. She says that they're stealing all your money so she rarely lets you go and it's even rarer that she gives you money for them.

You lose yourself in repetitive pinball and penny machines for hours, collecting tickets and taking great satisfaction in absolutely thrashing Ona at air hockey.

Your fun day almost makes it so you can forget your anger at her. Almost.

She gets you pizza and a drink and you find yourself sitting opposite her in a booth at the very back.

"You're not my mum," You tell her eventually," And I'm not calling you mum."

Ona beams at you and you hate that you find yourself smiling back. "I don't expect you to."

"And I reserve the right to have first dibs of Mum's bed," You continue.

It's an odd request but Ona takes it in her stride. "Okay."

You stare at her through narrowed eyes. "My test went fine," You say eventually," You dropped me off fifteen minutes early and waited around till I entered the building. You picked me up. We talked. We're civil. Cool with you?"

"Sounds good."

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Arthur is missing and Luca considers just how much of a threat Thomas Shelby's little Red Demon poses.  

Word Count: 4,320

Notes: Warnings for depictions of racism towards Romani people and references to violence.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 8: Miscalculation

His pen scratched against the paper he was scribbling on, eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses, battling back the strain that was settling in them from having spent so long reading paper after paper. His fingers ached from holding a pen for so long, as did his back and neck after being hunched over his desk for hours. 

The fire crackled and popped in the fireplace in front of the circular table that Lucy was seated at, hunched over her own paperwork, taking brief breaks only to puff at her cigarette or take a sip from her glass of whiskey.

When the door opened, it startled him somewhat out of the focused daze he’d been locked in while he worked, eyes snapping up irritably to glare at whoever had burst in to disturb them.

Polly pulled off her hat. She’d gotten her hair cut, shorter than Lucy's or even Lizzie’s, and styled in careful curls around her head. And some new clothes, from the look of things. She’d straightened herself out fast. Faster than he had even expected, truth be told. 

“I need to show you something,” she announced without preamble, shucking off her coat and hanging it up, stalking across the office to him. Tommy raised an eyebrow, irritability replaced by curiosity as he capped his pen. He could feel Lucy peering over at them from her spot at the table.

As if just remembering the red-head’s presence herself, Polly looked over her shoulder at her. “Both of you.”

Lucy’s eyes darted over Polly’s shoulder to meet his, wide with surprise and intrigue. He shrugged minisculely at her. Fuck if he knew what this was all about. Lucy set down her pen and got up from her chair, moving to take one of the armchairs positioned in front of his desk. Polly seated herself in the other one beside her.     

“Just after Christmas, I got this,” Polly held out a simple, white envelope to him. Tommy looked from it to her, then took the letter with a sigh, flipping open the flap of the already torn envelope and pulling out the folded paper inside. He recognized the handwriting within immediately. The same handwriting that had been scrawled alongside the black hand he’d received in the mail on Christmas Eve. He read over the contents twice, then passed it over to Lucy, fixing his gaze on Polly and wetting his lips. 

“I take it by you showing me this, that you aren’t going to give me up?”

Polly cocked her head, a very small glimmer of amusement finding its way into her eyes. “I thought about it,” she admitted. “But no.” 

“Not even in exchange for him sparing Michael’s life?” Tommy asked, parroting what he’d just read in Luca’s letter.

“I don’t trust him to keep his word,” Polly said simply. Tommy nodded, ignoring the slight twinge of hurt that followed her words. Lucy handed the letter back to him, hand raising to settle on her face as she thought, her eyes focused on the window, but not really seeing it, her mind somewhere far away. Tommy set the letter down in front of him. Now that he’d heard Luca speak, he could hear his voice echoing in the twisting words scrawled out onto the paper.

“I was just going to leave it unanswered…” Polly started, then shrugged. “But I wanted to know what you thought.”

He again raised an eyebrow. Apparently she had really meant it when she had promised him her help once more. Looking back at Lucy, he found that her eyes had moved to fix on him. The beginnings of an idea had started to formulate in his head, and he pushed it towards her, seeking her input. She cocked her head, thinking it over. 

“I’ll be coming with you.”

He opened his mouth to argue, protectiveness flaring within him at the idea of placing her in harm’s way. But Lucy narrowed her eyes at him stubbornly, jaw setting in a way that he knew meant he would have better luck picking up a mountain and moving it than getting her to change her mind. He sighed.

