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rogue-durin-16 · 4 years ago

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YOU DRIVE ME MAD

Summary: Fred's and Y/n's silly rivalry may have more to do with love than with hate; after a fatal incident, some confessions are made.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Genre: angst-fluff

Tags:

Fred Weasley: @whiskeyn-rain @lumos-solemn

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa

Warnings: brief mention of violence, blood, language (this seems a lot darker than it is lmao)

A/N: idk man I just love this idiot so here it comes another oneshot. The reader's house is not specified btw. Enjoy <3

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

Fred spotted me and walked to stand near me before asking jokingly "On your way to kill a man, Y/n?" Oh, little did he know.

"what is that?!" I exclaimed at the sight of my friend's bruised arm.

"uhm... Nothing."

"who did that to you?" I knew the answer before I even got it. My friend had gone to break up with that Cormac McLaggen the previous night; she had finally listened to us and ended that toxic relationship they had, but apparently she got a souvenir from it.

"It's fine- he didn't mean to- Y/n don't do anything stupid." Too late, I saw red.

"I don't have time for your bullshit, Weasley." I curtly replied bumping his shoulder while I walked past him, making his smile drop in confusion. I never missed the opportunity to start a playful argument with him, but, as I had said, I didn't have time for that.

With the corner of my eye, I saw him joining my friends in the task of trailing after me.

I spotted the bastard chatting with his friends in the middle of the hallway that led to the Great Hall. "Oi, McLaggen!"

"Evening, Y/l/n." That filthy grin vanished from his face when I kicked him in the balls, triggering some gasps from our peers and a grunt of pain from him.

"Listen carefully, you loathsome pig." I leaned over to be eye to eye with him. "If you dare to lay a finger on my friend again— if you even think about it— I'll become your personal nightmare." I stood upright again, his eyes full of hate and rage following my movements. "You don't deserve a bloody warning, but I'm a generous woman." Poison dripped off my tongue, my eyes throwing daggers at him as I stepped back and turned around.

My eyes met Fred's worried ones while I made my way to my friends; they surely had told him enough for the ginger to know this was no time for joking and teasing.

His gaze then flickered behind me with panic and I realized a tad too late I shouldn't have turned my back to McLaggen; at the end of the day, pride overpowered honour in a lot of Gryffindors.

I spun around, grabbing my wand from my pocket, but I wasn't fast enough; before I knew what was happening, Fred was in front of me, serving as a human shield from the jinx.

The unknown spell hit his back and propelled us in my friends' direction. I was quickly on my knees, sitting Fred up and earning a grunt in the process, which I initially thought was caused by the fall. "Are you mental?!" My friend casted an Expelliarmus at the younger Gryffindor, long forgotten due to Fred's actions.

"My back— AH!" He yelped when I tried to pull him up.

"OI!" A first year who had made his way to the first row of students frantically gestured at Fred's back. "He's bleeding!!"

"What?!" I made him lean on me to take a look at his white shirt, now stained with blood. What I thought to be a harmless jinx turned out to be fatal.

"He's not supposed to be bleeding!" Cormac shouted, as panicked as I was.

One of my friends said something about going to look for George while the others shoot off to look for Madam Pomfrey.

"I'm gonna kill him..." Fred mumbled through gritted teeth, his voice shaky and weak. He felt so fragile in my arms, and I couldn't help the tears stinging my eyes.

"Fred—" his hands, which had been gripping my forearms, lost strength as the boy's body relaxed. "For fuck's sake don't fall asleep."

"... 'm trying..."

"FREDDIE!" His twin brother rushed to us, falling on his knees by his brother's side.

"I'm sorry." McLaggen had walked to us, keeping a safe distance.

"YOU'RE DEAD MCLAGGEN!" George stood up before I could stop him. Luckily for everyone, Madam Pomfrey showed up.

"Oh Lord! Mister Weasley, quick! Help me with your brother!" The Healer commanded, and soon they were pulling Fred off my grasp and rushing to the infirmary.

I was left in the middle of the hallway with my friends showering me with worried questions and reassurance.

What the fuck had just happened?

~~~~~~~~~~~~

During dinner, several girls and a couple of boys came to congratulate me for kicking McLaggen's balls, and it would have been a lot more satisfactory if Fred Weasley hadn't stepped in the middle.

As soon as I finished my meal, I headed to the infirmary through the now quiet halls, only to find there were too many people visiting.

Of course, George was there, along with their younger siblings and Lee Jordan, but in front of them stood Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall and none other than Cormac McLaggen himself.

"—already told you it wasn't for you!"

"How is that an apology, Mister McLaggen?" McGonagall scolded him, refraining herself from hitting the boy herself.

"You better fucking run, McLaggen, because the moment I can step out of this bed I swear on Godric I will—"

"Enough, Mister Weasley!" I almost pitied the poor woman. Her House was probably the most problematic. "All of you must go to your dormitories, Mister Weasley needs to rest." I stood on the entrance of the room, unsure of whether I should leave or enter, until Flitwick's eyes landed on my form. He redirected McGonagall's attention to me, and I felt the need of shying away. "Miss Y/l/n," I didn't miss the failed attempt of Fred to move; luckily, he was stopped by his sister. "I suppose you wanted to pay a visit?"

"Uhm... I did, Professor." I confessed, fidgeting with the sleeves of my robe. "I know it's late—"

"Don't take too long." She spoke, motioning everyone to follow her. "Curfew is still at 10." She reminded me in a warning tone, passing by.

As soon as they were out, I made my way to Fred, who lay on his stomach in one of the beds, the sheets only covering his legs an hips in order to avoid the clothing chaffing his damaged skin.

"You have a heart after all, huh?" He teased once I stood in front of him.

"How are you?" He frowned at my genuine question; the ginger surely expected me to make a witty comeback, but again, it didn't seem the time.

"A tad better." He gave me a reassuring half smile, deciding to drop our banter for a night. "Flitwick said he used a stinging jinx but casted it wrong." Fred huffed. "A bloody tosser."

He motioned at the chair behind me and I sat down, scooting closer to the bed. I still couldn't wrap my head around the fact that he had jumped in front of me. It had hit his back, but I knew it was meant to hit my face —what a mess that would have been—, and I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"It's not on you." I felt my face flaring up at the ease with which he saw through me. I wasn't the first time he did that, but it was the first time he didn't use it to tease me.

"I know, I just—" I sighed. "I don't know." Though my sight was casted down, I still felt his worried gaze on me. "I'm gonna murder him."

"I reckon George will overtake us both on that." He tried to laugh but ended up in a since instead. "Or Gin. Maybe they'll team up with Ron and we'll find a corpse in the Gryffindor common room tomorrow." This time it was me who laughed. "How's your friend?"

"She'll be alright." I informed, distracting myself with a loose string at the hem of my skirt.

"And you?" I met his eyes with a hum leaving my mouth. "How are you?"

"Been better." I confessed.

Silence.

"Can you pass me the water?" I nodded, holding the glass in front of him and putting the straw in his mouth so he could take a couple of sips. "Thanks."

"No worries."

Silence again.

"Did you eat something?"

He scrunched his nose. "Not really."

"I'll go grab something from the kitchens." I didn't get far before his long fingers wrapped around my wrist.

"I'd rather have you here keeping my company." I then sat down again, his fingers only leaving my wrist to intertwin with mines. "I'm not hungry anyway."

More silence.

"Your hand is really soft." I reckon those words involuntarily escaped his lips by the way his eyes widened. "I don't know why I said that."

"Yours is too, surprisingly."

"Surprisingly?" He quirked an eyebrow at me, and I didn't quite realise what his grin was about until I spoke again.

"I imagined they'd be more rough." Oh no. "That came out wrong— I meant—"

"That you've imagined what my hands would feel like?" He was trying to bite back a laugh at the way my face turned red.

"No!"

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Liar."

There we went again; the white flag was out.

"Fuck you."

"Please." My cheeks turned even redder, and I wanted to think it was because of the anger. "You look really cute when you blush."

"You look really cute when you keep your mouth shut."

"Then shut me, love." He wiggled his brows at me.

"I would, but I don't wanna punch you in this state."

"You're very agressive." He pointed out, shocked that I didn't get what he was implying. "I meant with a kiss."

"Ew-" I pretended to gag. "no!"

He tugged on my hand and pulled me to my knees falling right in front of his eyes with our faces inches away. "C'mon Y/l/n, we're dragging this on now." His eyes kept falling on my mouth after I had unconsciously chewed on my lower lip.

"We're... We're not dragging on anything." I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince him or myself.

"Do you want me to start? Alright, you drive me mad." He forced his gaze to be fixed on mine. "You're annoying, rude and a pain in the arse." I huffed. "But you're also quick-witted and caring and brave." Gosh I hated how easily he made me blush. "Sometimes I want to punch you in that pretty face of yours but other times— most of the times— all I wanna do is kiss you." His thumb caressed the back of my hand. "Hell, I threw myself between you and that blonker without thinking twice!"

He raised his eyebrows, silently prompting me to say something, but I just didn't know what to say.

"Miss Y/l/n," Madam Pomfrey called, making me let go of Fred's hand an stood up. "It's almost ten o'clock! Let Mister Weasley rest." I nodded, not even looking in Fred's direction as I exited the infirmary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

FRED'S P. O. V.

The morning after the incident, Dean and Neville dragged in an unrecognisable McLaggen; they were probably the only ones who cared about that bloke enough to take him to Madam Pomfrey, though they did it half-heartedly.

I was discharged after three days in, right before lunch, and obviously, I was received as a hero; several people came to praise my bravery or ask how I was feeling, but I just wanted to see one person.

That night in the infirmary I was sure she felt the same way —hell, I had been sure for a couple of months— but after seeing her reaction, I didn't really know anymore.

I could always tell her it was a prank, and we would go back to our usual bickering. "Weasley!" Shit. "Fred!" She specified when the four of us turned at the call of our surname, almost jogging in my direction. "Can we talk?"

"Go ahead, darling." I prompted her without moving from my seat.

"In private?"

"Nah," I begged Godric for her not to see behind my grin the panic that produced me the mere thought of being left alone with her.

"Are you joking?" She huffed and, after taking a deep breath, she spoke. I wasn't expecting her to speak. "So you see, you're cheeky and stupid and not nearly as funny as you think." Ginny spit her pumpkin juice due to Y/n's harsh words. "but I... ugh! Okay— I want to kiss you too."

This time it was Ron who choked on his drink. "What's going on?"

"I feel like we missed an important part of this conversation." George commented.

This time it was Y/n who awaited for an answer. "This is literally the most embarrassing thing ever, so at least say something." She commanded in a rather rude tone, tapping her shoe against the floor.

I winced ever so slightly at the effort of getting up, but it was worth it when I saw her expression as I towered her; I reckon I had never seen her that sheepish before.

"That's a really mean way of saying you're attracted to me." I observed, quirking a brow at her. "Dunno why I fancy you so much."

"Well that makes the two of us." I couldn't help but chuckle at her attitude before cupping her cheeks and bring her lips to mine.

Finally.

Despite being a short, innocent kiss, was enough to make us both blush and grin like idiots.

"Awww" I rolled my eyes at my twin's mockery, knowing damn well I wouldn't hear the end of it.

"Why do I feel like I'm gonna miss you two being at each other's throat?" I couldn't care less about Ron's question as Y/n pulled me down for another kiss.

Almost bleeding to death seemed worth it in that moment.

#fred weasley x reader #harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley #fred weasley x y/n #harry potter #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x slytherin!reader #fred weasly x reader #gred and forge #fred wealsey fic #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x hufflepuff!reader #fred weasley x gryffindor!reader #fred weasley fanfics #fred weasley fluff #fred Weasley hurt comfort #fred x you #fred x slytherin reader #fred weasley au

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roachzrivia · 3 years ago

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It's An Elf Thing

A series of events where the party (mainly Dorian) reacts to the Inquisitor doing weird things. Basically, if video game things actually happened. Supposed to be at least a little bit amusing.

Maybe it's just me who always forgets my horse and walks across the entire Hinterlands before remembering. Idk. I thought of this idea after jumping down a cliff and losing almost all my health because I couldn't be bothered to walk the long way round. Also, the trellis climbing at the winter palace makes zero sense, I'm sorry.How have I put 422 hours into this game? Where did my life go?

Gen, implied Dorian/Lavellan, brief implied Iron Bull/Dorian

Also on AO3 (link in my bio)

“Maker’s breath, can you slow down for a moment?” said Dorian, bending over to catch his breath. “It isn’t as if we’re short of time. Any normal person would allow for travelling time, you know.”

“I am allowing for travelling time,” Lavellan’s voice came floating back to him. “My pace just happens to be faster than yours.” But he slowed down, allowing time for Dorian to catch up.

“Couldn’t we have sent someone else on this task?” Dorian settled himself on the ground. It was damp, but he was tired enough not to care. “There have to be some perks that come with being the Inquisitor.”

“Aside from the castle, the army, and every noble in Thedas wanting to be my friend?” Lavellan sat down beside him, folding his long limbs gracefully beneath him.

“Aside from all that,” said Dorian, waving his hand dismissively.

��Nope, can’t think of anything,” said Lavellan, laughing. He leaped to his feet. “Come on, if we take a shortcut, we can make it by nightfall.” He held out a hand to Dorian, who grasped it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Shortcut? There isn’t a shortcut around here,” he said, as he watched Lavellan disappear over the edge of the cliff. “Wait!” He ran over to the edge, heart pounding as he scanned the ground below, hoping desperately not to see Lavellan’s broken body on the ground.

“Ow!”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” muttered Dorian, as he watched Lavellan skid down the side of the mountain, rocks and dirt kicking loose as he went.

“Come on!” Lavellan sprang to his feet. Even from a distance, Dorian could see the cuts and scrapes from the tumble.

“I think I’ll pass on the shortcut,” he said, as he headed along the edge of the cliff, searching for a proper path down.

“Oh, for the love of…” Dorian watched as Lavellan tumbled down yet another cliff, feet sliding on the rocky ground, pebbles and dirt shifting beneath his feet. He took a tumble, somersaulting head over heels, his head bouncing off a rock. He collapsed at the foot of the cliff, body limp and bleeding. “You are going to be the death of me,” muttered Dorian. “You brought this upon yourself. You don’t deserve my magic.” He sighed. “But if I leave you here, Cassandra will probably convince everyone that I pushed you. Very well.” He brandished his staff, reached for the magic, and raised Lavellan back to consciousness with a blaze of green light. “Please,” he called out, as he began to tentatively pick his way down the mountainside. “No more shortcuts.”

Lavellan was already racing away from him, grabbing handfuls of elfroot as he went.

“We’ve been walking for absolutely ages,” Sera whined, as she dragged her feet along the path, kicking stones at Lavellan. “When do we get to shoot something? I signed up for more shooting, less walking walking walking!”

The party had been walking for hours. The weather was hot, the road dusty, and no one was feeling particularly cheerful.

“I can’t help feeling as if I’ve forgotten something,” Lavellan mumbled under his breath, chewing on his lip as he gazed around at the small group. “Got my daggers.” He patted the sheaths strapped to his hips, just to make sure. “I’m fully dressed…” He scanned the group. “You’re all fully dressed. Sera has her bow. Dorian has his staff. Bull has… whatever that is,” he said, gesturing at the massive axe strapped to the qunari’s back.

“If I may interject,” said Dorian. “I take umbrage at the comment that we are all fully dressed. What Bull is wearing hardly counts.”

Bull grinned at him. “Would you really have it any other way?”

“I would, actually.”

“Hush, both of you. I’m thinking.”

“Do you perhaps think,” Dorian said carefully, “that you’ve forgotten the horses?”

“What?”

“The horses. You know, the beasts of burden which we spent an awful lot of time and effort securing for the Inquisition, which are, right at this very moment, standing ready for us back at the base camp, half a day’s walk behind us.”

“You mean we could have been riding this whole time?” exclaimed Sera.

“Fuck,” said Lavellan softly, looking back the way they had come. “Horses. I knew I had forgotten something.”

“Are we done here?” Dorian watched as Lavellan waded into the lake. The water reached up to his thighs, and whilst Dorian had to admit that the elf did look rather striking in a rustic sort of way, he had been watching this activity for long enough that he was beginning to feel bored. “I would rather we reached camp before nightfall,” he called out.

Lavellan raised a hand in response, and then returned to bending low over the water. He reached down, plucking yet another handful of blood lotus from the water.

Dorian sighed and waited for the Inquisitor to finish.

Finally, Lavellan walked out of the lake, his soaking wet breeches clinging to his legs.

“Ready to go?” Dorian looked pointedly up at the sky, and the sun sinking low.

“Just need to grab a few more herbs,” said Lavellan, darting away to grab at a nearby stalk of elfroot. “And did you bring the pickaxe? There’s an outcropping of obsidian that’s calling my name.”

“Surely the Inquisition could spare someone other than the Inquisitor for this job,” muttered Dorian, as he followed after Lavellan.

The party arrived back at camp in good time. The Storm Coast had been wet and grey, as usual, but the rain had finally eased, and everyone was looking forward to a warm meal before crawling into their bedrolls for the night.

“Just a moment,” said Lavellan, stopping in front of the requisitions officer. “Just got a few bits and pieces I picked up enroute that I figured might help the cause.”

“Thank you, sir. Every little bit will help out men in the field.”

Lavellan began opening his pockets. First, out came handfuls of herbs, which he handed directly to the officer. She took them, her arms quickly overflowing as Lavellan laid more and more picked plants into her arms.

“Is this why you fell so far behind us?” Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow. “Planning on quitting being the Inquisitor and becoming a gardener instead?”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” said Lavellan, pulling off his boot and tupping the contents out onto the requisition table. A handful of gemstones tumbled onto the table.

“Now that surely can’t have been comfortable.”

The requisitions officer watched on, eyes wide, as Lavellan opened his coat to reveal reams of fabrics tucked up in his belt and braces.

“For the boats,” he explained, as he laid them on the table.

“And here I thought you had just been eating more than your share at mealtimes,” Dorian quipped.

“Thank you-” began the officer.

“And the metal,” Lavellan said, turning to his horse to empty the saddle bags.

“By Andraste’s sweet arse, how did you manage to carry all of that without collapsing?” asked Dorian.

Lavellan just grinned and continued loading resources onto the requisitions table.

“So, the plan is to be as inconspicuous as possible?” asked Dorian.

“That is correct,” said Cassandra.

“To infiltrate the palace without any of the numerous political functions noticing us, and without disturbing the other guests?”

“Yes…” said Cassandra slowly.

“That what in Andraste’s name is the Inquisitor doing?” Dorian jerked his head at the scene behind him. Cassandra’s eyes widened.

“Inquisitor…?”

Dressed in all his finery, and in front of hundreds of guests, Lavellan was scaling the trellis up the side of the palace wall. People were pointing and tittering behind their hands.

“Might want to rethink that plan, Cassandra,” said Dorian, smirking as he watched Lavellan climb up and over the top, disappearing into the depths of the palace.

Later, when Lavellan reappeared, Dorian pulled him to one side.

“I have to ask,” he said. “All of this climbing. Is it another elf thing?”

“An elf thing?”

“You know, because of living out in nature, with all of those… trees.”

Lavellan laughed. “Dorian, darling, not everything I do is an ‘elf’ thing. Sometimes, it’s just a ‘me’ thing. Now, are you saving a dance for me?”

“Of course. If you don’t get yourself arrested or assassinated before the end of the night, it might even be the most scandalous event of the entire ball.”

“What is that?” The horror in Dorian’s voice was palpable.

“New horse,” said Lavellan, climbing up into the saddle. “There’s one for you as well.”

“I am not riding that monstrosity. I don’t know who told you it was a horse, but whoever it was has clearly been indulging in too much wine.”

“You’re scared!”

“I am not scared,” said Dorian, eyeing the creature with distaste. “There is a different between scared and sensible and I assure you, right now I am the latter.”

The creature stared back at him; its black, soulless eyes boring into him. It shook its head, and Dorian leapt back to avoid being impaled on the massive horn rising from its forehead.

“Come on,” said Lavellan, voice wheedling.

“Can’t I just ride a normal horse?”

“But we need to match.”

Dorian looked at the second beast, the one which he was expected to ride. It was so thin that its ribcage was visible beneath its black fur.

“I would rather walk.”

“All the way to Crestwood? It’s only a bog unicorn, Dorian.”

“You are an infuriating man,” said Dorian, scowling. “Very well. But next time, please can we use the Fereldan horses? They don’t smell as bad.”

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #lavellan #dorian pavus #fanfiction

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goodmorninglou · 4 years ago

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Red Thing

this is from a request by @cheesy2mac and it’s kinda trashy but i also kinda love it !! :)) anyway hope you enjoy and stuff idk have fun

pairing: larry stylinson

warnings: oblivious!lou, pining!haz, pizza, mentions of a red thing ;)

word count: 1,791

rating: let’s say PG-13

