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arrivisting · 3 years

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wip amnesty: versailles

Did anyone else watch Versailles?

[crickets, probably]

I loved the first season of that show. The WIGS. The DRAMA. The GILT. It helped a lot that @gofuckinggentle and I watched the first season together in Paris, after a day-trip to Versailles, and in the after-throes of Les Mis/George Blagden passion. It was tremendous fun: the right show at the right place, at the right time, with the right person (<3). Season two was a tragic waste of potential and made me furious, and season three was unwatchable. But I adored season one - it was just the right mix of silliness, EMOTION, history, and fake history. I went off the deep end reading Bourbon history and began a lot of stories set after season one (and then season two happened and murdered them). Here is one:

We're leaving, Philippe said to the Chevalier, and we’re never coming back. He meant it at the time.

There are different types of wounds. Philippe’s no doctor, but he saw enough of them on the field to know; some you live through, and some you don’t. Some heal clean, without needing much fussing. Others need hot iron or tar to stop the bleeding. Still others fester, musket-holes where fragments of grapeshot, mud, and cloth linger; unexpected scratches that suddenly belch pus when you press on the hot and heated skin.

You die fast, or you die slow, or you get better.

At Saint-Cloud, Philippe gives orders to open up only his rooms, and then, after a moment’s thought, the kitchens.

“Are we not planning to entertain?” the Chevalier asks. “Silly me, I packed silk, not sackcloth and ashes.” When Philippe stares at him, appalled, he shrugs. “We’re expecting the king, aren’t we? Sooner or later.”

“I’m in mourning. Tell him I don’t want to see him.”

“That won’t work.”

“I won’t see him.”

“You’ll have to,” the Chevalier says. “I mean, for the funeral–”

“I won’t see him,” Philippe shouts. He shuts his eyes for a moment. When he speaks again, he’s in control of himself. “I only want to see you.”

The Chevalier blinks, then smolders at him. The effect is more affected than genuine, but that’s what Philippe wants from him right now. “Ah. Shall we christen the place, then, my love?”

Around them servants – his servants, not Louis’ - have been opening the shutters, removing the holland covers from the furniture, bringing in armfuls of new linen. They’re all not looking at him so pointedly it feels like he’s being stuck with pins. Someone he pays to attend to the niceties has begun hanging black cloth over the mirrors. Philippe should care about the example he’s setting.

“Take off your coat,” he says, and the room clears. Eventually.

Louis doesn’t come to Saint-Cloud. Which is a pity, really. Philippe would have liked to bar him from his rooms with pikesmen. They could see how he likes it.

“You wouldn’t,” the Chevalier says, languidly amused. The way he says it sounds like he’s saying you should.

“I wouldn’t,” Philippe agrees, giving it just the same intonation.

“You should order your mourning clothes,” the Chevalier adds, like he thinks Philippe won’t take offense if he slips it into the conversation in the same careless tone.

“We’re not discussing that.”

“But you like new clothing–”

Philippe says nothing, but he takes the Chevalier’s chin in his fingers and pulls his face close like he might kiss him just to shut him up. Then he tightens his hold until the Chevalier’s smirk turns into a grimace. “We’re not discussing that.”

“We’re not discussing that,” the Chevalier repeats, and when Philippe lets his grip relax he shakes his head, tossing his long blond curls over his shoulder. After a moment, for effect, he gets to his feet, brushing invisible dust off his cuffs in the way that means he’s piqued and he wants Philippe to know it.

Well, the dust could be real. Saint-Cloud has been shut up for months while the court festered at Versailles in the marshes. Philippe will allow him the benefit of the doubt this time.

“All the same,” the Chevalier says softly. When he speaks that low, Philippe is allowed to pretend not to hear him, and the Chevalier to pretend not to have spoken. “You will need to do something, my darling.”

Louis doesn’t come to Saint-Cloud, because he’s too awful to give Philippe the satisfaction of having his entrance barred, or to suffer the displeasure of crooking his little finger and not having Philippe obey. Instead, because Louis is awful, he sends Bontemps himself, and two royal heralds in most stiff and ancient costumes, little portraits of Louis set around their necks.

“Oh,” the Chevalier says, sucking in his breath with intent. “How charming.”

Philippe batts his nose fondly, like he’s chastening a lapdog. “Shall I get you one for your birthday?”

“A necklace, or...?”

“I prefer the one on the left, don’t you? I know how you feel about redheads.”

“Your highness,” Bontemps says, sounding and looking pained and disappointed. Luckily, Philippe doesn’t share Louis’s transparent yearning for a father-figure, so it has no effect on him. If he’s wished that Louis had some similar need for a brother – well, that’s the past, and he left that behind at Versailles. “His majesty wishes you to know that the funeral of Madame will be held this Sunday. You are expected.”

“I am busy,” Philippe says, and gestures at his surroundings like they speak for his overwhelming state of preoccupation.

Bontemps glances at the lake – calm as a mill-pond, a clear mirror for a clear sky – and at the chateau – shut up like an abandoned property, or a house under siege, a house in mourning – and at the Chevalier, who wiggles two fingers at him.

He says, “You must attend, your highness.”

“I must do nothing, unless my brother commands me. Does he command me?”

He wouldn’t dare.

“He does,” Bontemps says.

The journey to Paris is miserable. Philippe only manages to vent a little of his spleen by loudly ordering Cosnac to expect his return to Saint-Cloud within the next week. Bontemps, block of wood that he is, doesn’t change expression, but he manages to radiate the tranquil assumption that as soon as Philippe is back in Louis’s orbit, his plans will change.

If Philippe has to spend the next two hours shut up in a landau with his brother’s valet, he’s going to stab someone. “And it might be you,” he tells the Chevalier, who has started exuding an irritating smugness that his sotto voce avocations about the need for action have been proved correct. If he has to spend that two hours with the pair of them, bouncing over the ruts in the dry, cracking road with the Chevalier fondling his knee and Bontemps staring straight ahead, he’ll definitely arrive in Paris in more of a murdering mood than a burying one. “I’m riding.”

“Don’t you think you’re arriving under enough of a disadvantage without arriving in dishabille?”

Philippe ignores him.

His thighs are burning by the time they reach the Palais Royal. He’s dusty, the pervasive white dust of the road thick on his boots, but it’s not like he’s going to be receiving in these clothes, in any case. The guards at the Palais are wearing black. He’s going to need to outfit his own men properly. He should have done it at Saint-Cloud.

He hadn’t wanted to bring death into the house where he and Henriette had been young. That’s no excuse for ignoring etiquette.

“My rooms,” he says curtly over his shoulder, tossing the reins of his horse to a waiting groom in the second courtyard. Louis isn’t there to greet him.

He should have draped the damn horse in black; he should have ridden in with a black cloak that covered its hindquarters, a black feather in his hat as long as his arm, and a face nearly as long. That’s what everyone expects from him. Drama.

“Of course, your highness,” the waiting equerry says. Philippe doesn’t know him. Versailles has sucked up all the best personnel from the residences, the way it’s sucked up all the money from Louis’s coffers, all the freedom from France. “My condolences, Monsieur.”

It’s better that Philippe doesn’t know him; doesn’t know any of the bowing black-clad guards and servants and maids he passes as he stalks down the familiar corridors to his own suite. They’d been young here too, once.

There are white lilies and roses in clusters in their accustomed vases in the first of his rooms. Philippe stops dead for a moment.

They’re fresh; cut this morning, from the perfection of their petals. Their scent hangs heavy in the air, spring itself despite the late summer outside. It’s sweet and thick, and so familiar his throat closes for a moment and his fist clenches on the flower he’d reached out to touch, crushing it.

Did someone have them put out on purpose? For a moment, Philippe wonders. A mourning lady-in-waiting who’d admired his wife, perhaps.

Louis?

He shakes his head, angry at himself for the thought. It’s an order Henriette gave with a decisive clap of her hands a decade ago, and never revoked. Part of the pattern of this place, the pattern they all follow, weaving something greater together. The court hasn’t been at the Palais-Royal since his mother died, but the curtains are still drawn open and closed each day by the staff that remain, in case Louis should come: the gardens cared for, the flowers placed in his rooms as part of the usual preparation for Monsieur’s residence.

“There you are,” the Chevalier says, sounding aggrieved. “Do you know, I had to be quite firm with the guard on your doors before they would let me pass? You shouldn’t have ridden ahead like that and left the poor old fellow and I in your dust – Oh, good, you’ve found something suitable.”

Philippe turns around. The long black train of his mantle swirls around his ankles. “I’m being thrifty,” he says, the word in his mouth an unpleasant thing. “Am I quite out of fashion?”

The Chevalier smiles. “You look magnificent,” he says, and touches Philippe’s cheek with a fingertip. He smells like musk and ambergris, the scent of him usually enough to make Philippe’s stomach warm, his cock stir. Strong, powerful. Male. “Down to your shoe buckles. Jet?”

“Black diamonds,” Philippe says, giving him an appalled glance for the suggestion. “Oh, of course; you weren’t here for Mother’s funeral.”

“This is what you wore then?”

“I didn’t have time to order new clothes,” Philippe says, and the Chevalier glances at him, but forbears to mention the past three weeks at Saint-Cloud, enough time to turn out a full trousseau for even the least endowed of heiresses. “That will have to be attended to. There will be –” he swallows – “Ceremonies. Formal visits of condolence from members of the family, dignitaries of the court.”

“And then the funeral,” the Chevalier says. His eyes have gone soft, honey-hazel, salt-caramel. Henriette’s eyes were darker.

“And then the funeral,” Philippe says, and closes his eyes. Admitting that feels like one of Louis’s victories; a humiliating defeat. A painful thing, lodging in his throat like a stone. It was easier in Saint-Cloud to pretend that Henriette was still at Versailles, where he left her. Alive, only in the next room. He doesn’t want the Chevalier to look at him like that.

“I’ll be by your side,” the Chevalier says, and his voice has gone soft, too. Gentle. It’s not a common tone for him, although he’s not incapable of careless kindness when it suits him. Genuine tenderness is rarer still.

“I shouldn’t have brought you,” Philippe says, and opens his eyes. “You can’t be by my side. Not for this.”

The Chevalier looks like he’s been slapped. “Philippe –”

“We have to be serious. I have to be serious.”

“I only want to help–”

“You can’t.” Philippe smiles, unhappily. “This time is for family.”

“God help you, then,” the Chevalier says, in a tone Philippe's more familiar with, and takes a step back.

Henriette is dead. His wife died in Louis’s bed, the way she lived, choking on black bile and her own blood and then the air itself, thick with the smell of lilies.

As soon as Philippe is officially in residence, the visits begin. They continue with monotonous regularity for the next three days. Philippe is scrupulously well-behaved with most of the useless courtiers, lies rolling around their mouths like marble. There are a few who look genuinely sorry. He’s icily, regally Bourbon with the ambassadors from Spain and from Venice and from Genoa, from the German princelings and Scandinavias. With the cardinal from Rome. He’s a little less well-behaved with the two-tongued lying bastard from the Netherlands who condoles with him, saying how the stories of Madame's beauty and grace gone before her; what a loss she must be to France!

"She is a great loss to me," Philippe says. "She had already brought the greatest possible glory to France."

"Truly, your highness," the Dutchman says, and turns the sweaty colour of one of his pale cheeses. Philippe can only hope that he reports the conversation to his master verbatim. If William of Orange doesn't understand his meaning now, he'll understand it soon.

"Philippe," the Queen says, and kisses his cheek. Of course she looks good in mourning. She's Spanish. She's at her most comfortable in a black mantilla and clutching a crucifix.

Marie-Therese fills the formal role of queen admirably in court ceremonials, but she draws back her dignified skirts from the day-to-day of the court, the theatricals and the dances and the back-biting. It was Henriette's responsibility to be the female energy of the court, at the heart of each banquet, dancing the lead of each masque and court ballet. Louis overflows with meaning, produces it in excess, and one wife alone isn't enough to channel it for him, to fill all roles female for France the way Louis fills all male roles.

It'll be the Montespan's job, soon, if Philippe knows his brother - and he does. The women themselves are interchangeable to Louis. The work goes on.

"Sister," Philippe says, and kisses her cheek in turn. The lace of her veil is gritty under his lips.

Marie-Therese regards him soberly when he draws back. She doesn't like him. Philippe's always known that she doesn't approve of him, even before she made it clear in the regency conseil chamber.

She looks tired. Her face is drawn more tightly than usual, her dark eyes heavy. It would touch Philippe, if he thought it was truly for Henriette. "My husband sends his regards."

"Funny, then, that he sends them through you," Philippe says.

Marie-Therese stares at him. People think Louis has poise, but he's easy enough to upset if you know his weak places and aren't afraid to put your fingers in them - which, in all fairness, most people are. Louis has nothing on his wife. "He has been otherwise engaged."

"I do believe I could put money on just how he's been engaging himself," Philippe says. "How is dear Athénaïs?"

"She is well," Marie-Therese says. "And the Chevalier de Lorraine?"

"Prostrate with grief."

"Henriette is a great loss."

"It was her left side," Philippe says. "I was trying to help. It was her left."

Marie-Therese’s face, still and regal as a wooden Madonna, doesn’t change. He can’t read in her face whether she believes him or not. He wants to shake her until a real emotion comes out. “It’s in God’s hands now.”

“You of all people should know better than to confuse the king with God,” he says.

“Your highness,” Masson says. Her hands are clutched behind her back. She really is absurdly plain, brown from the sun and strained from whatever books she spends her time on. The male attire makes her look plainer. “Monsieur.”

There’s some kind of irony in the fact that Louis has made a pet of this girl dressed in boy’s clothing, but treats Philippe with such colossal scorn over his female finery. What’s her actual name? He can’t ask her that. Louis has forbidden it. The king states she is a man, and – voila! She is a man. “Monsieur Masson.”

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am.” Her eyes are earnest and blue in her simple face. Far too earnest for Louis’s court. “The damage done by the poison was simply too much. I wished so much – but I did all that could be done for her highness.”

“I’m sure you did,” Philippe says lightly. He holds his hand out to her to be kissed and looks pointedly to his left. “I thank you for your service.”

She doesn’t move.

Honestly.

“Etiquette,” Philippe says, “for male members of the King’s household, states that you go to one knee when dismissed by a son of France, mutter ‘It was my honor, your highness,’ kiss my rings, and get to your feet in one smooth motion. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Come now.”

“I came to make my report to you,” the boy-girl says, hands still clenched behind her. “About Madame la Duchesse’s death.”

“I was there. I know what happened.”

“Yes, your highness,” Masson says. Her eyes are still too sorry. He remembers them from that night.

What a horrid, intimate vigil it had been.

Henriette’s left hand in his, her blood gurgling in her throat; Louis on the other side of the bed, holding her right. She’d reached for him first, of course. Philippe had been the afterthought, her gesture to him the last attempt in a lifetime to balance the equation belatedly.

“You left the court after her highness’s death -"

“I was there while she was alive.”

“Yes, your highness. What I meant is that you were not there to receive my report on her death.”

“You report to Louis.”

“I must also report to you.”

“Well, that’s a new line,” Philippe says. He recrosses his legs, one gleaming shin in its black silk stocking replacing its partner in the ascendant. “I assume he told you to come here today. When is my dear brother planning to make his own sympathy call?”

Masson says nothing. What can someone outside their particular knot of Bourbon blood and loyalty and fear say? It’s best to say nothing at all. Philippe would approve, if he didn’t read her adamant loyalty to Louis into her strained face.

Louis trusts her. How unfair that she seems to be worthy of it.

“Well?”

“I conducted the autopsy on Madame la Duchesse, on the king’s orders. The stomach was flooded with a fermented bile, and the organs of the abdominal cavity were in an advanced state of gangrene –”

“Stop,” Philippe says.