“Fine.”

“What are you two talking about?” Polly asked, perturbed, watching the two of them have their half silent conversation with her lips pursed. Tommy turned his gaze back onto her. 

“You’re going to give me up.”

Polly, who had lit one of her clove cigarettes while he was conversing with Lucy, frowned. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “We set up a spot and a date. We can scope it out and store weapons there ahead of time.”

“I think I can get our hands on some machine guns, maybe,” Lucy chimed in. 

“When Luca comes for me with his men, Lucy and I will dispatch them.”

“How do you know Luca himself will come?”

“He’ll want to pull the trigger on me himself.”

Polly considered this. “Arthur wants to be the one to kill Luca.”

Tommy sighed, thinking of the bullet Arthur had scratched Luca’s name into. “I think that this situation is dire enough that we can dispose of tradition.” It may hurt Arthur, but it was the truth; if anyone got a shot at Luca, they needed to take it.  

“He won’t like that.”

“He’ll like it less if Tommy is dead,” Lucy pointed out. 

“I’ll bring it up at the meeting tomorrow. We can take a vote,” Tommy pulled off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Maybe we can get him to see reason on it.”

Lucy nodded. Polly cocked her head, but didn’t say anything for a moment, turning her black cigarette over and over between her fingers. “I’ll write Luca a response and post it today requesting that we meet.”

Tommy tensed. “If you do that, he could lure you into a trap–”

Polly waved away his concerns. “I’ll request a public place. Besides,” she eyed the letter sitting on the desk. “I think he’s genuine.”

Anxiety built up in his throat, lodging in there stubbornly like a rock. Losing John had already been too powerful of a blow. He didn’t know if he could take losing anymore of them. But Polly’s eyes were steadfast and just as stubborn as Lucy’s had been a moment ago. There would be no moving her on this.  

“Right,” his thumbs twiddled against each other. “We’ll iron out the details later. For now, just establish contact with him.”

Polly nodded. He turned back to Lucy. “Any progress with the cousin?”

“Nothing solid yet. I think he’s still staying in Birmingham. Maybe he’s with Luca. Maybe not. Our boys are still looking,” she hesitated, clearly thinking something over. “Are we sure that there’s only fifteen of them?”

He looked up at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Luca may have brought fifteen men with him from America, but that’s not counting anyone that Sabini may have loaned out to him. Or any of the people who have remained sympathetic to the Changrettas, or who live in their former territories or in other parts of Birmingham. Not to mention the people here who simply hate us enough to potentially side with Luca instead of us.”

Tommy massaged at his brow, closing his eyes. She was right. They needed to assume that Luca had more men than the fifteen they’d been accounting for. 

“The longer he’s here, the more power he’s likely to accumulate,” Polly agreed. Tommy groaned, and fought back the temptation to just rest his forehead against the cool wood of his desk and cease functioning for the remainder of the day. 

“Why is it whenever you two agree, it’s on something that’s bound to give me a headache?” he asked. Lucy chuckled, and when he cracked his eyes open, it was to see her standing, reaching across the desk to give him a pat on the shoulder. “Look into it.”

“Yes, boss,” she gave him one of those two-finger salutes that made him fondly roll his eyes, returning to her papers at the circular table in front of the fireplace. When he looked back at Polly, he could have sworn he saw a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. 

Hm. Perhaps Lucy’s charms had finally started to wear away at her a little, after all. 

“So we have a plan?” Polly asked, looking at him assessingly. He nodded, ignoring the way that his stomach twisted with fear for all those he held dear. 

“Yes, we have a plan.”  

∗ ∗ ∗

They were the first ones to show up at the hospital. That was to be expected, of course, considering they were early.

“Hello, Michael,” Lucy greeted him where he was sitting at the round table in the middle of the hospital room, dressed in pajamas and a robe. “You’re looking better.”

He gave her a grimace of a smile. “Morphine does wonders.”

Tommy set down his briefcase, clicking it open and handing papers to Michael, spreading others out onto the table. Lucy removed her coat and the suit jacket layered underneath, stretching her arms before sitting down in the chair Tommy had already picked for himself. There was a peculiar scent in the air: a rich, overwhelming perfume that was certainly a scent Polly would never choose to wear on herself. Nor Ada or even Lizzie. 