~~~~~

When Harry steps into his flat, grocery bags weighing down his arms, keys in one hand and mask in the other, one of the last things he expects to see is his roommate sitting on the floor whispering to a box of pizza.

Quarantine has been long, okay. Harry understands that. He was getting nauseatingly tired of his same four walls, honestly, and even today’s excursion to the grocer’s felt like a cross-country adventure, something new and exciting. But he’s also got a whole myriad of books, and he bought a new pack of journals to scribble lyrics and entries into, and even took up knitting for fun. He’s halfway through his first quilt. The point is that he’s got stuff to do. And, at the end of the day, Harry’s a homebody. He loves his home.

Louis, on the other hand.

Not to say that Louis didn’t love their flat, he did, and Harry knew that. But after a roughly a thousand FIFA matches, four full run-throughs of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, and a toaster fire that burnt down his house in the Sims 4, he’s. Well. He’s losing it a little.

Hence the pizza, apparently.

Louis’ eyes are bright and focused and ringed with bruise-colored bags as he lifts a piece out of the cardboard box. He’s wearing Harry’s shirt, swallowing his thin shoulders, and his legs are crossed beneath him. “Om nom nom,” he whispers, almost fanatically, messy hair forming a spiky halo around his skull. “Delicious.”

For a moment, Harry stares.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Louis barely starts, azure eyes flashing up to glance into Harry’s stunned face for half a moment before returning to his pizza, folding it in half and biting into the end. “I ordered pizza.” He says, with a full mouth that Harry shouldn’t find endearing.

That’s the real problem with quarantine. Being around Louis. No escape.

Harry snorted softly and nudged Louis’ foot as he passed. “Come help me put these away, will you?” He asks fondly, tossing his keys on the counter and setting the groceries on the floor. Their kitchen is small, commonplace for a flat in London, but it’s nice. Homey, even. Harry doesn’t know if that’s because of his mom-like wall hangings and punny dish towels, or Louis’ dishes in the sink and the crude drawing he scribbled on the fridge whiteboard. Maybe a bit of both.

Louis abandons the rest of the pizza on the floor of the front room but keeps the half-eaten one with him, pinned precariously between his teeth as he shuffles into the kitchen and heaves himself onto the counter beside where Harry is washing his hands.

“How’s the outside world?” Louis asks, reaching over to wrap one of Harry’s curls around his finger. Harry tries not to jerk away from him.

“Quiet.” Harry answered honestly. And then, “But crazy, too. No hand sanitizer again.”

Louis pouted exaggeratedly, then hopped off the counter. Harry’s shirt flies up around his waist, and Harry looks away before he can glimpse the black of Louis’ boxers, the curve of his soft thighs. “Sad. Did you get chips?”

“Yes, Louis, you told me eight times.” Harry sighs, only half-seriously, shaking his head a little.

Louis bounds over to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You’re fantastic.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Just turns to the bags and starts unloading.

That’s the problem with quarantine. He’s falling in love with his roommate.

=====

The next day, he comes home to Louis singing songs with Harry’s knitting needles speared through his hair and a massive notepad balanced on his knees. The paper is defaced with thick Sharpie drawing of exed smiley faces and penises.

Harry doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t ask, but his heart stutters, and he shuts himself in his bedroom until the next morning.

=====

“Let’s get a cat.”

“We’re not getting a cat.”

“Please!”

“No, Louis,” Harry mutters, shaking his head a little and tapping his pen against his knee. “Haven’t you seen all those stories about people getting pets in quarantine because they’re lonely, only to realize they have no idea how to care for pets? The poor things end up in pounds, and then...” Harry’s eyes go a little misty against his own will. “Well, you know what happens then.”

Louis pokes Harry’s thigh with his toes. “Being stuck inside has made you morbid.”

“Being stuck inside has made you crazy.”

Louis leaps on him, his journal falls to the floor, and the cat conversation is forgotten until they’re far too tired and giggly to bring it up again.

=====

Screw falling. Harry’s in love with his roommate. Full, tacky, gross, fantastic love. The kind that makes his tummy knot and his cheeks flush.

And Louis’ oblivious.

=====

It all comes to a head one day, when Harry awakes to find Louis standing on the countertop in only his pants, reaching precariously for the chips on top of the cabinet and nearly tumbling to the floor in the process. His back is slim and gold and stretched and the curve of his delicate thighs are right there and when he stretches again, the bottom of his pants rides up and the pale curve of his arse is on display and.

And.

Fucking hell.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry mutters sharply, too sharply, startling Louis. Harry darts across the kitchen to grab onto his calf when he starts to slip, steadying him, and Louis makes a sound like “oh.” It’s pretty.

“Good morning, Haz.” Louis greets cheerfully, one hand splayed across the top of the cabinet, chips within reach. “How’d you sleep?”

“Why the fuck are you on the counter? What are you doing?”

Louis frowns. “Not well, I see.” He mutters. And then, holding out a hand, “Help me down.”

Harry slaps his hand away, grabs him by the hips, and lifts him down.

It’s a mistake. That much Harry knows the second he’s got Louis’ skin under his palms, warm and smooth and rolling with delicate muscle, body so small between his hands. So moveable. Louis’ hands fist in the front of his shirt, tight and unstable, and when he looks up, his cerulean eyes are wide. Shocked.

His mouth parts. Harry wants to kiss him.

“Thanks.” Louis whispers. His tongue darts between his teeth, wetting his pinkish lower lip, quick and nervous. His lashes cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones. Kiss him. Kiss him. He says again, “Thanks.”

“Crush.” Harry blurts.

The whole world goes quiet.

Louis blinks. “What?”

Harry’s going to have to start looking for flat listings.

“Crush.” He says again, flushing rose, and then crimson. “I have a crush on you. A big one. And, somehow, you going absolutely bananas during this quarantine has only made it worse.” Harry pauses. “You really have gone crazy, by the way.”

“I have not.”

“You told me you were going to start writing poems about the effectiveness of capitalism vs. communism on Wednesday.”

“Because someone has to do it!”

“No one has to do it—”

“Harry.”

He likes the way Louis says his name. It’s so soft.

“I just like you.” Harry murmured. “It was driving me crazy keeping it to myself. I tell you everything, anyway, so. Yeah. I have a crush.”

He’s still holding Louis’ hips. His hands are cold when he lets go, colder than they’ve ever felt before, and they hang uselessly at his sides like he’s forgotten how to work them. Maybe he has. Maybe his hands were made for holding onto Louis.

Louis watches him blankly, lips parted, pale eyes wide and thick with confusion. He inhales, like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes. Then, he does it again.

Harry takes a step back as his heart crumples inside his chest, like old paper. A step back is all he can take.

Louis steps forward.

“I never...” he starts, ever-so-quietly, as his gaze rakes up and down Harry’s body like he’s seeing something he never thought to look for before. He crosses his arms over his bare stomach, and then drops them. “I never thought about you like that.” He says. And then, “Before.”

“Before when?”

“Right now.”

And suddenly, his gaze sharpens, sliding with unabashed intrigue over Harry’s body, his shocked face, a smug confidence curling the edges of his mouth. His eyes glitter. Assessing. Like... like he’s deciding if Harry is good enough. If he’s interested.

This Louis, Harry knows.

It feels like years of silence before Louis laughs, gently, just a delicate sound from the base of his throat, and crosses his arms. His biceps bulge. “I’d say you have to take me on a date, but restaurants aren’t open.” He murmured.

Somewhere in Harry’s frozen chest, a heart starts beating again. “So...” he began, veins sharp and vibrating.

The smirk widens. “So, it might be in your best interest to replicate one in this kitchen. Tonight. At seven. Wear the tie I like.”

“Wear the red thing I like.” Harry shoots back, a grin breaking so far across his face that his cheeks begin to ache.

A pause. Then, “Only if you’re lucky.”

Harry grins and turns towards his room, fully prepared to sift through all of his nicest clothes and refuse to decide until he inevitably rings Niall and gets no help from him, when Louis’ hand wraps around his wrist.

They’re kissing before Harry can register the fact that he’s stopped moving.

Harry’s thought a lot about kissing Louis, clearly, considering he’s half in love and Louis is the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth. But his fantasies did nothing to compare to this. This is rapture. This is Elysium. This is, over and over and over, the greatest moment of his life to date. This.

Louis’ mouth is hot and soft and wet and his hand is tight around Harry’s wrist, spasming like he isn’t entirely sure Harry isn’t going to run away. As if he could. He smells like lemon and baby powder. The whole expanse of his torso presses against Harry’s chest when Harry threads an arm around his waist, yanking him ever closer, shuddering and shivering, heart beating out of his chest. The whole world is on fire and Louis is right there and Harry’s brain is silent. His tongue brushes Harry’s lips. Parts them. Harry grabs onto his hip and squeezes. This is definitely what his hands were made for.

Louis is panting when he pulls away, one hand lying flat over Harry’s heart, like he likes the way it pounds, the other still clasped around his wrist.

Harry’s in love with him. One hundred percent.

Louis reaches up to pat his flushed cheek and grins.

“I’ll wear the red thing.”

Harry drags him in again.

#louis tomlinson #harry styles #larry stylinson #one direction #larry fic #fic request #:))#be nice to me please

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teacup-baphomet · 4 years ago

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G/t plot bunny 1

ugh generic title is generic but whatever.

so basically there are these two people - humans - and they are like ghost/cryptid hunters.

in my head. There is one guy and one girl. The guy is very excitable and happy-go-lucky (an optimistic ray of sunshine type with his head in the clouds).

The girl is more down-to-earth. A tad on the pessimistic side maybe. a little more rough around the edges. will throw hands at the drop of a dime to protect the people she cares about no matter how daunting the challenge is (like she will take on an entire gang herself is she needs to orr - well, you’ll see later in this plot bunny).

They are currently somewhere - idk where- and there is like big arse castle thing. Entirely made of stone. Ornate. and mostly like “f***off” big. like the theories/lore behind it is some ancient, archaic civilization made this castle for their god(s) as some symbolic gesture.

But the duo is here because it’s supposed haunted af.

And they want to either prove that or disprove that.

all for the sake of likes on the internet. such a noble causes lol. nah. they get paid too so mostly there’s that.

anyways. as it turns out it is NOT haunted.

but rather someone - something? - BIG is sorta imprisoned in the structure. Not visible at first. Hidden away ... somewhere, perhaps an alternate dimension or something. Until freed.

And the duo accidentally frees him.

Anyways, the big guy is basically the result of a king from the long dead civilization getting super greedy and basically doing some weird ritual to get limitless power. It goes terribly wrong - for the king- and he ends up getting possessed, well more like completely hijacked and the king is kinda dead now - by some sorta being. a shapeshifting something that tends to be on the lorg side.

The being didn’t really have a gender until he took over the king’s earthly form and then he decided “huh, guess i’m a dude” so he tends to shapeshift into a male form. typically big. typically kinda monstrous. haven’t thought of how monstrous. or if the shapeshifter being is demonic or not. or what does “demonic” even mean if so.

kinda leaning towards a monstrous in a dragon-boy kinda way. wings. horns. rows of sharp teef. claws. scaly forearms and lower legs as well as various other patches of scales. glowing eyes. firebreath.

with some hints of elderitch monstrosity. so maybe like a third eye on their forehead and perhaps a wee eye on each of the little clawed hand things on his wings. idk. plus the ability to make prehensile shadow tendril/tentacle things shoot out from his body. or something like that.

but i dunno. if i write this or not is hecking big IF anyways. like most of my ideas -writing and especially drawing. my muse is so dang fickle. i could come up with ocs and plots and dumb banter/dialogue and i can get to vague sketch stage with drawings but after that it’s like uhhhh... i lose steam i guess..

but yeah... how monster-y big dude is, is well up for debate i guess

but yeah. so he appears. and the shapeshifter monsterboy king dude is thinking it’s gonna go like ‘k. i’m free now. gonna just get rid of the people who freed me with a condescending thanks and then take over the world mwahahaha”

but it does not go like that. at all.

because oh no. the lil guy who freed him is adorable. and he’s so..so happy? but... why? and his first words to him are “wow. you’re amazing! so friggin cool! I wish i looked as bad*ss” or something like that

and the big guy is like all flustered because he’s used to people running and screaming at him and his monsterous appearance. that is partially why he likes to be monstrous looking to be frank.

he never considered how nice it is to be genuinely complimented. or you know to have friends. or even something more~

so he’s at a lost. which is something that’s never happened to him before. making him even MORE at a loss.

and he’s rather amused, impressed with the bravery the wee gal as well. as she looks ready to fight him herself if he even thinks of hurtin’ the lil ray of sunshine guy. it’s kinda.... endearing???

so oops. no world domination. ah, well...

instead he has a best friend and maybe something more with that lovely ray of sunshine man~

and maybe... just maybe... being good and kind... isn’t all that bad?

even if he is a monstrous eldritch giant maybe demon thing.

who says he has to stick to stereotypes. he’s BIG. he can do what he wants. right?

and i dunno after that..

I’m thinking. that this is when they find out he’s sorta attached to the castle for some reason. and thus stuck in his BIG monsterboy mode (as well as stuck to a certain area). and thus beyond being stuck to the vicinity in the castle and near the castle atm he can’t temporarily shapeshift to human in order to more easily travel with them as they do their ghost/cryptid hunting anyways.

so the next phase of the maybe story is the human duo and their monster trying to figure out how to f r e e h i m. like even more so than they already did heh.

and once they do that - uh shenanigans happen i guess. cuz you can’t have a g/t story without big(s) and small(s) engaging in shenanigans. that’s like g/t law or something.

and that’s it. that’s the maybe story i will likely never write.

anywho. if anybody wants to use this as a plot go ahead. i don’t care/mind. it’s not all that original anyways lol. it’s just a bunch of tropes thrown together to make soup (read: a plot) basically. i think. i dunno.

i mean let’s be real. i can’t even say:

people using the same plot in a g/t story? more likely than you think.

because we all effing know the same plots are used in g/t stories over and over again. ain’t no one able to pretend that isn’t common lol.

but that’s okay. because everyone has their own style of writing. and a lot of us are desperate for more g/t content anyway so we ain’t gonna complain regardless.

not sure if these last few sentences could be considered a call out or sh**post or something but i don’t really care. it is what it is.