He’s going to be sick. The room swims. His shoe-buckles glisten up at him, the dark diamonds in their silver settings performing marvelous feats of multiplication, dividing into twos and fours and eights.

Masson is holding his arm and saying, “Keep your head low, your highness. Take a full breath. And another. Do you have any scent?”

He needs her to stop touching him. No wonder she came into his apartments with her hands behind her back. Those hands had cut Henriette apart and opened her for study, had exposed the shadowy places in her heart, the secrets and the sadness.

Masson’s advice helps, and after a few lungfuls Philippe has a hold on himself enough to wave her aside. “Finish your report. It was poison?”

“Antimony,” Masson says. She’s still too close, still watching him as though he’s her patient, but she drops back into her report. “As we had suspected, but my tests have now confirmed it. She would have felt pain in her right, your highness, as well as her left. I could not have saved her once the poison was ingested.” That helps, somewhat; and not at all. “That is my private report, known to the king and the queen, and to Marchal and Louvois. His majesty has had it given out that her highness died of a colic in an attack of cholera morbus.”

“Of course he has.” Louis can’t be blamed for it if Henriette died a natural death. “He sent you to tell me this.”

“He wished you to know.”

“How thoughtful of him.”

Masson is still looking at him with earnest, diagnostic eyes. Philippe offers his hand again, in distance and in dismissal, and this time she manages an almost acceptable bow before leaving.

#wip amnesty #My fic #versailles

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elavsmessymind · 4 years

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Soft Touch ♡ Draco Malfoy ♡

Warnings: None (maybe one minor curse word?)

Word Count: 3.4k (sorry it’s a bit long...)

A/N: I literally spent all night writing this. I’ve been on the Draco side of tiktok for a while and was inspired by all of them, so I wrote this. This is my first non CNCO fic, and I’m nervous about it but also kind of excited?! Anyways, sorry for any misspellings, or typos. Please enjoy, and give me feedback. ((: p.s. I don’t own this gif.

It was almost nine at night and I was finishing some homework in the courtyard when I heard Draco’s dreading voice.

“How pathetic. Do you ever do anything else other than study?” he proclaims.

“Do you ever do anything else other than intrude other people’s life?” I responded.

He looked at me not expecting me to give him a snarky response. As he walked past me with his friends, he looked at me an irritating cheeky way. I ignored him, and tried not to pay him or his friends any attention. It was hard to do with their obnoxious laughter and abrasive comments about some of the other students. It was almost time for curfew so I started gathering my stuff so I can head to my house. Draco and his friends did the same, however, I saw Draco tell his friends something and they left without him. I avoided his gaze as best as I could and hurried for the exit, but he beat me to it and blocked my way.

“Going to bed already?” he asked in an annoying tone.

“I thought I’d give it a try.” I said forcing a nice smile. He looked at me trying to find some words to say.

“Are you going to say something or just stare at me?” I tell him now a bit more impatiently.

“Wow it doesn’t take much to get under your skin, does it?” he said not getting the hint that I was very much annoyed right now.

“I was going to ask you… if umm...” he said scratching his head.

“If you could tutor me?” he asked hesitantly. I brought my hand up to my mouth as I sarcastically gasped.

“Draco Malfoy is asking me to help him with his studies? I feel… honored.” I tell him.

“Ha-ha.” He responds to my sarcasm.

“You should feel honored.” He states proudly. He stays quiet for only a second before continuing, “So, is that a yes?”

“No.” I stated as serious as I could. I tried making my way around him and through the exit, but he just made himself much stronger.

“Why not? You said it yourself, you should feel honored I’m asking you for help and letting you be anywhere near me.” He said proudly.

“You’re unbelievable. Are you so conceited that you don’t know what sarcasm is or are you just dumb?” I genuinely ask. He doesn’t respond. He just steps aside and lets me through.

“Thank you.” I say unemotionally. I make my way to my house and finally get some goodnight’s rest.

The next day in class, I take my spot between Hermione and my best friend. Hermione catches Draco stare at me as he enters the class and gives me a puzzled expression.

“Why did he look at you like that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I responded hoping she’d let it go. She’s not the gossipy type so I trust that she won’t ask again. My best friend on the other hand... Well, she knows everything about everyone. She doesn’t go around talking about people’s business with the whole school, but she always comes to me and Hermione with some story she heard from so-and-so. I hope she didn’t hear Hermione ask about Draco, and when she doesn’t mention it right after I shut Hermione down, I think she didn’t. However, halfway through class, she asks me about it.

“Shh, I’m trying to pay attention.” I tell her.

“Okay fine, but I’m not letting this go.” She whispers. I look at my notes and gulp nervously because I know she won’t. After what feels like hours, the bell finally rang and I pick my books and backpack up to go to my next class. I walk a bit faster hoping my best friend gets the hint and drops the subject, but she doesn’t.

“Thought it was that easy, didn’t you?” she tells me as she catches up to me.

“Well a girl can dream, can’t she?” I responded slyly.

“Why did he look at you like that?” she asked eagerly.

“You really aren’t going to let this go, are you?” I asked with a small smile.

“Nope.” She said as she put an arm around me and chuckled.

“Alright, fine. Can I tell you at lunch, though?” I ask. She nods with a smile on her face, and walks very excitedly to class with her arm still around me. We make our way to our seats and I dreadfully wait for lunch to come. At lunch, she doesn’t wait even a second after I sit down to ask me.

“Can you let me enjoy my lunch, first?” I joke.

“The longer you prolong answering my question, the more annoyed you’re going to get at me for asking.” She stated in a matter-of-factly attitude. Hermione looked at both of us with a very amusing face. I sit down and sigh.

“Fine, he asked me if I could tutor him.” I say trying to sound nonchalantly.

“Wait. Really? What did you tell him?” she asked me with big surprising eyes.

“He who?” Hermione asked.

“Draco.” I told her.

“Was he serious?” Hermione asked.

“Probably not. Why would he care about getting good grades when his daddy can just pay his way all the way up to graduation?” I admitted.

“Damn, so I’m guessing you told him no?” my best friend said. I tilted my head a bit sideways and raised my eyebrow. All three of us laughed for a while about the situation.

“Maybe you should.” Hermione finally said after our laughter winded down.

Perplexed, I responded, “why? It’s not like he needs it.”

“I agree. We all know the way Draco is. What if this is part of a prank or something?” my best friend stated, siding with me.

“I don’t think so. Draco isn’t the type to plan out long elaborate pranks. If he wanted to prank her, he would’ve done it already.” Hermione told her.

“It doesn’t matter. I already told him no, and I don’t think he’s the type to ask twice for something.” I told both of them.

“But listen, what if you could do more for him than just tutor him?” Hermione asked looking at me.

“What like turn him into a nice decent human being?” I said fighting back a laugh.

“Tutoring him won’t change the way he is, Hermione. He is extremely vain and full of himself. You know what he told me? He said I should feel honored that he’s allowing me to be in his presence. As if!” I exasperatedly said.

“People like him don’t change. They think they have some kind of privilege and are above everyone else. I can’t stand his ‘I’m better than everyone’ attitude. If he really wants to get tutored, he should look for someone else, because I’m not going to waste my time on him.” I protested, finishing my rant. They both look at me with blank faces.

“What?” I ask a little bit annoyed. They don’t say anything. They just keep looking behind me. I turn around and see Draco already walking away from our table. I feel bad that he overheard what I said, but then I remember that he’s Draco and what I say can’t possibly hurt his ego.

“Maybe you were a little too harsh.” Hermione mumbles quietly.

“Harsh? Please, Draco can’t actually feel offended by her opinion.” My best friend tells her as if reading my mind.

“Can we just finish our lunch, and forget about it?” I reply.

Later that night, I skip dinner and go up to the rooftop to study a little bit. After a couple hours alone, the rooftop door opens. I turn around to see who it is, and to my amazement it’s the one and only Draco Malfoy. ‘Just my luck.’ I thought.

“Is this sit taken?” he asks, walking to the empty spot next to me.

“No, go ahead.” I tell him going back to studying. We sit there for a few minutes without saying anything. I steal glazes of him, and start feeling bad for what he had heard me say during lunch. I sigh and close my book and journal.

“I’m sorry.” I tell him as I look at the night sky. He looks at me confused.

“For what you heard me say. I shouldn’t have said it at all, and I’m sorry.” I finish.

“Don’t be.” He says shaking his head.

“To be honest, I think I deserve much worse than what you said.” He confesses as he looks at me. Now I’m the one who looks at him confused.

“Well regardless. That’s not the type of person I am and I don’t want to be.” I reply looking at him. He looks taken aback by my response.

“What are you studying for now?” He asks trying to change the subject.

“Oh, umm… nothing from here. Some friends from back home sent me the book they’re studying in English class.” I respond.

“English class?” he repeats.

“Yes, this is the book they’re suppose to read for this semester. Before going on Christmas break, they are each to turn in a 5-page essay on it.” I clarify for him.

“Semester?” he repeats after me again.

“I thought you knew.” I say slowly.

“I come from a muggle family.” I quietly tell him. He just looks at me with a shocking expression.

“I honestly thought you knew. I thought that’s why you were giving me a hard time.” I continue.

“I- umm… I didn’t know.” He answers. We just sit there in silence. My mind starts wondering off into an anxious state of mind thinking that he might use this against me, or tell everyone and throw it in my face later. I’m taken out of these thoughts when Draco speaks up again.

“Can I stay here with you while you finish the book?” he looks at me with a soft expression.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” I tell him as I give him a small smile. He lays by my side as I continue reading and making notes. After about half an hour of peaceful quiet, Crabbe and Goyle bust through the rooftop door. Once Draco sees them, he’s whole attitude changes. The soft kind expression he once possessed is now taken over by his natural serious/ mean face. He gets up and shouts at me, “You really thought that was going to work? As if someone of my stature will ever be with someone like you. Don’t mistake my niceties as any kind of flirtatious behavior.” I look at him stunned at how quickly he can go from being tolerable to a complete ass.

“Don’t worry, that’s a mistake I’ll never make.” I responded trying to sound as complacent as possible. Hoping that he couldn’t see the hurt on my face. I got my book and journal and walked away from him and his dull-witted friends. As I make my way to my house, I can’t help but laugh to myself at what just happened. ‘Why am I surprised? I always knew he was a pain, but acting as if I wanted to be with him on a romantic level in front of his friends? Ha! Get a grip. Telling me that someone of his ‘stature’ couldn’t possibly be with someone like me? Please. As if someone like me would ever give him a chance. And niceties? When has he ever been nice to me or to anyone? That boy really needs some therapy.’ I think to myself.

Days later, I’m outside enjoying some sunshine, when Draco comes sits next to me.

“I’m so sorry about the other day.” He says as soon as he sits down.

“Go away.” I tell him rolling my eyes. I wasn’t hurt or mad anymore, I just don’t want anything to do with him.

“Let me explain.” He tries again.

“No, I don’t want to hear it Draco. What you say and what you do are two different things.” I say refusing to look at him. I sneak a glance while he isn’t looking at me, and see a hurt expression on his face. He shuffles in his seat debating on whether or not to try again or leave. Before he makes a decision, I tell him, “You know what your problem is, you are so full of yourself. You think people like me or others who aren’t at your ‘stature’ owe you something when you haven’t earned anything from us. I don’t know why you act so rude and obnoxious in front of others, and then when you’re alone with me you act like you have real human feelings. I don’t know which Draco is the real Draco, but I suggest you figure it out and fast because by the time you do you might not have anyone by your side.” By the time I end my second Draco rant, this time to his face, I’m staring at him. I look away and close my eyes to continue enjoying my time in the sun, hoping he gets the hint that I’m done talking and done listening.

“Hey, thought you might be hungry so I brought you some food.” My best friend says as she sits down on the other side of me.

“Thank you, I was a little hungry.” I say laughing softly. She looks to my opposite side and asks, “Is Draco hanging out with us today?”

“No.” I say turning to face him, surprised he’s still here.

“He was just leaving.” I state looking him straight into his eyes. He gets up and leaves without saying another word.

“What was that all about?” she asks with some hope in her voice.

“Nothing, that you need to worry about.” I tell her. “thank you for the food.” I say trying to change the subject. She smiles at me in response, understanding that this time, I don’t want to talk about it.

That same night as another friend and I were departing ways outside the library, Draco pops out of nowhere.

“Oh my- how are you everywhere? Don’t you ever have anywhere to be?” I slightly shout at him for the mini heart attack he gave me.

“Can we talk?” he asks me in a serious tone.

“Draco, I can’t do this right now. I’m tired and all I want to do is go to bed.” I tell him.

“Please, I really want to explain myself for the other night.” He keeps trying.

“I don’t have time for this. I heard you earlier, you’re sorry. I get it, goodnight.” I say more desperately trying to walk away from him. He blocks my every move, and with every no he just looks at me like a starving puppy who has been rejected of some food.

“Draco let me through.” I demanded getting tired of whatever this was.

“It’s way past curfew, and quite frankly, I don’t mind getting caught, I just don’t want to get caught with you.” I admit trying to go around him once more.

“Dammit, please just give me a second.” He yells at me.

“That’s how you try getting a girl’s attention?” I yell back.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not listening.” He tries to sound calmly.

“You want me to listen? Then try being a decent human being.” I declared. I can see some pain in his eyes, but I push that aside because now I’m getting upset. He moves him hand to grab my arm in a way to tell me ‘sorry for yelling.’

“Don’t.” I mumbled. “Someone may catch you being nice to another person.” I added. He dropped his hand to his side, and sighs as he looks to the ground.

“I’ve ruined it haven’t I?” he asks in almost a whisper.

“Ruined what?” I implore. Hoping he finally tells me what’s on his mind

“Nothing.” He responds as he starts walking away from me.

“Really? That’s it? All I had to say was ‘try being nice’ and you go running? I should’ve told you that a long time ago.” I yell at him infuriated at how easy he walks away from things.

“I don’t know what you want me to do or say.” He confesses desperately turning to face me.

“I want you to stand up for yourself. I want you to be brave enough to be that nice guy from the rooftop. I want you to be the guy I know you could be. Not this self-absorbed prick who everyone thinks you are.” I tell him as I walk closer to him.

“You’ve shown me that you can be compassionate and kind. You don’t have to go through an identity battle to decide who to be. Just be the person that makes you happy.” I catch his gaze but he looks down. Maybe in an ashamed way.

“What? You don’t want people knowing you have a heart? Or you don’t want to be seen hanging out with me?” I ask him not wanting to know the answer. I haven’t told anyone about what happened in the rooftop because then I’d be forced to talk about these feelings I keep pushing away. But if I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the Draco I hung out with that night. I came to a conclusion that he probably just needs someone to give him a chance, but a person can only give so many chances.

“No… it’s not that.” He replies still not meeting my eyes.

“Then what is it, Draco? You don’t think I’m also running a risk of being the school’s gossip for hanging out with you?” I stated as nicely as I could.

“Show me that you’re worth that risk. Prove it to me, and I’ll be the person you need me to be.” I cried out. We both stayed silent for a while.

“Draco, please say something.” I begged him. Nothing.

“Fine,” I sighed, “I need to go.” I stay a few more seconds giving him a chance to say something. I finally give up and walk past him. He gently grabs my arm and makes me face him. He finally looks into my eyes. I want to look away, but his eyes are hypnotizing. He lets go of my arm and turns his body towards me so that he is facing me completely. I get nervous and look down at the ground. He picks my head up slightly so that we make eye contact once again. He looks down at my lips and then back at my eyes. His hand moves to caress my face, and his other hand rests on my waist. As he’s leaning in, I whisper his name.

“Can I?” he asks me before making any other movement.

