#To Have Loved and Lost

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

To Have Loved and Lost Part Nine

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Pairing: George Russell x Reader

Rating: M

Notes: It's been EIGHTY FOUR YEARS I am so sorry. Maybe two more chapters on this one.

Warnings: ANGSTY But also fluffy :D ; there's a time shift, it doesn't completely align with the show's timeline. Bear with me. Also this is not a story with a traditional happy ending!

Summary: In the last year, you had been made incredibly aware of the ways in which you were not Bertha Russell.

“It’s coming along well.” 

“As well as it can, I suppose,” You conceded. Mrs. Russell’s lips pursed with a smile as she plied,

“Even you must admit that there has been great progress.” 

You grimaced, tipping your head to the side a touch. “Not as much as there should’ve been at this rate.” It had been a long, difficult winter. There had been so many delays as a result of high winds and heavy snow.

“There’s only so much that you can do to control the weather.” 

“As much as I can do, yes. Something tells me that you wouldn’t have allowed a blizzard to come between you and your home.” 

“Perhaps, but you and I are not the same.” 

She said it with such flippancy that it made you laugh and shake your head. But as she climbed out of the carriage ahead of you, you had to fight away a latent wave of bitterness. 

In the last year, you had been made incredibly aware of the ways in which you were not Bertha Russell.

George truly had done well, choosing a fellow strategist. In your quiet moments, you couldn’t help but wonder, had things been different—had you joined him in New York when you were meant to—might you have been in the public eye, as she was? Might you have pushed yourself into the social scene with the same vigor? When you were young, you may have had the ambition. You’d been ready enough to forsake your family for what had once believed to be a great love. Maybe you could have made the strides…No. 

For George, you would have made the strides. 

“Do you intend to admire Mr. White’s handiwork from the safety of your carriage?” 

Bertha’s taunt broke you from your regretful reverie, and you took hold of the footman’s hand, allowing him to let you help him down. You strode to Bertha’s side, matching her pace as you neared the bright façade of the house. 

“I wonder where your head is sometimes,” Bertha commented. 

“I’ve a number of matters that I’m engaged with at present. My mind wanders.” 

“I’m fully aware. I’ve seen you drift off into fairyland in the midst of countless dinners.” 

“I’m always listening,” You insisted, leading the way into the house.

“That I believe.” 

You hummed softly, looking around the foyer. It was large, though not nearly as large as the Russell’s. It couldn’t be, given the city lot that Franklin had bought. But, you were more than pleased with what had been accomplished. Your two-floor compact mansion had all of the trimmings expected of the great families of New York, and was only a block from the Russell’s. 

“Have you much left to do?” Bertha asked. 

You shook your head a little, leading the way toward the sitting room. 

“The ballroom is left to be completed and the bedrooms are to be painted and papered, but that is the most of it, I believe.” 

“What’s stopped the work?...Budgeting concerns?” 

You cast her a sidelong glance, fully aware of the barbed, couched curiosity in her question. 

“No. The materials for the floor were backordered and it’s been too humid to paint.” 

“I see.” 

“I hope that you do. My cousin may not be as wealthy as your husband, but he’s hardly pinching pennies.” 

“I’m well aware. George says that the sales have far exceeded what your cousin promised.” 

“Franklin doesn’t like to make promises that he can’t keep. Nor do I.” 

“Speaking of promises, are you still expecting to come to Newport for this next week?” 

You gave Bertha a grimacing smile, bracing for her disappointment. 

“Franklin and Eleanor will join you for Friday, but I’m sorry to say I will not be able to join you until Monday.” 

“You’ll miss half the fun. May I ask why?” 

“I’ve been neglecting my sorting of Franklin’s work at the office—” 

“He has assistants for that, doesn’t he?” 

“He does, but the new girl hasn’t been trained up properly yet and the receipts have gone to hell.” It flew out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you lifted a gloved hand to cover your mouth as your face went hot. But Bertha ignored the profanity, waving off your comment as she demanded: “What else?” 

“Mr. White is having materials delivered that I will need to sign off on.” 

“On the weekend?” 

“On Saturday, yes. I want eyes on them the moment that they arrive, so that I may correct any disparities right away. I don’t want the work delayed any further.” 

“I understand.” 

“But I will join as soon as I’m able.” 

“I am glad to hear it.” 

“As am I. And Eleanor is incredibly excited.”

“Is she?” 

“She’s heard a fair amount about Newport from Gladys, of course. She’s felt terribly left out.” 

“She is young.” 

“I know,” You nodded, looking around the sitting room. “But…It wears on you more, I think. When you are young.” 

“I can hardly remember that feeling. Can you?” 

“...All too well.” 

--  

“Will you be able to join us at all?” 

George took up his glass of wine, taking a deep pull as he mulled over his answer. He’d known for a few days that he would have to disappoint his wife. He had no doubt of her annoyance in this regard. She’d planned on entertaining on Saturday evening, and while she could shoulder it with Larry, it was far more advantageous if they were both there. 

“I should be able to get away for a couple of days,” He admitted, “But I’d arrive on the Monday.”

Bertha hummed in thought, but George could sense the soft, disappointed note in his wife’s voice. 

“I would join sooner if I could,” He added, lips tipped in an apologetic smile. 

She shook her head: “I understand. Perhaps you could escort Mr. Hughes’ sad cousin when you do travel.” 

Sad cousin. It struck a chord in him that he had nearly forgotten. They had made such great strides that the last year had been so terribly cordial between the two of them. If he was pressed for the truth of their relationship—or some form of the truth of it, as it was now—he would go so far as to say that they were friends. George was almost certain that she and Bertha were in good standing with one another; they joined one another frequently for events, teas, balls, dinners. 

Perhaps that was why the use of sad caught him so off-guard, and seemed to hit him in the vicinity of below the belt. 

His hesitation went unnoticed as Bertha beckoned a servant closer to top off her glass of wine. 

“Her house is coming along,” She added. 

“Oh?” 

“Mm. There’s been a back up on building materials, but she’s managing. Mr. Hughes and Eleanor will arrive in Newport on the Friday, and they’ll attend at least the tea, though I’m certain Eleanor will have to remain behind on Saturday evening, poor thing.” 

“Perhaps she’ll be able to visit with Gladys. I know that they enjoy their time together.” 

“They do. I daresay Eleanor has had a good effect on her.” 

“Really.” His brow wrinkled, intrigued. “What makes you say that?” 

“I think having Eleanor around and remembering the way it was before has made her grateful for the freedom she’s afforded.” Bertha leaned back a touch as the servants stepped in to clear the plates. “I’ve heard far less belly-aching about the events that we’ve allowed her to attend lately.” 

George nodded a touch, considering. It was true—Gladys had seemed to be in fine fettle for the last few months, and it was in no doubt in part due to the time that she spent with Eleanor. 

“I do want to hold a dinner on Monday when you’ve arrived, and with the cousin as well. Can I count on you to extend the invitation?” Bertha asked. “I’m certain she’ll be more likely to accept if you show her the attention. She receives it so rarely.” 

George’s hands twisted in his napkin before he lifted it from his lap, setting it on the table as he gave Bertha a small, reassuring smile. 

“I’d be happy to.”

-- 

The rented Hughes home that they had procured had a dark, foreboding façade, but George knew well enough that the inside was light and airy. He had been there for a few drop-ins, meetings, and dinners as needed for the last year. He’d seen her run a tight ship. 

Despite his promise, George had lagged in presenting her with the invitation that he had promised Bertha he would impart. He wished that he could excuse that his week had gotten away from him, and it had, some—but he had felt some block, some resistance to running the invitation over. By all rules and conventions, it was wholly unnecessary. It made far more sense for Bertha to send the invitation directly. But, there he was, knocking on the Hughes’ door, and smiling blithely as the butler opened the door. 

“I’m here to speak with the mistress of the house.” 

“I’m afraid the mistress of the house is not seeing anyone this evening, sir.”

“I see…Thank you.”

George walked down the front steps calmly and slowly, turning his cane in his hand. He would have to send it by mail, as soon as he was able. He was set to climb back into his carriage, and then a breeze pushed across his face. It brought a familiar scent with it—one that drew him back to his youth, when his beard was merely peach fuzz coating his work-blushed cheeks. He glanced back toward the side passageway, likely the servants’ entrance, then turned back to his coachman.

“Return to the house,” He ordered. “I’ll make my own way back.”

The coachman tipped his hat to George before urging the carriage on. George glanced around the street to ensure no one was watching before he dipped into the side passageway, descending the stairs. He peered in through the window into the kitchen, eyes narrowed a touch. He took a cursory glance toward the alley before he raised his cane, rapping it twice on the window.

 --

You jumped about a sound at the knock, your head twitching toward the window. You drew in a stunned, nervous breath as you hurriedly rounded the table, drying your hands on your apron before pulling the door open.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve an invitation to give you.”

“You couldn’t have left it upstairs?” You peered around the doorway before you reached out, grasping his arm and pulling him inside. You cast one more look about for nosy neighbors before shutting the door. You turned to find George wandering more deeply into the kitchen, his hat in hand as he peered around.

“Well?” You tacked on. George didn’t turn to meet your eye or answer you. He just walked over to the stove, lowering his head to take a whiff at the bubbling pot there.

“It’s a little hot for stew, isn’t it?” He asked, glancing back at you.

“…Perhaps,” You agreed, “But it was the only thing I wanted.”

George’s lips pulled with a small smile as he turned his head, lowering it to take another sniff. You ought to extract the invitation and go. If anyone found you with George, you’d catch hell for it. Worse—Franklin and Ellie would catch hell for it. But—

“…Have you eaten yet?”

--

It was odd to see George in a state that you now considered so terribly dressed down. He’d hung his hat, coat, and suit jacket by the door, and rolled his sleeves up. The windows by the kitchen and down the hall had been opened, allowing a warm breeze to push through the room.

“Your butler told me you weren’t seeing anyone.”

“I’m not.” You glanced up at George to find him giving you a smug little smile. “This doesn’t count. You just—Barged in.”