She shot Tommy a knowing look which he returned, though neither of them commented on it.    

Tommy pulled off his coat and suit jacket, leaving him in just his waistcoat and white button down shirt, pulling his glasses from their case and setting them upon his nose. He pulled out his cigarette case, offering her one, then taking another for himself.

“They’re late,” Lucy commented, checking her watch after the three of them had sat in growingly uncomfortable silence for several minutes. 

“They’ll be here soon,” Michael said placatingly. Lucy fought back the urge to grind her teeth. Lack of punctuality had always annoyed her. 

A good five more minutes ticked by, and she was half considering suggesting to Tommy that they just start going over things with Michael and catch Polly, Ada, and Lizzie up on everything later, when she heard the click of heels approaching from down the hall. 

The three girls entered the room, disposing of their coats and taking their seats at the table. Polly grumbled out an apology for being late, setting a bouquet of flowers on Michael’s hospital bed. Lucy shared a greeting nod and smile towards both Ada and Lizzie from across the table while they sat down and Tommy stood. When he asked where Arthur was, Polly snapped at him. 

“Let’s just start. We can catch him up on everything later,” Lucy suggested. Tommy nodded in agreement, beginning to pass out papers to everyone. He verbally checked things off the list he kept in his head as they moved through them: reinstating Polly as company treasurer, and passing Michael’s duties to Ada while he was still in the hospital. Once those were both done declared the meeting of Shelby Company Limited over, and then they moved on to the real business. 

“But for that, we need Arthur,” Tommy’s jaw ticked as he looked around the room. “Where the fuck is Arthur?”

An odd look passed across Polly’s eyes as she watched him. Lucy cocked her head, but decided that it would be better not to comment on it. Instead, she offered a cigarette to Lizzie before leaning back in her chair with a deep sigh. Beneath the table, Tommy’s leg pressed against hers. 

“We’ll wait, for a little while,” he decided, and they all started to get more comfortable. Polly stood from her chair, prowling around the hospital room like a caged tiger. 

“So, who was doing my job while I was away?” she asked, filling the deep silence that had settled throughout the room. 

“Lizzie and I shared your duties,” Lucy explained. 

Polly nodded, continuing to pace about the room, her heels clicking across the floor. Lucy sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Normally the sound of heels didn’t bother her, but she had a headache and was tired. She’d rather this meeting just ended as soon as possible.  

Ada, Lizzie, and Michael all made small talk while Polly continued to flit about. Lucy listened quietly to the conversation, interjecting a reply or comment every once in a while, but mostly she remained silent. She wasn’t in the mood for much conversation at the moment. Beside her, she could sense Tommy growing more anxious and irritable with every passing second that Arthur didn’t walk through the doors. He was fidgeting with his cigarette, twitching in his seat. 

“Do you want me to go find him?” she offered, aware that his mind was likely already filled with horrid visions of what could have happened to make Arthur nearly an hour late to a meeting. 

“No,” he said softly, and she internally heaved a great, fond but exasperated sigh at his overprotectiveness. They were going to have to have a talk about that, and soon. It might even turn into an argument. But he needed to be using her more strategically. Keeping her at his side at all times limited just what kind of damage she could be causing to Luca’s forces. 

But in front of a good share of the family was not the place for such a discussion, so she held her tongue. 

Tommy looked at his watch, again, and she could practically feel it as his worry and irritation finally hit its breaking point and his temper snapped. 

“All right. He’s an hour late. Fuck him,” he stood from his chair, and began to explain the business in which they needed to vote on. Polly opened a briefcase, and began passing around copies of the photograph from Alessio Changretta’s wedding, including an enlarged one of Luca. Lucy looked over the copy Polly had handed to her carefully. She’d stared at the copy Isiah had given her already for more minutes than she’d care to count, committing every face from the picture to memory. Should she cross paths with any of them, she would know immediately. 

At Polly’s verbalization of the proposal that they give a copy of the photo to Aberama, Ada looked up sharply, already understanding what they were getting at. She started to argue that they needed to wait for Arthur, before offering his job of killing Luca away to someone else, but Polly dismissed her worries. 

“We need Luca Changretta dead. That’s it,” Tommy concurred.

“Lucy?” Lizzie asked. “What do you think?”