I look into his eyes and very lightly nod my head not wanting him to let me go. I close my eyes as he gets closer, and feel his soft cold lips rub against my lips. Both of us take our time to enjoy this moment. He breathes out delicately before finally kissing me. I’m taken aback by how perfectly his lips intertwine with mine. It seems to last for eternity. He lets go just for a moment to catch his breath. He leans his forehead on mine, and opens his eyes to look at me. I keep my eyes close trying to take in what just happened. Not wanting to ruin the moment by overthinking, I allow myself to be present and open my eyes. I see Draco staring at me with a small smile. I let out a mellow laugh and he response with a full grinned smile. We stay like this for a few minutes, until I sadly told him that I really have to go. Without taking his eyes off of me, he whispers okay. Neither of us move to do what we just agreed to do. If it was possible to stay in this moment forever, I would and I’d bet my life that Draco feels the same way. Finally, we break away, when we hear a door slam and footsteps not far away from the hallway we’re in. We both look at the direction of the noise and then back at each other. Without saying anything, Draco grabs my face and kisses me one last time before telling me goodnight. He grabs my hand and quietly says, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He kisses my cheek tenderly and then walks away. I stay where I am completely perplexed at what just happened. I bring my hand up to my lips and then my cheek and shyly smile to myself. ‘Who would’ve thought,’ I think to myself.

#draco malfoy #draco imagine #hp #hp fanfic #draco tiktok #slytherin #hufflepuff #ravenclaw #gryffindor #hermione #hermione granger #hogwarts

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heroprose · 5 years

Note

pst part 2 for ‘write it in ash’ have mercy pLS

a/n. the fact that you’re a fan of that oldie made this one a priority….. forewarning for the regular antics when it comes to my writing LOL thanks for requesting!!

– for those who don’t know, i wrote a demon (summoning) au ft. our guy izuku over here!

you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. there’s a sliver of you that is in fact startled to find the incubus still in your living room when you returned from the bathroom. he sits so stiffly, so uneasily, that you wonder if it’s the atmosphere of your home that sets him on edge, or if that’s just how he comes across to all his clients.

you don’t blame him entirely if it’s the former rather than the latter; after all, it’s not every day you entertained demonic company in your apartment. it’s hard to know what sort of mannerisms to adopt in their horned presence. you actually think you’re grappling the situation better than most would.

and midoriya, for whatever reason, is pretending that he’s not watching you cross the room towards him, but it’s ridiculously obvious, from the way his gaze shoots about after accidentally meeting your gaze.

the living room, to your disdain, still smells faintly of sulphur and that’s not something that can be scrubbed off in a day. nevertheless, you take a seat beside midoriya, leaving ample distance between you and him for niceties.

“so,” you start, working to undo the palpable silence. “midoriya– if that’s even your real name– i’ve a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“we’re bound to confidentiality,” he confesses, finally taking in your presence directly. “there are some things i just cannot tell you. but– but midoriya really is my real name. not my whole name, per se, since demons go by many names but– um, yes.” he trails off. “yeah. ask away.”

this, of course, perks your attention profoundly, your gaze traveling back to his eyes from lingering on the impressive pair of horns that sprout from somewhere underneath his green curls. “alright. is it like an nda agreement?” you press. “who do you work for? the devil? lucifer? beelzebub? do you live in hell?”

“i– apologies,” he says, sounding genuinely sorry as he shakes his head and his green hair bounces. “i really can’t answer any of those questions. but, you know, if you want to ask me anything in regards to being an incubus in particular, i’m sure i can offer you some insight.”

you nod. his awkward ambiguity could only lead you to conclude that yes, he probably did live in hell and work for the devil. “so like, what’s the demographic of your services?” you prompt, leaning in,

“pardon?” he says, eyebrows quirked way up.

“i mean, what kind of person would summon incubi?”

he thinks this over, his green eyes glancing away for a second. “humans,” he eventually offers.

your eyes thin out, unsure if he’s avoiding the question or just really that oblivious. “right,” you say. “virgins or occultists?”

this sends him for a loop. “um,” he lets slip. “well. you know. it really depends; i can’t really say– oh! maybe… maybe humans like you?”

you shake your head, before letting yourself slump back onto the couch, your head hitting the back cushion. “midoriya,” you complain, flutters of amusement pulling at your mouth. “you can’t just keep giving me these loose answers if you’re trying to get it on with me. besides, me summoning you was an accident! a happy one at that, but an accident all the same.”

he purses his lips. “sorry,” he says hastily, brows knitted before he fully registers your words. “wait– huh? no, no, i’m not trying to do anything, i swear! this is all on you.”

“all on me?”

midoriya nods briskly.

“so does that mean you have no say in the matter? whenever someone summons you, you go?”

he reaches behind to scratch the back of his neck. “well, not exactly,” he replies, and taps the coffee table where dark, charred lines have been carved in. “the sigil you’ve drawn here isn’t mine mine; it’s a general summoning symbol for incubi. we all get the signal, but i was the one to answer your call. um, i hope you don’t mind.”

“i see,” you hum, trying to fit this all in your head with human business parallels but to no avail. no matter what he says (or doesn’t say), it is plain to see he is not of this earth. you wonder if you can somehow tease the solid answer out of him for your own interest.

“is that all you wish to ask?” he stammers out. “i’ve never met a human with so many questions.”

you stare, skeptical. “you’re kidding,” you say. “no one has asked you stuff like, whether you live in hell or not? what having horns feels like? i think these are important things to clarify.”

his fingers lift up to hover over his dark, nearly black horns that point upward. the root of the horns are mostly hidden by his hair but still, they are impressive. you can’t help but want to touch.

“all demons have horns,” he says, tapping his right one. “how many of them and what color can vary though.”

“huh,” you say. “that’s cool.”

midoriya lets out a brief laugh, dropping his hand. “i suppose. they can be a bit unwieldy, honestly. i’ve torn so many shirts with these horns.”

“damn,” you say. “you’re tearing people’s clothes off?”

he coughs. “oh, no! no, not other people’s– i mean my own.”

“such a gentleman.” your cheeks are full of mirth and humor. “can i touch?”

“y-yeah, if you really want to,” he says, still abashed.

you scoot closer and take a horn in your hand, feeling the ribbed keratin. the skin of it is powdery, and underneath the artificial ceiling lights, they gleam with a dull shine. you’re mesmerized, quite frankly, at how surreal your current predicaments felt.

feeling too polite to go down to the base of the horn, you kept your fingers around the tip and the midsection, running them horizontally for a few moments, then vertically.

your thumb rubs along the ridges, so delighted in the novel texture that you don’t notice the pleasant expression on his face until you glance down.

his eyes have fluttered shut, and his breaths came deep and rhythmically, like small sighs– but his fists, his fists were clenched in his lap as he sat cross-legged facing your direction.

afraid you were doing something strange to him, you withdraw your hand. almost immediately his eyes reopens.

“sorry–” you both say in unison. his bright gaze dart away while you laugh.

“do you sap people’s energy through your horns?” you inquire.

he shakes his head. “nothing like that. it’s just that any kind of intimacy is, well, appreciated for our kind, you could say.”

“but if i just kept a five foot radius from you at all times, you’d eventually regain your health too?”

you don’t miss the way his face falls. “well, yes…”

“okay; that said, final question.”

“yes?”

“what’s your body count?”

there’s a beat before he reacts.

“b-body count?! you mean like how many people i’ve– you really want to know this sort of thing?” he sputters, instinctively drawing away as far as he could so his backside hit the inner arm of the couch.

“please,” you say, waving your hand around dismissively, as if to ease him. “i mean, you do look my age, but i bet you’re ancient. in human years, of course. this sort of thing doesn’t bother me.”

he blanches. “i’m… uhh…” his mouth open and closes wordlessly, and in the end, you’re to understand that he won’t be saying anything too incriminating.

“if you won’t tell me, i’ll have to take an educated guess then. is that okay?” there is barely a jerky tilt of the head from him before you continue.

“low thousands,” you state. “actually, i’m being stingy. let’s say mid thousands.”

you’re certain that if he were drinking water, he would’ve spat it all over you at this point. blood seems to rush to his face, his ears turning a deep shade of red as he gapes at you. “where are you pulling these numbers?!”

“i don’t know how to gauge your reaction,” you muse, tapping your chin with a forefinger. “too low? i think it’s pretty high myself.”

“i– i think that’s plenty high!” he practically yells out of embarrassment and you nearly feel bad. nearly.

you pull your knees underneath you on the couch and lean your hands on them. “come on. i can’t be far off. you seem like the type of guy that people can’t get enough of.”

midoriya mumbles something unintelligible under his breath, and you take a knee forward.

“what?” you ask.

his mouth parts, his tongue running along his bottom lip before breathing out, “i said, wouldn’t you like to know…?” the flush hasn’t left his ears yet at all and you suspect it won’t fade for a bit.

“hm,” you say, greatly entertained. with deliberation, you bring both your hands up to cup his cheeks. “i think you have me sold.” he almost sighs again, but cuts himself short, as if in an attempt to restrain himself.

“that’s good– great, great, i mean,” he says. his eyes drift to your thighs, and his fingers find purchase on your wrists. “and i have to confess–”

his unexpected speed catches you off guard, and in a split second, his fingers are gone and instead scrabbling at your waist, sinking lower by the second.

“i feel bad for not having questions of my own this entire time,” he says, his words almost stumbling over each other. “i hope you can forgive me.”

“is a demon asking me for my forgiveness?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “flattering. maybe.”

midoriya’s eyes just gleam feverishly, but up close now, his gaze looks different. to be specific, you never noticed how almond-shaped his pupils really were, and how fast they were blowing up. “maybe… maybe i can make it up to you instead?” he asks and you find that there is nothing clever left to remark with.

#midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #midoriya x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #this is on queue so who KNOWS when its gonna drop not me

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wolfflock · 4 years

Text

Please, Keep Love Hole (Chapter 19)

What can one lonely nerdy teacher do when he just loves sucking cock? The lone bathroom stall in a gay bar seems like the perfect place for him.

What can one hyper college student with a sports scholarship do when his friends are jerks? The lone bathroom stall in a gay bar seems like the perfect place for him, too.

Summary: The much needed discussion happens finally! And with that, we can start to see the light at the end of the (very dark) tunnel.

xxx

Derek tries his best to hide what has just happened when he walks out the hospital door. Erica stands up as soon as she sees him and they walk to the parking lot. He hugs her, but doesn’t say anything, because his voice would betray him, he knows. He says goodbye, kisses her cheek, promises to call tomorrow and drives away.

He shouldn’t feel as crestfallen as he does, really, because nothing he heard in that hospital room was news to him. He knew Stiles was just after a trophy but it still hurt. Sometimes you wish things you believed to be true were actually not.

This is why he is surprised when, come the new semester, he sees Stiles’ name among the students attending his classes. He doesn’t let himself read anything into it, and just forces himself to go on as normal.

---

When the date of the first lecture comes, he is somewhat nervous, he admits. He’s done this class countless times but he convinces himself that it isn’t because Stiles will be there, because that would be just childish.

He arrives 10 minutes early to the class to set up, and when he’s ready, he sits down and takes out his Kindle. Trying to pretend that he is not waiting for someone to enter, he looks up every time someone enters and greets them with a smile.

And then he enters. And Derek’s jaw almost drops. If he thought Stiles was handsome before, that doesn’t compare to this. His usually pale skin is tanned, standing in perfect contrast to his teal right –too tight - shirt. He seems stronger, more toned than before when he was all lean.

He looks up at Derek and smiles a little. Derek tries his best to smile back but he isn’t sure that it looks all that genuine. It’s hard to keep his mouth closed when he feels like his jaw is somewhere by his knees.

As the class starts, he composes himself and focuses on his work, not letting his mind – and eyes – wander. He survives without humiliating himself by repeating things or losing his train of thought, although he feels like he was way too stiff and not as funny as he usually is. He will still take is a victory.

When the class ends, the students start to leave as he begins packing his things up. As he’s just about to stand up to leave, there’s a quiet cough, making him look up.

The room is empty now, except for Stiles standing awkwardly in front of him.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” Derek replies. “You look better,” he blurts out, but immediately cringes.

“I am better,” Stiles smiles and leans against Derek’s desk. “I just wanted to say thank you for taking me to the hospital back then. You didn’t have to, but it was nice of you.”

Derek feels uncomfortable by the politeness of this conversation but awkwardly smiles up at Stiles anyway. “You’re welcome.”

There’s a long pause where both of them realize that you can’t really keep this going with niceties only so they either need to steer this conversation somewhere or just walk away.

“I was thinking I could tell you why it happened over coffee,” Stiles breaks the silence and Derek just stares.

He looks honest, and open, opening up for rejection. Derek doesn’t have the heart to say no.

Stiles leads them to that godforsaken coffee place where the whole thing started, the place where Stiles works. His coworkers greet them when they walk in, and Derek could swear he gets a few looks that seem just a bit judgemental. It must be his insecurities, he tells himself.

They take a seat my a big window facing the street, which makes Derek feel incredibly exposed. He just doesn’t like people looking at him through glass like he’s part of an exhibition or something. But this isn’t about him, he reminds himself. This is about Stiles who is about to share personal information with him, and if he wants the window table, so be it, he can suck it up.

When one of the waiters comes over, Stiles, smiling at them, orders a chai latte for himself and Derek gets an Americano. As soon as it’s just the two of them, though, the boy looks anxious, fiddling with a piece of paper he found on the table.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, you know,” Derek says, trying to sound reassuring.

“No, it’s… it’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, it’s just hard to admit it, you know?” Stiles looks at him for a second but he averts his eyes almost immediately. “Not many people know about it but I have told my closest friends and my therapist. It still doesn’t mean it’s easy to say out loud.”

He takes a deep breath but before he could say anything, there order arrives. He flashes a grateful smile at the waiter, and takes a fortifying sip of his drink. Derek tries to suppress his need to squirm in his seat as Stiles’ introduction didn’t leave him with the best ideas about what Stiles wants to reveal. The tension in his shoulders just grows with every passing second as his mind unhelpfully provides various scenarios, one more horrible than the other.

“So…” Stiles starts and Derek stills himself and takes a deep breath to focus on the jittery young man in front of him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have ADHD.”

Well, Derek kinda didn’t, he was too busy noticing other things about Stiles, if he wants to be honest. The realisation makes him feel like an ass, that he was too busy ogling a student to pay attention to his behavior.

“Growing up it got better but there are certain situations when it is more difficult to manage. Well, getting good grades is one of them. So when I went to your office and you sent me away… I really freaked out. I wasn’t sure what you were going to do… well, honestly, I was convinced you were going straight to the dean to have me suspended. Which would mean I would have lost my scholarship and my grades were just atrocious at the time so I decided that I needed to get my ass in gear to stay here, you know?” He looks up at Derek who just stares, eyes the size of saucers, wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him, chair, coffee and everything included.

That thought has never crossed his mind, ratting out Stiles. Even when he believed him to be an asshole who just wanted in his pants, he never thought about actually making an official complaint. Without interrupting Stiles, he just nods and hopes the boy will continue.

“And I did,” Stiles goes on, taking another sip of his drink and licking his lips, which Derek tries not to stare at. “I kept myself busy with classes and practice, and did my best to improve my grades. The thing is, you see, concentrating for an extended period of time is fucking hard.”

He looks up at Derek, eyes wide, and mumbles an apology. It eases some of Derek’s nervousness, to see him get bashful about swearing.

“But I had to do it, there was no other way, so I went back on medication. It was alright for a while but then it started to feel like a never ending cycle of just focusing on things all the time and that shit really drains you, you know? And… well alcohol helped. It colored the boring, grey days, you know? Gave them some details and accents. It wasn’t bad, not at first, anyway. Just one more drink when going out, or a drink after a workout. But… from one day to another, it got to a point where I was hiding several empty bottles under my bed, hiding them from my roommate. And I know what it looks like, my dad was a heavy drinker after my mom died, so I should have realised that I had a problem. Of course, it’s so much easier to see it when someone else does it, but fucking impossible when you’re the one drinking cheap crap out of plastic glasses and hoarding empty bottles just so you can get rid of them when no one is looking. So things got out of hand. God knows how long things would have kept going if things at the bonfire don’t happen.”