“I may’ve been uninvited, but you offered me dinner.”

“I suppose that’ll teach me.”

It probably wouldn’t. George smiled nonetheless, dipping his spoon into the bowl and drawing out the red broth, along with bits of bean, celery, and chicken.

“Did you give your chef conjure the recipe of this based on your old notes?”

“No. I made it myself. I sent almost everyone else up to Newport with Eleanor and Franklin.”

George’s brows rose in surprise as he lowered the spoon again.

“All?” He repeated, eyes darting toward the stairs. 

“Robinson wouldn’t go. He insisted on staying, on the off-chance something happened, or I needed help.”

“And the chef left you nothing?”

“He offered, but…” You shook your head, eyes lowering to your food. “It’s strange. There were so many things I swore I’d never do again once I left Stevensville. But now that I have the choice of not doing them, I…Miss them.”

“Including the washing up?”

“Not that. Never that.”

“Leave it for them.”

“I can’t do that,” You groaned, laughing. “I told the chef I would go to Del Monico’s.”

“Robinson is a witness to the opposite.” 

“He’ll cover for me.” 

“Why send them with the others?”

“Franklin and Eleanor are in Newport, less of a household to care for. And it’s hard to get some alone time in a household full of people.”

George nodded a touch, eyes wandering your face. You turned your head after a moment, unable to bear the force of his focus.

“I take it your family is waiting for you at home?”

“…No,” George said. “They’re similarly occupied in Newport.”

“Ah, that’s right. It’s a popular destination these days.”

“Indeed.”

“And surely cooler than it is in the city now.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Your son mentioned your intention of buying a home there.”

“Yes. I expect Bertha will return with news and a price tag.”

You smiled a little bit.

“If that’s the trend, I’m certain Franklin will want one for himself as well. I cannot imagine how Ellie’s head must be spinning.”

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the sound of creaking on the stairs. You sprang up from your chair, waving George up hurriedly and toward the back doorway, his hat, coat, and suit jacket in hand. You shushed him softly before rushing back to the table, taking up George’s bowl, spoon, and wine glass and hurrying to the empty wash bin. You lowered them in quickly, then turned toward the door, smoothing your expression and raising your brows as Robinson rounded into the room.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, miss.”

“Not at all, Robinson. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No—No. Simply…”

You arched a brow at Robinson twisting, nervous expression.

“Yes?” You pressed.

“I thought I heard someone else’s voice, ma’am.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, your cheeks heating as you fought to keep a calm countenance, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the wash bin.

“Perhaps it was merely sound that came in from outside. This house does carry noise so oddly.”

Robinson’s lips twitched nervously before he gave a nod.

“Of course, ma’am. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Not a disturbance at all. Thank you for coming to look in on me. I do appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

He gave the kitchen one more cursory look before walking back up the stairs. You glanced after him, hearing the stair creaking again. You hurried over to the door, pushing it closed before you turned back. You found George peering curiously around the corner, and your stomach lurched at the sight. It was so similar to once he’d given you so many times, so long ago.

“Is it clear?” He murmured.

“I believe so, yes.”

You glanced up through the door again, even as George stepped out from his hiding place again.

“Your food in the bin—It’s empty,” You insisted, taking in his disappointed moue. George walked over to the bin and reached in, only retrieving his wine glass.

“Are you so worried about someone finding us together?”

“It would be unwise,” You pointed out, walking back to the table to retrieve your wine. “And it’s not for the sake of my reputation.”

“Mine?”

“I suppose, in some respect—but you would recover well enough in society. It’s mostly for the sake of this household.”

“I was under the impression that you bore very little love for Franklin.”

“Franklin and I have…An understanding. And I worry more for Eleanor. She has yet to make her debut, and I won’t have her make it in a house with a cloud of scandal over it.”

“…You care deeply for her.”

“I do.”

“You act as though she was your own daughter.”

It wasn’t an accusation by any means, but it still made your gut twist with discomfort. You lowered your gaze to your hands, picking absently at your neatly manicured nails. There were a few flecks beneath them—bits of spice from when you’d cooked, mess where there hadn’t been for a long time. 

“…She’s the only chance I’ll have at arranging something of this sort,” You reminded him.” I want it to be perfect.”

George smiled a touch, lowering his eyes to his wine.

“Bertha was quite insistent on the importance of Gladys’ coming out.”

“They are very important. It lays the foundation for their season. A rocky path could either mean a dangerous ascent or a speedy descent. I don’t want that for her.”

You heard George hum thoughtfully before the light thud of his glass being set down. 

“On that note—or rather, an analogous one,” His footsteps grew closer. “I’ve an invitation for you.” 

“An invitation?” Your brow furrowed. “Have I missed something?” 

“Not at all. Bertha asked me to deliver it personally, and to accompany you on our mutual trip to Newport on Monday.” 

Your brows rose again at the sight of the invitation, and you reached out, plucking the envelope from your fingers. 

“Unorthodox,” You muttered. 

“My wife isn’t known for walking the straight and narrow.” 

His wife. The reminder had ceased to sting in the way that it had when you first arrived in New York, but it always lodged a lump in your throat. 

“I’ve noticed,” You chuckled softly, forcing past the discomfort. 

“I will pick you up on Monday. Will three be alright?” 

“Yes. Thank you for taking the pains to come and deliver this,” You added, drawing the invitation out of the envelope and scanning Bertha’s familiar handwriting. 

“Of course. Thank you for dinner.” 

You huffed humourlessly, humming as you heard him make for the door.

“It’s better,” He commented. You frowned, looking up. 

“Pardon?” 

“The stew,” George nodded to the washbin. “It’s better than I remember.” He tipped his hat to you before setting it fully on his head. Your smile widened as he melted from your sight, the sound of the door closing behind him, and his footsteps fading. 

Tag list: @foxilayde ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ;

@nominalnebula ; @missredherring

[deathsplaything]

Location: Sugar Pot backroom Timing: Current, midday then at nightfall Parties: Alistair (Ft. Melody and Tommy) Summary: Something unthinkable happens, and Alistair must do something even worse. A necromantic ritual to bring back the dead is performed. Choices are made. Content Warnings: Child death tw, parental death tw, ritual sacrifice

“Mo ghaol cha'n fhaigh thu bàs.”

It was supposed to be a normal day at the Sugar Pot. Melody had left to go pick up Tommy from school, and Alistair could handle the slower end of the day with little trouble. There were no customers at the moment, so they were simply reorganizing the jars around the store so labels were facing outward for their ease. That’s when the door rang and they heard ragged breathing. “Alistair, he’s… you have to help him.” It was Melody, she was sobbing and could barely get her words out. Their heart sank, knowing that could only mean one thing. “Please, it was a drowngr,” Melody spoke through racked sobs, already heading for the back room. “Mels…” Alistair was at a loss, quickly waving their hand for Brutus to follow them into the back room. “What’s the damage?” They finally asked after closing themselves into the back room with Melody, Tommy, and Brutus. It was cramped, but Alistair couldn’t think about that. All they could think about was how the closest thing they’d ever had to a son was dying. 

Melody was beside herself, putting Tommy down in the center of the spell circle and letting out a sob. He wasn’t conscious, he wasn’t breathing. Her baby was dying or already dead and there was nothing she could do. That’s when she stilled. There was something that Alistair could do. “Alistair, you have to bring him back. You have to.” Melody pleaded, grasping at the necromancer’s hands as realization dawned on their face. “Mels, I… you know what you’re asking me to do, here,” Alistair spoke, voice pleading. 

Melody was asking to take Tommy’s place. She was begging him to sacrifice her to bring their child back. While Tommy wasn’t his biologically, he was in every other way that counted. Alistair would sooner sacrifice himself than let Melody do it. Melody was their everything. When they had nothing, Melody had come along and saved them from themselves. When they’d lost Mikael, she was right there to help pick up the pieces that had left Alistair shattered. Now she was asking them to say goodbye to her, say goodbye to the life they had built. 

“Mels, I… you can’t ask that of me.” Their voice cracked as they spoke, tears threatening to fall as they dealt with the implications of her request. “If Tommy’s gone, then I’m already gone.” She whimpered, pressing her forehead to Alistair’s. “You have to do this for me. I… he’s my boy. He needs to live. He’s only twelve. He’s… Alistair, you have to.” Alistair closed their eyes, then slowly nodded their head. Melody would never forgive herself if her son died and she did nothing, knowing that she could bring him back. “You have to, Al.” Melody pleaded once more time as she watched them nod their head. 

Alistair knelt over Tommy’s body and felt for a pulse. Nothing. A sob wracked their body as they realized what was happening. Tommy had been killed by a drowngr, and now Melody would sacrifice herself to take her son’s place. They were losing someone important to them all over again. When they needed her most, she was there for them. But now, she needed them. And they knew that they needed to do this. “Mels, I… know that I love you, okay?” Alistair spoke, turning their head in the direction of Melody.

Melody let out another sob, knelt beside Alistair, and pulled him into her arms, letting them both cry in each other’s arms as they cried for what was to come, and what could never be. “I love you too, Al.” She spoke between sobs, squeezing them tightly. “You’ve been everything to me. But Tommy is more. He’s… he’s our son.” She spoke, pressing her forehead to Alistair’s and pressing a kiss to their lips. A sob escaped Alistair’s lips as Melody pulled away. Alistair rubbed their hands together, letting out a frustrated cry before turning to their ingredients cabinet. Lycoris Radiata petals, also known as a corpse flower. “We have to wait until sundown,” Alistair told her, voice hollow and far away. “You need to get something important to him, really important to him.” They walked back over to Melody, squeezing her hands tightly. Alistair had never talked about the necromantic ritual to Melody before, and they’d not practiced it in so long. But it had to go perfectly. Any small mess-up could ruin everything, leaving them without Tommy and Melody for the rest of their days. “I need to prepare.” That was all they said as they continued to gather ingredients for each point of the pentacle that Tommy was laid on.