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tellywoodtrash · 4 years ago

Text

immj2 12.11.20 lb

well………….. let’s get this the fuck over with. isske baad pls god let this show go back to their random tuchchi saazishein. mere se itna action jhela nahi jaata.

ok back to dead inside vansh who is analyzing every single interaction with riddhima and musing about DHOKAAAAAAA DHOKAAAAAAAA DHOKAAAAAAAA

lmaoooooooooooooooooooooooo kabir is like “itne saalon se tum mere liye itneeee bade sardard the, but finally ab khel khatam.” dude i love this caviler fucker.

but tell me these caps don’t look like kabir expressing a whole other sentiment:

damnnnnn, dat chemistry. seriously, 10x what riddhima has with vansh. i am so mad that we’re not getting these two as endgame.

aaaaaand the handcuffs are out. mmmhmmmm. kinky!

mummy be like ARRE AISE KAISE TUM DONO HI SAARE OSCARS LOOTOGE KYA, MERE KO BHI CHAHIYE I AM ALSO PERFORMERR and throwing herself in front of vansh and giving passionate defense.

this one also like chalo my turn nowwwwww.

human angry bird is like NOT ON MY WATCH YOU FUCK.

DUDE WHAT ARE THESE LOOKS THEY’RE GIVING EACH OTHER THERE’S SO MUCH SEXUAL TENSION HERE I CAN’T TAKE IT

asljdaslkjdlaskjdlaskjdlaskjldkj kabirrrrrrrrrrrr’s internal monologue: “haath mein hathkadi lag gayi, phir bhi tashan nahi gaya tumhara” hahahahahahahahahahahahaha

RIDDHIMA IS STILL FUCKING RUNNING. FROM FUCKING BANDRA, WHERE THE FACTORY OR WHATEVER WAS, TO BLOODY ANDHERI, WHERE THE VR MANSION IS. DUDE, MUMBAI MARATHON CHAL RAHA HAI KYA IDHAR????????

unf the way kabir pushed vansh towards the van. big Top energy.

THIS SCENE HAS JUST SOOOOOOO MUCH FUCKING SEXUAL TENSION I’M LITERALLY HERE LIKE

LIKE I’M REALLY FEELING SOME KINDA FUNNY WAY, THAT I’VE NEVER FELT IN THE VANSH/RIDDHIMA SCENES.

oh yeah in between that mummy was doing some more mother india acting, ki iski sazaa mujhe de dijiye and all, but HONESTLY WHO CAN PAY ATTN TO THAT MESS WHEN THERE’S BHAAARI SEX EYES GOING ON HERE???????

ok now that they’ve driven away, i’ll focus on her. yes, very cool acting. iss saal ka manikchand gutka jio fiama di wills colors golden petal stardust whatever the fuck award aapke hi liye.

riddhima also managed to medal in the marathon, and reach justttttttt as they pull outta the gates.

back to the Sexy Van™

ohhhhhhhhhhh boyyyyyyy, kabir instructing mishra to go off the path.

“vansh raisinghania, apne life ke sabse bade adventure ke liye taiyaar ho jao.”

DUDE THESE TWO ARE KINKY AS FUCK.

lmao vansh is like don’t write checks you can’t cash, don’t be promising orgasms you won’t be giving, “dhamki toh dhang ki dete.”

“vansh tumhe andaaza nahi ki kitni shiddat ke saath maine aaj ke din ka intezaar kiya hai. aaj meri zindagi ka sabse bada din hai!”

well damn, me too. i didn’t know that this was the pairing i was gonna end up shipping SO HARD but here we are!

ok mummy has seen riddhima and she tries to shoot her but riddhima drove the fuck away. good for her.

they have reached that random maidaan where every outdoor sequence on tellywood happens.

mishra can you gtfooooooooo from in between the hot boy sandwich??????

this dude is hottest when his eyes squinty.

OUFFFFFFFFFFFF THE SMILESSSSSSSSSS

TBH I’M NOT EVEN PAYING ATTN TO THE TRASH TALK THEY’RE DOING I’M JUST HERE LIKE KISS KISS KISS KISS KISS KISS KISS KISS

kabir freeing him, which nooooooooooooo, i wanted to see some hot handcuff actionnnnnn. vansh is as disappointed as i am.

anyway some searing indictments of our country’s legal system by kabir, about no matter how much proof he collects, rich ppl anyway get away with whatever. and so will vansh. sooooooo, he’s like i just needed to arrest you and break your ego, blah blah. which, yeah right. like anyone with one working brain cell doesn’t know you’re gonna shoot him down in an encounter for trying to flee police custody.

some more flirty banter. and then……..

yup.

damn, those some cat-like reflexes.

vansh like, i knew your bitch ass would pull some shit like this.

fuck fuck fuck fuck so much sexy him walking up to the gun like that.

ofc there have to be some BE A MAN type dumbass dhamkis. you know what real men do??? KISS THEIR RIVALS WHOM THEY HAVE THIS MUCH HOMOEROTIC TENSION WITHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

DANG KABIR HESITATEDDDDDDDD. HE COULDN’T DO IT. IT’S RIGHT OUTTA THE FIGHT SCENE BEFORE THE SEX SCENE IN MR. AND MRS. SMITHHHHHH.

aaaaaand that pause was enough for vansh to start beating the fuck outta him. yeah i don’t care. the only thing i wanna see you two wrestle is TONGUES.

mmmmmmhmmmmm just a lil closer, come onnnnn you stupid fucks.

ok they’re back to pounding on each other IN THE NON FUN WAY so fwding.

aaaaaaaaand riddhima is following her special Vansh Tracker App. I REALLY DON’T CARE.

told y’all K had Big Top Energy. oh yeahhhhhhhhhh, choke him, daddy!

ok they back to hitting each other.

ooooh nice callback to that firstttt fight they had where kabir threw sand in vansh’s eyes and then vansh fought blindfolded.

back to sexy banter.

“dil, dimaag, aur taaqat. teeno hi tumse kayiiii zyaada hai mujh mein.” LIFE MEIN CONFIDENCE CHAHIYE, TOH OF AN RICH, UPPER CASTE, MALE PSYCHOPATH ON TELLYWOOD.

he’s walking backwards to the edge of the cliff as he keeps talking. sigh.

“dushman mein woh dum kahan ke mera kuch bigaad sake. woh toh apne the jo dagaa de gaye, sazza de gaye.” waaaaaah waaaaaah!!!! THE PSYCHOPATH WAS A POET AND WE DIDN’T KNOW IT!

walking back some more.

“main aaj bhi vansh raisinghania hi hoon. meri maut bhi mujhse pooch ke mere paas aati hai.” this fucker nicolas flamel or what, with the philosopher’s stone????

“kissi tuchche insaan ki gun se chali goli ko ijaazat nahi ke meri jaan le sake. maine apni zindagi khud banaayi hai, kabir; aur iske aage kya hoga naa tum decide karoge, na tumhare haath mein yeh pistol. the choice is mine.”

pehli baar this dude’s tashan has been effective for me. IT’S COZ THE DIALOGUE DELIVERY IS MEASURED AND HE’S SAYING IT FULL OF MIRTH, INSTEAD OF GRINDING HIS TEETH AND YELLING. SEEE WHAT A FUCKING DIFFERENCE IT MAKES????????

anyway kabir is like, cool, your funeral. as vansh continues to walk backwards. it’s hilarious kabir thinks he has anyyyy control in this scene anymore.

le. aa gayi. dhaaansu scene kharaab karne.

vansh having ALL TEH FLASHBACKS. poor sad eyed puppy.

“tum log kya kar rahe ho?!!?!?” BITCH THEY WERE ABOUT TO GET IT ON, BUT NOW NO THANKS TO YOU……………….

blah blah usual ishq nahi aasaan aag ka dariya hai doob ke jaana hai blah blah from piya psychopath

“aaj apne dhoke ke aag ki dariya mein dubo hi diya na tumne mujhe, riddhima?”

i’m sure this is some kasautiii kinda metaphor, ki they’re working together, or like….. he actually does trust her… or some such shit, but i can’t be arsed to analyse anything with this dumbass show. it doesn’t deserve it.

kabir watching this whole angst ridden scene with such horny eyes, i can’t even…………………

obligatory placement of show naam. tashan mein usko lete lete, JAI MATA DIIIIIIIIIIIII, LET’S ROCK.

if this isn’t the Biggest Mood for 2020, idk what is. vansh finally being relatable to the rest of us normals.

yeah whatever. i really don’t care about you. i’m more devastated ki when will i get such a KaValicious sexual tension filled episode next??!?!?!?!!? probably next fucking year now. ugh. bloody waste show, forcing us to watch this het bullshit.

let’s end this with a nice pic of this face. i think we’ve all earned it.

#ishq mein marjawan 2 #immj2 #immj2 lbs #episode liveblogs

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babybirdling · 4 years ago

Note

I was gonna say write a cliche angsty fic where sirius is kicked out and needs to go to the potters, but he brings reg with him, all while in a relationship with moony (light background jegulus anyone?)

A/N~ Uhm, heh. Confession time. I don’t ship Wolfstar or Jegulus, because my Sirius is aromantic and Jily is my life. Had you asked me a year ago I probably would’ve done Wolfstar without a minute’s hesitation but now...idk. But I guess I could make an exception for now....

The ripped skin on his back stung, the sound of whiplash and the curse still ringing in his ears. Everything hurt so damn much.

His skin’s clammy, his hands cold and body slowly numbing as the words plays over and over in his head.

Such a disappointment.

Disgusting blood traitor.

An hour of pure agony, painful memories, whips and writhing at the tip of a wand.

Sirius stumbles, sinking down to one knee, skin stretching painfully and muscles spasm worsening with every second.

“Sirius, hold on, it’s just a few more meters—“

He coughs, blood dripping from the edges of his mouth.

“—don’t you dare fucking sleep, I can’t carry you all the way—“

“No,” he manages to choke out, “Don’t. We-we’re going to,”

He takes in a shaky breath, heart still pounding wildly within his ribcage.

“We’re going to the Leaky Cauldron for tonight.”

Regulus stills underneath his arm, head turning to look incredulously at him.

“Sirius—“

“We—we’re not going there, Reg. Please. I just—I can’t.”

James would take him in, he’s sure of it. Euphemia probably would’ve gotten him out ages ago had it not been for Sirius’ pride. It’s not them he’s worried about.

Remus, though, he doesn’t deserve this shit from him. He’s already got enough going on in his life. He doesn’t need another disaster. Another disappointment.

Which Sirius has only been able to deliver since the day he took his first breath.

First his parents. Then Reg.

He’s not going to add his Moony to the list.

He’s not.

The emphasis on the last word stumbling out of his mouth seems to only anger Regulus further.

“Sirius, you have a concussion. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Reg—“

He launches into another coughing fit, nearly hacking up his lung. His eyes droop and his head falls forward.

“Sirius? Sirius, don’t you fucking dare—Sirius—“

At long last, darkness envelopes him.

...

It’s quiet and his hands are warm, encased in someone else’s.

No, not someone else.

He would know the feel of the calloused skin anywhere.

Remus.

Sirius’ eyes flutter open, almost instantly latching onto the scar-ridden face resting beside his, crystalline brown irises hidden and lips parted to let out an occasional huff of air.

The tips of his mouth turns upwards at the sight of those lips.

He looks away, searching for a clock to tell time and scouting his memories as to how he ended up here.

And proceeds to instantly regret it when Walburga’s curse sounds clearly through his mind.

Sirius swallows, forcing it away. Now’s not the time. He’ll deal with it later.

Gently prying his hand out of Remus’ grip, Sirius tries not to move the mattress too much, lest he wakes him up. But before he can get off the bed (granted, he wouldn’t have gotten very far on those shaky legs) the familiar voice calls out to him from behind.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

He lets out a little sigh.

His Moony, with the sharp senses of a wolf.

And one in bed too.

At the thought of that, a smirk crosses his face as he turns back to the bed, “What, I can’t even use the loo? I have an arse, Rem, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

He relishes at the sight of the light blush creeping along the freckled cheeks.

Remus shakes his head, catching his wrist and pulling him back down to the warmth of the comforters.

“Pads, I—“

“What are you doing here?”

He shoots him a look that clearly reads are-you-really-asking-me-that, “What, I can’t come visit my boyfriend when he’s injured?”

Sirius’ heart pounds at the word. It’s been months and he still can’t believe it.

He can’t believe that he gets to kiss those soft lips red and chapped. That he gets to murmur his name into his neck after a ride of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. That he’s Remus’ boyfriend. That he’s even his anything.

He lowers his head, eyes looking deep into those pools of brown. Those goddamn eyes.

Remus, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls away.

“No, Sirius, tell me—“

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

The words come out before he can stop them, a little it too quickly. Far too quickly. Remus reels back at the lash of his words, clearly startled.

He swallows the lump forming at the base of his throat, “I—I don’t want to talk about it right now. I will, but...just not now. Please.”

He pulls him in, burying his head in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of chocolate and fresh air. Remus returns in kind, threading his nimble fingers through his shaggy, unkempt hair.

He’s glad Remus doesn’t push further, or says anything. He just wants to be in his arms for now.

Remus doesn’t deserve shit. And he’s not going to give him any.

He raises his head, hastily pressing his lips against the other’s. A promise. I’ll never leave you.

He parts them, roughly entwining their tongues, letting out a moan when he bites his lip. A curse. We’ll be a disaster together.

Remus drags his nails across his scalp, coaxing another moan from him.

I’m a mess, but I’m your mess.

All the words that he can’t say, he makes sure Remus knows in the only way he can tell, through pants, moans, scattered warm open-mouthed kisses, not-so-gentle tugging of swollen lips and thrown I-love-you’s in between breaks.

And he can’t think of a time he was any happier when Remus understands what he means to tell.

#bb writes #hey nonny #anonymous #thanks for the prompt #sirius orion black #remus john lupin #regulus arcturus black #happy birthday sirius #angst #wolfstar #tw: abuse #tw: blood #tw: violence

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vanchlo · 4 years ago

Text

Under The Bed / Chapter Three, “Down”

-> SERIES MASTERLIST

-> MAIN MASTERLIST

-> READ ON WATTPAD

WARNINGS: Mild swearing???

WORD COUNT: 5.9k words

LEGEND:

* : jump in time

* * : change in point of view

TAGLIST: IDK HOW TO DO THESE, BUT IF YOU WANNA BE ADDED SO YOU KNOW WHEN A NEW CHAPTER IS POSTED, JUST LET ME KNOW! :)

@berrynarrybanana

@wotamelonsugar

SNEAK PEEK OF COURSE ->

THEN

He kept doing that thing, and by thing I mean, showing up and scaring me.

Every night, he popped out from underneath my bed without fail, and scared the bejeezus out of me. He left me crying into my butterfly pillow from an impossibly horrible face he made, an insult he made that I took to heart, or because he wrecked one of my stuffed animals. I didn’t know how to get him to stay away, even if he was kind of cute I’d never tell him that, and when he screws up his blue face to look like a goblin, it’s not very cute.

I dreaded him coming tonight, just like any other night for the last two weeks. He never missed a night, and I had gotten used to staying up past my bedtime until he arrived, sure that that would save me some pain instead of getting woken up to frogs in my bed and gum stuck in my hair. He had told me about doing that to Polly down the street last week, and the last thing I wanted to do was explain that to my parents in the morning. So, I stayed awake even though it was so hard on so many nights. Tonight, it was hard, but in a different way, because I wanted more than anything to be asleep after my third horrible day of school. I had no choice in the matter, and it worked out that Harry showed up right at nine-thirty.

“Wakey wakey, bratty!” a voice booms, and I jump awake.

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” I moan, unsure of who or why I announce myself.

“Shiiiiiiit, I was hopin’ ya wouldn’t be. ‘s much mo’ fun t’ scare ya awake, ya hardly made a peep jus’ then,” the voice tuts with a clicking of their tongue. A puff leaves my lips when the light flicks on and his menacing figure appears before my eyes. “Welcome back t’ tha world o’ yer nightmares, Josie, loud and proud. Afraid ‘m back fer anotha night t’ scare yer socks off.”

The My Little Pony covers slide off of me, and I fix the sleeve of my flowery night gown that rode up my shoulder. Ignoring him, I’m met with relief when my fingers grasp the cold familiarity sitting on my nightstand.

“What tha hell, are ya givin’ me tha cold shoulder now?” he retorts with a volume in his voice, but I kn- I hope that he won’t talk loud enough to wake up Mommy and Daddy. “Since bloody when d’ya do that, Josie?”

“I’m reading, shhh,” I tell him, turning past the first few pages of a Clifford the Big Red Dog book until I find the first page with a picture of him and his owner, Emily Elizabeth.

“Oh my days, I can’t believe tha nerve you have, girl,” the monster spits back at me, but with shaking fingers, I try to shove his voice away. I have an even harder time finding happiness in the pictures when it’s so hard to forget that he’s standing right there, ready to attack. “Ya think ya can talk t’ me like that, a full-on monster? Tsk, tsk, you dunno who yer talkin’ t’ here, ya li’l-.”