Stiles looks up at Derek and anxiously rakes his hand through his hair. He looks tired just from reliving it and Derek wishes he could just reach out and put his hand on Stiles’. As it is, though, he needs to relax his grip on the table because his knuckles are going white. He licks his lips and takes a sip of his coffee.

“What happened that day?” He asks quietly, and braces himself for the answer.

“You can probably guess what happened. Quite the cliché. IIt was a busy day and I didn’t have time to eat, really. And then I mixed my drinks. Alcohol and my medication don’t mix well together.” He hangs his head and scratches the slight stubble on his cheeks. “If you hadn’t been there that night, I don’t know what would have happened to me,” he whispers and looks straight into Derek’s eyes.

“I’m glad I was there,” Derek confesses and reaches out to touch Stiles’ hand.

A slow smile stretches across the boy’s face and it’s like the first ray of sunshine after a storm, it warms Derek’s heart.

“Thank you for telling me all this. It couldn’t have been easy,” he returns Stiles’ smile.

After this, they just sit there in comfortable silence and eventually start talking about more lighthearted things.

---

Next week after class, Stiles is leaning against the classroom door waiting for Derek to finish packing up. When he starts walking out of the room, Stiles only asks “Coffee?” And then they head to the place they have been to last time. This time Derek feels like he owes it to Stiles to return his honesty with his own. He tries to psych himself up to it, kinda hears Erica’s voice in his head saying “You’ve got it, Hale” as they order and take a seat at the same spot as last time.

After a few minutes of chatting about Stiles’ courses and some of Derek’s more memorable students, he takes a deep breath and leans forward.

“I think I, too, owe you an explanation for my behavior that time in my office.”

And even though he feels ridiculous confessing that he thought Stiles was after him to brag to his mates, he trudges on and talks to Stiles about his previous relationships. Only in vague terms, as he doesn’t feel comfortable with sharing intimate details, but Stiles seems to get it. He tells him how those past relationships have affected, or destroyed, more like, his confidence and how, for years, he was quite self-destructive. He doesn’t go into details much, only mentions torturing himself with diets and workout routines, but thinks about his Thursday night activities with bitterness.

This is probably the first time in a while when he feels ashamed about it, that maybe doing it was hurting him more than was helping him. He pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind to examine later, as their conversation, once again, flows to a more neutral ground.

---

It becomes a habit, that after class they grab a coffee together. The third time there’s no heartfelt conversation as they just chat about movies, games, music and hobbies. Stiles has a wicked sense of humor, he learns, and being around him just feels natural. Slowly they start to get to know each other and with that their coffee breaks start getting longer and longer.

---

After having coffee four times, Derek suggests Stiles transfer from his class. This time Stiles doesn’t do it to get away from him. It’s the exact opposite: so that he can be with Derek.

#eternalsterek #sterek #teen wolf #sterek fanfic #fanfic #please keep love hole #pklh #mine

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blog-sliverofjade · 4 years

Text

Hearth Fires 12: Chiaroscuro

Pairing: Remi Denier x OFC

Summary: Lorel Maddox just wants to live as a human, run her bakery in peace, and forget. Unfortunately, the alpha of the local leopard pack has very different ideas.

Remi Denier doesn’t know what to make of the female Changeling who wants nothing to do with him or the RainFire pack. He does know that he has a driving need to protect her. Even if it’s from herself.

While they’re embroiled in a battle of wills, there’s a war brewing on the horizon. The outside threat could not only destroy everything they hold dear, but tear apart the fragile new bonds of the Trinity Accord, plunging the world into bloodshed to rival the Territorial Wars of centuries past.

Word count: 2138

Content warning: Content warning for references to child abuse and overtly racist cops. Bear in mind that it was already written into the plot before 2020 happened.

Hearth Fires Masterlist

Beta read by the brilliant pandabearer

“I am disheartened by this reprehensible act against two of our citizens. We do not condone hatred, bigotry, racism, or intolerance of any kind here. I hope this brings us together as a community.”

-Narinder Rao, Bryson City Mayor

The sheriff was trying to play dominance games with an alpha. He left Remi cooling his heels in the waiting area for ten minutes despite the fact he’d arrived promptly for their scheduled meeting. Shaw had tried to avoid him outright, but Remi pulled the media card and he relented immediately; he’d won his position by a scant margin and didn’t have the political clout to withstand a media frenzy. If he still refused to play ball after this, well, Remi still had a few more cards up his sleeve.

Several deputies seemed to have important business in the front office while he waited. While he wasn’t in the mood to play, RainFire needed to cultivate as much rapport with Enforcement as possible. So he donned his easy-going demeanour like the well-worn armour that it was and flirted and charmed while not promising anything.

“Mr. Denier,” Shaw called, noticeably irritated he had to come in person since his receptionist was currently slipping his phone number into Remi’s hand. He’d scented the other man before he spoke, of course, but there was no need to be rude to the young psy in front of him who was obviously inexperienced in flirting.

“À plus tard, cher,” he winked, tucking the slip of paper into a pocket to dispose of later. Red flagged the younger man’s cheeks and he ducked past his boss to make his way back to his desk.

The sheriff’s polite smile was strained as Remi sauntered over to him; he made sure to keep the leopard in his line of sight as they walked back to his office in silence. Stale coffee and the maelstrom of dozens of people assaulted his senses.

“I always wondered, what made you decide to come here?” Shaw asked, southern accent thick, as Remi settled in one of the two chairs facing his desk. He stifled the urge to bare his teeth in annoyance at the small talk when all the animal wanted to do was tear out the throat of its enemy. It was too uncivilized to bother with social niceties, especially when it saw the man as a threat to be eliminated

“It was what was available for a new pack,” he shrugged, seeing no need for prevarication. The information was out there for anyone who cared enough to look, and he had a feeling the Sheriff had done his homework. There was more to the process, of course, but that was the bare bones of it.

“Doesn’t seem right that the good folk of this county don’t get a say in a pack of predators moving in,” Shaw feigned bewilderment and shook his head, light glinting off a pate shaved to hide the fact he was mostly bald. “It would’ve been better for everyone if we’d all stayed in our own lanes. Nothing good ever came of pandering to the other races.”

“Talk to your Trinity representative about that,” he said flatly. “Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, where are you at in the investigation into the assault that occurred outside Acapella two nights ago?”

“Mr. Denier-”

“Alpha,” he corrected. “My proper title is ‘alpha’.”

“Alpha Denier, it’s still the early stages.” In a false display of sympathy, Shaw leaned forward to loosely weave his thick fingers together on top of the desk. “We have no fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses, and no suspects. You must understand that we have limited resources and an inquest would require much of that with very little chance of success.” Shaw spread his hands as if in remorse.

“DNA evidence was taken at the hospital.” What he didn’t say was that the pack had taken their own samples, while theirs wasn’t admissible in court, there was still a chance that it would help identify the assailants for some extra-judicial justice.

“The hospital didn’t have a protocol for preserving evidence, no need for it before you people moved here. The samples weren’t logged properly and got destroyed. A damn shame, but I’ve been assured they’re remedying the situation.” It didn’t take the nose of a changeling to tell that Shaw was lying, he didn’t bother to hide his smugness at stonewalling Remi.

“RainFire offers its assistance in the investigation.”

“You don’t have the authority.” The flat rejection was no less than what Remi had expected.

“One of the survivors is changeling, therefore changeling laws apply should RainFire choose to exercise our rights.” What went unsaid was that changeling justice was swift, brutal, and brooked no interference.

“Forgive me if I doubt you’n’s impartiality.” The smirk that had been dancing in the human’s eyes died, leaving them flint hard.

“Local Enforcement leadership has already proven its own lack in that area.”

A vein in the officer’s forehead throbbed as his blood pressure and heart rate increased. The cat wondered how hot the blood would be, how far it would gush if it sank its teeth into the human’s carotid arteries. The temptation to allow the leopard to surface was callow, yet strong, and completely unnecessary. Fear filled the office, hovering beneath the thick cologne Shaw wore. He wondered if the sheriff’s sense of smell was dulled or if he thought the cloying concoction would hide his reactions from Remi. It might have worked against a changeling who hadn’t grown up surrounded by the stink of constant fear, but the acrid bite was etched too indelibly in his memory.

“It’s becoming increasingly clear that local Enforcement’s reluctant to protect the changeling community but is more than willing to police it. RainFire will respond to any attack on changelings or humans with changeling affiliations within the area we have claimed.” Remi let the leopard rise in his eyes, not enough to change his pupils, just enough to remind Shaw he was right to be afraid.

“I won’t tolerate a witch hunt.” The sheriff gave his best imitation of a snarl.

“Nor will we.” The leopard’s growl was genuine.

Whenever Lorel found herself in need of parental advice, she inevitably called her aunt. Maternal, of course, since she only knew her father’s name and that of his now-defunct pack. Even though her grandparents raised her, calling them was out of the question, unless she felt like a lecture and shame; in her experience, there was no such thing as unconditional love. No, what she needed was a calm perspective from someone who wanted the best for her.

Pacing the living room while the call went through, she rubbed her palms up and down her arms. There was a strange buzzing under her skin. All the feelings and sensations bouncing around in her head drove out what she intended to say by the time her aunt Nora answered. What came out instead was peevish.

“Did you know that RainFire intended to expand their territory?”

“Sorry… you… breaking… up.” Her aunt’s words came haltingly even though there was no interruption in the video itself. Lorel could still make out every coil of hair that was so like her own, albeit auburn compared to her copper, glowing in the Australian sunlight. The vague, pastel memories of her mother showed in the older woman like ghosts. Her childhood impressions of her mom were of someone a little less colourful, gentler, but with the same mass of curls. The familiar sight seemed to chase back the gloom of early evening filling the corners of her own living room.

“Static hasn’t been an issue for nearly fifty years.” Not since the psy had invested in international telecommunications infrastructure.

“Yes, I did know, and I knew you wouldn’t have taken over the bakery if I told you. You deserve to-” she sighed and held up her hands, apparently at a loss for words. “To be whole.”

“I’m fine,” snapped Lorel. “What I don’t need is a pack of leopards threatening to kill me for the crime of living where they want to stake a claim.”

“What you need is something you’ve never been given,” she replied evenly. “And I’m partly to blame for that. I should have done more.” At that, Lorel swallowed the acerbic words on her tongue.

“We’ve been over this: you’re barely fifteen years older than I am and were in college halfway around the world,” she reminded her aunt with as much gentleness as she could summon. “Speaking of which, how are your classes going?”

“Harder than I remember, but I’m enjoying it so far. Nice attempt at changing the subject, though.” She wagged a finger at her niece, who pretended to be abashed. “Give them a chance, Lolo. If it’s not what you need, my cousin’s still willing to buy you out, but at least you’ll know.” Unable to look into a face filled with such tender love and concern, Lorel hugged herself and looked down at her feet.

“Besides, some of those cats are drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Aunt Nora!” she snapped her head up to gape at the other woman.

“I’m old, not dead!” Laughter lit up her entire being, wrapping around Lorel like a warm hug, and she couldn’t help but smile along with her even as she shook her head in fond exasperation. While she was on the edge of forty, her aunt could be- and had been- mistaken for her sister, and certainly young enough to be studying for a second career as a marine biologist.

“I love you, Lolo, and I know you wouldn’t have taken this risk on your own.”

“Yeah, who wouldn’t want to risk death threats?” Lorel unfolded one arm to wave her hand in a flippantly sarcastic gesture.

“You have choices: give the leopards a chance or sell to Marselo.” Her harsh, no-nonsense tone had Lorel twisting her face into a moue of distaste. Sometimes she wondered how Nora and Klaudia Maddox could possibly be related, but then, when least expected, her aunt revealed a spine of pure steel and the family resemblance was undeniable.

“You didn’t even want SweetCheeks, something about moving to Hicksville, Nowhere? I had to guilt you into it.” The older woman’s insistence had seemed strange at the time but made sense now that Lorel knew what her ulterior motives were.

“Yeah, well, I like it so far,” she admitted begrudgingly, burrowing her bare toes into the Aegean blue area rug. “You built up a good business.”

“Damn straight,” Nora sniffed with obvious pride. “So, you better take good care of it, ya hear?”

“Yeah, yeah, love you, too.” She rolled her eyes and thrust both hands into her hair. “They’re dangerous, No-No.”

“You’ve survived things that would break other people. I know you were taught to fear them,” a shadow of remorse crossed her face, “but my money’s on you.”

“What if I can’t?” The question was a whisper because she couldn’t speak past the knot in her throat.

“What if you can? Imagine what you’d be capable of.” The strength of her aunt’s love and confidence in her was still a kick to the heart and she’d always regret not confiding in the other woman when she was younger. Nora had fluttered like a vibrant butterfly at the edges of her youth; shame and a twisted sense of protection had kept Lorel from reaching out to her sooner, she didn't want her spirited aunt to put her life on hold for Lorel's sake. What support Nora could provide, no matter where she was in the world, had gotten her through some of her toughest years. As an adult, she soaked in as much of Nora's love as she could, and tried to return it as best she knew how. “I have to go, I have a date with some algae. Let me know what you decide.”

“I will. I love you, No-No.” She kissed two fingers and pressed them to the comm screen.

“Love you, too, Lolo.” Her aunt mirrored the gesture on her end before they both hung up.

Twilight seemed to rush back into the room once the screen went blank; for once, she didn’t bother turning on a light and allowed the shadows to envelop her. It wasn’t fully dark to her eyes, never had been, yet she still kept nightlights around the house; a childish habit Nora had never ridiculed her for, seeming to understand without words why an adult changeling would fear the night.

“We are all sons of light and sons of day. We are not of night nor of darkness.” Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her head, accompanied by the remembered pain of sudden light on her sensitive eyes. “Why are you sitting in the dark? What are you trying to hide?”

Maybe it was time to stop hiding.

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patricianandclerk · 5 years

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Gratitude

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Dragon Age Discord | Requests always welcome!

Hawke&Fenris; Hawke/Anders.

It was not really a bench.

In the alienage, such a slum as it was, it was only the vhenadahl and the elvhen lanterns that were truly well made. This, perhaps called a bench, perhaps not, was little more than a few spare slats of red-painted board on top of some cement blocks, and on top of the wood, a mage. He was wearing a hood that covered his head, a piece of fabric folded over his nose to mostly hide the distinctive red shine of the birthmark there, and he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, staring into space.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, and Hawke looked up. Even just seeing the hazel shine of his eyes, Fenris could see he was tired, and he watched as Hawke reached up to pull the scarf from over his mouth, baring his frowning lips. “People will think you an elf, sitting here, alone, in the alienage.”

“Good,” Hawke murmured. “Then they won’t bother me.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t at the clinic,” Fenris said delicately, taking a few uncertain steps forward, but Hawke offered no protest, and moved slightly aside on the bench, so that Fenris could sink down beside him. The wood did not so much creak beneath their shared weight, evidently hardier than Fenris had thought at first glance. “You have been spending a great many hours alongside Anders, as of late.”

“A lot of people need healing, need help,” Hawke said quietly, still staring into space. “A few apostates offer hours if they can, but not many, and most of them are focused on leaving Kirkwall, not hanging around. I can’t blame them for wanting to get out.” He pressed his fingers against his knees, and Fenris looked down at them, at the strong hands that Hawke preferred to use for the healing magic he did, if the staff could be avoided. Anders was the same – the healing magic, Fenris had learned reluctantly, was easier to do with your hands. It allowed for finer control. “But I needed a moment. To…”

“Relax?” Fenris offered.