Melody knew better than to interrupt Alistair when they got like this, but she also knew that this was going to be the last time that she’d be with them. So she took their hands again and then hugged them tightly. “Thank you.” She murmured into their ear, which earned her a shuddered sob from Alistair in return. “I know this is hard for you, but he matters more than anything else in this world.” She spoke, pulling away so she could look at Alistair, who looked shattered all over again. “I know.” They spoke in reply, squeezing her hands just as hard as she was squeezing theirs. “I know, but it still hurts. It always will.” 

Melody gave a sad smile, then nodded her head, her mind was made up. “I’ll be back soon. I have to get his baby blanket, it was his father’s.” She frowned, thinking deeper. There was something else she had to get, and that was her will. She’d had it written knowing the danger of this town, and the will left Alistair as Tommy’s legal guardian, she had no other family to take him in, and Alistair was family. She pressed one last kiss to Alistair’s cheek before departing, leaving Alistair alone to care for Tommy and prepare the ingredients. 

Corpse flower petals on the top point, grave dirt on the right point, black copal incense burning on the bottom right point, full moon-charged water on the bottom left point, and coal to represent fire on the left point. A spell taught to them by his mother to open their senses to magick and promote success. It was different for every practitioner, though their spells of this magnitude, in their mind, needed offerings to the death gods they practiced under. They sat in front of the spell circle until sundown in a meditative state, only breaking from it when Melody returned at sundown. It was time to prepare for the ritual. 

Pulled from the cabinet was an obsidian dagger, ornate in design, yet simple. Sharp. Deadly. This was the very tool Alistair would use to end Melody’s life, and in turn, bring back Tommy. There was only one chance to get this right. Alistair took the blanket and set it ablaze, letting the ashes scatter around in a circle around Tommy’s prone form and spell ingredients. 

Melody watched somberly, hugging herself tightly as Alistair flitted around the room like a specter. Ingredients here, words spoken there. By the time they were done, the sun had set. Alistair spoke a few words in a language that Melody couldn’t understand, and then a hand reached out toward her. It was time. Alistair held her hand tightly for a moment, lost in their own world of spellcraft and ritual sacrifice. “Mo ghaol cha'n fhaigh thu bàs.” My love for you will not die. Alistair spoke to her before bringing her to the center of the spell circle, a powerful green smoke coming from the incense that burned on the right point of the star. “I will never forget what you’ve done for me, for Tommy. For us.” And with that, they pressed a kiss to her lips and dragged the obsidian blade across Melody’s throat Melody tried to gasp for breath, legs giving out under her, and Alistair held her aloft as the blood poured from the wound and onto Tommy’s body. A sacrifice, like for like. One spellcaster to save another. A mother sacrificing herself to save her son.

Standing for a long moment with Melody firm in their arms, a weak hand stretched out and touched Alistair’s cheek, smiled weakly, then fell down to her side. Melody was gone. Alistair set her down gently and began to pull from the ether, the tether between father and son forming to bring Tommy back from death. Tommy’s chest began to rise and fall, but Alistair didn’t stop, not there. The tether was pulled from their very essence, feeling a bit of life drain from their very being before cutting their palm with the blade and drew a sigil onto Tommy’s chest, then onto their own. A seal that would bind them together. Alistair could not see the sigil turn from blood to black, but could only trust that it was there. That it had been done correctly. They needed this to be done correctly. Any emotions they felt for the situation would be dealt with afterward, but they couldn’t let it interrupt the ritual now. 

They knelt beside Tommy, waiting. After what felt like a lifetime, a small hand reached out toward Alistair. “Al?” The boy croaked, and Alistair instantly fell apart at the sound of Tommy’s voice, pulling him close to him and hugging him tightly. “It’s alright, you’re back now.” He murmured to the boy, who clung to the necromancer with all his might. “Where’s… where’s Mom?” He asked, looking around and letting out a cry of agony at the form of his mother’s body on the ground, throat slit. “No, you… she couldn’t. You didn’t.” Tommy shook his head fiercely. “A mother’s love knows no limits,” Alistair spoke softly, and Brutus who had waited in the corner of the room finally walked over to Tommy and plopped himself into his lap, and the boy hugged the dog tight and cried. 

Alistair felt a tear run down their cheek, but that was all they allowed to flow. They took the discarded rag and tied it around their hand to stop the bleeding. They had to tend to Melody’s body. They couldn’t rest until it was over. With the ritual complete, they rose to their feet. There was much to do, and now they had the most important person in their life to take care of, their son. They would do anything to keep Tommy safe.

“Tommy, I’m so sorry,” Alistair murmured, kneeling next to the boy and wrapping his arms tightly around the boy he’d come to love as if he were his own. Tommy continued to sob, eyes peering out to look at his mother’s lifeless body, then quickly squeezed them shut again. “I’ve got you,” Alistair promised as Tommy once again clung to them. “I’m going to give you the world and then some.” They promised, squeezing the boy as tight as they could. “I swear to you, I won’t let anything separate us.” They pulled themselves away enough to look the boy in the eyes, and Tommy nodded his head, eyes filled with tears. “I loved your mother,” Alistair told him, carding a hand through the young boy’s curly blonde hair. He looked so much like his mother. “I will always love your mother, just as you will.” Tommy let out a choked sob and pushed his head into Alistair’s chest. 

There was no undoing what had been done. There was no convincing a drowngr to stop in its tracks just as much as there was no convincing the knife that had cut across Melody’s throat to undo itself. Slowly, Alistair held Tommy tight in their arms and rose to their feet, walking out of the back room. Away from Melody, away from the sugar pot. Away from the dastardly deed they had to perform. It was late, the streets were barren as the necromancer walked with Tommy in their arms, Brutus by their side.

[leora-rambles]

To Have Loved and Lost: Thank you for the Food (Rohan Kishibe/Reader [Angst/Fluff/Multiple chapters]

Tonio Trussardi is in this one (Josuke eats Spaghetti)

Previous Chapter!

“I didn’t know about your hate for parties.”

“Now you do.”

You take a seat beside Rohan, careful not to nudge him as he sits on the cement. The house is obnoxiously loud, still annoying to hear even in the backyard.

“I just wanted to experience a party before graduation…” You admit, playing with your fingers as a droplet of shame swirls in your chest.

The pool glows blue, your only source of light in the darkness. Rohan seems to have no problem with the lack of lighting, sketching on his notepad with ease while you have to squint just to see your hands.

You take a deep breath, picking your next words carefully. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

Rohan's hand stopped moving for a second. He seems to be deep in thought as he looks up from the page. You worry when he looks back down.

“Did I upset you?” You ask sadly, eyes straining in trying to search for any hint of annoyance on his face.

Your genuine tone makes the boy freeze for a moment. He responds after a second's consideration.

“… No. It was just overwhelming being in there with people constantly trying to be buddy-buddy with me.”

You nod at his reply, bringing your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your crossed arms.

When your eyes adjust to the dark, you can finally see the sketch Rohan’s working on. It’s a sketch of the pool, his art style making it look like it’s the fountain of youth.

You lean in closer subconsciously, in awe of the boy's talent.

“You send out the manuscript yet?” The artist ignores the goosebumps on his arms as your warmth radiates onto him.

Rohan shakes his head, still focused on the drawing at hand. “I’ve yet to perfect it,” he huffs, shifting his sketchbook closer to you so you don’t have to strain your eyes.

“Mmh, you’re a perfectionist at heart. I read your draft over and over again thinking it was the final copy,” you reply, “I almost missed the bus to school because I slept late.”

His ears perk up at your confession. “… You liked it that much?”

You don’t know why he’s so shocked. He’s amazing, he knows he’s amazing.

“Duh. You don’t spend that much time on something you don’t like,” you laugh, pulling away and stretching your back. Your bare legs float on the dimly lit pool.

You put a finger on your chin, deep in thought about his manga. “I liked how distinguishable your characters are. They’re so unique, that just from their shadow or a piece of dialogue, I can tell who’s who.”

You nod to yourself. “I think that’s what kept me up— rereading and l choosing which character I should focus my attention on next.”

You don’t notice the growing blush on the other person's face as you continue your ramble.

Rohan shakes his head, swatting away any lingering thoughts he had after hearing you gush about his character's designs. He worked hard trying to make them all stand out without clashing. To hear that being appreciated—

A snap of your fingers makes him jolt in surprise. “Ooh, and the plot. You know, most manga I’ve read have a slow start, and that’s where a majority of the readers give up. Your story doesn’t have that issue at all,” you ramble on, clueless to the mini heart attack your crush— friend was suffering through beside you.

This went on for a few minutes, Rohan too flustered to stop your seemingly endless compliments. The worst part, the part he hated most, was how you failed to realize the effect you had on him.

His hands went clammy, his throat clogged up, the butterflies in his stomach were ramming against his ribcage now.

“And obviously, the artwork, too. The cover design is so eye catching that it—“

Your name falls from his lips, cutting your ramble short and earning your attention. Only then, do you realize that you’ve been gushing about his works, leaving him speechless till now.

You see the awestruck expression on his face, one that you mistake for him being weirded out.

Face flushing, you wave your hands sporadically while babbling, “I’m sorry! That must be really overwhelming to hear, I just got really excited and couldn’t—“

Rohan keeps his stern gaze on your moon-lit face, his voice gentle, but clear to your ears. He’ll admit, it was word vomit. He didn’t know what he was gonna say until it was out of his mouth, until he saw how your lips parted, and your eyebrows raised.

“I think I'm in love with you.”

Rohan can’t hide his scowl or his reddening cheeks with you laying on his chest, your hands locking his own from moving to cover his face. He settles to look away to the side in exasperation.

“You should’ve warned me, maybe then your precious sketchbook wouldn’t have suffered such a tragic fate…” He can tell you’re especially giddy the way your legs kick in the air, hitting the armrest of the couch as they drop.

“I didn’t know that you were foolish enough to jump into the pool after that.”

“Hey! I did not jump, my hand slipped from the edge.”

It had been two years since the day he looked at you in a new light at the carnival, and a year and a half since he accidentally confessed his love for you.

“And are we forgetting who jumped after me? Hm? Let’s not forget my knight in shining armour—”

“I should’ve let you sink to the bottom.”