“Eh-eh-v . . ugh . . Eh-eh-v-r-e-e . . ,” I try to sound out the word at the bottom of the page, but it’s so long and I don’t know this one. “Eh-ev-ree . . won loves Clifford, b-b-b-bee-c-c-cah-ssssss-e he has good m-m-m-a-a-a-n-n-er-r-r-r-s. You don’t have good manners, Harry, that’s something you need to work on.”

“‘Scuse me, Josie Stephens? I reckon ya don’t even know what tha hell manners are, now d’ya, ya li’l shit?”

Gulping, I tear my eyes away from his angry green pair. Looking back to the book, I try to focus on reading the next part. I get the first two words, but then I’m stuck again, sounding it out like a dummy. I don’t understand how so many of my classmates already know how to read, and I don’t!

Creeeeeeeeeak!

My eyes shoot up and find Harry is closer, he must have taken a step towards me. As soon as I had looked up, his feet inch away from me, and I wish I hadn’t. Rubbing at my eyes sleepily, I take a deep breath and try again.

“M-m-m-m-y-s-s-s-eh-l-l-.”

“Myself,” Harry pipes up, and when I forget the book to look at him, we’re both shocked. “Tha word ‘s ‘myself’. ‘I taught him myself,’ it says,” he tells me slowly. Maybe, just maybe, he sounds normal and like me. Who would have thought that could be? “Duh, ‘s an easy word, even a Kindie like you shoulda known that, stupid.”

Shaking my head, I move the hair out of my eyes and continue to read, quieter than before, and yet I feel his eyes on me like a hot pair of sun rays.

“Clifford says p-p-p-l-eeeeee-s w-w-he-n he a-a-s-s-. Why are you laughing at me? I’m only five, we don’t know how to read yet,” I say, pointing my eyes at him. A sound flies from his lips that I’ve never heard before in that way. I think it might be a laugh, a happy one.

“Sounds like I jus’ heard a five year old swear right there. Looks like me job ‘s done, ruining you by teachin’ you yer first curse. Ass,” he titters, walking away and towards the end of my bed.

My throat begs for a glass of water and the words that didn’t make sense anyways become blurry in front of me. Swiping under my eyes, I get rid of the tears the second they warm my cheeks.

“W-What’s this word?” I ask nervously, keeping my head down and refusing to look at him. I know that he likes to see my tears, and I don’t want him to, because then he only becomes meaner. Sniffling, I listen as his steps creak along my floor and his musty smell tickles at my nose.

“Which one?” he groans as if I had asked the most stupid question in the entire world. I don’t answer out loud, and instead, I point to the one that starts with an ‘s,’ but my tired brain doesn’t want to figure it out.

“Sumthin’,” he responds, and it pulls my eyes up and over to him. The light catches in the caramel colored streaks in his hair, and the gold bits in his eyes. Shocks of pink around my room from posters, stuffed animals, books, and my Hello Kitty clock look funny behind him. “Something,” he repeats clearly, yanking the book from my hand to point at a word. “D’ya know this one at least?”

“P-p-p-puh-l-,” I begin, but he interrupts me with a whine of ‘you jus’ read it, c’mon now,’ and I continue until he nods when I say ‘please.’

“And this one?” he continues, pointing to one that starts with a ‘t’ that takes me a few tries until I get it. “What comes afta ‘thank’ usually?”

“You,” I tell him, and he nods, at some point perching himself on the side of my bed like a bird. I almost think I hear him say ‘good,’ but it’s gone before I can decide if I did or not.

The books lining my shelf across the room under the window itch for me to go and grab them, and sound out the words with him that look like nonsense to me. I hold back, and ask Harry to repeat what he said.

“Yer fallin’ ‘sleep,” he notes, bumping shoulders with me. I shake my head and blink hard, knowing that he’s right. “He says ‘thank you’ when he gets sumthin’. And he writes a thank-you note when someone gives him a present . . ,” and before I know it, the words from the pages are dropping from his lips, slowly, telling the story.

I don’t remember my head falling onto his shoulder or him letting it stay there. I definitely didn’t know that when I let my eyes rest for one second that I was going to fall asleep, and that the next time it would all feel like a dream, a far away dream that could never be true.

Because there’s a monster under my bed who’s really gross and mean to me, and he just read me a bedtime story and was maybe nice to me.

That couldn’t be, could it?

* *

The ripe smell of mothballs and wet dogs welcomes me back, ripping away the sweet relief of berries and cream that graced my senses for the last however-long-it-was. My feet land with a loud clap! onto the shambles of wooden decking below. I kick the forgotten remnants of a Scooby Doo stuffy away with the torn toe of my Converse. Loud, raucous laughter echoes around me and is followed by a spit and whizz of a bottle rocket nearby. It paints the ink black sky with shocks of gold and white for a few moments, suddenly making me miss the light. The next thought makes me stumble over a lost pink ukulele with broken strings. I think I miss the smell and the warmth, no matter if I never get cold.

How the fuck can I miss that obnoxiously sweet smell of ripe red strawberries, and decadent cream that they’re drowned in?

Would you shut the fuck up, Harry? What, are you finally going nuts here, on your four hundred and eighth year?

“Oi!” somebody shouts, yanking me from my thoughts much to my gratitude. “Wait up, would ya?!” they continue in their familiar lilt. Stuffing my hands away in my pockets, met with the typical cool temperature of my own body, my feet kick up sand clouds when they stop suddenly.

“What d’ya want, Ni?” I spit back, not bothering to turn my head. His cackle accompanies my boring slide down the Hill of Doom Jr. that he rides like a wave.

“Who put a stick up yer arse, ‘arry?” he gripes, almost losing his footing once we reach the end. “Not a good night with yer kiddies or summat?”

“Sure,” I answer stubbornly, my eyes flitting past the weathered signs slapped onto the pole, pointing every which way with words scrawled onto them. Minneapolis. Chicago. Detroit. Los Angeles. Washington D.C.

“I found some peanut butta at one o’ mine. I s’pose I could be a good mate and give ya some, but y’know what ‘s gonna cost ya. Figure I should get even mo’ than that seein’ as how ‘m deathly allergic.”

“Don’t want any,” I retort, walking around the scuffed Spongebob skateboard and Kim Possible figurine lying beside it, missing her signature head of red hair. But it’s forgotten when my foot steps on something, and I lift it to find a plush Hello Kitty with its head torn off, the white more like a light brown now from all of the shoe prints muddling it. A little stuffy that I know all too well, and had forgotten my handy work with until now.

Somehow, it bothers me more than it should, and tips me over the edge.

“What d’ya mean ya don’t-.”

“I said I don’t want any fuckin’ peanut butter, Ni, and I never said I wanted yer company, now fuckin’ did I?”!” I explode, whirling around and scaring him to the point that he almost runs into me. His unruly eyebrows sink and the neon purple in his eyes shrinks, the scaring of a monster quite comical in the thought.

“Fuck you, ‘arry. Dunno who shit in yer bed, yer always high as a kite afta gettin’ done with that Stephens girl. Jus’ cuz ya couldn’t scare tha lights outta her dis time doesn’t mean ya hafta jump down me throat cuzza it,” he says curtly, shaking his head of silver hair that sticks up at all ends. Muttered words float past me as he walks away with the pep out of his step.

“‘s not that I couldn’t . . ‘s that I didn’t wanna . . fer tha first time,” I curse under my breath, kicking a pink stone riddled with holes off the edge, not waiting to hear its plink! at the bottom of Ghastly Gorge.

Clenching my jaw to stop me from saying all of the words that ricochet inside of my skull, I take a few turns until I step onto a rickety lift. Ignoring the two vampires who cling to each other’s necks with loud suckling noises, I tip my head back and close my eyes against the yellow light of the naked bulb above me. I don’t even lose my footing as the contraption whips from side to side and up and down with the loudest of screeches, lastly halting with a piercing ding!

Sulking my way off and back to unsolid ground, the giggles from the ghoulish pair continue behind me, suddenly making me wish Liza was here. Biting my tongue, I try to forget about her, and the other her. Yanking open the door, it falls off its top hinge and I leave it there hanging, not giving a shit clearly. The squeals of the fireworks are almost out of earshot, but now, the shouting from some kind of game trickles past.

“Can’t even get peace and quiet here o’ all places?” I mutter with a long sigh, pushing harshly at the metal gate. It hits the fence with a deafening clang! of metal on metal.

“Heya, Harry!” somebody shouts and I nod and wave. More ‘hellos’ follow between the gravestones as I kick my feet along the black dirt path. “Oh, on your way to The Rotting River, I see . . Let’s leave him be, lads, he doesn’t look too terrible, the poor bloke,” Henry the Horrid whispers ever so loudly and I toss a hand up in the smallest of thanks, only bringing the memory back bigger and brighter.

Since when do I have fucking manners?

Their transparent white bodies float away with their silent steps, and from the corner of my eye, I see Marcus speed away like a flash of moonlight.

“Why? Why? Why in tha fuck why?!” I scream, pitching the hundred pound rock into the black water, far and away. “What tha absolute fuck am I doin’? ‘m gonna ruin it all, everythin’ ‘ve ever built!” the red rock crashes into the water and under the green cast of the orb hung in the sky, it smatters onyx droplets across the green. I pluck another one from the ground at random, in between shards of bones, glass, and lost lovers necklaces, propelling them into the lazy waves of the river, wishing it was crashing tonight like the throes of my heart. Something I thought I hadn’t had for the last few centuries, but here I am, low and behold, seeming to have one.

That doesn’t happen, it’s not supposed to be. My kind . . we’re not supposed to use them, or even have a working one.

How is it that when I saw the glassy tears in Josie’s eyes tonight, it felt like it was being squeezed in my chest? I can’t explain away the warmth I felt in it when her head fell onto my shoulder, and then when I pulled the covers over her tiny, sleeping body.

I broke a hundred dozen rules tonight, enough to get me sent to the headstones just over the hill, and I can’t decide whether I care or not.

* *

The tater tot casserole sitting in my stomach tried to lull me into an early sleep that next night, but with determination, I ignored it. I sat in bed with my school books in my lap, flipping through the pictures and trying to find familiar words. I knew that I wouldn’t find many, if any, but it didn’t stop me from trying.

I didn’t know how long I had been sitting there after dinner looking through the books and making up my own stories, until my tired eyes glanced to the window. There I sat, watching the last few rays of sun be sucked back into the ground, or that’s how it looked.

Smack!

“Arentcha a li’l old t’ be havin’ shit like this?” a voice pipes up, and before I see him, I smile. I really wish that I hadn’t, because when he turns around, that dark glint in his eye has returned. I don’t know why I thought his voice sounded- what did it sound like, like it had last night? When the words from the Clifford The Big Red Dog book fell from his chapped lips?

All of my questions are answered when there’s a loud crash! and my Hello Kitty pink clock smashes into a puddle of glass at his feet. “Whoops,” he giggles as I suck in air loudly, the dirty bottoms of his shoes crunching through the glass that I’m sure I’ll never get out of my carpet now.

“What, ya think ‘m gonna bloody read t’ you again or sumthin’, brat?” Harry says, nodding to the pile of books that I tighten my grip on now. “Not gonna speak t’ me, are you? Y’know that’s never a good bet, Josie Stephens,” he continues, each word laced with disgust from his lips. He licks them with his chalky pink tongue as the floor creaks with his nearing.

“Don’t!” I squeal when he reaches for the books, but I put up a fight.

“It never does any good fightin’ me, li’l shit, ya should know this by now,” he retorts, giving one last yank with his hands and painfully ripping the books from my grasp. “Ooooo, what d’we got here, huh? More stupid Clifford, Scooby Fucking Doo, Pussy Tom and that minx Jerry, and Peter Bloody Pan. Hmmm, looks like a good lot ya got here, Josie. I reckon they won’t be very easy t’ read if they’re in shreds.”

“Harry, no! Please, those are from school, they’re not mine! I’ll get in trouble with my teacher,” I beg, getting on all fours and crawling across my bed towards him. One look is all he needs to get me to stop, because I know if I took one more step towards him he’d pull out one of those faces that’d make me wet the bed . . again.

“Even better then, love,” he smiles that mischievous smile with his yellow teeth that he swipes his tongue across. I feel a lurch in my chest when the first book begins to look like rainbow snow falling from his fingers, then the next, and the others while he laughs loudly. My pleas for him to stop don’t make any difference, and I fear that they only make his devilish smile brighter and wider across his blue tinted cheeks.

“Why’d you do that?!” I almost scream, and one of his unruly eyebrows raises in answer.

“How many times do I gotta bloody tell ya t’ shut yer mouth?” he lips back in return, tossing the last handful of papery snow behind him.

“No, I won’t! Why’d you read to me last night if you were just gonna do that?” I sob, angry words flying with the tears. It’s only a second, but I think that I surprised him. “I thought you could be nice!”

“Ya well, ‘m not nice, Josie. ‘m a bloody monster, I dunno why you expected that I could ever be nice. Me job ‘snt t’ be nice, ya brat, and that was a fluke - a one time thing that’s never gonna happen ‘gain, ya hear? Stop cryin’ ‘bout yer bloody books and fuckin’ go t’ bed, ya cry baby,” Harry hisses, tightening the frayed red and black flannel tied around his body covered in holey black clothes.

“But you can be nice, I saw it! You are nice, Harry, if you just try!”

“What’d I say, li’l girl, huh? Go t’ bed befo’ I make ya, and ya don’t wanna see that happen, I can promise ya that,” he answers with a stern finger pointed at me. The lights flick off with no warning and I fall back when he pushes me onto my covers. I don’t remember when he left, because I was too wrapped up in the tears flowing down my cheeks, and the fear leaking through them.

He’s right, I am stupid for thinking that the monster who lives under my bed could ever be nice.

* *

Even after I slipped under the bed, and back into my world, her sobs still wrench at my heart and fill my head. It doesn’t matter how far I get away from her door that looks like a pixie threw up on it, pink as can be, I still hear them. If anything, they get louder and swarm around in my head. I shake it a bajillion times, wishing they would leave, and that when I pass other monsters who pat me on the back for the sound of her wails, I wish all the more for them to be gone. Suddenly, I’m not proud of them, and I had thought that the few tears she shed the other night bothered me, but this is anything but that. It rips apart my insides how they dig into the crevices of my mind, and how they pull me back to her.

With every step past the cracked headstones weathered of names and dates of life, my feet become heavier, like cement blocks. With each step, they grow a pound in weight, and the stones and boulders I chuck into the blackness can’t even compare. The shrieks and requital of the pissed off mermaids and slimy grindylows below don’t throw a damper on my exaggerated rock skipping.

“We’re tryna sleep here, ye fool!” one of the pinched faced mermaids bellows at me, propelling the sharp edged stone back at me.

“Does it look like I fuckin’ care what yer doin’?” I scream back, chucking a bigger stone in her direction. She yelps before her muddled neon pink hair disappears below the murky surface. “Fuckin’ mermaids, bloody lot still hate me afta I broke tha heart of yer beloved Hera last century,” I mutter under my breath, at last falling to sit on a smooth, red boulder. Prying the minuscule shards of glass from the soles of my shoes, my dormant lungs beg for air, something that stuck with me past my days as a human.

I don’t need to breathe or let alone be gasping for air, but it never escaped me, although most other mortal things certainly did.

It feels as if a stone stronger and wider than those beneath my feet sits lodged in my throat when I try to swallow, her face stuck behind my eyes. My throat soon feels akin to Darkly Desert a few miles away and the emerald reflected on the toiling waves grows messed up in front of me.

“What tha bloody hell?” I curse, swiping a finger across my cheek and feeling wetness greet my chalky skin. “Christ Almighty,” I breathe, feeling the cool tears scatter my cheeks as my nose sniffles accordingly. “I can’t remember tha last time I had a bleedin’ cry, certainly not since ‘ve been a monster. Tha fuck ‘s happenin’ t’ me?” I croak, my head collapsing into my hands.

“Gotcha heart broken by another girl, Harry?” a slinky voice asks, waves lapping against the rocks at my feet. I don’t need to peek my eyes open to know who it is, their revolting voice and squeaky, wicked laugh tells me the whole story.

“Would ya fuck off, Freya? N’body asked you,” I crack, toeing my shoe through a puddle of rotten weeds that I fling at her. She scoffs loudly and it’s unbeknownst to me whether she scurries away or lingers.

“Me’s hopin’ she did good work on it, if ya even have anythin’ left in there. Guessin’ ‘s a shriveled ol’ black thing by this time,” Freya bites back, making a loud exit and whipping her tail to spray me with the water that reeks of rotted corpses and fish.

“Like you’ve ever had one, Frey, it takes one t’ know one!” I shout, standing to my feet and tossing one more stone in her direction. “N’body likes yer kind anyways, jus’ glorified fish with boobs, you are,” I groan with a shake of my head, my feet crunching with every step over the tiny bones that her and her posse toss to the shore like it’s their own garbage bin.

Questions swim through my mind as I hike up the hill muddied by last night’s boiling hot rain showers, wondering how I can fix this. I jumped right past the wondering and decision making, and have landed right at the ‘how.’

I really do have a problem here, but the one that concerns me isn’t the existential one of sorts.