Hawke laughed. It was a low, melancholy sound, and he met Fenris’ gaze.

“No,” he said defeatedly. “Not really.”

He was a handsome man. Fenris had always known that, had even flirted a little, in the beginning. Hawke was attractive even despite his magic. Anders was to be feared, abomination that he was, ever unpredictable, but Hawke… Hawke’s magic had never held any fear for Fenris.

Fenris remembered, even, the first time he had been injured in Hawke’s presence.

“Don’t touch me,” Fenris growled as Hawke advanced, and Hawke hesitated, stricken. The wound was a great gash upon his thigh, bleeding freely.

“Fenris, please,” Hawke said. “Let me just—”

“No!”

And Hawke softened, his palms spread in a gesture of peace, said, “Fine. Fine. No magic, no magic – can I bandage it?”

He hadn’t pressed any further. When Fenris had relented, he had not rubbed in that he had used his magic to help, as Anders would have, didn’t harp on it. He merely sighed his relief, said thank you, and healed Fenris’ wounds as his skills allowed. He wondered, at times, what it must be like to lie beside him – not truly because of any attraction he fostered, but because of the curious aura Hawke exuded. He so often seemed older than his years, quiet, collected, and his calm was contagious, even when Fenris was all but whipped to a frenzy.

Did it work on the monster Anders carried inside him? Could Hawke becalm spirits, as well as broody elves and irritable townsfolk – could be becalm stormy seas, and quaking plains?

He was being unfair.

He was glad the thought went unvoiced.

“Varric tells me that one day all will be well,” Fenris said softly.

“Stories.”

“Nonsense,” Fenris agreed. “But pleasant nonsense. A nice thought. It is ideal, I think, to allow nicety to one’s thoughts.”

“Oh?” Hawke asked. “I shouldn’t take up brooding as a hobby, then?”

“Brooding is to be done in isolation,” Fenris said, mock serious. “I can’t allow too many people in my acquaintance to take up the art, lest the appeal of my own brooding is affected.”

Hawke’s laugh was sweeter this time, more genuine.

Fenris reached for one of his hands, and he took it, gently squeezing. Hawke did not draw away, their shoulders brushing, but merely squeezed back.

“I can feel the lyrium,” he said quietly. “Under your skin, thrumming. Some people think it’s alive, you know.”

“I can feel your magic,” Fenris replied. “It flows through you as blood does – I can feel it the way that I feel your pulse.”

“Do I frighten you?”

“No. No more than I frighten you.”

“Not at all, then.”

Fenris tapped his thumb against Hawke’s palm. “Are you frightened of that—” He stopped himself. “Of Anders?”

Hawke was silent.

“If you should ever wish to part ways, I would not…” Fenris hesitated. “I do not say this out of some desire to take you for myself, nor for reasons of scorn. Merely— If he did frighten you, if you wished to leave, you could ask for help from me. I would not be so cruel as to belittle your mistake. I do not… I would not have you think me as callous as I am capable, in the face of a friend broken-hearted.”

“He frightens me, sometimes,” Hawke admitted. Fenris felt the sickly, unpleasant shift in his chest – was that his heart? Was this friendship, truly, friendship away from Tevinter? Why should his heart be so tangled in matters of what Hawke, Carver, Varric, Isabela, did with their times? Why was his heart so open now, when he had always done his best to keep its gates neatly closed? “But I don’t want to leave him. I love him, and it isn’t… It’s not fear of him, not really. Thank you, though. I… I am grateful to have your respect, Fenris, if not your approval.”

“It’s nothing,” Fenris said.

“It’s more than you know,” Hawke murmured, and gently drew his hand away. “I have work to do in the clinic.”

“I’ll escort you,” Fenris said.

Hawke smiled at him. Tired, yes, but genuine. “Come on, then,” he murmured, and they walked together.

#as defined by dictionary #hawke #fenris #fanfic

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whispering-sumire755 · 6 years

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Tigerlily

Her mother hired her a driver and a bodyguard, though Laura didn't want it, said she'd be fine on her own, Talia didn't care, their family was in a precarious situation right now, and she'd be doing the same for Derek and the twins; Peter was only exempt because he was an adult who could take care of himself (and by that, Laura privately thought, what she meant to say was that Peter would totally emasculate and shred any ego and/or confidence the paparazzi/protesters had with his vicious words, if they were in public, and, if not, well. No one would miss them, he'd say, they must be vile people in their private lives to do such vile things in their public ones), and Philip because he was in Ireland with their father. Grouchy, Laura admitted defeat and accepted the burden of whomever her mother had hired, despite being two whole states away from the center of the chaos.

When she leaves her apartment, the first day she's being picked up by this person, she's taken utterly by surprise to see a buxom woman with honey-blonde hair in loose pig-tails tied up with big, sleek ribbons, a steampunk captain's hat atop her head, eyes like crushed nutmeg sprinkled with cigarette-ash flecks, wearing a white shirt and oil-slick black leather pants, her clothes clinging, like she chose them with the specific intention of showing off, standing in front of a pastel, antique Volkswagen beetle, looking for all the world expectant, bored, and vaguely amused in that same way Uncle Peter sometimes gets, like the whole world is a joke that only they're in on.

"You must be Laura," the woman- or, more accurately, girl, at least comparatively- says.

Laura laughs a little, nervous and slightly incredulous, "And you're my ride?"

Blondie flashes a grin, full-up of too many teeth, plumb-red tinted lips parting dangerously around too-sharp bone, an expression as seductive as it is terrifying. "That's right," she opens the backseat door and bows with a flourish, waving Laura inside the vehicle, "my name's Erica; our chariot tigerlily and I will be providing you all of your escorting and personal protection needs, as per your mother's- and therefore my paycheck's- request."

"Uh-mm," Laura laughs again, walking down the concrete steps and away from her apartment complex's entryway, stopping short when she gets to sidewalk proper, biting her lip and wringing her hands a little. Erica remains bowed, though she does turn her head to narrow her smokey eyes, the silken waterfall of her sunlight hair tangling with her neck, the black bow holding the pig-tail in place falling just under the girl's ear, contrasting the brilliant neon-chain piercings that decorate- nearly overwhelm- it. "Are you... old enough to be doing this?"

An explosive sigh as she rights herself, leans an elbow on top of the door and rests her cheek on her hand, its' opposite going to her hip with a half-resigned, half-sass sort of attitude. "Do you want to see my credentials? I've got about a dozen boxing medals, three belts, a nikyu rank in judo, and-" she does an asymmetrical kind of jazz-hands, underwhelming and seeming almost bored, like she's explained this thousands of times, before returning to her original position- "surprise surprise, a driver's license. I'm qualified, does my age really matter?"

"I... suppose not?"

"You don't sound too sure about that, princess."

Laura shakes her head with a little hiccup-squeak- a sound she will never admit to having made, and will quietly freak out about later, thank you- "Nope, I'm sure. I'm sure," and with that she skedaddles on into the car- as elegantly as she can manage, after everything- ignoring her driver's growing smirk with an awkward, embarrassed kind of desperation. She hears Erica huff out something of a laugh before the car door's shut gently behind her, the girl moving to the driver's seat and clambering in.

"So: where to?"

"Belle Grove Kindergarten," Laura answers promptly, mildly relieved to be done with the social niceties of it all.

"Oh, that's right, your mom did say something about you being a teacher." Laura hums affirmatively. "I hate kids, personally, but, you know-" she turns the key, starting the car and pulling away from the curb- "kudos to you for bringing knowledge to the next generation of assholes, or something like that."

Laura chokes on her own spit, and it takes a lot longer than she'd like for her to become composed enough to dignify that with a response, and all she ends up managing is a very high, very unsure, haphazardly chagrined and slightly sarcastic, "Thanks?"

She glimpses, from the rearview mirror, Erica's eyes crinkling with the mirth and width of her smile.

It's odd to learn about someone so extensively over such a short period of time, but, at the same time, it seems almost natural. There's awkwardness and blundering, but Erica and Laura just kind of click.

The wind-swept wild maiden, and the tamer, tranquil, motherly type of woman, both of them very, very different, but uniquely complementary to each other.

Erica, Laura finds, became a bodyguard straight out of highschool, her epilepsy- which she avoids talking about like the plague, so long as she can get away with it- made it difficult to become a driver in any capacity, but, her episodes winding down as she got older, along with finding meds to manage it that managed it well, or, at least, better than the others before, did seem help in that vein. Still, if she has even one seizure, it could revoke her license, which, while Erica understands, the safety of others and all that, she's also vaguely bitter about.

The girl's overtly sexual, voraciously flirtatious, with a mask of lethal confidence born from deep-rooted insecurities. She's very explorative of her identity at this point in her life because her identity always used to be her illness, and now that she has the chance to discover herself outside of that, she's diving in headfirst, reckless and urgent. She's a very in your face with both my middle-fingers in the air type of person, but there's a depth, a complexity to it, and a frugal kindness saturated in cynicism riding just underneath.

Her style, too, is fascinating, from her clothes to her car to the way she utilizes her language, and, despite mostly being a pacifist herself, if Laura's being honest the way Erica fights is... mouth-watering. Would be a vulgar thing to think. Which is why Laura isn't thinking it.

At all.

Erica taps the metal curl of her sunglasses against her teeth, glaring at the door that leads into Laura's apartment complex, impatient. She knows that the school-year is over, but she also knows that Laura isn't the type to have with staying inside or being idle. The woman likes fresh air and sunlight the same way flowers do, in that she needs it like breathing, could only wilt without it.

Which is why Erica ended up outside her place, figuring she'd still need a ride... somewhere.

Sighing explosively, she gets up off of her car, rubs the sun-scorched metal feeling out of her skin with a small grimace, and decidedly presses Laura's buzzer. No response. She clicks the button over and over again, irritating-persistent, pestering, until she hears a crash and an undeniably familiar voice shouting, "Cora, I swear to god—"

The aggrieved words halt, stutter, caught like fluttering-fragile butterfly wings in her long, pale throat, heterochromatic eyes startled-wide when they light on Erica—who'd backtracked down the small set of stairs, back to the sidewalk, to look up at the sight of her boss' daughter, her client, her friend, standing sleep-soft messy on her balcony. ink-silk curls in a loose-tumble bun, a slightly revealing preppy-pink satin slip under an unzipped hoodie, baggy sleeves sliding adorably over her bony hands, dream-like cotton-candy designs on it.

"Sorry to disappoint, princess," Erica smirks, watching as Laura's barefoot toes flex against charcoal grey floorboards.

Laura blushes furiously, rosy hue dusting her from her prominent collarbone all the way to her crown, getting ripe-strawberry dark just at the tip of her ears, and erica's helpless to the way her smirk widens into a genuine grin. "Not disappointed," Laura says, breezily, turning her eyes away and smoothing her hands down her skirt with all the air of recomposed royalty—the act betrayed entirely by her coloring and the high-pitch, embarrassed crackle of her tone. Erica bites back a laugh, scuffs the heel of her boot on the crack-crumble cement.

"You gonna grant me entry into your tower? Or am I gonna have to beg you to let down your hair?"

Laura's eyes flutter closed, tonguing the back of her teeth even as an indulgently mirthful smile overwhelms her. "You know... I shouldn't," she points out with a look, exasperatedly shaking her head even as she retreats back inside to buzz Erica in, fatalistic, calling over her shoulder: "You’re likely a dragon, come to kidnap me and burn me alive."

Erica rolls her eyes, jogs back up the little street-stairway, opens the door when it unlocks for her at Laura's bidding, before running up the three flights it takes to get to Laura's apartment, only the barest hints of breathless when she gets to the woman's door and sweeps inside. "No way am I a dragon. I'm more like... Excalibur," she leans into the woman's space, sultry-purr, "silver and sharp."

Laura backs away with a sound split between a groan and a sigh, "And just as dangerous."

"Not exactly," Erica hums, shutting Laura's door carelessly and meandering to the dining table, snatching an apple from the wicker-weave basket in the middle of its’ wax-shine mahogany expanse and biting into it. "The dragon kills you, princess, because it's hungry, driven by instinct, whatever. I, on the other hand, am wielded in your defence-" she shrugs- "or not. Maybe your evil step-mother picks me up and beheads you with me. My point is, as a weapon, I have no intent, good or bad."

She looks up from her fingers, picking restlessly at blood-rich apple-skin to find Laura staring at her, expression indecipherable.

Silence reigns- vaguely uncomfortable- for a second too long. Erica blinks, knits her brows.

"... What?"

Laura shakes her head, "I— Nothing. Nothing, nevermind." She clears her throat, shuffles things around that don't really need to be shuffled, restless. "Um, so. What're you doing here?"

"My job, unless I was fired while I wasn't paying attention."

Laura huffs a little, glittering starlight returning to her eyes, "No; I'll have need of you for a while yet. But..." She shrugs, "I don't really have anywhere to go."

"Bullshit," Erica scoffs, narrows her eyes when laura's only response is a deadpanned glare. "Seriously? No... friends? social gatherings? nothing?"

*"Nothing,"* Laura sighs, nearly a pout, flopping lethargically onto her white-cotton plush couch. "Just the kids—work."

Erica blanks for a moment, fidgets, eats her goddamn apple.

"Okay," she shatters the vaguely somber air after a moment, annoyed, tossing her apple-core into the trash-can on her way to the couch before lifting Laura bodily off of it, hauling her into a bridal-carry easy as anything, and ignoring her yelp of utterly indignant shock. "Fuck this. We're going out."

Laura sputters for a moment, hands flapping a little wildly as Erica straight-up carries her past the threshold and- since the stairs don't seem like a good or practical idea- to the elevator, before she resignedly, almost begrudgingly, gives in, wrapping her willowy arms around Erica's neck and melting into her with a huff. "I suppose it wouldn't do to leave tigerlily all by their lonesome, anyway, would it?"

“No,” Erica agrees victoriously. “No, it would not.”

They spend the day driving around, avoiding paparazzi, getting frozen yogurt, a whole trunkload- literally- of books, two records, a record player, and a moment saturated in the floaty-fluff memory of dancing with Erica in the middle of the street, both of them a study in awkward clumsiness and both of them devolving into hysterical fits of laughter.

The image of Erica with her head thrown back, their bodies spinning, dizzying, her laughter throaty and reckless and breathless-wild, is replaying in Laura’s head on a loop when Erica walks her back up to her apartment, the sight of the girl's teeth, tongue, the roof of her mouth, unexplored places that Laura suddenly, yearningly, viscerally, wants to map out, discover, taste, know. Which is probably why, when Erica grins a, "G'night, Lulu," with every intention of leaving, Laura ropes her in- knuckles fisted in the collar of her shirt- and kisses her soundly.

Erica freezes for just the barest hints of a frantically eternal, terrifying moment, before she's all motion, folding Laura into her body with all the ease of a sculptor molding clay, fingertips, sharp nails, pressing into her shoulder blades as she dives into her in turn, greedy, with a gasping moan, wavering somewhere deep, all animalistic, ferine need.

When they part enough to allow air back into their lungs, lips bruised and spit-slick, Erica rasps, teased lovely, so fucking lovely at the edges, "That was-" a swallow, dry, clicking- "unexpected."

"No, it wasn't. It was a kiss. That's what you're supposed to do at the end of a date, isn't it? Kiss?"

Erica snorts, dissolves into giggles, lets her head fall to rest on Laura's shoulder, button-nose pressed into Laura’s pulse-point. "Yeah," she agrees, every muscle easing down to supple, pliant, and Laura hadn't even realized how tightly Erica was holding herself until now. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

"Come inside?" She asks, maybe begs, and Erica lifts her head, raising an eyebrow, which has Laura rolling her eyes. "To cuddle. Watch Netflix? Eat p—" she halts herself- because she knows, she knows how much Erica hates popcorn- squints her eyes at the ceiling for a second as she thinks, both arms wrapped around Erica's back, one hand absently playing with her puppy-soft hair. "Poptarts," she decides, finally, looking back down into Erica's eyes, only to be knocked entirely breathless by how much of the girl's naked heart is beating in them, joyous, honeycomb sweet, and glittering with something new, transcendent, something that, maybe, hopes to be love.