You laugh, still triumphant, “I’ll never forget how you yelled, ‘Are you dense?! Why did you do that?!’”

Rohan covers his face in embarrassment at your mock voice acting of him, his hands finally released from yours.

“Alright— we wanna talk about embarrassing moments? What about that time you ran away after our fight?”

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

“Which fight, drama queen? You know you love picking fights.”

His face is sweaty, his usually neutral face flushed pink. You wonder if he ran here.

Your arms cross, eyebrows furrowing in anger. He gulps.

This was the first time you two had fought, also the first time he insulted you. It was petty to leave so suddenly, but one more second inside the home with his snarky remarks, and you would’ve lunged at him.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone,” you remind him coldly through the crack in the door.

He shakes his head, pursing his lips. You don’t think he’s ever looked this desperate before. “Come back.”

You bring a finger up to your chin, as if to think, but you know that he knows that your answer was clear. “No.”

“Why?” He questions, glaring at your friends’ furniture peeking from behind you. He bets that they don’t even have the silk pillowcases he has. Rohan cringes at the thought of you sleeping on the couch as opposed to a king sized bed.

“You’re mean, and you called me stupid.”

“I was only telling the truth.”

When you threaten to shut the door in his face, and he scrambles to find his words. “Alright, alright! I’m sorry!”

“For what?”

“For being mean, and ‘cruel’.” Rohan rolls his eyes, motioning air quotes with his fingers.

“And? What else?”

“And I’m sorry I ignored you when you brought me lunch.”

Your silence let him know to keep going.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t call you when I was on a business trip.”

This earns the door opening a centimetre wider.

“And I’m sorry for calling you stupid and overly emotional, even though you were—“

The door creaks, to which he scurries to change the direction of his words.

“EVEN THOUGH your reaction was valid and understandable. It’s my fault. And I’m sorry.”

You look off to the side, rubbing your arms now. “…I’m still mad at you.”

“I know. Come home. Please.”

Rohan breathes out a sigh of relief as you open the door fully.

You look behind you. Your clothes were still in the suitcase, anyways. Plus, you got the car.

Your furrowed brows let the boy know not to even attempt to open the car door for you. Chivalry could wait until your anger finally subsides.

He stares off into the road as he drives. Rohan's hand twitches on the arm rest. Slowly, he loops his pinkie finger with yours.

His eyes are laser focused on the road, too embarrassed to look at your face, too embarrassed to notice the way your lips quipped up slightly.

His face burns as he places his entire hand on yours. His heart beats violently in his ears, and there’s a dizziness consuming him from all the blood rushing to his head.

He holds in a gasp as you flip your hand over to hold onto his.

“I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly.”

You tell him, side eyeing his face. His focus doesn’t leave the road, but he doesn’t need to see your face to hear your sincerity.

“Mhm. You should be—“

You huff and make a move to let go of his grasp, but are stopped by Rohan's panicked hand scrambling to unite with yours again.

“I’m kidding.”

He rubs your knuckles with his thumb. “I was worried, you know.”

You watch him bite his bottom lip, almost missing the way he fought back a confession. “I couldn’t focus without knowing how you were doing.” The strained tone in his voice is buried, but after years of being with him, easy to hear.

“It was barely a few hours,” you mumble, sitting back in your chair, scratching your cheek with your free hand.

“I know but… the thought of you being away, and me not knowing how you’re feeling… I didn’t like it.”

“I thought you liked alone time?”

“Oh, I do. But not after we’ve fought. Not after we left each other like that.”

Rohan feels a pang of pain in his chest knowing he sent you over the edge, to the point where you needed to be a twenty minute jog away from him (a seven minute drive, turned three minutes if you speed) to cool off. Just a mere few hours away from you sent him into a spiral.

“…I thought that’d be the end of it. That you were leaving for good.” His eyes are downcast as he puts his pride aside and admits this.

“Hm.”

It’s quiet for the rest of the drive after that, save for the seabirds caws and singing from outside the car.

Rohan parks in front of Morioh-cho beach, the sun setting now that it’s later in the day colouring everything in a vibrant orange hue. Rohan remembers the Ferris wheel. He finally looks at you after a drive of avoiding eye contact.

You’re the first to break the silence.

“Even though you’re mean, and dramatic sometimes…” you start, drawing invisible doodles on the back of the artists’ hand.

Your finger jumps to his chest. “And obsessed with being right…” Circles around his heart, just light enough that you don’t feel it furiously ramming against his ribcage.

Then, your index makes a line up to his neck, finally tilting his chin so he’s looking into your eyes.

“I don’t plan on leaving.”

His hand twitches in yours. ‘You better keep that promise’ he thinks.

You keep eye contact, and though Rohan opens his mouth, nothing comes out. A grin makes its way onto your lips.

“What are you thinking about now?” You tease, dropping your hands back to your lap.

It’s Rohan's turn to cross his arms and pout, “That’s a big responsibility you know, spending the rest of your life with me.”

Your carefree smile makes his stomach do cartwheels.

“I don’t mind.”

He looks away, a tell tale sign he was making an expression he didn’t want you to see. He’s done this action many times, enough for you to know how to cause the reaction.

He only ever makes this face in response to two situations: you say something that leaves him flustered, or he’s left embarrassed about doing something nice for you.

After a beat of comfortable silence, he mutters out shyly,

“… Sure. Me neither.”

“What do you mean that’s embarrassing for me! You’re the one who ran for 20 minutes just because you were that desperate to see me.”

“No, what’s embarrassing is that you ran away over a petty little argument.”

“As if— what, so you were lying when you apologized?”

Rohan rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t lying... but I can still say you were overreacting by driving away like that.” He pokes your cheek, taking amusement in the exaggerated frown you put on.

You lay your head on his chest and shut your eyes.

Rohan takes a moment to process it all. Just a few years ago, he would’ve overheated at the thought of extensive prolonged contact with you.

“… Even still…”

And now he’s laying on the couch with you on top of him while he strokes the back of your head.

“You kept your promise, at least,” he says, more to himself than to you.

You still respond despite your consciousness slowly slipping. “Obviously.”

His steady heartbeat lulls you to sleep.

Josuke felt a lot of emotions in an hour. Sad, happy, worried, sad again, and finally, confused.

And hungry.

“When you woke up, you were in the alleyway?” Half his focus is on the pitcher he’s balancing as he pours himself a glass of water. He’s glad Tonio’s restaurant is still open, it being his first and last resort for food.

“I’m trying to make sense of it all. So far, it seems like only stand users can see me…” You smile at Tonio, who returns the greeting as he places a plate of spaghetti in front of Josuke.

“But… this is good, isn’t it? Y-You can visit Rohan! And Tooru! And it’ll be like nothing happened.”

You fiddle with your fingers, looking down in a downcast way.

“That was one of the first things I thought of.”

If Josuke could kick himself, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. Internally, he’s trying to remember if he tripped and hit his head to say such an obvious thing. He settles to gulp all his water down as a way to prevent saying anything more stupid.

You rub the back of your neck, sighing as you explained. “I was so happy that I ran back to the house the second I thought of it. I was gonna tell him that everything is okay, and that we can live normally again.”

You sniffle, then try to play it off as a nose twitch and a cough. “… Of course, the house was empty.”

“I thought it was a bad thing at first, but Rohan and Tooru leaving the house was the best outcome— I accepted it the longer I stayed there.” The defeat in your voice is clear, like you’ve mulled over the circumstances over and over, trying to think of any way a happy ending could be possible.

Desperate for a chance, only to be met with reality. Disappointment. “… I can’t just be like this forever… watch both of them grow up while I stay the same.”

You look out the window, gazing at the pebbled ground. Only Josuke’s shadow is caught from the bright lights inside. “If I’m here by the same rules as Reimi, once my killer is found… I’m not really meant to stay.”

“And by the chance that I don’t have to leave after justice is served, what then? What about Rohan and his career?” You tighten your lips, letting an exhale out your nose.

“‘Mangaka convinced his fiancé is a ghost’… the public will make him a laughingstock.”

“He… he's not the type to care for strangers’ opinions of him,” Josuke replies. You turn from the window to look him in the eyes directly.

“But what about the opinion of his own son?”

Your rebuttal lets Josuke know just how hard you pondered at that house.

“Just because Rohan can see me doesn’t mean Tooru can.”

Images of family photos with a missing space visualize in your mind. An argument between the two most important people in your life, with your existence as the main fuel for fighting. How do you explain that to someone? ‘One of your parents is a ghost, but you’re the only one in the know who can’t see them.’ You wouldn’t blame Tooru for thinking his dad was pulling a cruel, long joke on him.

You shrug. “It’s just trouble. Me being here.”

“… He’ll be crushed if he sees you again and you have to leave,” Josuke says out loud, though he meant to keep it to himself.

You nod. “Right. Which is why…”

Your hands are folded in your lap, voice strong and firm.

“I’d like for you to keep this a secret from Rohan.”

The teen frowns as he rests his cheek on his palm, his other hand twisting the spaghetti on his fork. A question popping up in his head causes him to shoot up. “… Where will you stay? Staying with Reimi is no good— you’re not used to the alleyway rules the way she is.”

You look off to the side. “There are many abandoned houses in Morioh-Cho. I’ll find one that’s good to sleep in. It’s not like I need—-“

Your stomach rumbling causes you to pause. “—… food….” You tighten your lips, and hide your face in your hands.

“I shouldn’t have died on an empty stomach.”

Josuke shakes his head. “Man, you can’t predict things like that.” He feels guilty sitting in front of a meal while you sit there trying to conceal your hunger.

He’s still twisting the spaghetti on the fork, procrastinating putting it in his mouth. “How do you know that you don’t need to eat?”

“W-Well, I haven’t tried yet, but it’s not like I can go to a store and pick something up…” You’re avoiding eye contact with his food.

A sandwich is plopped down in front of you, sitting atop a garnished plate and dipping sauces.

Tonio smiles down at you. “Worry not. As a chef, it is my sole responsibility to make sure that every customer that enters my restaurant is fed.”