“Open alfucking ready!” I shout, pounding my fist on the chipped wooden door, streaked with red. I’m not sure if I want to ask the question of what made it red. “Zekey, c’mon open up , you git!” I continue, lifting my fist for another blow right when the door swings open.

“Da fuck d’yeh want, ‘arry?” he sighs in return, rubbing at his eyes and only further smearing the black makeup surrounding them. “Shouldn’t yeh be out on yer route, and not buggin’ me?”

“‘m uh, in between kiddies right now, Z. Ya busy, mate?” I explain softly, biting at my nails but there’s not much left to bite.

“Apparently not, and would it even matta if I was? ‘m sure yeh’d still barge right in, wouldntcha?” he tuts, turning around and leaving the door open for me. “By tha way, did yeh fookin’ tell Ly’ that I revoked his invitation? Told yeh not t’, I found him snoggin’ me girl and that’s reason enuff t’ banish him from here, I reckon.”

“Nah, that wasn’t me. Maybe it was Ni, I dunno. Can we get on with this, ‘s important,” I rush, tip toeing a careful trail through his doorway littered with empty beer bottles, cardboard pizza boxes, and cigarette butts. “D’y’know how t’ bloody pick up fer once, Z? Yer not even a monster, so ya can’t fall back on tha ‘messy monster’ cliche, mate.”

“I dont’ rememba askin’ yeh, ‘arry. Now, what tha fook d’ya want that I had t’ wake up fer?” Zeke responds with disdain laced in his voice, collapsing onto his maroon sofa that’s by far seen better days, perhaps last century even.

“‘m takin’ up that favor o’ mine ya owe me, and don’t even say sumthin’ like, ‘oh, what favor?’ Cuz ya bloody well know what favor, need I remind you?”

“No, no. My bloody God, ‘arry, jus’ name it already. ‘m not gettin’ any younger sittin’ here waitin’ fer yeh t’ explain yerself away, am I now?” he sighs, raking a hand through his spiked, electric green hair. I nod and with an unnecessary breath, I steady myself, and prepare the sentence that I’ve rehearsed over and over.

“I need some o’ yer Fix-It Dust,” I say slowly, waiting for his reply.

“That’s all? God, yeh scared me, thinkin’ I needed t’ hex somebody, bring a lover back from tha dead, or wipe a memory,” Z chuckles, springing up from the sofa and across the room to his bookshelf that’s never changed in appearance since that day I met him at the Wobbly Waterfall and came back here. “There, easy ‘nough,” he announces a moment later, tossing a small, dark bottle at me. The bookshelf behind him slides closed, and the fluorescent bottles coloring the rainbow disappear behind the moving novels.

“Thanks, Z.”

“Don’t mention it, Hare. I dunno why yeh think that warrants a favor,” he replies with a soft laugh and shrug of his shoulders.

“What d’ya mean?”

“‘s bloody dust, mate, not a bleedin’ spell, jinx, or body swap. Tell anybody I did this fer you, and yer screwed, but tha favor still stands. Good luck with whateva tha fuck it ‘s, I don’t care and don’t wanna,” he insists, waving a hand at me.

“I appreciate it, mate, thank you.”

“Since when d’yeh have fricken manners, Hare? Yeh gettin’ soft on me, or sumthin’?” he giggles, crossing his pale arms riddled with black ink, one or two of them my own handiwork.

“Oh, would ya learn when t’ shut yer fuckin’ mouth, Zeke?” I scoff with a tut of my head, turning around and kicking a few beer bottles out of my path.

“Hare, a softie? It really mus’ be tha end o’ days a comin’,” he titters from behind me, soon the sound of his TerroVision roaring to life.

“Mention that t’ anyb’dy and ‘ll knock a few mo’ o’ yer teeth out, mate!” I counter, hearing the last few licks of his laugh before the door slams behind me.

“This shite better magic me way back onto her good side,” I sigh, turning the dark bottle over in my hands, watching the flecks of fluorescent orange trickle around, and wondering just what the hell I’m doing. “I need t’ fix me fuck up befo’ ‘s too late,” I say, shoving it into my pocket hurriedly and padding down a flight of chipped steps, my heart thumping harder with every step that nears her.

Her decadent smell of berries and cream welcomes me back first, and then the sound of her slow snores. Her Scooby Doo night light smiles at me ironically, shedding light on the piles of torn paper on the cream carpet. Never, did I feel so guilty. The dried tears staining her cheeks and the heart wrenching sniffling in her sleep only make matters worse. Her mattress sags under my weight and I watch how her chest rises and falls with every breath, a sensation I can’t remember experiencing, but then again, I’ve never tried to remember it. I thumb away the strands of golden hair cast over her face, her smell wafting over me when I brush my thumb against her warm skin. Toasty breaths against my hand remind me that they feel like icicles, and that somehow long ago, they used to feel like her. They used to feel human, and so did I.

“‘m so sorry, Josie, for ruinin’ yer books and clock. Pinky promise ‘ll fix ‘em. Right here and now,” I whisper softly, placing the wild strand of hair behind her ear adorned with an earring of a little, pink ice cream cone. Standing up, I look over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t wake her.

She’s not really a heavy sleeper or a light one, I’ve found, somewhere in the middle instead. With my back to her, my grimey shoes come to freeze before the flurry of colored paper below me. Nibbling at the inside of my cheek, fretting, I fish the bottle from my pocket. The brown cork slides from the opening easily with a pop! before I turn it around in my hands, finding Zekey’s chicken scratch on the other side.

After sprinkling on your screw up, chant these words and it’ll magic your mistake away, like it never happened. Three times is a charm.

Fixus Motalus

“Easy enuff,” I mutter, stuffing the cork away into a pocket. Tipping the bottle to the side, I tap my finger against it to watch the glowing dust fall to the floor. “Fixus Motalus. Fixus Motalus. Fixus Motalus,” I recite and within a blink, the pile of torn books sparkles before an imaginary wind kicks them up into a tornado of sorts, mending themselves back together before my smiling eyes.

My steps leave creaks along her carpeted floor, something I’ve always hated, because it gives me away. I just hope it won’t do that very thing now, when I need to remain in secrecy more than ever before.

“C’mon, Posie, where’s yer markers? They’ve gotta be here sumwhere, bein’ a little kiddie and all,” I sigh, my eyes searching her desk that, of course, is a baby pink. Only when I pull open a drawer do I find a stack of plain paper, and a plastic box chalk full of markers.

Plucking one of the papers from the stack and a blue marker, I quickly scrawl a note on it before the cap clicks! back onto the marker. I’m careful to shut the drawer quietly and to not move a thing from its place, besides the Aladdin water bottle on her bed stand. Beside it, I find room to place the shiny pile of books with her teacher’s name written on the front, and with my note sat on top.

She continues to snooze away, unknowing of my presence, and ignoring the crackling of glass below my feet at the end of her bed. As silence trickles through the house, I watch until every last sparkling fleck has fallen from the bottle to the floor, leaving it empty. A small tornado of sharp glass whirls into the air above the floor, and like a puzzle, they fit themselves back into the pink frame of the clock. With a whooooooosh!, it flies itself back up the wall and to the nail that it hung from, a shiny glint on its glass.

“I dunno what yer doin’ t’ me, Josephine May Stephens,” I cluck softly, hands stuffed in my pockets as I trudge over to her bed and find a seat in front of her. “But I know ‘s no good, that’s fo’sure . . cuz I think I may be gettin’ a soft spot for you . . and monsters don’t get soft spots for kiddies, we hate you lot typically. Yet, here I am, thinkin’ I might be likin’ a kiddie. ‘m in fer real trouble with you, aren’t I, lovie?”

* *

Sun stretches through my blinds the next morning, trying to reach me. Groaning, I turn over in my bed and call back to my mom when she knocks on my door, asking if I’m awake. Flying up to sit, my eyes race around the room, hoping she won’t walk in.

“Alright, honey. Breakfast is ready, come and eat before it’s cold.”

“Okay, Mom!” I reply, swinging my legs over the side of the bed as I lift the covers, accidentally hitting my bedside table. Something falls to the floor with a slap! and my tired eyes follow curiously.

“What was that? I didn’t have anything on the table last night,” I yawn, my feet falling onto the carpet. “Huh?” I exclaim with wonder, falling to my knees and picking up the pile of books, the very same stack that Harry shredded to pieces last night. Questions roll through my head and no answers come as I flip through the pages that are just like before, not even a page tear in sight. “This is really weird . . Am I still dreaming?” I mumble. Something tells me to lift my head and when I look at the wall, there sits my Hello Kitty clock with her arms telling me the time, ticking along just fine.

Huffing, I glance back to the books but they’re forgotten when I see a piece of paper on the floor. Wait, that wasn’t there before, was it? I never wrote a note or colored last night before bed. Reaching a hand out, I pick it up and find that this morning can only get weirder, and weirder.

“If only I could read you, because I bet you’re from Harry, and then all of this silliness would make sense to me,” I huff, stashing the note in my side table’s drawer and trudging downstairs, wondering what to expect tonight from the monster under my bed who signs his notes with a really bad drawing of a monster.

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mistersshelby · 6 years ago

Text

the woman assassin | part two

part one | part two

hi!! thank you for reading part one, i hope you enjoy part two!! pls send me any feedback good or bad i like hearing from you! idk when part three will be up bc i’m kinda just fucking around with this but stay tunedddd. -S.

When they walk into his house, she tries to keep the look of awe off her face, taking in how large and grand his home is. She knew he was well off, everyone in Birmingham and even outside knew of the Shelbys… But this?

A little boy turns a corner and starts running straight towards Tommy, yelling “Daddy!” over and over and for the first time Clara sees a smile stretch across Tommy’s face. He’s quite beautiful when he smiles.

Seconds after Tommy scoops the boy in his arms, a nanny rounds the corner with a baby girl in her arms who also reaches her outstretched hands towards Tommy. Clara has difficulty swallowing her jealousy as she watches him with his children, a hand reflexively coming to her now empty belly.

“Daddy, who’s that?” The boy asks as he looks over Tommy’s shoulder.

“Charles, Ruby, this is Miss Clara, she’ll be staying with us for a bit.” Tommy says, suddenly remembering Clara’s behind him. She warmly smiles and waves at them both.

Tommy, becoming serious again, hands the children back off to their nanny and waits until they’re out of the room to turn to Clara, “You are never to be alone with them, do you understand?”

Clara stares at him, “Mister Shelby, I would never harm a child.” Tears burn at the back of her eyes as she thinks of her own child, killed before ever having the chance to live.

“I have no reason to believe that and I’ve put my children in danger with my work before. I won’t again and it’s not up for discussion.”

“When will I be here that you wouldn’t be?”

“Tomorrow when I go to discuss the conditions of our agreement with my family.”

“Shouldn’t I be there for that?”

“No. I will speak to you about it once the conditions have been set.”

She snorts, “Well that sounds very inclusive, thanks.”

Tommy stares at her before slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out his cigarettes and lighting one, neglecting to offer one to Clara, “Mrs. Whitmore, you’ll do well to remember that I’m bringing you into my home generously when I could offer you up to the police who are very good friends of mine, probably for a hefty reward. I know you killed your husband and I know you’ve lied to me about your name and it would not take me long at all to discover what man you actually killed whose name is not Whitmore.”

Clara’s skin has paled significantly, but she doesn’t falter, “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m simply giving you a choice, Mrs. Whitmore. Either you do this my way and politely thank me for my hospitality or I go to the police, do I make myself clear?”

She glares at him, “Crystal, Mister Shelby.”

“Good,” He puts out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, “I’ll show you to the guest room then.”

***

Clara has been staring at the ceiling of her temporary room for a while now, trying and failing not to think of her past, but with nothing else to do while Tommy’s away, traumatic memories play one after the other like a series of Hollywood films. Except there’s no happy ending.

She was almost drifting off to sleep when there was a loud bang from downstairs. Thinking it sounded like a gunshot, she shot up from bed and ran to the window. She didn’t see anyone outside, but there was another gunshot and now crying from the children Tommy had left in the house.

She ran to the door of her bedroom, but it was locked from the outside. Swearing, she picked up a heavy metal vase and swung it at the doorknob until it broke and she could swing the door open. There were a couple more gunshots that sounded like they were coming from downstairs. She quickly glanced around the room for something she could use as a weapon and quickly grabbed the fire poker before heading in the direction of the children’s cries.

There was a lot of silence as she traveled to the children’s room and she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. But the children were still crying, that much was true. Just as she was getting ready to put her guard down, bullets began penetrating the floor beneath her. One grazed her shoe and she tried to dampen the panic that threatened to suffocate her. The children were still crying which meant they were still alive, maybe injured. Where was the damn nanny?

When she went into the children’s room, the nanny was nowhere to be found. Just little Charles cradling Ruby to his chest in an attempt to calm her though his own face was stained with tears.

“Come, little one. I’m gonna get you both out of here.” Clara coaxed with her hand.

“Where’s daddy?” He asked miserably.

“He’ll be back soon.” She promised, “I’ll take you to him.”

“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere, little lady.” A burly voice said behind her. Clara reacted immediately, spinning and swinging the fire poker blindly. The quickness of her attack knocked her assailant off guard and off balance which gave her time to knock the gun out of his hand. She kicked him to the floor for good measure before scooping up the gun and pointing it at his head. She could hear Charles whimpering quietly behind her as Ruby wailed.

“I don’t want to blow your brains off in front of the children,” Clara cocked the gun, “But I will if I have to. You have five seconds to get out of my sight.”

The man had his hands up and seemed to be shaking with fear, “Please—“

“One—“

“I— I have a family.”

“Then you better start running home to them, two.” He scrambled to his feet, stumbling. “Three.” He looks over his shoulder at her still raised gun as he stumbles away, “Four.” The man practically falls down the stairs and Clara sighs, this is absolutely pathetic. “Five.” She hears the door downstairs swing open and shut. Walking over to the window of the children’s room, she sees him running away from the house, looking over his shoulder every now and then to see if she’s followed. She uncocks the gun and sticks it in her boot before turning to the children. “Come now, let’s go find your father.”

“We don’t know you. Daddy said not to go anywhere with strangers.”

Clara smiled and kneeled down so that she was eye level with the boy, “That’s very smart of your Daddy, you can’t trust anyone these days. But do you think your Daddy would let a stranger stay in your home? I’m no stranger, love. Promise. Wouldn’t dream of hurting you. I just want to take you to your Dad, okay?”

Charles seems to consider this for a moment, looking from Ruby to Clara a few times before nodding. “Splendid. Let’s go get a car.”

“You know how to drive? I didn’t know women could drive.” Charles says in wonder.

Clara chuckles, “Women can do anything a man can, sometimes we do it even better than them.”

***

When they pull up to Shelby Company Limited, Charles immediately jumps out with Ruby in his arms and inside. Clara takes a moment to pull herself together before entering after him.

“—Miss Clara saved us though, knocked the bastard on his arse and then chased him out with his own gun. Then she brought us here.”

“Did she now?” Tommy spoke, smiling casually at his son while everyone else looked to be in shock. Ruby was being held by a woman Clara assumed to be Lizzie. “I see you passed my test.”

Clara blinked at him, “Your what?”

“That man. I sent him there. Wanted to see if you’d save your own arse or if you’d rescue my children. If you’re a peaky blinder now, I need to know that you’re not a coward and you’d be willing to stick your neck out for the rest of the pack.”

“You put your children in danger to test me?” Clara was seething now. Lizzie didn’t look too pleased either, but apparently knew enough to stay quiet.

“They were never in any danger. But, you? I told the man to kill you if you didn’t protect the children.”

Clara scoffed, “That pathetic excuse of a man? He couldn’t have killed me if my hands were tied behind my back. And you’re insane for ever risking your children’s lives like that. The irresponsibility, the selfishness. I would do anything to have children as beautiful as yours,” She blinks away the tears in her eyes, “But you would rather use yours as pawns in whatever game you think you’re playing. You’re a disgrace.” Clara spits before storming out.

It’s a few moments and some angry swipes at her tears later before she hears someone follow her, “I don’t want to be a fuckin’ Peaky Blinder anymore, you can call the police on me, I won’t take part in endangerment of children.”

“I already told you they weren’t in any danger.”

She rounded on him, “You don’t know that! You don’t know what that man would’ve done when you weren’t there! He could’ve missed! He was shooting through the floors from downstairs, did you tell him to do that?”

Tommy swallowed, “You’re right. I made a mistake.”

“You—“ Clara stopped, “What?”

“You’re right,” Tommy leans against a wall and pulls out his cigarettes, offering them to Clara, “I’m selfish. I love my children, but… I don’t think things through all the time. Need someone to keep me in line.”

Clara slowly takes a smoke from him before he snaps his case shut, “Isn’t that what your wife is for?”

He shakes his head, “Lizzie isn’t my wife.”

She frowns, “But… your wedding ring?”

“My wife died. Grace. It was my fault. I was always putting her in danger, too.”

Clara took a long drag, “I’m sorry.”

Tommy nodded in acknowledgement, “I’m sorry about your child.”

Clara froze, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s quite obvious with the way you talk about children. Is that why you killed your husband? Did he kill your child?”

She drops her cigarette to the ground and stomps it out, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shrugs, “Okay, I’ll find out eventually. Would you come back to the house now so we can discuss the conditions of your employment?”

“I just told you I don’t want to be a Peaky Blinder.”

“And I just told you that I need someone to keep me in line.”

“It looks like you have a bunch of people to do that for you.”