Erica catches whatever expression of besotted surprise Laura must be wearing with a kiss, like fireflies in a mason jar, says, "Sure. Poptarts sound good."

And Laura realizes, mostly accidentally, that she's now dating her best friend, and her whole world glows.

(When the political turbulence gets tied up, and the reason for Erica being hired concisely ends, she moves on to a new job, another client, but her relationship with Laura remains, grows, develops. The two women explore each other, their identities together, and, when Laura decides to bring the girl home to introduce her to her family- them road-tripping to BH in tigerlily- Erica brings a fruit-basket, which she bequeaths Talia, for essentially introducing them.)

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verrottweil · 7 years

Text

la plus belle de céans

unbeta'ed but i just needed to get the first chapter of -whatever- this is out of my system, okay?

i wrote this because i really really like the way ifan says lohse's name and because i also high-key want to make the canonical sex scene a 100x more grittier and desperate. i mean i haven't written it yet, but /details/

on ao3

-Coin in the dead pauper’s mouth

will give me Lucian’s luck,

the noblewoman whispers before she slots

a Ducate

between an orphan’s frostbitten lips-

Superstition runs rampant in Verdistis.

At dawn, the prettiest scullery maids scour the skies for a single blue heron in the hopes a wealthy merchant’s son will notice them, and at dusk the city guards coat their breastplate with the crushed petals of a yarrow flower to ward off daggers in the dark.

Never mix your ales, the innkeeper reminds a barmaid when she cracks open a barrel, it brings us no luck lass.

Novice summoners throw bottles of expensive wines against late Corinna’s house, merchants refuse to shake hands over the threshold of their mansions and even the most crooked of thieves dutifully shoots a quick, simple prayer to the Divine before a heist. You was one o’ us, they’d whisper hotly, fumbling with a lockpick as if a demon was on their tail, and there’s still honor among us thieves, ain’t there?

These are certainties–

Good fortune rests in a pinch of salt thrown over the shoulder, a touch of stardust powder on a lovely woman’s cheek, a golden coin inside the dead pauper’s mouth–

Wolves will steal away little children sleeping too close to the edge of the bed and drag them underneath the willow root–

Ghosts won’t enter a home where sage is burning in the fireplace–

Lohse is ten years old and she knows that last one is complete and utter nonsense. Her mother crumbles sage leaves in the burning hearth every evening, but that doesn’t keep the spirits and demons out, doesn’t prevent her from turning into a haunt. Some take, some give, some teach her things – how to heal, how to hunt, how to hurt – and others don’t go gentle into that good night at all, seizing control of her small body and sending her into violent fits. One turned her tiny, clenched fists onto the city guard and she was dragged back home by the scruff of her neck, spitting curses in a foreign tongue, shrieking and wailing.

She’s a half-sized pint of energy regardless, wild and bright-eyed, with hair the color of a forest fire and skinny, skinned knees.

Don’t sleep too close to the edge of the bed, her mother often warns her, reaching for her under the threadbare coverlet, pulling her close against her chest. Her collarbones grow sharper, more defined as the days turn into months, and her face gaunt, pale, stricken with worry. The hovel smells of smoke, of sage, but the cold keeps biting at their toes regardless. Or the wolf will drag you to the forest, under the willow shrubs, my little one.

She bites her tongue, swallows down the brutally honest words she wants to give in turn sometimes, I’d let him mum, I’d bloody well let him.

On crowded street corners, Lohse sings, jokes or dances, and on lesser days during the cruel, cold winter months mostly, she pleads, begs for alms or feigns death when a rich, soft-hearted noblewoman passes by.

She knows the city’s alleyways like the back of her hand and Lohse learns to survive on the skin of her teeth, on her lightning quick wit and razor-sharp tongue.

Whatever keeps the hunger at bay.

People have precious little coin to spare these days though. These are hard times, she overhears the general store merchant say to her mother, I heard sly ol’ Lucian’s rallying his army against the Black Ring, there’s a war coming, mark my words lady. She doesn’t really get what a war has to do with poverty, with an empty belly and no supper on the table, but her mother seems to understand and sighs and stretches herself even thinner.

The drunkards in the Ducal Inn always raise their mugs in unison when they talk about the war against the orcs, as if they were there too. In candlelight, they praise the Divine with flushed cheeks and slurred words as the barmaid brings another round to the table. Ferol is feral land, they agree, and bless Lucian for trying to tame it.

Lohse’s whole world is contained within Verdistis’ walls, and beyond there’s only woodland, the crumbling stonework of the old church they visit for mass, Rivertown market.

After the last frost’s thawed, the city holds a festival. Fanfare rings throughout the streets as the travelling troupe dances over the cobblestones, and people set up stalls in the park, hang garlands between the trees, hand out soup made of watercress and green peas for the poor, try to sell trinkets they no longer have use for.

Outside the wine merchant’s store, his servants load ox-drawn cart after ox-drawn cart with barrels and crates full of bottles.

Verdistis is bright, bold and proud in the face of a crusade.

Lohse’s thirteen years old and musters a cheerful smile, wanting to impress the sour-faced, burly leader of the travelling troupe with her song and dance.

There are patches poorly-sewn into her dress. Her fingers were clumsy from the cold, that seemed to creep through every crack between the planks of that sorry excuse for a hovel she lives in. I need to get out of here, she thinks, desperate, and sings even louder, does a magic trick.

Her mother died a fortnight ago. Ah yes, the bloody flux, the good doctor had exclaimed gravely, looking silly with his dainty handkerchief hard-pressed against his nose, you’re extremely fortunate not to have contracted it yourself, young lady. Lohse had to pay him two ducats for his troubles, and sold off anything valuable left to finance the funeral, to afford a cross planted in the rich graveyard soil with her mother’s name carved into the wood.

Orphans only last so long on alms and Lohse doesn’t intend to survive on moldy breadcrumbs and strangers’ bleeding hearts alone.

“Enough,” the ringleader bristles curtly. Her skirt whips around her ankles when she comes to a complete standstill, stopped dead in her tracks, and she rubs her hands together, shaking off the sparks. His eyes are glassy, like brass buttons under candlelight, when he gives her another once-over.

With a nod, – and even that’s too generous a description, it’s more a light inclination of the head – the leader of the travelling troupe makes up his mind. Lohse meets his scrutiny head-on, staring up at him with a defiant expression, as if her heart isn’t threatening to leap through her mouth. “If you know how to earn your keep, I got no qualms in you staying, girl.”

“I will. I mean, I do. Know how to earn my keep, I mean,” Lohse replies excitedly, rocking forwards and backwards on her toes. She tilts her head, pops her lips and asks, “So, uhm, what do I call you? I mean—”

The ringleader bares down the full weight of his gaze on her bony shoulders, on her patchwork dress and wildfire hair. He’s built like a brick house, scars and muscles, the type of man her mother would warn her to steer clear off if they’d met in one of the city’s alleyways. “Chief,” he says. “If you’re gonna call me anything, call me chief.”

Lohse meets the other members of the travelling troupe that same afternoon.

They’re a colorful bunch of singers, musicians, dancers, jokers and fortune tellers, from every corner on the continent it seems.

She pulls her weight. A young lizard dancer called Blaisdell, whose scales remind Lohse of the jellyroom growing in the shadow of the Ducal Inn, teaches her how to dance with magic, how to shoot searing flames from her fingertips. She learns how to strum the snares of a lute with nimble fingers, how to hold a high note without her lungs giving out, and how to execute the punchline of a crude joke properly.

They travel dangerous roads, so the chief has her practice with a bow, a sword, a dagger in each hand, and what her newfound family won’t teach her, the new spirits her roadside inn of a mind attracts will.

On one evening, after the travelling troupe’s just set up camp at the edge of the Dark Forest, Lohse shacks up with a fortune teller from the Mezd desert. Candles are burning in little stone bowls on their heavy trunks. Outside the dwarven musicians are quarreling about a lost game of dice.

My specialty’s palm reading, she says in a soft, melodious voice as she takes Lohse’s hand in her own, would you -perhaps- like a demonstration?

Her fingers are adorned with heavy rings and thin golden chains looping back to a fine, bright stone on the back of her hand. There are crow feet at the corners of her almond-shaped eyes and wrinkles around her mouth. Candlelight flickers over her face like a blessing.

With her forefinger, she gently traces the curve of the bracelet lines above Lohse’s wrist and hums lowly, channeling a burst of Source within her. When Lohse looks down on their held hands, there’s an unearthly glow clinging to their skin. She tells her of demons to come and adversities to expect, the customary niceties really, until…

You will run with a lone wolf, the palm reader intones, simultaneously looking and not looking at Lohse as she speaks, And make the whole world pack.

Those words seemed to stick, like honey to a teaspoon, like balm to skin, like blood to a murderer’s hands. Lohse would spend the night wondering what those words meant and would fall asleep dangerously close to the edge of the makeshift bed.

Even if Lohse feels indebted to the chief and his travelling troupe for getting her out of Verdistis, she was told there was never any obligation for her to stay permanently. Artists have always joined and left their ranks at a whim. Why’d you be any different, girl?

She’s eighteen years old and lingers hesitantly at the grand stone city gates, genuinely nervous for the first time in years, with a knapsack under her arm and a lute strapped to her back. Arx is noisy around her, and while the bones of the city are old and stately like a prim and proper merchant’s mother, the square is still thrumming with life and activity, even after the travelling troupe’s broken down their camp and loaded the oxen-drawn carts with their sails and tentpoles.

It’s close to lunchtime when she takes her goodbyes. Two magister recruits in their brazen red robes scramble past her towards the barracks, almost tripping over the cobblestones.

“Your name better haunt the roads, girl,” the chief says, with the midday sunlight baring down on his broad back and bald head. There are far more wrinkles around his eyes now, than when she first met him. She blinks back the tears in her eyes and ushers a facsimile of a smile. “Break a hindleg, like Blaisdell would say.” His voice is gruff, and Lohse could swear she saw something akin to pride on his face.

Lohse clutches the strap of her knapsack tightly and nods.

“There’s a whole continent for me to conquer, chief,” she responds determinedly. “And if Lucian can tame Ferol, what’s stopping me from doing the same, right?”

It’s hard, life on the road, but Lohse’s long-since learned how to scrape by on next-to-nothings.

She rouses tavern guests with rowdy drinking songs, watching how they toss coins at her feet until her throat’s sore and her voice’s gone hoarse, and the last of the drunkards slump over, asleep in their creaking chairs or against the counter of the bar. Oh, all the coin I e’er spent, I spent it in good company, she sings loudly, laughing when the crowd starts to sing along, and all the harm that e’er I’ve done, alas it was to none but me. Sometimes she falls into the good graces of one of the barmaids and gets a fresh pint, free of charge.

The farmers in Paradise Downs like her well enough when she leads the procession during the harvest festival, humming the traditional hymns, dressed up in autumn colors. Dead leaves crunch under her bare feet. There are swipes of dried sheep’s blood on her cheeks and the smell of apple cider hangs heavy in the air, like the promise of a night’s rest in a barn or – even better – in a farmstead’s bed. Lohse bows her head low to an effigy of Rhalic and prays that she better gets paid handsomely for this.

During a ride along Reaper’s Coast, she watches the faraway horizon slowly eat the silhouette of a magister’s ship. Lohse kicks her legs, holding onto the back of the wagon; the wheels squeak when they grind pebbles underfoot. Madcap fiddles with the strings of the fiddle, cursing sourly under his breath when another one snaps. Kroller keeps telling the same dirty joke about the difference between a lizard’s and an elf’s tongue to the coachman until he gets the punchline right. It takes a while.

Papa Joris claps her on the shoulder and points towards the sea. “Lohse, you ever find yourself in a sinking ship, follow the rats. They’ll find you a way out.”

“What’s this all about?” She asks, leaning back and settling her elbows on the wood, staring at him upside down. Her unruly hair falls pin-straight for once.

The well-natured dwarf takes on an air of importance and looks out over the water. He idly rubs at the large, jagged scar on his right cheek, that starts from his ear and disappears under the thick hairs of his beard. “I once fought a real beast, you know, in a different life. When I still served in the queen’s army.” Papa Joris sighs and all the tension bleeds out of him; the memories promptly tucked back under his skull and away from his loose-lipped mouth. “So. Take my advice, and follow the rats.”

“Sure thing, chief,” Lohse replies easily, bouncing her foot to the tune of Madcap’s broken fiddle.

Summer heat swelters under her skin, poised upwards like needles; sweat gleams in the hollow of her collarbones, in the curve of her elbows and knees.

The crescendo of her voice—

is not her own.

She’s the prettiest of the house, take her by the hand.

People are clapping to the beat of her feet stamping down on the floorboards. Lohse recognizes the numbness that comes with possession and has no choice but to allow the spirit’s presence to wash over her. Her awareness gets pushed into a narrow corner of her mind as her vision fogs up.

The crescendo of her voice—

rises, rises, rises.

Bring, bring our beautiful.

Bring your sheep from the fields, shepherdess.

Her hips sway like a snake-charmer’s pet, from right to left to right again. Someone smashes a bottle over the back of a woman’s head, and blood-stained glass and strong-smelling ale gushes down onto the floor. Whatever’s gotten a hold over her mind, is terribly persistent, hammered into the heart like a nail in Anhar’s boots. Stuck.

The crescendo of her voice—

rises, rises, rises.

Bring, bring our beautiful.

She’s the prettiest of the house.

Through the fog, Lohse hears someone screaming.

Everyone in the inn is staring at her, breathing haggardly, stumbling unsteady feet, holding onto one another as if dancing. The room stinks of spilled alcohol and blood.

The crescendo of her voice falls.

When Lohse catches a glimpse of her face in the reflection of a silver goblet, she finds her eyes turned pitch-black.

She swallows dryly and thinks,

shite.

It happens again at her performance near Driftwood—

One young magister backhands her harshly across the cheek; Lohse accidentally bites her own tongue and the overwhelming taste of blood fills the inside of her mouth. She watches the maddening crowd pull and push at each other from a frog’s perspective, lying defenseless on the ground from the blow. There are blurs of reds around her.

Two magisters haul her up by her arms and drag her away, muttering under their breaths about how she’s the ‘second sourcerer causing trouble’ and how there’s ‘still a spot on the Merryweather’. They hold her up so high, her toes barely brush the grass.

Lohse opens her mouth to speak, but before she can manage a word, the tallest of the two magisters kicks her in the shin and hisses for her to keep quiet. She can feel the bruise forming there, the shape and size of his foot, and groans incoherently in response.

They slip heavy iron bands around her wrists and ankles, and a strange, tight-fitting, blue-flickering collar around her neck–

“You’ll be cured,” the magister tells Lohse before she pushes her into the metal cage on the cart and slams the door in her face. “You better be grateful.”

“Oh really?” Lohse prompts back, stretching the ‘y’ in the word really, holding onto the bars. “I doubt you’re sending me to Fort Joy for an exorcism and a two-week vacation.”

The magister doesn’t acknowledge her anymore and turns the key inside the lock, and if there was ever a picture for the word final, this would be it.

#lohse #divinity original sin 2 #divinity original sin #divinity original sin lohse #my writing

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5hfanfiction · 7 years

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Flowers on my doorstep - Chapter 7

After a gruelling back and forth session with my new therapist, Demi, I headed to the auditorium to meet Camila. I was mostly looking forward to talking and joking around with her, as well as learning to play again, because today had been both mentally and physically exhausting and the younger girl always seemed so full of life and hope, despite everything she had to deal with.