She shifted in her seat, fumbling with her cigarette. The sterilized scent of the hospital room was making her headache worse. “I think that if anyone gets a shot at Luca, they should take it. We can’t afford anyone hesitating in the name of tradition.”

Tommy called for a vote, including a promise that he would personally deal with Arthur. Lucy raised her hand in favor. Everyone–even Ada, after a brief hesitation–followed suit. Tommy declared the motion carried, and Lucy rose from her seat, setting about helping to pack up their things.  

Polly threw a small fit over Michael’s mother having come to visit him before they’d all arrived, storming out with the other girls in tow. Tommy sighed, looking like he either wanted to scream or take a very long nap in a nice, quiet place. Lucy shot him a sympathetic look, tugging lightly on his arm.

“Come on. Good to see you’re feeling better, Michael,” she added. Michael nodded at her silently, eyes tired.

Briefcase in hand, Tommy let her pull him from the room and down the hall. She let out a deep, relieved sigh once they were out of the hospital and in the fresh air–or as fresh as the air could possibly be in Birmingham. 

“You all right?” he asked, taking note of her closed eyes and upturned face. 

“Mhm. The smell of disinfectant was giving me a headache.”

He touched her arm in sympathy, looking around the street worriedly, paranoia etched into his face. He did that a lot more, these days, scanning rooms the second they’d entered them, head on a swivel as they walked down the smoky streets. 

She supposed that they both did, actually. 

Worry was revealing itself in the crease between his brows and the clench in his jaw, and she knew that behind his eyelids, he probably was having horrid visions: Arthur, dead in the gutter, Arthur, strung up like a piece of meat in the back of a warehouse, Arthur, cut into so many little pieces that they’d never find all of them. 

It hadn’t been all that long since they’d seen him; at the factory, selecting men who were willing to work and keep things running despite the strike that had been called. 

Lucy had stood at Tommy’s side as she watched the scabs filter into the factory. They were hungry men, many of them inexperienced, but they would have to take who they could find until the strike was over.

But things could happen fast, in situations like these. 

“Let’s go to the office,” she suggested. “Maybe he just lost track of time. Or got held up at home.”

Tommy’s fingers tightened around his briefcase, and while the worry didn’t leave his face, he nodded, taking her hand with his free one, and walking side by side with her in the direction of the betting shop.  

∗ ∗ ∗ 

Luca stared down at the papers spread out across his desk, fiddling with the matchstick between his teeth. He examined, briefly, two photographs, side by side. One of Thomas Shelby from his days spent during the war, the other a photograph of the whole family, taken at the opening of an orphanage in honor of Shelby’s late wife. 

He shuffled through the pictures on his desk until he found the one of Grace Burgess. A beautiful woman with wavy blonde hair, intelligent eyes staring back at him in the photograph. 

Such a shame, what had happened to her. Though, if they had not gone after Angel, she would still be alive today. 

Amazing, how Shelby seemed to play so carelessly with the lives of those closest to him. Had he kept his family close, it would have been harder for them to have gotten the second youngest brother as easily as they did. 

“What about her?” Matteo asked, seated on the other side of the desk from him, fiddling with a little, rectangular photograph. He slid it across the desk towards Luca, and he picked it up, looking down at the image of a woman who could be only a year or two younger than Shelby, the fair skin of her cheeks and nose dusted with freckles, her cheekbones lightly prominent. She had full, naturally pouty lips, and wide eyes that were just a little too large to be in proper proportion to the rest of her face. But she was pretty. Almost doll-like. Her hair was sheared off at the chin, falling in tousled, barely tamed loose curls around her face. 

The expression with which she met the camera was serious, but there was a sparkle of something–be it madness or simple mischievousness, it was hard to discern–in her eyes.

Luca’s teeth scraped against the matchstick, gnawing it slightly as he considered the image of Lucy Winters before him. He knew, from having seen her in person, that those eyes were a dark forest green. Her hair, a deep, rich, dark auburn. And she was tiny. Laughably so, for someone who was supposed to be so terrifying. The top of her head would probably barely come up to his shoulder, and he was pretty sure that if he wanted to, he could lift her up with one arm. 

She’d looked at him from across the long table in the room where he’d confronted Shelby with the expression of someone gathering information from every twitch, every little glance or stutter of speech. She was smart, of that he was sure. She likely wouldn’t have managed to claw her way so high up in the Shelby’s organization if she wasn’t. 