The middle of your brows lift in gratitude and sadness. “Tonio, I’m really thankful, but I—“ Your hand waves through the plate as you try to pick it up.

“No, no, pick the food up. That’s why I made you a sandwich instead of something that requires utensils.”

You gulp, hands shaking as they reach for the plate. Tonio nods his head toward the sandwich.

Josuke watches with intensity, hands going clammy, completely forgetting his own plate.

You’re expecting to be disappointed, until the tips of your fingers make contact with the bread.

“No— no way!” You pick it up, inspecting the entire thing with a slack jaw. One tentative bite leads to three more, all mouthfuls leaving you craving to keep eating until the plate is left with nothing but crumbs.

Tonio smiles as you chew, his hand resting over the middle of his chest, above his heart.

“Many cultures offer food to the dead. As long as it’s offered to you, you should be able to take it,” he explains, moving to refill Josuke’s water.

“Everything in this sandwich is supposed to help with rejuvenation. How do you feel?” Tonio tilts his head.

“I feel so refreshed!” You squeal out, feeling your mood improve with every second.

“I’ve never been happier to eat a sandwich. You’re amazing, Tonio.” To this, he laughs, and pats the back of your chair.

The chef makes his way back to the kitchen, leaving you and Josuke alone to talk about your arrangement.

“I guess I can eat! Though, now my plan for finding an abandoned house is a no-go.” Your voice is cheerful despite having to shift gears to find a place to stay. Josuke assumes it’s because of the food.

‘It must’ve been difficult wandering alone like that.’

He can feel his eyes burning, the bleeding heart he is.

‘All alone, no one to see you, let alone talk to you.’

Josuke blinks away the tears slowly welling up, and shakes his head to compose himself. “I can ask Jotaro and Mr. Joestar if they can provide a hotel room for the time being. Would that work?”

He watches you nod and hum in agreement, mouth full of bread and vegetables. Your eyes are closed in a state of pure bliss as you savour the taste.

A shocked noise leaves you. You plop your sandwich down and cover your mouth with your hands.

“I’m sorry! I don’t mean to be rude, I just missed eating so much, and—“ You finally look at the teen, who’s taken a handkerchief to his teary eyes. You’re left gawking as he wipes his eyes with his sleeves as more tears cascade down his cheeks.

“Josuke?! What’s wrong?!”

He waves a hand, shaking his head. The longer he attempts to compose himself, the more he breaks down into sobs.

He somehow makes something out through hiccups and wails.

“I'm so happy that you’re happy!”

In your panic, you try to grab a fistful of tissues from the table. You remember your predicament as your hand slips past the objects.

“Don’t cry into your spaghetti, Josuke, it’s alright!” You settle on waving your hands out in front of him, a clear attempt at comfort.

It would’ve been a bizarre thing for an outsider to see. A teenage boy with a loud hairstyle, crying hysterically at a table alone.

The drivers buzzing past the restaurant window probably had that same thought before continuing on with their night, unknowing of the story behind exactly why this random highschooler was sobbing so loudly, shrugging as they recounted the stories to their families, or kept it to themselves.

Late in the evening, where it would’ve been a mundane night for you as well. The lights only would’ve been turned off because it was time for you to get ready for bed, and the news would have remained a drowsy channel you put on to fight the silence of your home, rather than a channel covering the details of your death.

When you were an invisible wanderer roaming your street, you saw the way life continued on for the sleepy town. People passed by the mansion as if nothing happened, their busy personal lives seemingly leaving them no time to point and stare at the police tape and barricaded doors of your home.

Everybody else moved on from the shocking murder at the Mangaka’s house. The world will keep spinning. The statement is as cold and heartless, as it is true.

It’s water under the bridge.

Rohan pushes the door open when he hears the agreeing beep of the hotel lock. He has to give his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light of his room before taking his shoes off and walking in.

Tossing his hotel key onto the table, he barely notices the crinkle of tin foil reflecting light from the moon. There’s a note placed on top of it, the paper warm from what’s beneath.

‘From the Higashikata family.’ The lovely cursive lets the artist know that it was not the son of the family who wrote it.

There’s more written on the back of the card, but Rohan is too tired to strain his eyes (and his heart) further. He’s drained from the day.

The Braciole sitting beneath the tinfoil also lets the artist know where the sender visited to procure the dish.

He picks up a slice, and pops it into his mouth. The flavour exploding onto his tongue is a temporary comfort.

Despite all the confusion, pain, or change that people continue having to overcome, one fact will remain the same no matter the circumstance:

Tonio’s food is delicious.

[monkeyssalad-blog]

True Tales of Love #30 by Michael Studt Via Flickr: True Tales of Love / Heft-Reihe "To Have Loved and Lost" cover: Vince Colletta Marvel (Atlas) / USA 1957 Reprint / Comic-Club 2010 ex libris MTP www.comics.org/issue/76403/

[creekfiend]

what's my biggest pet peeve well it's when someone makes a text post on tumblr dot com in which they are trying to romanticize the notion of the livestock guardian dog but they don't know the distinction between a livestock guardian dog and a herding dog and also they've never met a livestock guardian dog and do not realize what their attitudes towards the sheep that they protect actually are

[hinamie]

post-graduation trip airport looks

[egophiliac]

everyone out of the way, this is the only thing I'm going to be thinking about from now on.

(okay, there is one more thing)

[thatswhatsushesaid]

jiang cheng says "son of a prostitute" within earshot of jin guangyao, 20 dead, 44 wounded

[numetaljackdog]

shout the fuck out to bald girls btw. let it be known that i will show the fuck up for bald/balding girls any hour of the day, any day of the week, any week of the year. you could call me up at 3 in the morning and tell me that you happened upon some receding hairline queens who need hyping up and i would tell you i'll be there in five. i love you bald girls

[desultory-suggestions]

On this Valentine’s Day please don’t forget about the Palestinian people. Candy is being bought in droves while innocent people are starving. While people are planning romantic dinners for their lovers, Palestinian people are losing their lovers to bombs and snipers. There is no rest for the Palestinian people today. Don’t let them mask what’s really happening behind pink ribbon. Fight for love, find empowerment in your love for others. We will not stop fighting, not for a single day. Palestine will be free.

[kedreeva]

as a reminder to literally anyone and everyone who even so much as considers this: AO3 has NO autosave ability when you're making drafts, so PLEASE do not use it instead of a writing program.

If their server goes down, if you hit a wrong button and refresh the page or go back to the previous page, if you accidentally close the browser, if your browser or device crashes, etc etc etc you are shit out of luck. Your work is gone forever, it didn't backup to anywhere and there is NO recovery option. Even TUMBLR's drafting ability is supposed to autosave and often does.

If you want to avoid gdocs that's fine- there's other text editors with simple autosave options, like Online Notepad or Digital Scholar's notepad, or there's still local-drive writing programs that are free and open source, like LibreOffice. PLEASE do not use AO3 to write your stories into directly. It has NOTHING.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

To Have Loved and Lost Part Eight

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: George Russell x Reader

Rating: M

Notes: Hiiiii welcome baaaaaack thank you for reaaaaadiiiiiiiing this chapter is hecking looooooooong

Warnings: Still slightly angsty but not nearly as angsty as the one that i wrote, what, 87 years ago; Gilded Age Manners™; pining; The One That Got Away; not a traditional happy ending

Bonus points if you catch the Gone with the Wind reference in this chapter

Summary: It was as if his entire world had been tipped on its head. He’d squared facts away with himself years ago. His affections had been mislaid; his hopes were dashed, and he’d been thrown over for a far richer man. In his youth, he had put the letters that he had received away rather than burn them, and for what? To someday rub her face in them? To tutor Larry in false hopes, in the often fickle affections of the female sex? 

The ball at Mrs. Fane’s was where Larry began to put the pieces together. 

The two of them had each given him individual pieces of the puzzle—one, an edge, the other, a middle. One by one, a picture built clearly in his mind. 

It had started with his father’s remembrance—a bitter little smile as Gladys fretted over a dress. 

“The pout reminds me of a girl I once knew,” He’d admitted, watching Gladys turn to and fro, eyeing herself in the mirror. “She used to say that fineries made her uncomfortable, that she looked awful in them. As if she was,” He chuckled, “‘A mule in a horse’s harness’.” 

“A girl?” Larry asked. “The one before mother?” 

Discomfort had flashed across George’s face so quickly that if Larry had so much as blinked, he might’ve missed it. His father's typically calm demeanor had replaced the upset just a moment later, and he’d given a short nod. 

“Yes.” 

The admission had been a surprise—and the phrase that his father had uttered had been so unusual that it had stayed in Larry's mind. 

Hearing it again was jarring. Larry had only been trying to pay a compliment to the latest family to be drawn into their orbit. His mother had implored him to take a turn or two with a spinster cousin—just a couple of dances, Bertha had insisted, something to flatter the poor woman.

They’d made easy enough small talk during the following two waltzes, and Larry hadn’t excused himself the once the songs had ended. Instead, he kept his hold on her arm, steering the two of them toward the refreshments table. She seemed a quick woman, smart, and clever, with none of the spirit that he’d expect of a spinster. 

“Your dress is lovely.” 

He had meant it sincerely. But she’d chuckled, and his own smile had faltered.

“There’s no need for exaggeration, Mr. Russell.” 

“Exaggeration?” 

“I look like a mule in a horse’s harness.” 

It was as if another puzzle piece clicked into place. Larry couldn’t help but stare, his face going hot with realization as his gaze darted between her, and where his parents were conversing on the other side of the room. As soon as he saw his father begin to glance in his direction, he guiltily turned away, plucking up a glass of lemonade and taking so hasty a swig that he nearly choked on it. 

She regarded him with confusion then, brow furrowing. 

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Russell?” 

“I am,” He plastered on a smile. “I apologize, I thought I…Where was it you said that you were from?” 

Her face twisted with slight confusion. “All over,” She shrugged, “But, most recently, our family settled up in Albany.” 

“They’re not from Albany, then.” 