I wondered if things were harder for here having to deal with her OCD, because this morning looked very tough. I noticed how sad and embarrassed she looked when she couldn’t control herself in performing her rituals in front of me, but I’ve been googling it and therefore already knew that it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t stop. It made her feel better and sometimes people just needed to feel better.

I entered the auditorium from audience doors to see a pretty looking Camila sat on top of the shiny black grand piano, wearing a frilly floral patterned crop top with a shoulder cut off paired with light blue denim jeans that made her look, well…very nice. Camila was pretty.

“Hallo.” I called out, grabbing the girl’s attention.

“Hey Lauren!” Camila greeted cheerfully hoping of the piano and stumbling a bit before regaining her balance and giving me the jazz hands, making me laugh.

“Hi.” I greeted again coming to a stop in front of her with a friendly smile on my face. I didn’t want to look miserable. Lucy always said I looked miserable and that I should smile more, even when I wasn’t happy, which was a lot with her.

“You’re adorable.” Camila chuckled. I quickly looked down to the floor getting all flustered at Camila’s niceties. I wish everyone in the world was as nice as Camila. “How was physiotherapy?” Camila asked moving to the piano and spreading out our sheet music.

“Um- An-n-noying?” I second guessed, not sure how how to describe it or if that was the correct answer.

“Ahh, well that sucks.” Camila spoke empathetically. “Do you wanna come sit down and we’ll get started?” She said taking a seat on one half of the stool.

I nodded and made my way over and sat uncomfortably next to her. It was a bit too close for my liking, but I had to learn to play again. So I grin and bared it, ignoring the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest begging me to flee and the skin-crawling sensations running up my back.

“So, um, you can read notations okay, right?” Camila questioned, afraid of offending me.

“Mhmm.” I hummed, surprisingly that part of my brain stayed in tack. I just sometimes had trouble spelling words because I couldn’t remember them, but music was different there weren’t so many things like they’re were with words. Words had all these letters and rules, that I just couldn’t focus on and remember all at once. “M-Moving my f-fingers all at the s-same is the hard part.” I showed her, trying to wiggle all my fingers at the same time and failing. It just looked like I had the shakes.

“So, your coordination sucks?” Camila said, finding the word I was originally looking for.

“Pretty m-much. You say ‘sucks’ a lot.” I pointed out laughing, because it was a joke.

“That’s because everything fucking sucks.” Camila stated with a firm nod.

“Not eve-ry-thing.” I reminded her, breaking down the word as I said it. “Music is nice.” I told her, bravely lifting my fingers to the keys and playing a few notes of my favourite song to the best of my ability on the right hand.

“That’s really pretty.” Camila stated, even though I wasn’t playing at nearly the correct tempo, throwing the rhythm out of zinc because I couldn’t get my hands to move quick enough. “What’s it called?” She asked, making me happy, because no one ever asks they just complement it and move on with their lives not appreciating the fine art, that we call music, nearly enough.

“K-Kiss the rain by Yiruma.” I told her feeling completely endeared by the song and what it made me feel. It was so peaceful and made me feel alright, when things were definitely not alright. “I can’t p-play it that w-well though.” I shook my head.

“Practice makes perfect Lauren. How about we try a scale of C major first?”

“O-Okay.” I agreed, stuttering out of nerves more than anything this time, not that anyone would notice the difference.

“Alright, let’s see you play it first and then I’ll jump in..if need be.” Camila instructed. I lifted my right hand and attempted to scale a C major but it was difficult trying to tuck my fingers under each other and move swiftly up the keys.

“Sorry.” I apologised when I hit a bum note and removed my hand from the keys.

“Don’t apologise, it’s okay. Here, ” She lifted my hand but I flinched back when she did completely terrified, but my fear soon shifted into embarrassment at my own reaction, I went to apologise again, but Camila beat me to it. “I’m sorry, Lauren. It didn’t mean to-” Camila trailed off, not really sure what she had done. “Is it alright for me to touch you?” She asked. I wasn’t sure if she was clocking onto my reasoning behind my reaction. So I internally prayed that she wouldn’t ask or ever find out because I’d feel so ashamed having people know. Not many people knew. Just Normani, my immediate family, my therapist, Doctors and Ke. No-one else, not ever.

“Y-Yeah, sorry.” I apologised as she gently rested her hand above my and moved it towards the keys. Her hands were soft and warm against mine, which was a stark contrast against Lucy’s one, which would feel harsh and tight and cold. “Alright try and play it against, slowly.” She added and I began playing the scale as Camila watched and guided my hand helping me to hit the correct notes. “You’re doing good.” She praised with a reassuring smile, “maybe try and move your actual had rather than single fingers when moving up the keys?” She suggested as I was having trouble tucking my thumb under my fingers.

“Al-Alright.” I did as she said and moved my hand rather than tucking and moving along. It worked a bit better despite the delay between the scale.

“That was so great Lauren.” Camila praised clapping her hands excitedly, seeming genuinely happy for me. “Now let’s try and speed it up."

Camila and I went on like that for the next two hours and with Camila’s help I was able to scale most of the piano with ease. I even taught Camila how to play a song, which she was really happy and bragging to me about as she walked me to my next class. "You know, you should watch out Jauregui, or I’ll be taking your place.”

I shook my head laughing at the younger girl’s antics. “You w-wish, Cabe-yoy-o.” I stuttered out accidentally, trying to copy the other girl’s use of our last names, but failing and bursting into laughter at how funny it sounded. “I’m so sorry.” I laughed, holding my hands up to cover my mouth. “Cabello-yoyo.” I reiterated cracking up again and causing Camila to burst out into laughter too as we stopped outside my class.

One thing I had noticed about Camila was that she was extremely nice, even without me deserving it. She never lost her temper, shouted or tried to hurt me, which was really reassuring when I was trying to make friends, but as much as I knew these things and was feeling slightly more comfortable hanging around Camila I still felt paranoid that at any moment she could snap and hurt me or worse not want to be my friend.

“Lauren?” Camila spoke pulling me from my thoughts and I realised I was staring off into the empty courtyard opposite us through the glass windows.

“Um- y-yeah? I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I was just saying that there’s a party tonight in the boys dorm and that guy Michael I told you about is going to be there. So would you, like, go with me?” Camila asked and I choked. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there. I wasn’t ever allowed to to parties, because Lucy didn’t let me and the last time I did I was hurt really badly and I just couldn’t get over it. No matter how hard I tried to move on.

“I-I- um c-c-can’t.” I stuttered out, but felt bad at the disheartened look on her face when I rejected her offer, so I decided to give her a reason so she wouldn’t blame herself or feel like she had done something wrong. It wasn’t her, it was me. “It’s my b-brain.” I gestured to the stupidest part of my body. “It h-hurts..when there’s…lots of p-people and l-l-loud noises.”

“Oh!” Camila said and an emotion flashed between her eyes, but I didn’t know what it was, because I hadn’t know her that long. “Well that’s okay then. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Camila shifted awkwardly on her feet.

“D-Does it affect you a lot?” Camila asked quietly, like she was scared to ask the question.

“Yes.” I signed, telling the truth. There was no point lying considering Camila already knew the truth of my brain injury and I really needed a friend who understood me, now that Normani wasn’t around.

“Well that sucks.” Camila joked using that word again.

“H-how is it a girl with a brain injury has a better vocabulary than you?” I laughed trying to diffuse the tension.

“You’re just smarter, I guess.” Camila shrugged, “Hey, would you wanna go for coffee again after class?”

“Sure!” I nodded, happy that Camila actually wanted to hang out with me.

“Okay.” She laughed. “I’ll see you later then? Say hi to Dinah as well.” She said walking backwards down the hall.

“D-Dinah?” I questioned worriedly, even though I shouldn’t be because she helped me earlier.

“Yeah! She takes this class as well!” Camila shouted, before stumbling backwards and falling onto the floor.

“S-shit. Are you okay?” I called as Camila pushed herself to her feet.

“Pfft…me? I’m good. I was just checking if the gravity still worked. It does. Kay, bye!” She waved before disappearing down the hall, this time walking forwards, leaving me with a probably dopey smile on my face, before I too disappeared from the hall and into my lecture room picking a seat at the back of the class where I had less chance of being picked to answer questions.

I carefully pulled out my notebook and placed it gently on the pullout desk attached to my chair as well as grabbing a blue pen from out of my bag. I took a deep breathe and admired the quietness of the room and savoured the feeling of not doing anything, but the more in tune I became with my body the more I noticed the dull pain and aches running through my muscles.

You’d think I’d be used to this feeling by now, but you never get used to the feeling of not being able to be yourself, because not only did I have to overcome the physical barriers built up from my life I also had to get over the mental ones that had been built.

“AYE!! FLOWER GIRL!” A loud voice that I had become accustomed to hearing shouted marching up the stairs and shimming down the row of seats to sink down next to me. “How’s things going? Did you see Camila? How did the practice go? I didn’t know you took this class.” Dinah said bombarding me with a bunch of words that got tangled up in my mind as I tried to keep track of the words and what they meant.

“I- um…what?” I questioned, causing Dinah to pause and stare at me for a beat in that weird scrutinising way she does like she’s trying to solve a crossword.

“How are you?” Dinah asked this time sticking to one question.

“I am good, thanks. How are you?” I responded politely.

“Ugh!!” Dinah groaned throwing her head back in annoyance.

“What’s the m-m-matter?!” I asked panicked, thinking I’d done something bad.

“No. No.” Dinah shook her head without enlightening me. “Do not be one of those people who like to speak in dead end sentences and formalities.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I apologised feeling slightly confused because that’s how my mom had told me to greet people.

“So, how was your day?” Dinah asked again and I was confused because I had just answered that question and she was starting to make my head hurt. “Minus the bullshit.” She added.

“Erm…it’s been t-tiring.” I replied in more of a question than an answer.

“Because of your physiotherapy?” Dinah questioned in a know-it-all tone of voice.

“Um- yeah.” I whispered an agreement feeling slightly embarrassed that she knew I had to go to those types of things, because a clear indication of something being wrong with me and Dinah seems loud so I didn’t want her to go telling people things. What if Camila has told her what’s wrong with me? The thought popped into my head and I quickly stood up to go and find Camila because she needed to know that she couldn’t tell her, but what if Dinah already knew?

“Whoa…where are you going? Class is literally about to start.” Dinah said gesturing to the man setting up his computer at the front of the class.

“To f-find Camila.” I explained p, because I really needed to tell her, because it was important.

“Now? Can’t you just text her or something?” Dinah offered slowly analysing me and I slowly began to realise how strange I was appearing at that moment, so, I sat back down in my seat, like a normal person, and nodded my head at Dinah’s suggestion.

“Okay y-yeah. I’ll do that.” I slid my phone out of my pocket and typed a text to Camila.

Lauren(2:03pm): Hii, its Lauren. Have u told Dinah abowt my 'thing’?

Camz(2:04pm): No, of course not. I didn’t think u wanted me too?

Lauren(2:06pm): Yor right. Don’t tell her, thanks. Bye.

I breathed a sigh of relief at Camila’s texted and slipped my phone away, only to notice Dinah staring at me…again. It was starting to worry me. What if she wanted to hurt me? I don’t like being hurt. So I shimmed as far away from her as I could in my seat as the professor started his presentation on social norms.

The college thought it would be good if I took sociology so I could learn more about people and society. I didn’t mind though because I found it fascinating and this professor didn’t talk to fast or use hard words so I was able to understand clearly what was going on.

Dinah didn’t say much else she just sat there writing loads and loads of information down and putting her hand in the air to ask the questions, whilst I wrote like a four year old and kept my notebook concealed from the girl. I think she likes this class and is very smart because no one else was saying or writing the things she was.

I wanted to write as much as her, because she seemed good at it and smart. I wanted to be good at things as well. I really wanted to be seen as smart again. I used to be very smart, I even graduated a year earlier than everyone else. Mostly so I could get out of school and move out form my parents house.

They wasn’t very accepting of me when I was younger because I liked girls and my mom said I shouldn’t and I was setting a bad influence for my siblings. She also said a bunch of nasty stuff, but we have made up now and she says she loves me, but I’m still not sure. Sometimes I think she only took me back because I almost died. That’s what Normani says. She doesn’t like my mother very much, because she kicked me out for being myself and loving who I loved- sometimes I wished I didn’t love who I loved, because if I didn’t I wouldn’t be where I am now.

After two brain scrambling, word following hours we began to pack up our stuff as people filtered out of the lecture hall chattering loudly. I stuffed my notebook into my backpack as Dinah arranged her piles and piles of notes.

“Well done today, Miss Hansen.” Our professor with a scrappy beard and brown hair turning grey said as he appeared at the end of our aisle. “You have done nothing but impress me so far.” The man applauded Dinah who slid her bag on her arm and beamed up at the professor happily.

“Really? Okay good. I wasn’t sure if I was barking up the wrong tree.” Dinah admitted with a nervous laugh.

“Y-you b-barked up all of the trees.” I mumbled out, feeling really jealous and angry.

“Sorry, what was that Mrs…?” He trailed off. “I’m sorry, I don’t appear to know your name. Have you always been in my class?”

“J-Jauregui. I- um just m-moved here.” I explained, dodging a bullet by distracting him with the new information.

“Oh yes! I remember now. How…Are…You…Doing?!” The man said shouting every word and talking slowly like you would to your hard of hearing grandmother.

“I’m okay, thanks.” I spoke monotonously, trying to resist giving him an eye roll.

“That…is…brilliant! I…look…forward…to…teaching…you.” He said breaking up his words, like I was an idiot who didn’t understand him. I understood most things! Just not the hard stuff. I didn’t suffer through two years of rehab nothing.

“Um- look Mr Jensen, we’d love to stay and chat, but we really have to get going.” Dinah said making up an excuse to leave, probably sensing the weirdness of the situation and my discomfort.

“Oh yes, yes. Go! By all means.” He said stepping back and giving us room to shimmy out of the space and down the stairs.

“Thanks professor, see you next lesson.” Dinah waved,

“Your welcome Dinah. I…will…see…you…later..Lauren.” The man shouted after me and I just put my head down and walked out the room trying to hide my embarrassment and shake Dinah as soon as I made my way into the open corridor. However my dumb legs had other ideas and refused to move fast enough. So the blonde haired girl quickly caught up with me as I marched across the courtyard.

“You okay? Ignore Mr Jensen, I think he’s on acid or something.” Dinah joked and I nodded my head avoiding eye contact. Did he really think I was that dumb? Could he tell I was deranged just from looking at me? I sure as hell could, I walked weirdly, I talked weirdly and I had a horrible looking scar along the top of my head.

“So…where are you going?” Dinah tried and I shrugged not really in the mood for talking as I made my way over to the cafe Camila had taken me too before, because I didn’t want to let brunette down.

“To meet C-Camila…if that’s okay?” I asked nervously in case she didn’t want me hanging out with her friend.

“Only if I can come.” Dinah said. I debated it, but agreed because I really wanted to see Camila.

“Okay.” I nodded.

“So, Your friend seemed…nice.” Dinah chuckled to herself.

“Yeah…that was Mani she can b-be a bit protective.” I tried excusing the Normani’s earlier behaviour and avalanche of slurs at Dinah.

“I noticed. You know she thought we did the dirty?” Dinah asked, biting back a laugh, but I didn’t get what she was saying.

“The dirty?” I echoed confusedly.

“You know Netflix and chill.” Dinah said, making no sense because we hadn’t watched Netflix. I didn’t even have a Netflix account. “OMG! You really have no idea what I’m talking about do you?!” Dinah exclaimed as I started at her blankly.

“Um- n-not really, n-no.” I shrugged.

“Jesus, where have you been the past two years?” Dinah shook her head as we walked for a few more moments in complete silence towards the café as I mustered up the courage to actually ask Dinah what it meant.