Even if she was also fucking the boss. 

“I keep hearing rumors about her, Luca. On the streets. From our informants. From the people we’ve talked to who hate the Shelbys almost as much as we do. They all say similar things about her. Should we be worried?”   

Luca turned the photograph over in his hand thoughtfully. Thomas Shelby’s Whore, that was what his mother had called her. His concubine. The Red Demon. She said that Winters had been working for Shelby since before his late wife had been in the picture, and that rumors about their relationship had been rampant. Shelby’s attachment towards the red-head had not diminished, even after his marriage. The woman even fucking lived with him and his wife in their big fucking mansion in Warwickshire. So either his wife was in on the affair–some of them were into that kind of thing, after all, and who knows with these Romani and their strange customs–or she was dumber than a bag of rocks. 

After Grace Shelby’s death, Winters had continued to remain at Shelby’s side. Comforting him in his time of grief. His mother had spoken with disdain and disgust of the whole arrangement. The words husband stealer and slut were both used quite liberally in all her assessments of the little red head. 

Murderer, bitch, assassin, spy, and dangerous had all been included in the mix as well. His mother had been insistent: Lucy Winters must be one of the first in Shelby’s organization to die. 

“If Thomas Shelby is killed, she will come after you. And she will bring all of hell with her, Luca, mark my words. She will never stop. You have to get her first,” his mother’s lips had curled into a cruel smile, then. “It’ll hurt him more, too. To hold the body of another woman he loves while she dies in his arms.”

Luca had taken her seriously, at first. Of course, Thomas Shelby’s assassin needed to be dealt with. But then he had seen her, sitting there in the office. She’d been caught unawares by him just as her lover had been.

Yes, he was sure that his mother’s stories of her being a good shot with a revolver and particularly fond of castrating rapists were both true, but he was beginning to suspect that the other stories, the ones of her slaughtering a group of men in a pub or murdering her own brother in her family’s home in London, were all just tall tales. Likely spread by Shelby himself to ensure that no man was stupid enough to try to lay a hand on his woman. 

No, he was not worried about the tiny little girl playing gangster because her lover let her. Yes, he would ensure she was dead before the vendetta was done. That was a certainty. But it would be to punish Shelby. To force him to confront the pain of having everyone and everything he’d ever cared for ripped away. Not because he saw her to be a legitimate threat that ought to be feared. 

What was there to be afraid of, really? She was so small he doubted she would be able to hold her own against even just two of his men. 

Not listening to his mother was not something he made a habit out of. Since she had come to him in New York, eyes red and swollen from crying, but mouth set with quiet wrath, he had listened to everything she had said. Every morsel of information she had on the Shelbys was invaluable in planning the vendetta. In ensuring victory against the Peaky Blinders scum who thought themselves grand enough to take both his father and brother away from him. 

But not every scrap of information she had given him may be correct, and he had to adjust when necessary. He had evaluated the red-headed girl. Looked her in the eye and saw nothing that indicated the promise of violence and death that his mother had warned him of. And she had admitted herself to him that she had not once seen any physical evidence of the Red Demon’s rumored ferocious violence herself. Only heard of it through secondhand stories and rumors. And Luca was not about to lose resources or spend precious time being paranoid over what he had known from the moment he made eye contact with Lucy Winters were just tall tales.  

She would not be a problem. His men would deal with her easily. Fucking hell, she and Shelby had both allowed an unknown man to sneak into their office and unload their weapons without their knowledge. That they’d left their guns hanging out in the open like that at all was a sign of either great stupidity or colossal arrogance. Like a dog who had grown too fat, lazy, and comfortable that it rolled over to show its belly to all who approached it. Not taking the time to carefully scent their hands to tell if they were friend or foe before revealing the weakest part of itself.   

It showed just how weak and unprepared they were to face an organization as well-oiled and ruthless as he and his men. They would make quick work out of them. And, if Winters surprised him and turned out to be more than she initially appeared, he could always just deal with her himself.  

“Luca?” Matteo pressed, still waiting for an answer. Luca raised his eyes to him, lips pulling back to reveal his teeth, matchstick still gritted between them, in a smile. 

“Don’t worry about her, Matteo,” he took one last look at the picture, then tossed it aside to settle on the far right edge of the desk, unworriedly. “Don’t worry about her at all.”

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