“No, no,” She chuckled, casting her gaze around. “Nothing as grand as all that. Franklin and I were raised in a very small town out West. Of course, it boomed when oil was found.” 

“Of course. Whereabouts? I’m sure my mother mentioned, but I seem to have forgotten.” 

Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the glass, raising it to her lips as she admitted, “Stevensville.” 

And then she took a long sip, as if she needed to wash the taste of the town’s name from her mouth. 

--  

“Did you enjoy yourself?” 

“Very much,” Gladys smiled gratefully, “But I’m awfully tired.” 

“You ought to get up to bed,” Bertha urged, “We have a meeting with Miss Barton in the morning.” 

“Of course. Goodnight, father. Goodnight, Larry. Goodnight, mother.” 

George watched as Gladys ascended the stairs. Larry followed not far behind, and Bertha excused herself to speak with Mrs. Bruce about tweaking arrangements for the following day. That was more than alright with George. He made his way to his study, recalling his evening of stolen glances.

She had looked lovely. The dress had suited her, though she had seemed a touch uncomfortable. He smiled at the thought. She always hated fineries. George hadn’t meant to watch, and he was certain that every look had gone entirely unnoticed by her—especially when she’d taken a turn with Larry. She certainly danced better than she used to. George had taught her—or, tried to—when they’d been together in Stevensville. It had started as a friendly endeavor, before their feelings for one another had flourished. She’d asked him, and he couldn’t help but oblige. 

He’d taken her hand, unable to help noting the dry roughness of her palm from her hours of work, and led her out to the field of high grass behind the boarding house. He’d shown her the steps one by one, encouraging her as she tripped over her feet, and urging her on as her steps became more smooth. He’d seen a spark of joy in her eyes, a wide smile turning her lips up. It was a look that he’d quickly become addicted to. 

George opened the door to his office, glancing down the hall before shutting the door behind himself. He’d received a small parcel from Clay before they’d left for the ball, and hadn’t had a chance to open it before they’d gone. Now, he crossed to his desk, opening the drawer where he’d left the bundle of papers. Clay’s note was on the top in his neat scrawl. George couldn’t help but smile a little. He hoped that Clay was home getting some rest, the poor devil. He’d been in Stevensville for nearly a week chasing down the answers that George had sought. 

George took up his letter opener, slicing open the top of Clay’s note and drawing it from the envelope. His eyes skimmed the contents, catching on mother’s death certificate, boarding house, post office, and unsent letters. 

Unsent letters…

George’s eyes dropped to the remaining stack of letters. He set down Clay’s note, reaching for the first time-aged envelope. He skimmed her familiar handwriting, eyeing the address—the first boarding house that he’d stayed in once he’d arrived in New York. He opened it gingerly, unfolding it as though it may disintegrate in his hands if he wasn't careful.

Darling George—

I trust that you have, by now, safely arrived in New York. I do hope that I’ve written this to the correct address. I did check it against the one that you gave me at least four times. If I’m wrong, I shall never live it down, and I hope that you won’t be upset with me. I am trying, love. 

Everything seems so much more difficult without you here. In truth, nothing has changed, but I feel your loss so greatly. Days seem to move far slower—evenings go at a snail’s pace. I find myself searching for you in the face of every stranger. Please send for me once you’re settled. I would be there now if only you’d let me leave with you.

George couldn’t finish it. His heart had begun to pound in his chest. He dropped the letter on his desk, taking up the next and opening it with far less care than he had the first. 

My dear, George,

It’s been three weeks since I’ve heard from you. I can only hope that it’s because you’ve been terribly busy, and not because you’ve forgotten about me. I have my bag packed, and I’ve saved enough fare for the train. I will come the moment you call. I hope that New York is treating you well. 

He dropped that one without finishing it as well, fumbling fingers reaching for the next one as his blood ran hot. He tore the next one open with such vehemence that the letter itself wound up with a small tear in the middle as he opened it, the crinkling of the paper clogging his ears—

George—

Are you hurt? Are you unwell? I find myself wondering if you’re perhaps laying in a gutter somewhere, unable to ask for help. Perhaps your fingers have been crushed and you’re unable to write, or you’ve caught some deathly cold and your throat is too raw to dictate a letter. Or perhaps you’ve changed your mind about our life together. 

I implore you to send me any signal that you’re well, even if it is to cut ties. I’ve been losing sleep for worrying

He dropped it atop the other unfolded letters, opening the next, and the next, and the next. As he reached the bottom of the pile, he dropped into his chair, his hand raising to undo his bow tie and yank open his collar as his face flared with heat. God’s teeth, when did the room become so hot? When did his hands begin to shake? 

He wanted a drink. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to find some way to go back to Stevensville, to take her with him when he’d first left. It could’ve meant scandal of her family, but they could’ve found a way—a rushed, courthouse wedding to appease propriety. George pushed a harsh breath out through his nose, his hand raking through his hair. 

It was as if his entire world had been tipped on its head. He’d squared facts away with himself years ago. His affections had been mislaid; his hopes were dashed, and he’d been thrown over for a far richer man. In his youth, he had put the letters that he had received away rather than burn them, and for what? To someday rub her face in them? To tutor Larry in false hopes, in the often fickle affections of the female sex? 

George lowered himself into his seat, scrubbing his hand across his beard. He found his gaze drifting toward the clock. It was far too late, far too late, but—

For the first time in a long time, he was unable to control himself. He hopped up, snatching the letters and binding them up in twine again. He rounded his desk, yanking the rope to call downstairs. He wasn’t sure quite what his plan was—if he got the butler, or if he caught her in her night clothes—Poor thing, she’d likely feel the need to redress, and after the ball, too, but he couldn’t wait until morning. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“The carriage, Church.” 

He glanced up, just catching the sight of Church’s startled expression before he nodded, “Yes, sir.” 

He took a step back, nodding and closing the door behind himself. George reached down, fingers fumbling to do up his bow tie and rebutton his collar. If he was going to turn up at such an unfortunate hour, he could, at least, keep from seeming as though he was in his cups. 

--  

“Miss?” 

You turned in your vanity seat back toward the door with an expectant frown, brows raising. “Yes, Kate?” 

“There’s someone here to see you.” 

Your brow furrowed, eyes darting toward the clock. At this hour? It must be a very great emergency. 

“Who is it?” 

“It…” Kate glanced over her shoulder nervously before skulking deeper into the room, whispering, “It’s Mr. Russell. He’s waiting in his carriage.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, and your face twisted with confusion. Surely it couldn’t be the younger Mr. Russell; you hadn’t left anything at the Fane’s, and you knew better than to expect that you’d somehow aroused the passions of a young man with two waltzes. You cleared your throat, turning back to your vanity as heat rose in your face. 

“I see,” You nodded. You needed a plan of attack. You needed to dress, see him inside and make this as quick and painless as possible. You cleared your throat, leaping up. “Help me dress.” 

“Should I wake Mr. Hughes?” 

“Thank you, no. If Mr. Russell wanted to speak with Mr. Hughes, he would’ve asked for him. Have Barker invite Mr. Russell inside.” 

--  

It was a herculean labor, but you were hurrying down the steps of the rented house within fifteen minutes. You tightened your coat around yourself, glancing warily up and down the block before you poked your head into the carriage. You could just make him out in the low light of the evening. 

“May I invite you inside?” 

“Your man already tried,” George nodded over your shoulder. “Please get in.” 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mr. Russell.” 

“What causes your concern? Your reputation?” George’s brows rose. “We won’t move from this spot, but I need to speak with you in private.” 

“We could speak privately inside. No one else is awake.” 

“Your servants are, and servants talk.” 

“But footmen don’t?” You arched a brow. George’s lips twitched before he opened the door, forcing you to step back. 

“Please,” He urged, holding a hand out. Your stomach flipped as you glanced toward it. You suddenly had a flash to your past—to the fields of high grass behind the boarding house in Stevensville, and the low hum of his voice marking out the pace of a waltz. You hesitated a moment more before you took hold of his hand, letting him help you up and inside. 

You settled back in the seat opposite his hesitantly, glancing around the plush interior. You would have to get Franklin one of these. You froze, realizing that you’d been staring—and that Mr. Russell was watching you, still. You forced yourself to sit up straighter, flattening your expression and clasping your hands in your lap. 

“You can hardly expect me to stay out here in this way for long, Mr. Russell. This is highly irregular and incredibly improper.” 

For a moment, Mr. Russell said nothing, and it was a fight to keep from wringing your hands. Then, you watched him reach into his inner coat pocket, fishing around for a moment. You heard the rustle of papers, and you frowned. 

“Surely any contracts you’re entering into with Franklin can be handled by—” You fell silent once you saw the parcel in his hand. Your brow furrowed. He held it out before you could ask for clarification. You reached for it, careful to keep your gloved fingertips from brushing his as you took hold of them. You looked down, brow furrowing more deeply at the sight of the letters, your heart skipping in your chest. You knew that handwriting—you knew that address. 

“...Where did you get these?” You breathed. You tipped the stack toward yourself, throat drying. “You’ve opened them.” 

“I did, but only tonight.” 

“Tonight?” 

“An associate of mine recently recovered them.” 

The fact made your stomach churn. George pushed on: 

“They were at the post office in Stevensville. It seems that your mother paid and ordered any communications between the two of us stopped and held.”

You couldn’t help it, then. You slouched back in your seat. 

“I thought you’d always had them,” You admitted quietly. 

“I thought you’d abandoned me.” 

“I thought the same of you.” Your eyes flitted toward George, then away again as you cleared your throat. “Have you anything else that you came here for?” 

“None.” 

“Well.” You set the letters aside, and stood, climbing down from the carriage. “Then I’ll thank you to come back when the sun is up, and at a regular time, Mr. Russell.” 

“And what would you like me to do with these?” He leaned forward, taking up the letters and holding them out. 

“Read them, burn them, line a birdcage with them. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“You’ve nothing to say?” 

“On this matter, no. I am resigned.” 

Mr. Russell’s hand landed on yours the moment you closed the carriage door. You hurriedly yanked your hand back from the door, face flaring with indignant heat. 