He shakes his head, “These people, I love them, but… I don’t listen to them. They don’t know what they’re doing. I built this company from the ground. They just came along for the ride. Why should they know better than me?”

“But you think I would know better than you? I don’t know anything about business or a company.”

“No, you don’t. But you’re not selfish. You seem to care about people, maybe too much. I just need someone to tell me when I’m unnecessarily hurting others.”

“Those are some big assumptions to make about someone you just met and volunteered to murder a man almost immediately upon meeting you.”

He shrugs, “You volunteered to murder a bad man. You saved my children. Seems pretty fair to me. You’re also the only woman I know who could beat me in a fight which means you could physically keep me in check.”

“You think I could beat you in a fight?” Clara asked, eyebrows raised.

He puts out his cigarette, “I don’t really want to find out, but yes, I do believe you could. Will you please come with me back to my house so we can discuss your employment?” He repeated again.

Clara sighed, “Fine.” Tommy pushed himself off the wall and guided her to his car, opening the passenger seat for her, “What about the children?”

Tommy shut the door behind her, “Lizzie has them.”

“You seem to trust her an awful lot and she’s the mother of your child, but you don’t marry her. Why?”

He starts the car, “Why did you kill your husband, Clara?” She swallows and stays silent as he pulls away from the building, “That’s what I thought.”

“Can I have my knife back now?” She asks absently when the car ride became too silent.

“It’s locked up in my bedroom. I’ll get it for you later.”

“Will I still be staying in your house?”

He nods, “Until you kill Sabini, then we’ll figure out somewhere else for you to stay.”

“Does Lizzie live with you?”

He shakes his head, “What is your fascination with Lizzie?”

“Just trying to figure out your relationship. I’m curious to see who the infamous Thomas Shelby spends his time with.”

He pulls up to his enormous mansion and it once again takes Clara’s breath away, “Lizzie and I fuck occasionally and it’s nothing more than that. She happened to give me a child who I’m very grateful for and so I take care of her. I give her a job, I give her a home, I give her protection. That’s all. Satisfied?”

Clara shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”

Tommy comes around to open the door for her and they go inside, Clara following Tommy into his office. “Alright, the terms of your employment are fairly simple. You fight or dispatch anyone I order you to. You protect anyone I order you to. If you have reason to not want to dispatch the target I give, I’m willing to hear, but you’ll have to be very convincing. If at any point you refuse to dispatch a target and we cannot come to an agreement, I am free to terminate your employment. Understand?”

“What do I get in return?”

“I won’t turn you into the police for the murder of your husband, in fact I will order the police to stop searching for your husband’s murderer as soon as you give me a name. You’ll have a place to live and anything else you may need and you’ll be paid more than fairly every time you do a job for me.” He pushes a piece of paper towards her, “Here’s the written contract, I paraphrased everything, but it’s all there. You’re welcome to read it over before you sign, I want it on my desk by tomorrow morning. If you decide not to sign, you’re free to leave.”

“And you’ll tell the cops about me?”

He shrugs, “Haven’t decided.”

Clara bites her lip, “As a peaky blinder do I get to come to the meetings? Have a say in them?”

“No. Those are family only.”

“That doesn’t really seem fair. How am I supposed to keep you in line if I’m not at the meetings?”

Tommy eyes her carefully for a few moments before sighing and taking back the contract. He scribbles something quickly at the bottom and hands it back to her.

“‘Allowed at all meetings for Shelby Company Limited, but only allowed to speak to question Thomas Shelby’s moral decisions.’” She reads and then looks back to Tommy. He doesn’t so much as arch an eyebrow. Clara sighs, “Fine, good enough I guess.”

“This is a very generous offer.” Tommy said, sounding a bit tiffed that she wasn’t being grateful.

Clara’s pen glides quickly across the bottom of the page, she omits her last name, “Yeah, thanks.” It doesn’t sound genuine.

“I’m gonna need that name, to tell the police.”

“That’s okay, if they take me you can just come bail me out.” Clara smirked and walked out of the room.

“It won’t be hard for me to go to the police and ask them about the man who was murdered whose wife disappeared after.” He called after her.

“Then what are you waiting for, Mister Shelby?”

He stared after her shaking his head and, despite himself, he smirked.

***

okay so i’m gonna tag anyone who replied or reblogged the first post, if you want your name removed pls let me know (:

@mariamermaid @gingertaurus @tommy-scum @lil-black-heart

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby angst #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fic #tommy shelby fic #mine

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kuningannasansa · 5 years ago

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A musketeers rewatch (that nobody asked for) 1x04

(warning: not always complimentary towards all characters, especially not aramis, anne and athos. dont like, don’t read)

We start with Louis being a prat and in this instance I love it!

Richelieu is wearing his red robes over the hideous black outfit. I wish it was just the robes.

Athos wonders what’s wrong with Aramis and Porthos says “have you forgotten about the massacre at Savoy?”. This is clumsy exposition. Realistically Athos the character would not have forgotten but I guess the viewers need to know.

“A strategically important pimple” - Lmao! Who says Armand hasn’t got a sense of humour!

This marks the beginning of these strangely depopulated court scenes. I do wish they had been able to afford more extras!

The Duke’s name is Victor... idk how I feel about that

The conversation between Marsac and Aramis is very well written, the exposition feels natural and also Aramis handles the situation quite well.

Now the Duke is mad and everyone is trying to calm him down. Treville points out that they should wait for the facts and Anne says that the shot could have hit any one of them, they are family and should stick together. This is why I liked her back in season 1! She was clever, had some political acumen and was good at playing her role as queen (women being seen as the gentler sex whose job it was to calm mens anger) while still maneuvering and getting her own way.

It is funny thou, how everyone else is making good points and Richelieu is pacing around in a panic not saying anything at first, not even responding to Victor’s insults. And when he does speak he miscalculates and angers the duke. He is brilliant when given time to think and consider, but not always quick on his feet lol (as pointed out by @tatzelwyrm in her wonderful fic Reformation, which I really must remember to review cause I fucking loved it).

Louis calls the duke a pomous arse and Richelieu points out that France needs Savoy, but his face says he agrees xD

There’s definitely some sexual tension between Aramis and Marsac. Or maybe I’m just a shameless slasher...

“If this gets me hanged, I’m going to take it very personally” - lol, I do love musketeers humour!

The scene between my dear grand deceiver and his bluff honest man of action is SO GOOD!! The dialogue, the delivery, the acting in general!

Richelieu’s room is ridiculously large and empty thou xD

“Death in battle is one thing, but your world of back alley stabbings and murder disgusts me” - that seems to be the show’s morality in a nutshell and I don’t like it. Whether you’re killed by Milady’s dagger between the ribs or a musketeer sword, you end up no less dead. Sometimes secret assassinations are necessary, that’s why countries have spy agencies. And while yes, in battle you can see your opponent coming and have a good chance to deny him, I am convinced that a big part of why killing in battle is seen as more honourable is that it is the more traditionally masculine option. Also, it is an option most easily accessible to able bodied men. Everyone else can’t always afford to “fight fair”.

“Not everything I do is pleasant, but it is all necessary.” - well, that’s not true either. Not all.

Richelieu panics again and wants to move the prisoner but Treville says a transfer would only attract attention and Richelieu is like “yeah, you’re probably right” lol. Poor cardinal, he’s trying to run the whole country alone but he needs advisors just like anyone else would to make the best decisions. If he would just admit it, his life would be a lot easier!

Dartagnan gets all jealous and territorial over Constance. I know it’s meant to indicate their true love, but I’ve never found that shit charming.

Aramis ties Marsac up. This is making me horny now.

“I’ve thought of you many times” - omg, I gotta see if there’s fic of them!

Constance finds out that Marsac is a criminal and instead of kicking him out, she kicks D’artagnan out! Bless!

Okay, so the Duke’s men killed the 20 musketeers because the Duke thought that they had come to kill him and put his son on the throne. And Treville told him where to find them through Cluzet (spl?). But actually it was all a distraction to kidnap Cluzet. Noting this down, cause I don’t remember the plot anymore.

PORTHOS DEFENDING TREVILLE!! <3

And Richelieu just couldn’t resist going to see his prisoner!

And Cluzet worked for the Duke officially but was actually a Spanish spy! Okay, that makes sense. I wondered why they kidnapped him lol.

Richelieu is gloating now. He should have stayed away from there.

“Total solitude, unlimited time to reflect... I almost envy you.” - oh Armand! You will learn in the Spanish prison :(

(yes, in this house the Spanish prison AU is canon)

Porthos: “this is the captain we’re talking about” Aramis: “which is why we owe it to him to clear his name” - damn, that’s a good argument! I like Aramis in this episode! That’s probably why I remember liking him a lot when season 1 first aired...

“If it is true, what then?” - @donnaimmaculata made an excellent point about that here: https://donnaimmaculata.tumblr.com/post/109300936446/aramis-was-actually-at-his-smartest-in-this

Louis playing swords with Louis Amadeus is so cute!! And the kid is a more gracious loser than Louis is a winner xD

“I don’t want protection, I want to be treated as an equal.” - that’s a good Constance line, much more feminist than that nonsense about the duchess later in the episode

And D'artagnan apologizes and promises not to lie to her again. Mentioning that cause his respect for her boundaries and acknowledging when he makes a mistake goes totally out the window in season two.

The duke: “Have you captured the man who tried to kill me?” Richelieu: “We should not be distracted by minor issues.” - what is wrong with him this episode?? he is not being at all diplomatic

The duke challenges Athos to a duel and Treville is so cool and quietly confident while Richelieu frets.

And Treville smirks at his evident distress xD

Treville gets mad at Athos for humiliating the duke. He could have defeated him in a way that left him his dignity, apparently. But Porthos says he would have cut his head off, so Treville should consider himself lucky, really.

Porthos is very good at spying!

Treville’s filing of documents is “meticulous”, apparently. Sorry, but that does NOT sound like him!

“I will never believe the captain is a traitor” - that’s noble of you Athos. Maybe you could have extended the same courtesy to your wife?

The confrontation with Treville is so angsty and well acted and tense! This is the show at it’s best, dealing with a serious issue and giving it the weight it deserves. I love!

It’s kind of sad seeing how in love the duke is with his wife! I hope he never finds out she’s a spy lol xD

Now Marsac tries to rape Constance. Was that really necessary? Like, really, why?? We understand he is an antagonist, there is no need to make him cartoonishly evil, especially by using violence against women.

I don’t know what his friend being a seezy rapist says about Aramis thou...

Dart to the rescue, yawn!

I do love how we are led to believe they’re gonna kiss and then she goes “teach me how to shoot” xD

“Honour? There’s no word in the language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience” - lmaoo, Richelieu I feel you

“You think I won’t have you arrested? That you’re above the normal rules of soldiering?” - Yesss Treville, have him arrested! You will save everyone a lot of grief down the road!

Aramis punches Treville in the face! LOL! xD

Aramis and Marsac argue how to handle Treville (Marsac wants to assassinate him) and Aramis just cradles his face!

And then Marsac punches aramis in the face and knocks him out cold! LOL! xD

I love how the duke is actually objectively right in this episode. Imperialist France is meddling in the affairs of another sovereign state. The weak suffer what they must. And the musketeers are not on the side of good by helping the King and Richelieu conceal Cluzet. They follow their orders and work for the state, but the state is, well, not always nice. Just pointing that out...

The duchess looks so cool and beautiful riding into the garrison in that yellow dress with her cloak flapping in the wind!

“You traitor!” Cluzet says to the duchess. Pot calling the kettle black

“Not your average duchess then” - I don’t like this line! It sort of implies that an average duchess without fighting skills is somehow lesser and plays into a long pattern in television when women are only valued when they have “masculine” skills. But I do love her character a lot! More on that here: https://kuningannasansa.tumblr.com/post/100754198434/a-duchess-of-savoy-appreciation-post

Richelieu’s FACE when he sees D'artagnan as the guard! xD

But I wonder what his plan was? What if the musketeers had not shown up to save his ass?

“Paris has a number of excellent places of correction, if you’d like a tour of them all?” - aawwww, sassy cardinal!

He even gives Dartagnan a look of acknowledgement. As well he should! The Cluzet switch was brilliant and funny!

Now Marsac is going to kill Treville, but Aramis stops him, saying there should be a court martial. Well done Aramis, keeping your head! Also, justice! It does exist!

This is another very well acted emotional scene!

Aramis shoots Marsac, choosing Treville over him. It’s sad and tragic and wonderful television!

“I love my husband, very much” - I like their relationship

Lmaooo now Richelieu is already plotting the Duke’s murder xD

Wet Aramis at Marsac’s grave is hot!

In conclusion, there were some things I didn’t like, but all in all this was a very good episode!

Red Guards killed in the line of duty: none

Women fridged: also none! this really was a good one guys!

Best dressed: Constance

#the musketeers #bbc musketeers #cardinal richelieu #captain treville #trevilieu #constance bonacieux #milady de winter #musketeers rewatch

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stuckwith-harry · 6 years ago

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Idk why but I thought your favorite actor (from hp at least) is Rupert😅 (I'm not even really sure why, but I think you once talked about how he's the best out of the trio, so that's probably why)

I do think that Rupert outshines the other two, especially in the early movies, and especially considering how little he was given to work with. (The fact that we never got to see Rupert act out Ron’s meltdown at Malfoy Manor the way it was written in the book, frankly, is a crime. Can you imagine what Rupert would have done with that scene? I don’t think I would ever recover. Sigh.)

Emma’s acting gets quite stiff and/or bland in a lot of the HP movies - and then weirdly over-the-top in the middle of the series. GOF is the worst offender for me - yes, even counting the whole eyebrow thing in OOTP. You know what moment I’m talking about. But I also think her very early performance worked - PHS in particular - and her work in the Malfoy Manor scene really impressed me. I can often practically feel the camera in Emma’s face, and I get the impression that a lot of the time, she’s trying very hard to stay in control when she’s acting. But the Malfoy Manor bit where she’s sobbing and begging on the floor, yeah, that really sends shivers down my spine and I wonder where that raw emotion has been since, damnit!

And yeah, Dan’s early stuff is a feels a bit awkward too - an awkwardness I’m perfectly happy to chalk up to them being literal kids with minimal acting experience. The reason Dan and Emma can’t compete with Rupert here is because Rupert … never seemed to have that child actor awkwardness. Rupert showed up on set of day 1 of shooting Philosopher’s Stone, started acting his arse off even when he’s standing 50 feet in the background (which he does … a lot), and hasn’t stopped since. His performance easily feels the most organic to me.

That being said, Dan really impressed me in some of the later movies. Particularly OOTP and DH2. Heck, even late GOF. It’s really raw and emotional and I am forever pissed off that they muted his screaming after Sirius fell through the veil because that, THAT is the quality angst I wanted in this goddamn movie, damnit!!! Why would you intentionally undermine an amazing performance like that!!!

That’s my two cents about the Golden trio actors as of right now, and yeah, if you asked me to rank them for acting alone, I’d give the top spot to Rupert, but if you’re asking for my favourite in general, I’ve just taken a particular liking to Dan. I really like a lot of his post-Potter work, all the obscure projects he’s taken on, and I adore his interviews and his stupid, pretty face.

He’s a fucking weirdo and I love him, the end.

#digby #owl post #anon

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our-smooty · 5 years ago

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Flowerbeds and Fertile Soil: Chapter 10

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens, )Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer

Tags: Kidfic, Mpreg kind of, they can choose to present however so idk, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Vulva (Good Omens), OCs Galor, parenting, using your snake form to avoid confrontation, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pregnancy, if I missed a tag lemme know

Summary: They could do anything, go anywhere, all without the worry of Above or Bellow making a fuss. Even so, they mostly kept to their little patch of Eden, their cottage and garden and the simple life they’d carved out among the locals. Aziraphale opened a book shop in town, where he only occasionally sold any books (and the ones he did sell, were all modern and stocked specifically for that purpose). Crowley focused his attentions on the garden, and if he occasionally helped their elderly neighbour with her disobedient willow tree, then that was a secret no one needed to know. Lately, however, they had both been feeling rather restless, unbeknownst to each other. Aziraphale tried reorganizing his store, changing the way he tied his bowtie and even ate pizza –something he considered to be far too messy for him personally. Crowley had branched out into birdwatching, and then car maintenance (the human way), and even reading. Nothing scratched the itch for either of them.

Ao3 Link

“All I meant was that maybe we should think about how we’d like to decorate the nursery!” Aziraphale said, wringing his hand as Crowley paced back and forth across their living room. “It’s not meant to be a thing as the kid say nowadays.”

Crowley threw his hands up in the air, frustrated beyond belief. “But it is a thing angle. What colour do we paint the room? How should we lay it all out? Oh Somebody, do you know how hard it is to find baby furniture that’s not on recall?”

He’d been storming around the hour for the better part of an hour, shooting down all the angel’s suggestions. It had all started when Aziraphale asked if Crowley had any ideas for the nursery. Did the angel have any idea how difficult it was to get all the necessary bits and bobs for a newborn? It wasn’t something you just did on a Sunday afternoon!

“Well why don’t we start with something small, like what colour you were thinking for the walls?” Crowley huffed, feeling sufficiently patronized. The fluttering in his lower belly had only gotten stronger these last few weeks, and he hadn’t gotten more than three hours sleep at a time because it felt so strange.