“I could never imagine you as resigned.” 

“No?” Your brows raised. “Not as resigned, but you could imagine me as a fickle, unfaithful, uncaring shrew? Perhaps you could imagine some way for the two of us to turn the hands of time back and keep my mother from filling your head with lies. But I know better than to believe in miracles, and I think I’ve had quite enough of your imagination for one evening, Mr. Russell. Goodnight.” 

You turned without waiting for an answer, striding back toward the house. You fought to keep your composure in front of Kate, thanking her for her help and service, and—

“Please do not mention this to Mr. Hughes.” 

“No, ma’am.” Kate took a step back toward the door, froze, then took a step forward again. “But if he should ask?” 

“Tell him that he can take the matter up with me directly.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Thank you again, Kate. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

She smiled on her way out, and you did your best to find it genuine—but you could only imagine the way the staff tongues would be wagging. You could practically see the way they’d eye you at breakfast, the smug sidelong glances and nudges as you gave the day’s orders. Of course, you hadn’t been in the carriage long enough for anything of substance to happen, but that didn’t matter. In future, you’d have to ask Mr. Russell to refrain from taking any actions that would put you in a compromising position. 

Well, in future, you were certain that your interactions with Mr. Russell would be fairly limited. 

-- 

“Of course, my theory is rather far-fetched—“

“On the contrary!” Marian insisted. “The prospect is intriguing.” 

Larry ducked his head bashfully, turning to face the park’s path. Gladys and her ladies maid were not too far ahead of them. He couldn’t help but wonder at the way they were taking turns, glancing back toward him and Marian every few moments before leaning in and giggling with one another. 

“Do you really think that she and your father knew one another in Stevensville?” Marian pressed on, seemingly unaware of the intermittent attention that they were receiving from out ahead of them. 

“It’s certainly a possibility. Of course, the phrase that my father mentioned may simply be a local colloquialism, and I may have the wrong end of the stick in this matter.” 

“There must be a way to approach the matter delicately.” 

“Approach?” Larry’s brow furrowed as his steps slowed. “You don’t really mean to bring this matter to her?” 

“Why not? Perhaps she and your father could be friends again. Strengthening their bond could strengthen the business between your families.” 

Larry’s lips pursed as he considered. 

“Perhaps,” He conceded. He glanced down to find Marian watching him curiously. He chuckled nervously, brow furrowing. “What is it?” 

“Mrs. Fish mentioned a production of Romeo & Juliet coming to the city. It will be performed at one of the more reputable theaters. Aunt Agnes is not a fan of theater, but she considers Shakespeare’s works significant. Perhaps we could go, and invite Eleanor. We would need chaperones, of course,” She leaned in, lowering her voice a touch. Larry couldn’t help his smile widening at the sight of the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 

“Of course,” He conceded. “But if we’re wrong?” 

“Then we've all simply spent a pleasant evening at the theater without consequence. But if we’re right?” 

Larry thought for a moment, his stomach twisting with nerves. If they were right…Perhaps all hell would break loose. 

--  

The theater was a grand space. The box’s interior was plush, with cushioned red velvet seats. You’d perhaps unfairly expected it to be something of a squeeze with your evening gowns, as well as Eleanor and Marian’s, but the seats were spaced well enough. You sat in the middle of the three seats in the back row of the box, seated somewhat awkwardly between the two Mr. Russell’s; Larry sat on your left, closer to the stage, and George on your right, further from it. Eleanor sat just in front of you, in the very front box seat, and Marian was to her right, in front of Mr. Russell. 

You never attended much theater. It was considered obscene by your mother, and Franklin had only had a single occasion to take you to while you were in Chicago. That play had been dreadful—long, and boring. It had been a battle to stay awake.

This invitation had taken you by surprise, but you’d been glad for it. It had become increasingly difficult for Eleanor to be left out of social events, and she’d been growing antsy and moody, having to spend so much time at home. She seemed bright and eager now, unable to keep still or contain her giddiness.  She was peering around the theater in wonder, pointing the various features out to Marian—the gold filigree decorating the walls and ceiling; the fineries of other theater patrons; the grandness of the stage. For your nerves and discomfort, you couldn’t help but smile at Eleanor’s joy. 

“Are you familiar with the play?” Larry asked softly as he leaned toward. 

“Not particularly,” You admitted, shaking your head. 

“It’s a tragedy. A tale of star-crossed lovers.” 

The words made your stomach flip. You swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to shift in your seat. It sounded familiar. You fought the urge to glance toward Mr. Russell, to see if it pricked the same memory, the same interest. You saw the flash of his cuff link out of the corner of your eye, and your hands tightened around your fan. You could push the feeling away—you would push the feeling away. The evening was certain to be a long one if you couldn’t manage it. 

--  

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.”

It was as though a spector had sprung your past and put a scare into you. The utterance of that line made your heart leap into your throat, your face going hot. Your grip grew so tight on the fan that you were certain you would break it. You felt faint, almost—as if you were set to swoon back in the chair, only to be awakened by a dose of smelling salts. A cold sweat broke on your brow, and you raised your glove to dab at the few beads. You fought to keep your breathing steady, and even, biting the inside of your cheek and forcing your eyes to remain on the stage, even as the play moved on and simply washed over you. 

“Are you quite alright?” 

It would be an innocent enough question from anyone else, but coming from George Russell, it felt like a targeted barb. You could see Marian and Larry tipping their heads to glance at you in your periphery; you were grateful that Eleanor is so immersed in the play that she didn’t catch on Mr. Russell’s query at all. 

Your stiff nod was your only reply. You didn’t trust your voice in this moment, certain that opening your mouth would let out the wail building up behind your lips. 

It was in the past. 

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.” 

It was a time that you had known once, and would not know again. 

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.”

The presence of the man who had once murmured those words, who had once pressed a cuff link into your palm as you’d given him your best ribbon, was purely and painfully coincidental. 

You managed to hold completely still and keep silent throughout the remainder of the first half, but as soon as the curtain closed for intermission, you were out of your chair, murmuring, “Excuse me,” and leaving the box before either man had a chance to rise to their feet. You hurried to step into the hall, walking at double the polite pace, desperate to find some air or quiet as the theater began to fill with chatter, and the hall flooded with people. 

-- 

You were almost certain that the small side balcony that you found was not meant for you. For the stagehands, perhaps. It was littered with cigarette butts, overlooking an alley that reeked of piss and garbage. Still, it was quiet, and secluded, and it gave you the space that you needed to quietly shake apart. 

You shed far fewer tears than you thought you would, your hands grasping so tightly to the railing that you were certain the skin would become irritated beneath your gloves. You were unsure how long you had been out there, but you were certain it was well past intermission. 

“There you are.” 

The interruption nearly scared you out of your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, tightening your hold on the railing. 

“You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“Neither should you,” Mr. Russell argued. 

“Who is watching the children?” 

“Mrs. Fane is looking after them.” 

Well. That was a small relief—but it was certain to get back to Mrs. Russell, and Mrs. Van Rhijn.  

“Are you well?” Mr. Russell plied, and a strangled laugh escaped your throat. 

“I will be fine in a moment.” 

“The second half of the play has started.” 

“I will return presently.” 

You expected and hoped to hear the retreat of George’s feet. Instead, you heard a soft sigh, and the gentle thump of his dress shoes against the balcony’s wooden slats as he grew closer. 

“You ought to go back inside, Mr. Russell.” 

“Not until I am certain that you’re well.” 

“My wellbeing no longer any concern of yours.” 

You nearly flinched away from his hand as he rested it on your shoulder. Rather than draw it away, he slid it down a touch, turning you to face him. You kept your gaze set stalwartly on his bow tie, even as you longed to meet his eye, to try and ascertain what he may be thinking. 

“You’ve been crying,” He murmured. 

“I haven’t,” You grumbled petulantly. 

“You have. I’ve seen that look before.” He raised his hand, gently curling his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up. You glanced away still, stubborn in your upset. 

“For the sake of our families,” He said softly, “Might we put this quarrel behind us?” 

“I have no quarrel with you.” 

He sighed again, tipping his head into your gaze. You were desperate to look away, but his dark, knowing eyes held to yours, and you were powerless to draw yourself from it. 

“We were young,” He insisted, “And we were lied to. I am sorry my reception of you was so cold when we first met in New York. I did not know any better.” 

The words made your lower lip tremble, a fresh wave of tears springing up in your eyes. He let you pry your chin from his grip and turn your head then, reaching into his pocket and proffering his handkerchief. You took it with mumbled thanks, dabbing at your eyes. 

“And I am sorry that my mother acted as she did,” You managed after a few moments. 

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. You couldn’t know.” 

“I should’ve suspected,” You shook your head. “I should’ve known. I should’ve tried harder to find you.” 

He made no argument, simply watched as you dried your eyes before you held the handkerchief back out to him. He waved you off lightly, and you drew it back to yourself, balling the fabric up in your hands. 

“Would you like for me to call for your carriage?” He offered. 

“No! No,” You shook your head. “Eleanor would insist on coming with me—She’d be devastated if we left before the play ended.” You sniffled softly, rolling your shoulders back and forcing a neutral expression. “Go on back inside. I’ll be there in a moment.” 

“If you’re not, I’ll come and get you myself.” 

The warning was a teased one, and you were stunned to find Mr. Russell smiling at you, just a little. You were stunned that it made you smile, too. 

“Go on,” You urged again, nodding him back toward the door. He turned, giving you one last look before leaving. You took the chance and the quiet to raise the handkerchief, blowing your nose properly. Lord above, could it truly be that simple? Things between yourself and Mr. Russell would never be the same, but perhaps you could step forward together in this way, with mutual respect, mutual understanding, and a true mutual want for the well being of one another, and your families. 

It seemed almost too good to be true. 

--  

“Did you enjoy the play?” Marian plied.

“I did,” You nod before nodding toward where Eleanor had fallen asleep on you with the swaying of the carriage, “And Eleanor did as well. Thank you again for extending the invitation.” 