“And I suppose you have ideas?” he snarked, coming to a standstill in front of the angel. “Tartan, or maybe paisley?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Crowley couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Aziraphale was acting like he was the one being ridiculous. “Do you think--and I mean this is the most loving way possible you must know that--but do you think maybe you might be experiencing a uh, a mood swing? Only you’re so very upset about this when not five minutes ago you were on the verge of falling asleep.”

“Mood swings?” Crowley hissed, resuming his pacing. “Oh that’s rich. Mood swings my arse! You just don’t have any idea how much thought has to go into planning these sorts of things! There’s a reason I was the nanny, angel. Warlock probably wouldn’t have made it to his sixth birthday if you'd’ve had the job!” Crowley whirled around to face Aziraphale again ready to go into the finer details of purchasing baby gear and the nightmare that was car seats when he noticed the distinct wobbling of the angel’s bottom lip. Thinking back to the last thing he’d said, Crowley realized the line he’d crossed.

“I know--” Aziraphale started, having to cut himself off and clear his throat heavily. “I know I’m not very good at this Crowley, but you don’t have to be such a-a-an arse about it!” He was beginning to choke up, most likely from the fact that Crowley had been inadvertently raising his voice louder and louder.

“Angel I didn’t mean--”

“No I think you did.” Crowley stood motionless, all his earlier frustrations bleeding out. Suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, he felt his eyes begin to water. Maybe Aziraphale had been onto something with the whole mood swings thing. “I just thought it might be fun, picking things out together, setting things up perfectly. We c-could go to the store and get a crib and t-talk about what it’ll be like when they arrive…”

Crowley unfroze long enough to amble over to the couch where Aziraphale had been reading and sit down. The tea he’d been drinking before they started arguing sat on the coffee table was cold and unpleasant. He miracled it to a better temperature, along with Aziraphale’s own cup, and held it in his hands.

“It’ll probably be pretty hectic. Newborns are pretty needy,” Crowley added, gesturing for the angel to take his cup. “You might have been right. About the uh, the mood swing. S’a thing that happens to pregnant humans yeah?”

Aziraphale bobbed his head. “I only know what dear Anathema has told me, and from a few books over the years but, yes.” His voice was light, lighter than his normal tone which usually indicated something was wrong. “Of course it’s not your fault. Your corporation is causing you to behave in certain ways and you aren’t used to it. I’d be a fool to be insulted by anything so natural, just a minor side effect of one of Her greatest gifts.”

As was usual when he was really upset, Aziraphale began to slip back into old habits. Praising Her, deferring back to how he thought an angel should behave. It always made Crowley’s blood boil that even after ten years of freedom Heaven still have such a hold on his angel. It made him even angrier that it was his own fault for bringing this on again.

“No, no. You should be mad angel. My body might be making things difficult but I’m still me. I should know better than to let it get out of hand. You didn’t do anything wrong, you couldn’t.”

Crowley set aside the tea again and lifted his arm in invitation. Aziraphale ducked forward, his own tea still forgotten, and burrowed into the side of his jacket. “I’m sorry Aziraphale. You’re gonna be--you’ll do fine when they get here. We can work together? Sort of a new Arrangement, I guess.”

“I don’t like sleeping all that much, as you know. I wouldn’t mind taking the night shift, as long as you show me what to do,” Aziraphale answered, his voice muffled by the fabric. Crowley took a deep, settling breath, and then did something he’d been avoiding. It was obvious Aziraphale wanted and needed to talk about what was going to happen when the baby came and as much as thinking about that still made Crowley extremely nervous, it wasn’t fair for him to deny the angel continually.

“Good plan. And I--well we could go out and look at a few things. S’not like we couldn’t miracle it safe if it isn’t already…” It was true and Crowley was kind of embarrassed he hadn’t thought about it before. He could probably make just about anything safe for the kid if he tried hard enough. Just like he had with Annabella and Charlotte (it turns out, having small children running around a house full of historical artifacts, some of which were made with hazardous materials, wasn’t ideal). There had been no reason for him to fly off the handle like that and he’d have to try and be more--uhg--mindful. “You’re really worried about doing a good job when they come, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer right away. He was snuggling even closer and Crowley decided to help him along, getting an arm under the angel’s knees and hosting them over his lap. Then he squeezed tight, giving Aziraphale something to latch on to while he was feeling so discombobulated. It seemed to help, because after five minutes of quiet the angel finally answered.

“I don’t have the experience you do. I'm not good at dealing with the girls like you are, and I never know what to do when I see children crying or lost in the street like you do. It just doesn’t come naturally to me and I’m worried… I’m worried that I won’t be good at it at all and they won’t like me,” he said in a rush. Crowley let him finish because it was obvious that those five minutes of silence had been spent formulating his response and to interrupt would be to derail the angel again. When he was sure Aziraphale wasn’t going to say anymore, Crowley responded.

“S’OK if you’re not great at it at first, happens to humans all the time. You think the first time I had to take care of a baby I knew what I was doing?” Crowley thought back to the very early days, watching over Cain and Abel--attempting to turn humanity to Hell’s side early-on--and nearly weeping with joy when Eve had come back to collect her children. “Besides angel, there’s no way they won’t absolutely adore you. You’re you.”

“I think you might be biased Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, but he didn’t fully deny it. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. I tried using The Web, and it suggested trying to connect by, well, getting excited about the birth. So I thought we could do the nursery.”

Crowley felt like an even bigger arsehole after hearing Aziraphale’s reasoning. Of course, decorating the nursery was supposed to be something fun they could share together. Crowley hadn’t really thought about how Aziraphale might feel like a bit of an outsider, especially since the demon wasn’t big on talking about every little event.

“No you're right. I uh, you know I don’t really know how to talk about this stuff. And now apparently I’m acting like a hormonal human, which is just marvellous,” he drawled the last word in a way that he knew would make Aziraphale roll his eyes. “We can start the nursery if it’s gonna help you. Maybe just a few things though yeah?”

That made Aziraphale’s head pop up, a slight sparkle in his eye. “Would you-could we maybe pick a colour for the walls? I seems like the best way to start, unless you have any other ideas?”

Crowley did in fact have lots of ideas. He may have started bookmarking links on his laptop the day after he broke down and bought that blanket. But he’d also been intending to surprise Aziraphale with a few of his purchases, and he hadn’t picked out paint yet, so Crowley decided it couldn’t hurt. Besides, he owed it to the angel for how much of a complete tosser he’d just been.

“OK, yeah, I think that’s fine. I mean, not much we can screw up with a little paint, right?” Maybe a hundred years ago they might have had to worry, but humans were so much more clever about not putting toxic chemicals in their household conveniences now. Most of the time.

“My thoughts exactly. It’ll be easy. We can just pop off to the hardware store pick out a colour, and paint! Surely you’ve painted a room before?” Aziraphale had begun wiggling again, is fingers winding and unwinding around the thin tie Crowley liked to wear. “I’ve dabbled a few times but you know I’ve never been very good with arts-and-crafts.”

“S’not arts-and-crafts angel, it’s slapping some goop on a wall and letting it dry,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. Aziraphale straightened his back so he could give Crowley a quick peck. Crowley tried to deepen it and follow after the angel’s lips but Aziraphale didn’t let him.

“Oh good, shall we get ready to go then?”

“Now?” Crowley asked. Not ten minutes ago they’d both been on the edge of tears, and Aziraphale wanted to go out?

“Well maybe just a few more minutes here. I do so like being close to you like this. Close to both of you.” Crowley made a slightly disgusted noise. “Don’t be like that, I’m allowed to enjoy your company and the company of our baby, Crowley.”

“You’re such a sap.” But Crowley was enjoying it as well. While they’d been arguing the baby had been kicking up a fuss, fluttering about and making him feel like he was riding a rollercoaster. Now they they’d settled down, almost like Aziraphale’s touch had a calming effect.

Speaking of which, the angel stopped pulling on Crowley’s tie and started rubbing slow circles over his barely-there bump. His skin prickled pleasantly even if it also made him want to hide his face in the sofa cushions. Never in 6000 years had Crowley allowed himself to think he could have something so domestic as sitting around on a Sunday afternoon, discussing paint colours for their nursery. As imaginative as he was, this was completely out of his range, which made it all the better that it was their reality. Whatever he’d done to deserve this, it was worth the millennia of waiting.

Eventually they managed to disengage from their comfortable cuddling and drive to the town hardware store. It was a little family-owned place, the kind where all the sale signs were hand-written and there was a little box with home-made fudge by the till. The little old woman stocking the shelves was thrilled to show them their paint section and to offer all sorts of advice and options. It was sickeningly sweet and by the time she left them to their own devices Crowley’s face was glowing and hot.

“So, do you have any preferences? I was thinking something in the world of green, to match that blanket you picked out? Not that everything has to be matching of course, but having a little bit of a theme couldn’t hurt. And there’s something to be said for the classic blue and pink, even if they are a little overdone--” Crowley grabbed a random paint swatch and began pretending to inspect it closely while Aziraphale babbled on. The paint swatch in his hand was a depressing taupe, completely unsuitable, so he tossed it aside and grabbed another.

“--and it can’t be anything too bright, don’t want the little one to be overstimulated. But I also want it to be homey. Oh there are so many options to choose from, how does anyone decide?” Crowley discarded the second swatch as well--a strangely cool purple--and shrugged.

“Think humans mostly just go for the classics depending on the gender and call it a day,” he answered, possibly the first thine he’d said since they’d entered the shop. “Green sounds nice though.”

Aziraphale beamed at him and then took his arm so they could walk over to the wide variety of green paint options together. “I’m so glad you agree my dear, but just look at this! There must be one-hundred different shades of green!”

“Well,” Crowley said, narrowing his eyes at the display. Some of the darker and brighter shades began to rearrange themselves to the edges of the section, leaving a more appropriate pallet all clustered in the middle. “There, that better angel?”

“Yes thank you,” Aziraphale answered, giving Crowley a quick peck on the cheek. “We should have brought the blanket to compare colours…”

“It’s alright if it doesn’t match,” Crowley assured him, picking three swatches that stood out to him and holding them up. “If we do all sorts of shades of green it’ll kind of be it’s own thing, you know?”

Aziraphale picked three of his own and held them up against Crowley’s choices. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if they had your hair? All this green with the red, very pretty.” It did paint a pretty picture in his mind, though he’d been hoping their child took after Aziraphale more than himself. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if they got his eyes, or his other snakey features.

“Ngk.” Crowley snatched the paint chips from the angel and held all six in a row. “Pick three or four, any more than that’s gonna look messy.”

He let Aziraphale hum and haw over the colours, though eventually his arms got tired and he had to set them down on a nearby table. As the angel decided, Crowley scanned the selection for a suitable accent colour. Since the blanket had cream base colour, and they seemed to be using it as inspiration, he picked something similar and brought it back to Aziraphale. There were still six options spread out in front of him and it was obvious Aziraphale was struggling to make a final decision.

“Crowley which do you like? Because I think they’re all perfect and I can’t pick just three!” the angel lamented, wringing his hands and visibly deflating when Crowley added the cream swatch.

“That’s just for an accent colour angel, don’t worry.” He arranged the paint swatches evenly over the table and gave them an appraising once-over. “I don’t like the middle two, they’re too similar. And that one’s too yellow, compared to the others. Do you agree?”

Aziraphale studied the three swatches Crowley removed and the demon let him. As was evident in almost everything Aziraphale did, change was not something to be rushed with the angel. Even something as simple as picking out paint colours could take days if he was left to his own devices. If Crowley wanted to help, he had to do so carefully as to not disrupt whatever system Aziraphale had mentally created for solving the issue.

“I do, very good choices dear. Should we go ask that nice woman to mix these up for us?” Aziraphale gathered up the remaining swatches, shuffling them like cards. “How do we know how much we need of each colour. We should have measured the room!”

Aziraphale constant fretting was starting to give Crowley a headache (or maybe it was just another pregnancy thing because Crowley never got headaches), and he hoped this could be wrapped up fast. “Dunno, let's just get a bunch of each and go from there.”

The women was more than happy to help them, though it turned out her husband was the one who knew how to use the paint mixer. He was a grumpy looking fellow, old and wrinkled and curled forward like a willow tree. Crowley braced himself for a tiring, cranky encounter.

“Harold, these two boys need some paint mixed up,” The woman said loudly enough for her husband to hear at the front of the shop. Slightly quieter, but not so quiet Crowley and Aziraphale couldn’t hear she added, “They’re the two who bought that old cottage out on the edge of town!”

“Oh are they now? Tore out all that lilac, replaced it with that tropical-looking shite?” Crowley bristled instinctually--his garden was possibly tied with the Bently for the second-most important thing in his life. But the older gentleman just laughed and clapped a friendly hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Good on you, place was a mess. And I’m all for lilac being good for the bees, but our Lizzie got stung after least ten times walking past to the park a few summers back.”

“Well, uh,” Crowley stammered, completely unprepared in the face of such outright friendliness. People were almost always nice to Aziraphale upon meeting him, probably something to do with his angelic nature and general air of kindness. Conversely, people usually avoided talking to Crowley at all. He gave off some kind of aura that said don’t talk to me, if you do something bads gonna happen and he was usually happy with that. But the older gentleman seemed honestly interested and a little thankful even; it threw him off. “They’d all grown crooked too, so they had to go.”

The older man nodded sagely. “And the yard, the grass was a right travesty since the last owner move out, nobody had been around to trim it for months!” Crowley scowled in agreement and from the corner of his eye he could see Aziraphale and the man’s wife smiling. In the last decade since the Apocalypse, he’d managed to remain rather singular outside of their small circle of acquaintances. Aziraphale was probably going to make a big deal out of this later, telling the demon how happy he was that Crowley was ‘making friends’.

“You’ve been doing good work up there these past few years, strange we haven’t met before!” the woman chimed in, passing their chosen paint samples over to her husband. “Though I’ve seen you around together at most of the local cafes and restaurants.”

“Terribly sorry we haven’t been by before, turns out the cottage was in miraculously good shape and didn’t need any repairs,” Aziraphale explained as they all watched the husband begin to mix together the paint.

“But you’re doing some renovations now?” she asked, plying for more information. Crowley could see the makings of a town gossip in her, though he could sense her prying was more out of interest than malice.

“Yes, we’re, hmm,” Aziraphale trailed off, turning to Crowley. He realized they hadn’t exactly discussed if or how they were going to discuss the baby with strangers. Behind dark glasses he blinked slowly, then gave a subtle nod. Aziraphale took one of his hands and squeezed, his love almost palpable even to the demon. “Well we’re expecting a baby, i-in around five months' time. We thought we’d get a head start on the nursery.”

The old man nodded, more concerned with the paint, but his wife lit up like a Christmas tree. Her eyes flickered over them both, then to Crowley’s stomach where his hand had once again subconsciously come to rest over the small bump. “Oh that’s lovely! Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale answered, practically glowing. Crowley blushed and mumbled something similar. “We only just decided on a colour, you have quite the selection here.” It was an effective way to take the focus off of Crowley, which the demon was extremely thankful for.

“Well you’ve picked a lovely shade of green, whatever inspired you?” Aziraphale began telling her about their newly born nephew and the trip to the baby store. Crowley pretended to listen for a little while before turning to watch the paint being mixed. The old man, Harold his wife had called him, was puttering away and had already finished with one of the four cans. The set up was made so customers could see over the counter and watch the way he swirled the paint before putting it into the mixer.

“This your first?” the man asked. Crowley hadn’t taken him for the nosey type, but he supposed it made sense considering how his wife was. “We had three, but they’re all moved out with their own families. Lizze, the one I mentioned before? She’s the oldest grandchild, gonna be starting middle school next year.”

“Yikes,” Crowley cringed. Middle school had been one of his in the beginning (cliques had been too good to pass up), but the humans had taken it out of control. “And uh, yeah. I mean, yes, it's our first.”

The old man nodded. “She’s a strong kid, lost of friends. And we raised her mum right I like to think, and she comes to visit us on weekends.” He set the second can into the mixing machine as he chattered. “S’a little different than the others, the first one. Hope you two enjoy it while you can.”

He thought back to all the throwing up and the fainting and the general discomfort with a scowl. Then he remembered cuddling with Aziraphale and the girls on their bed, feeling the baby move for the first time, and picking out clothes together and it slipped off his face in seconds. Harold chuckled and once again clapped Crowley on the shoulder good-naturedly. After that, Crowley didn’t feel quite so uncomfortable and began to grill the man on his appreciation of plants.

Soon all the paint was mixed and they began to check out. They both thanked the older couple, and Aziraphale even purchased a quarter of their fudge stock. Promises to stop by next time the two ageless beings were in town were made before they made it back out to the Bentley. Crowley insisted the paint cans go in the boot, where they had zero chance of staining the upholstery.

“D’you wanna grab lunch while we’re here?” he asked the angel as he pulled away from the curb. The paint cans in the back didn’t make a sound, because they knew better than to misbehave. “Could go somewhere new, if we can find anywhere you aren’t already a regular.”

Aziraphale wiggled thoughtfully as he snacked on a square of fudge. “Well, I am a bit peckish, but I think the fudge will do to tide me over. I must admit, I’m a bit exhausted.”

“Fine by me. Could do with a lie-down, my back’s starting to twinge like anything.” That settled, they drove back to the cottage, the ride going rather quickly as Aziraphale chattered about how best to paint the nursery. Crowley made a few points here and there, mostly just to be ornery about the details and watch the angel fluster, but otherwise preoccupied himself with driving home. When they pulled in the sun was just dipping below the roof of the cottage, painting the lawn in a golden glow.

Aziraphale was out of the car first, scurrying to the boot and unloading the paint. Crowley would have done the same except when he’d tried to help load them the first time Aziraphale had refused to let him so much as lift a paint can. ‘Bad for the baby’ he’d said, and though Crowley wanted to get his knickers in a twist about being fussed over, he also really didn’t fancy hauling cans of paint in with how achy his back had been for the past two or three hours.

“I’ll get the tea?” he offered, breezing past Aziraphale to the front door. The angle shook his head and made a shooing motion, coupled with a frown.

“No, no, I’ll get it. You get right into bed, I’ll be with you in a minute.” Again Crowley wanted to be mad, but he thought about how heavy those cans might be, and decided that it’d be fine, just this once, to let Aziraphale be overprotective. With a shrug, the demon made his way inside and trudged up the stairs. HE smirked to himself, already planning how he’d seduce the angle into bed when he brought the tea. It might not even be that hard, though he hoped it took at least a little coaxing.

#fanfic #good omens #gomens #aziraphale/crowley #azirapahel #crowley #crowziraphale #ineffable husbands #tw mpreg

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katsitting · 6 years ago

Note

For that smut prompt, I suggest A 10, 12 and 14 (I’m really curious to see how you’re gonna write that bc a) your smut scenes are one of my absolute faves gosh, and I’ve been reading fanfics for like 10 years now ok b) idk if you’re comfortable with writing something “tamer” than the usual horror you know so~ I hope there’s gonna be some “light” too ;)) I seriously hope it’s not arrogant/demanding of me to suggest more than one prompt omg I’m sorry if that’s the case!! :x btw all with tomione!

Well, these aren’t long! I don’t have a ton of time on my hands and I should be practicing on being succinct with my words. So here you are :) I’ve filled all three. Hope you enjoy these, nonny!

A-10 Trying a New Position

Warnings: Bad BDSM etiquette.

“Untie me this instant,” Hermione hissed with her cheek pressed into the bed.

When she’d agreed to try something new, to spice things up with Tom, this was not what she had in mind.

But how was she to know that he would-would bloody tie her up?

With a whispered curse she still could not interpret for the life of her, she’d found herself face first on the bed, her wrists bound to her ankles, her knees on the bed, and her arse hiked all the way up. He could probably see under her skirt like this, could see the frumpy knickers she’d picked out that morning and Merlin—

Hermione’s cheeks were so hot she thought they might catch fire.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Hermione sputtered, something angry and feral wrenching in her stomach, perhaps a foul cuss word she’d overheard Ron use when he was incensed. The words never came, however.

For at that moment, Tom stepped up behind her, his hands trailing up the backs of her knees and thighs before pausing over her clothed bottom. Hermione squirmed, attempting to shut her legs, only to find that she could not. He had bloody spelled them open, locked them into place.

She was going to kill him.

“I’ve often wondered what you’d look like. You’ve not allowed me to take a look at you before tugging me into a darkened corner to—”

“Shut up,” Hermione interrupted, hands balling into helpless fists when his hands began to knead at her arse, nails digging into the skin hard enough to cut and bruise. “This is embarrassing. I’m not even—”

Hermione bit back the words before she said them.

Good Godric.

What was she thinking? I’m not even what?

“Hermione, it hardly matters what knickers you’re wearing. One way or another, they’ll be coming off.”

Hermione swallowed hard when Tom’s fingers teased at the waistband of her knickers, the touch making her skin prickle and heat up with sudden awareness. Hermione’s throat went dry.

“And there is nothing you can do about it. Though—” Tom’s voice rumbled over her, his tone taking on a curious and seductive lilt that made her insides itch. It was the same one he used when he wanted something, when he was curling his fingers beneath her skirt and making her heart stutter.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Warmth began to trickle down her thighs like a flood.

“—I think you like that, don’t you, Hermione?” Tom asked, one of his hands sliding further into her knickers to squeeze the bare skin of her bum, kneading and rubbing the skin. “You like it when you’re powerless, when I surprise you.”

What?

Hermione laughed nervously, the sound shrill to her own ears.

“You’ve been hiding behind your regulation length skirts and darkened corners, but no, Hermione, not anymore—”

Hermione’s knickers vanished without warning. She let out a breath between clenched teeth, eyes shooting up to glance behind her.

She couldn’t. Look, that was. She didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse.

“Oh.”

Hermione tried not to squirm at the pleased note in his words, at the way his hands slipped over her bum and parted her further for his inspection. She bit into her cheek to stop from letting out a whimper, to bite back all the noises that wanted to escape her.

She’d never felt more exposed.

Her skin was on fire. The flesh between her legs, throbbing and oozing. She could feel it, each rivulet gathering in her folds.

Sweet Circ, please let him not—

“You’re so wet for me,” Tom purred, his hands tightening to the point of pain, till she was certain she would bruise, could trace each indent of his fingers pressed against her skin in the mirror for days on end.

“I-I-” Hermione started to say but stopped. She didn’t know what to say. She was—oh gods—she was mortified. Nothing she could say or do would hide the fact that she was aroused, that him tying her down and exposing her made her skin tighten with desire.

“T-Tom, just—”

“If only you could see what I see, Hermione. You look—”

Hermione gasped when he pressed against her back, something hot and bare and familiar lining along her wet folds.

When had he gotten undressed?

Hermione’s thoughts melted when a finger inched closer, pressed nearer to her folds but didn’t touch. She clenched, twitched and shifted, no longer trying to squirm away.

“Tell me to stop,” Tom said, a note of something mocking and taut in his voice. He was at the end of his tether. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

She didn’t say a word. It’d be a lie. She always wanted him, even when she shouldn’t, when there was something about him that made her brain itch and twitch with discomfort.

“Tom,” Hermione began to say before her words melted into a sharp cry when his hand slapped against her arse, hard and unyielding. She swore something foul, shifted and tried to move away, but his hold on her hip and the spell he’d used kept her permanently in place.

“You’re not listening.”

Hermione cried out when another blow landed on her skin, the thwack like a Bombarda had been cast in the room she’d dragged him into after lessons had ended for the day.

“Tell me you don’t want me to use you, right here and now. That you don’t want me to take you like the pretty little sacrifice you are.”

Hermione quivered, but the words, they refused to come. Not when he took that moment to smack her arse a third, fourth, and fifth time, his palm rubbing against the stinging skin each time.

The pain only made her insides tighter, her nails bit into her palms.

Please.

“Tell me.”

Tom thrust inside her with a growl, and Hermione keened. He stretched her, broke her open, and she relished in the sting, in the warmth of his hand settling over her hip pushing her closer, him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” Hermione groaned, voice cracking at the edges when he pulled back until only the head of his prick remained, and pushed back in.

Her toes curled, her mouth falling open with her cries when Tom did not stop. He pushed and pulled inside her, his hand falling away from her hip to slide down the bumps of her spine and curl over the back of her neck.

It was possessive.

A breathless laugh escaped her, unable to stop herself even when Tom’s hips shifted and he began to thrust violently into her g-spot. Writhing, her vision went white and black in spurts, a kaleidoscope of color manifesting before her eyes.

Her stomach quivered, going taut.

She could taste her climax on her tongue, dancing along her periphery.

Just a little—

Hermione cried out when Tom’s fingers suddenly dug into her neck, bit into the skin and raked them up her spine. The pain was excruciating, the burn, unlike anything she’d experienced before.

She loved it. This was what he gave her, what he did only for her. He was a beast, a monster. She lived for the moment his resolve crumbled into nothing.

—a little more.

She came to the bite of his nails, the violence in his thrusts pushing against her g-spot, and the sound of her name—broken and breathless—from his lips. It flooded her, this warmth. Consumed her.

He broke her only to remake her again, for his warmth to spread through her with his own release after crying out her name.

“Hermione.”

He stopped above her, the scent of his sheets and her sweat and their sex thick in the air. It oozed from between her legs, pores, and she sank into it. Purred and relished it, luxuriated in his attention, in the way he scooped her up the very second the spell ended and carried her away.

She had reservations about Tom. She did. Even after accepting the fact that they were, in fact, dating, she was still hesitant. Unsure.

But it was in these moments after he’d spent himself, had pleasured her into near collapse, that he was capable of love even if he liked to pretend that he was not.

He was hers.

Hers. Hers. Hers.

Even if he wanted to deny it. She owned him, mind body and soul.

“That’s a good boy.”

A-12 Phone/Video Sex

Warnings: Tom’s weird violent thoughts.

Tom watched her.

From the curve of her hip to the dimple of her cheek and to the scars dotting along her collarbone where she’d broken it when she’d fallen off her broom. Tom noted them, memorized her skin.

He didn’t know much about technology, having lived in the early 1950s until rather recently, but this—

This was perhaps the greatest blessing of being thrust into the future.

(Aside from the fact that he had time to become someone else, to begin again, to grab the world by its hair and force it to its knees).

“I’ve never—” Tom found himself saying, his throat going dry when Hermione undid the braid keeping her hair together. She was already naked, bare. Each line of her veins could be seen beneath the lightness of her wrists, and he wished he could touch them.

Taste her with my tongue.

He’d worship the skin, savor the beat, beat, beat of her pulse until she begged for his teeth to sink into that flesh and make blood bloom. Bleed her out until her lilac sheets and caramel skin was peppered with droplets of blood and purpling bruises.

“I know. Just watch.”

He did.

She moved further back, beyond the camera until the rest of her body was bared to him. From the gash between her thighs, slick and gleaming even in the shadowy expanse of her bedroom, to the dusky notes of her nipples and the scars marring the perfect skin at its center.

His mouth flooded with saliva, his tongue hot and heavy in his mouth, hungering to lav over her, into the gash in her thighs.

Her fingers rose, gliding from her breasts, trailing over a nipple and gliding lower still. Tom’s own hand itched. He didn’t move. He refused to. He refused to look away, for even a moment, to touch his hardened flesh. He was throbbing, oozing for her and she’d done nothing yet.

He would have found it pathetic if he weren’t so consumed. Obsessed.

“Hermione—”

“Shh, just watch,” Hermione said between clenched teeth as her hand fell to the apex of her thighs, parting the fat lips to bare more of herself to his gaze. He devoured it, entranced by the pearly sheen and the way her thighs quivered when her middle finger circled around a pink bud above the opening.

“T-this is how I want you to—”Hermione’s words melted into a moan, fingers gliding faster, the wet squelch of her juices like orchestral notes to his own ears. He couldn’t look away, could only watch, his own stiff cock begging to be touched.

He wanted more.

“Put them inside you,” Tom groaned, unsure of where the words had come. He didn’t regret them, would never reel them back. His hand found his own flesh, curling over the head to stroke himself, to find the rhythm of her own fingers and imagine that it was those same hands touching him.

His finger curled over the head, and he closed his eyes, imagining from behind his eyelids that she was there, here.

“Tom, p-please.”

His eyes fell open. His breath halted.

Two fingers were inside her, thrusting and pushing. Tom swore something beneath his breath, his own hand stroking faster, gliding and tracing over his shaft. He’d never bothered before, to touch himself, to waste his time on chasing after physical pleasure but—

He learned his body within short moments, knew what he liked, squeezed and pushed into his hand to the image of Hermione’s fingers curling inside her, her face sweaty and flushed. Tom licked his lips.

“What is it that you want? What do you want me to do?” He said between clenched teeth, voice breaking. His stomach was tight, but he imagined that she would be so much tighter. Perfect.

“Do you want me inside you? Touching you? That is my fingers leading you?”

At Hermione’s responding moan, at the way her hands grew more frantic, Tom almost came undone. She was beautiful. A vision.

He wanted to eat her. To possess her until this moment was forever burned into his memory. Until he could feel her writhing inside him. Begging and twisting for more, more, more.

“You would be so wonderful, Hermione. You’d be so warm and soft, your insides tight around me. Your voice sweet as I took you.” His breath hitched, desperate, imagining that it was, indeed, her stroking him. That she was there, that he was buried inside her and listening to her cries as he ripped them out of her impertinent little mouth.

He was going mad. Fraying at the seams.

Was this what it was to yearn?

“Yes. Yes.” Hermione cried out, her body quivering and trembling. There was a roll to her hips, a moment where her eyes and mouth went wide, as if unseeing, and then—

He tumbled over the edge, the wet squelch of her fingers in his ears and the pink of her cunt in his mind. The image in front of his computer blurred–or was that his eyes? He couldn’t be sure, couldn’t be certain of anything at all–before he blinked it away.

The image of Hermione sharpened, the divets of her hips and the lashes framing her eyes so clear that he itched to sink into the screen, to touch her and feel her.

He curled his hand into a fist instead, watched her eyelids twitch and her rising chest slow. As if she’d fallen asleep.

Tom watched her.

For now.

He’d do more than watch next time.

A-14 Face Sitting

Warnings: A bit of pain play, power imbalance, and disturbing thoughts.

Hermione’s thighs clenched around Riddle’s head, his breath hot and wet against her cunt.

“This was not what I had in mind when I suggested we try something new,” Riddle murmured into the curve of her thigh, his arms bound to the headboard.

He could get out at any time if he wished it, she knew. But he wouldn’t.

That was the most arousing thing of all.

He hated to be without control, but for her, he’d do what she asked. He had a mask to maintain, after all. He still thought she didn’t know just how terrible he was, that he was nothing more than a monster in the guise of a human boy.

Hermione repressed a smile when his eyes fell to the flushed skin between her thighs, devouring it with a voracious hunger he could not hide, to slowly trail up her stomach, drink in the sight of her naked breasts, and stop on her face.

A laugh rumbled from her chest that she could not contain.

“But I find I have no compunctions with what you’ve planned for us this evening.”

Tom’s breath hitched when she inched closer, her thighs squeezing his head until her own thighs quivered, until they ached. She hoped he ached too. She wanted him to hurt. For him to weep and beg for the pleasure of worshiping her.

The flash of something—irritation, arousal, disdain? Hermione couldn’t be sure—that flickered in his eyes only made the monster writhing in her chest purr, the same vengeful creature that swore she’d make him pay, plan with excruciating detail how she’d make Tom Riddle fall.

Lord Voldemort did not worship, but here, now—

Tom Riddle would.

“Whether you have reservations hardly matters,” She said as she pressed closer, forcing her hips against his mouth before he could reply, savoring in the wet press of his lips along her folds. “You’re bound and without a wand.”

The flat of Tom’s tongue wedged between her slit and Hermione shuddered, her insides curling with warmth.

Yes.

“I could kill you, right now, and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it,” Hermione murmured as she inched closer to sit atop his face, pushing her cunt into his mouth until he could do nothing but suck and lap at her, swallow down her wetness and drown.

She wanted him to choke. She squeezed his head harder to make sure he couldn’t escape this. Not that he’d try. The heat in his eyes told her he had no such thoughts.

Good.

“I can steal your breaths. Suffocate you between my thighs, and you’d allow it. You’d let me.”

Hermione moaned when his tongue circled and pushed into her clit, mimicking the motions she herself used to touch herself, with practiced ease. It should have disturbed her how good he was at this despite never having been with someone before, but—

Tom Riddle was a quick learner, she found.

Of course.

He nipped her clit, and she rolled her hips, a cry tumbling from her mouth. It had hurt, but the wet press of his tongue curling over the bud soothed the ache. Righted the wrong. Her hand carded through his hair and shoved him closer, relishing in the strands of hair that tore away from his scalp and the moan that escaped him.

Lord Voldemort hungered for power, but she’d make Tom Riddle crave pain.

She shoved her hips against him with more gusto, fury and delight and something else that she refused to acknowledge itching beneath her skin. He kissed and devoured her, sucking into her clit and flicking his tongue over the bud in time to her jerks.

Yes.

Her skin tightened, her toes curling with each smooth pass of his tongue and flash of something—violence, revenge, revenge, hunger, revenge—in his eyes before they closed and he swallowed her down.

Laughter left her, made the tell-tale twist of her innards as her orgasm grew closer, more tantalizing. The point of this wasn’t her own pleasure. It had never been. But she’d take it. She’d take everything that Tom Riddle offered.

If only to throw it back in his face, to show him that she was the one in control and that he—

—was nothing.

His teeth sank into a fat lip, and she keened, her nails digging into his scalp and her other hand curling over her wand to level it on his throat, to press it against his pulse point. His eyes slowly opened, flickering to her hand before returning to hers. Something feral, violent overtook her then.

Watch your teeth.

She said it with her eyes, but she knew he would understand, could read between the lines of her wand in his neck and the violence curling her lips.

And even if he couldn’t, he was a mind reader. He knew Legilimancy. She’d checked. Dotted her ‘I’s and crossed her ‘t’s. He was still a budding dark lord, but she, she was a war veteran.

His mouth gentled against her, obeying her. Riddle’s eyes promised murder, but his mouth was nothing but sweetness.

She hoped he tried. That he did try to kill her, that he pressed his wand to her neck and showed her just how much of a monster he was. If he did, then she wouldn’t hesitate.

Then she wouldn’t—

Hermione silenced the thought.

Here and now, she was the one in control. There was no room for hesitation, for second-thoughts and regrets. She would see this through. This was her moment, and oh—

At the brush of his mouth and the dark promise in his eyes, Hermione bloomed.

#Tomione #smut prompts meme #I did a thing #Anonymous

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