“Not at all,” Marian smiled. It was a moment before she offered, “Mr. Russell said that you had a slight headache at intermission.” 

A good cover. You would have to thank him for that later. “I did,” You fibbed, “The excitement of the theater overwhelmed me, I think.” 

“And you’re quite well now?” 

“I am. Mr. Russell was kind to check on me.” 

Marian nodded, but in the low light of the carriage, there was a look in her eye that you just couldn’t place. Whatever it was, it disappeared as the carriage hit a rough patch in the road, jolting Eleanor awake. 

“Are we home yet?” She mumbled, and you smiled. 

“Nearly, darling.”

“Oh…Wake me when we are?” 

“No. I’ll leave you to sleep in the carriage.” 

“Auntie,” She groaned, burrowing more deeply into your shoulder, and raising a hand to plug her ear as you and Marian laughed. 

--  

“Father?” 

“Mm?” George turned back to look at Larry as he passed his hat off to Church. 

“You’re certain she was quite well?” 

“Yes,” George said firmly. Larry had asked him twice before in the carriage, and he was beginning to grow weary of his prodding. “She merely had a headache from the excitement.” 

“It seems rather a small thing to incite such a reaction.” 

“There are some things, Larry, that you and I are used to that she is not.” 

“I suppose,” Larry conceded, looking down as he removed his gloves. “She seemed in far better a mood when she returned.” 

“I had an attendant fetch her some water. The headache abated.” 

“That’s a relief. I was certain she would want to leave.” 

“She said that she didn’t want Eleanor to miss the play.” 

“She is quite kind.” 

“...She is,” George nodded, lowering his hand to absently pat the pocket that was now missing its handkerchief. “Thank you for joining us, of course.” 

“I was happy to.” 

“I hope Miss Brook enjoyed herself?” George tacked on with a knowing smile. It widened as Larry cleared his throat and turned his head briefly, his ears going red with embarrassment. 

“I believe she did. Excuse me—Goodnight, father.” 

“Goodnight, Larry,” George chuckled softly. He turned away, not making it a point to watch his son go. As he headed for his room, he couldn’t help but pat the pocket where his handkerchief had been. She still had it. That was hardly a crime, but the monogrammed piece of cloth could draw questions. It was a folly to leave it with her. If she was seen with it—

No, of course she wouldn’t be. She was surely too careful, too wise and world-weary to allow herself to be seen with it. Her first instinct when he’d appeared to comfort her had only been for the children, not for her own well-being. He admired that about her. He could see it now—where she had lost or chosen to give up her chance, she was trying to give Eleanor every opportunity, every comfort. 

It was commendable. She’d grown into a kind, beautiful, clever woman. 

He sighed softly as Watson helped him to ready for bed. 

“Is something on your mind, sir?” Watson plied carefully. George shook his head a touch. 

“I suppose my mind is still on the play,” He admitted. “And how one’s heart and mind can change.”

Tag list: @foxilayde ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @amneris21 ; @nominalnebula ; @missredherring

[chloesimaginationthings]

The death of Vanessa and the birth of Vanny in FNAF

(Inspired by this art by Yuto Sano)

[theostrophywife]

What's each boys fav sex position?

— switchin' the positions for you

a slytherin boys headcanon

theo loves cowgirl. there's just something about watching you ride him that drives him insane. eye contact is a must for him. mostly because he knows how flustered you get when his dead eyes lock in on yours, drinking in every inch of your body while you rock your hips and moan his name. he can’t help but admire you as your tits bounce, his large hands cupping them softly, before taking them into his mouth, groaning as he licks and sucks and marks you up. so good bella, just like that. la mia piccola troia perfetta. theo thinks it’s hot when you lose control, smirking and chuckling to himself when your pussy clenches while he speaks dirty, filthy things to you in italian. sometimes he’ll stop midway to eat you out because it’s his nature — theodore nott is a munch through and through. he never gets tired of the taste and if you even dare say that you’re too sensitive, he’ll yank you by the ankles and pry your legs apart because you’re done when he says you’re done. countless orgasms later, he’d return you to your original position, smirking as you straddle him with shaky legs. when you’re too tired to ride, he’d hold your hips in place and fuck into you, coaxing another orgasm even though you swore you couldn’t take any more. theo knows you can. he loves pushing you to your limits. watching you fall apart and cum on his cock is his favorite thing in the world. keep those pretty eyes open, cara mia. I want to watch you cum for me.

mattheo switches between missionary and doggystyle. if you’re being good, he loves taking the lead and doesn’t mind you being a pillow princess. he’d worship and adore you, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear while he hovers over you, that endearing smile tugging at his lips in response to your giggles about his curls tickling your nose. he’d lean down and give you a sweet kiss before making you see god. if you’re being bad, then there’s no mercy in him as he bends you over a bed, a desk, a counter — it doesn’t matter where or when, mattheo will fuck that attitude right out of you and make you wish you’d never acted like such a brat in the first place. he’d spank you until you’re crying, leaving red handprints all over your ass for days to come. he’d be rough and degrading, his fingers bruising your hips as he fucks you from behind. mattheo isn’t fooled by your tears, he knows it’s not out of pain but of pleasure. he’s well aware that you purposely push his buttons to get fucked dumb, so he edges you over and over again until you’re whining and sobbing. mattheo shuts you up by hooking his arm around your neck, his bicep holding you in place as he shakes his head in feigned disappointment. not so brave now, huh princess? where did all the fire go? now you’re begging me to fuck you like the needy little slut that you are. too fucking bad. if you want to cum, you’ll have to work for it, baby.

enzo is the designated big spoon. your cuddles always start off innocent enough, but it’s not long before he’s slipping a hand into your shorts, teasing your clit in tantalizing circles and smirking against your shoulder as you arch against him for more. you’re so wet that it’s almost too easy for him to slip his fingers right in, scissoring and pumping and curling them into that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. pretty soon, you’re pliant and needy, exactly how enzo wants you because it makes it that much easier to slip off your shorts and panties before rubbing himself against your folds. just the tip, honey. let me make you feel good, yeah? you nod, biting your lip. both of you know it’s never just the tip, but it gives you a sick little thrill as enzo fucks you in shallow little thrusts, edging you until you’re teary eyed and begging him to fuck you for real. enzo coos as he licks your tears away. aw, you’re so pretty when you beg, honey. how could I say no? it’s then that enzo finally sinks in, spreading your legs so he can bury himself so much deeper. you’re sobbing from relief, nothing but a blubbering mess as his skilled fingers circle around your swollen clit.

draco is a fan of the classic. missionary is his go to. he used to hate it before he met you because of how vulnerable the act is, but when he looks into your eyes, he knows that you see him for who he truly is — the good, the bad, and the ugly. you see every part of him and you love him through it all. you trust him through it all. you’re taking me so well, darling. such a good girl. he makes sure to reassure you every step of the way, communicating how much he loves and adores you with every action. draco kisses your ankles before yanking you towards him, the backs of your thighs pressed firmly against his chest as his cock kisses your cervix, both of you groaning from how deep he is inside you. his signet ring is cold against your stomach as he marvels at the size difference. can you feel me, princess? i’m so fucking deep. a choked moan is all you can manage before his ring makes it way down to your clit, vibrating against the already sensitive nub while draco worships your body.

tom is a no brainer. this man is a sucker for doggystyle. he loves bending you over and spreading your cheeks before thrusting all the way in, smirking when you gasp at how big he is. watching his cock slip in and out of your pussy as he sets a punishing pace is so satisfying to him. tom is dark and dominant, deliciously possessive as he lays his claim on you. he knows he’s the only one who can make you feel this good. tears streaming down your cheeks, profanities spilling from your lips, and fingers clutching at the sheets as he pounds into you over and over again. tom is relentless, driving you towards the brink and release just to pull you back and repeat the process until you’re so desperate that you’re outright begging. he sneers when you fuck yourself against him, eager to take as much of him as you can. your pussy suctions him in so greedily, the warmth of your walls hugging around his cock like a vice. such a needy little slut. you’re so desperate for my cock, aren’t you? look at you, all stretched out and still asking for more. you’re shameless as you rock against him, moaning when tom spanks your ass, his handprints seared into your skin. tom lets you have your fun, but at some point, he takes the reign again by yanking your hair back, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he stills your movements. you belong to me, doll. I own you — mind, body, and soul. don't you ever fucking forget that.

regulus is a certified freak. he may not look like it, but he’s hiding a basilisk in those trousers. he doesn’t really have a preference of position. this man just loves to fuck. most of the time, the two of you do it while standing because he loves the thrill of getting caught. sex with reggie is risky. he has a huge exhibition kink and definitely gets off on the thought of someone walking in while he’s balls deep in you. there’s been countless times when you’ve ended up fucking at a common room party or at a night out in hogsmeade or even during movie nights with your friends because he just can’t keep his hands off of you. his favorite is when you’re in the restricted section with your legs wrapped around him, skirt pulled up over your waist while he thrusts, making the shelves shake behind you. reg bites his lip as you sink down slowly, his eyes nearly rolling back as he watches his cock disappear between your folds. he’s got one hand around your waist to hold you up and the other against your mouth to keep you from moaning too loud and attracting attention. he also loves dirty talking in french because he knows it gets you so much wetter for him. j'aime quand tu me regardes comme ça, mon amour. the black family heirloom ring kisses the side of your neck as regulus wraps a hand around your throat, tilting your chin as his lips meet yours in a filthy kiss. you’re mine, love. mine and only mine.

[transyashiro]

[vvanillavveins]

Is she Lucy Westenra, or is she just a vessel for the writer's barely disguised fantasy of a women being punished for her promiscuity? Is she really"Bram Stoker's" Lucy Westenra: a naive, innocent 19 year old, with a cheery personality and a bright future ahead of her? Or has the writer instead just slapped her name on an OC that behaves nothing like her, and- with none of the grace or decorum that Lucy's tragically short story deserves- sexualized her slow and agonising death as much as possible, whilst very unsubtly doing their best to blame her for being murdered, so that we won't object to her being killed again later in an even more gruesome and sexual manner?