“W-What does Netflix and Chill actually m-mean?” I whispered quietly, feeling embarrassed.

“It’s a euphemism for sex, babe.” Dinah said ruffling my hair gently like I was a kid.

“Oh.” I nodded, turning red because she mentioned you-know-what, as we walked through the cafe door causing a ring to sound out upon our entrance. I scoured the room only to see Camila sitting at the same table we were at last time. “Ca-Ca-Camila is over there.” I pointed, before we headed over in that direction.

“What’s up, Walz? I crashed you’re date, I hope you don’t mind.” Dinah said pulling out the chair next to Camila and sitting in it.

“Shut the fuck up China.” Camila retorted as I sat down opposite her thankful for the rest, because my legs ere really starting to hurt. “It’s good to see you again Lauren.” Camila smiled that pretty smile she has showing her teeth.

“Hi.”'I mumbled out nervously.

“So i took the liberty of ordering you a hot chocolate.” Camila said sliding the mug over to me. “I would have got you one too Dinah, but I didn’t know you were coming.”

“That’s alright, The barista is cute so I don’t mind getting my own.” Dinah winked and got up to flirt with the guy behind the counter, leaving Camila and I alone at the table.

*Camila’s POV*

“I hope she didn’t drive you too mad.” I said taking a sip of the familiar smelling coffee.

“She didn’t.” Lauren spoke sweetly from the other side of the table looking up from the hot chocolate with her piercing green eyes peering over the top.

“Good, good.” I hummed, trying to think of something to say. I was never good at small talk.

“Where’s your other friend?” Lauren spoke up inquisitively, saving me from finding something to say.

“Ally? She would have just gotten out of class about now.” I said checking my watch for the time.

“You should invite her.” Lauren said, but their was an insistence to her voice so I didn’t argue and because I hadn’t seen my other best friend yet today.

“Yeah sure..okay.” I said pulling out my phone and sending a text to Ally.

Mily(4:12pm): Hey Alls! We’re in the cafe, come join us.

Allycat(4:12pm): Okay, I’ll see you there in a few 😘

“She’s coming.” I smiled warmly to Lauren and locked my phone. “So Dinah told me your friend threatened to kill her…more than once.” I bemused laughing at the idea of someone being crazy enough to take on Dinah.

“S-She wouldn’t, I promise. S-she was just joking…I think.” Lauren laughed, but made sure I was aware that no harm would come to Dinah. It’s was kind of cute how insistent Lauren was at times.

“Don’t worry about it. It would be interesting to watch.”

“I d-don’t think I would b-be.” Lauren shook her head scrunching up her eyes as she did so. “Normani is nice anyway. She would never hurt someone…only if they hurt me.”

“I don’t think anyone could hurt you.” I said looking over at the endearing green eyed girl with a pouty face.

“Yeah..no- never.” Lauren agreed with a weakness to her voice and it was then I remembered that Lauren had been hurt in one way or another. I didn’t know much about it though, but I doubted anyone actually injured the kind hearted girl sat before me. It was probably one of those freak car accidents or something, because weren’t they the leading cause of brain damage?

“Oh Lauren! I’m sorry..I didn’t mean-” I began to apologise profusely.

“Camila…it’s okay.” Lauren interrupted me with a small reassuring smile.

“Really?” I asked, I didn’t want to sound insensitive and I honestly had no idea how to approach these things or if I was even saying and doing the right things. I mean how was a person supposed to act around someone with a brain injury? “It’s just…I’m not sure if I’m doing this right…”

“Doing what right?!” Dinah spoke loudly appearing at my side with an espresso in hand.

“Oh you know….my New York accent! I was just showing Lauren.” I quickly made up a cover. “Watch. 'Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me?’” I joked in my most over the top accent.

“I can assure Lauren won’t be talking to you ever again if you do that accent one more time.” Dinah said shoving my shoulder and sitting back down.

“Rude.” I scoffed, “Lauren would talk to me, right Laur?” I said the accidental nickname slipping off the tongue.

“Um- no.” Lauren said shaking her head causing her dark locks to cascade down her face.

“I am offended!” I feigned insult, clutching my hand to my chest dramatically, causing Lauren to bust out into an adorable giggle.

“Ooh I like her Camila. Can we keep her?” Dinah cooed turning to me pleadingly.

“On one condition…Lauren gets to come to our Sunday morning brunch?” I fake debated with Dinah.

“Hmm…you drive a hard bargain, Cabello.” Dinah said pausing in thought as Lauren looked on at us with bright eyes. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal.” Dinah held out her hand and I took the gesture shaking it firmly.

“Welcome to the cool kids club, Lauren.” I said goofily, smiling at our new friend.

A/N: This section is a mess. And I’m more than aware of it, but sometimes you gotta know when to give up and move on…so here ya go lovelies and hopefully the next chapters better.

Wattpad: MidnightCrossing

#UPDATE #series #AU #camren #caminah #laurinah #angst drama #romance fluff #submission #Flowers on my doorstep

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thoseoverwatchimagines · 8 years

Text

[SFW] Reader is a Mermaid and McCree/Hanzo/Rein doesn’t know

Reinhardt Wilhem

Reinhardt puffed up with pride as the waitress escorted you to his table. You were without a doubt the most beautiful woman in the room. Men stole furtive glances as you walked by. Women watched you with unbridled envy. But the only person who mattered was standing chivalrously next to your pulled out chair. "Ah mein liebchen! You are stunning! Tonight I am truly the luckiest man alive." Rein bowed and place a quick peck on the back of each hand. The man was an expert on all niceties. You let a rosy blush color those radiant cheekbones. "You flatter me Reinhardt. After a year are you still so enamored? I would have thought you'd grown tired of seeing me!"

"Never! Without you I am half the man I could ever be." He poured you a glass of wine and flagged a waiter to take your orders. Seeing him so jovial, a pang of guilt knotted itself in your stomach. Once the food was settled and you two had a moment, you spoke, "Reinhardt my love. I have something I need to tell you. After dinner, might we talk a walk along the river?" He furrowed his brow, if only for an instant, before smiling at you once more. "Anything you want. Tonight is your night." You corrected him, "Our night leibe, our night."

As promised, the two of you walked arm in arm down the boardwalk looking rather fance in a green satin dress and tuxedo respectively. "Tell me my dear, what was on your mind?" You smiled fondly. He always did cut to the chase. "Well... It is difficult to say..." Sensing your apprehension only made him hold you tighter. "Do you remember reading Peter Pan as a boy?" He nodded. "And I know you love those stories of knights and dragons and all kinds of mythical creatures..." He nodded again, this time a confused look creeping into his features. "Mein leibchen, what does this have to do with anything?"

The two of you had come to a secluded bench surrounded by trees and high walls. You guided him to sit and took your place next to him. There was a slight chill in the air and the leaves began to turn. Rain, as forcasted, was on its way. "What if I told you that you could live out those stories in real life? You could be the hero with his magical temptress? You could be Peter with his mermaids?" Reinhardt burst out laughing in that loud, belly busting way he favored. "Oh that is a good one dear. And how exactly am I going to do that? Is Overwatch not enough for you?" A few drops of rain landed on your cheek.

"Reinhardt I'm being serious. I need you to hear me, to understand. I... I am not a regular woman..." The rain began to fall in earnest. Your clothes were quickly soaked through. It wouldn't be long now. "I am a mermaid, Reinhardt. And I want you to be my one and only love." Reinhardt seemed genuinely concerned, "Are you feeling alright leibchen? It's not like you to talk such nonsense. You used to chastize me for my foolish dreams. What are you playing at?" Under the starlight, hidden by your long dress, legs were melting together to form a glorious opalescent tail. In a few moments he would see.

"Promise me you'll always love me, mo matter what. Promise me, Reinhardt." There was fear in your voice. Your doting lover would have none of that. He took your hands in his and looked you right in those beautiful green eyes. "I will love you now and forever more. This I promise you." And then he sealed his promise with true love's kiss. It took everything you had and more to pull away but the time had come. Trembling hands pulled up your skirts to reveal what you'd hidden for so long. A silvery tail that shone like moonlight on the sea. Reinhardt's eyes widened. He couldn't believe his eyes! You watched him carefully for any sign of acceptance. But of course, he wasted no time.

"You're a mermaid! It's true!" A childlike joy overwhelmed his senses. "Ever since I was a boy I wanted nothing more than to be a valiant knight from a fairytale. And here you are, a gift from God, to make my dreams come true! Oh mein leibchen, fear not. I will stand by you from now until the end of time."

Jesse McCree

"I don't want this day to end!" You and that ruggedly handsome cowboy found yourselves nestled in a hammock, watching the sun rush towards the earth despite all your best wishes. Tomorrow Jesse had to leave with his Deadlock brothers. This was just a short vacation while runners gathered drugs and weapons from every corner of Mexico. "Neither do I darlin' but time stops for no man. Why don't we make the most of what's left?" Callused hands roamed over your bare stomach, making their way below the belt while he covered you in rough kisses. As much as you'd have liked to make passionate love under the stars, night marched ever closer and with it, your darkest secret.

For just over a month you'd courted this foolhardy man and he'd never even questioned your early curfew. Perhaps it was that old fashioned southern respect. Or maybe he didn't care as long has needs were met. Either way, tonight was the night all would be revealed.

"Let's go swimming in the Rio Grande. I know the perfect spot. Nobody will see us. We can even go skinny dipping." You flashed him that mischevious smile he'd grown to love. He wrinkled his nose and pouted, "Mmm, I liked my idea better but whatever makes you happy." You pulled him off the hammock with surprising strength. "You'll get over it. Besides, I thought you loved the thrill of adventure?" Unfortunately McCree didn't exactly see adventure in a few laps across the river. Still he followed diligently, eager for any chance to grope that wonderful body of yours.

The last rays of sunshine were wasting away by the time you'd torn off your clothes and dove into the warm waters. Jesse took his time to hang that precious hat on a tree branch and threw his clothes in a messy pile. "What do you say we play a little Marco Polo?" It wasn't a bad suggestion. As he waded into the water you swam a ways off. His arms were reaching out trying to grab you unawares. A little splashing, a little giggling, a little underwater fondling. All the while your nightly transformation had begun.

The worst of it was the legs. You skin knit itself together mid-kick causing you to cry out in pain. McCree's eyes snapped open, "You okay darlin'? Must have stepped on a rock." But your eyes were pressed shut. He swam over and pulled you close, not realizing the changes happening just below the surface. Scales were pushing their way through your flesh like a million little razors. Your neck, concealed by long locks of hair, split open to form gills. Concerned for your wellbeing, he placed his hands on either side of your head and tried to meet your gaze. "Tell me what to do. Do you need a doctor?" You looked up with a grimace revealing glowing blue eyes. He startled and took a step back. "What the heck?!"

You reached out without hesitation but your arms had formed webbed fins along the side. He pushed you away and stumbled back towards the shore. "McCree wait, please! I wanted to tell you!" That powerful tail, now fully formed, propelled you towards your lover. He scuttled on hands and elbows until he was sitting in the surf. You pulled yourself as close to shore as you dared. Bioluminescent spots dotted your collarbone, shoulders, and cheeks. Your eyes pulsed with energy. "I just couldn't find the words..."

Jesse rubbed his eyes, hoping to wake up from some strange fever dream. And yet there you were, in all your beauty. He struggled to comprehend what lay before him. And, as was custom with anything emotionally taxing on the cowboy, he shut down and tried to run away. "Listen hun, I've had a good run with ya. But this... This is too much... What were you expecting to happen? I just up and quit the gang to live out some fairytale on the Rio Grande? Well that just ain't fair! You don't just put this on a fella. Certainly not a guy like me..." You looked up at him full of hurt and despair. He was right though. Part of you was praying for a miracle, that maybe he'd see the light and start over with you. That you'd be enough. That you were worth it. But you weren't. You were just another bump in the road for a troubled boy pretending to be a man.

Hanzo Shimada

A salty ocean wind blew over the boat carrying Hanzo and the old fisherman. Century old wood creaked and groaned. The few women willing to sail the small ship worked in fearful silence. No one dared speak lest the beast be summoned forth. On the coast of Kyoto a village of fisherman's wives had pooled their earnings to hire the tattooed mercenary. Their husbands and sons, one by one, had gone missing. Hanzo was skeptical of their claims but having been paid up front was forced to make an appearance. He'd listened to desolate daughters cry about fathers waking up from the deepest slumber and walking out into the rolling sea. He'd consoled the mothers weeping over sons possessed by some haunting melody. These people blessed him with salt and sand and begged him to bring their loved ones home.

They sailed for a strip of land off the coast. The women whispered of ghostly lights floating over the island and an unholy fog settling on the shore. As the sandbar took shape, Hanzo ordered the crew to stop short and lower him in a rowboat. The ship was to turn back and leave him be. This hunt was his and his alone.

That bitter wind roared and brought with it a dense fog. By the light of a rusted lantern, he made landfall. Hanzo stalked the beach with an arrow notched and eyes scouring the horizon. A soft glow emanated from dense verdant foliage. It seemed to shift and bend with the billowing of the leaves. For now he walked the shoreline. Up ahead a ways the ocean pushed into the earth and created a dark pool. The water bubbled ominously and Hanzo pulled back the string on his bow. He peered down and saw nothing but shadow. Fog swirled on the surface, obscuring the depths. Hanzo let fly an arrow into the murky waters; a wretched screech shattered the stillness of the night.

The archer readied his bow once more but tentacles had shot up from the water, slithering around his ankles, dragging him down. Another slimy appendage wrapped around his waste. More still latched onto the rocks around the pool. Whatever beast was killing these men had chosen Hanzo as its next victim. But he was no ordinary man! And this monster had made a fatal mistake. Hanzo fired into the water, shouting his family's mystic words, "Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!"

Brilliant blue dragons dove into the waters with righteous purpose. Smoke and screams sprung up with fury. The tentacles fell off leaving behind angry red marks. Just as Hanzo breathed a sigh of relief, a sickly green hand clawed into the sand. But this horrifying turn of events wasn't what sent a chill down the man's spine. No. The all too familiar charm bracelet cutting into curdled flesh brought Hanzo to his knees.

"My love... It cannot be... How? What are you?!" Dragging yourself dying onto the beach, you looked up into his eyes, searching for forgivness under all that hurt. Blood poured from your mouth when you choked out your apologies, "Dearest one. I tried to protect you... To hide this curse..." He recoiled from your touch. "Please... I am not long for this world..." Some fragile part of him crumbled under this burden. Tears welled up and burned their way down stubborn cheeks. "You killed all those men, those boys! How could you do such a thing? How could you hide this evil part of you for so long? Did our time together mean nothing?" A lovelorn smile cracked your poisonous lips. "All these questions dearest. You'll die before you have the answers. Please understand... I was never meant to fall in love. Death and destruction are my lot. But next to you? I am nothing but a weak, foolish creature." You gasped and coughed up blackened fluid. "Our time was a stolen gift. And so to repay the favor, this I give this to you. Freedom. Notch one more arrow my love, let your aim be true. Show me mercy and you will not mourn for you will not remember."

Hanzo's face contorted into a look pained horror. Using what little magic you had left you helped him. He reached for his quiver, not understanding why. Some mythic force guided his hands. The final decision, however, was his alone. "Hanzo my beloved. If you ever cared for me, you'll end it now. Don't let me die knowing how much pain I've caused. Release me so that I can set you free."

On a forsaken spit of land, in the middle of a churning sea, with nobody to witness his shame, Hanzo closed his eyes and wept.

That bloodthirsty arrow found its mark.

And then silence...

#overwatch imagines #overwatch prompts #mccree #hanzo shimada #reinhardt

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dralentines-day · 8 years

Text

Gift #26, @thedrarryaddiction

It’s gonna take more than a 12-step program to cure THIS Drarry addiction after taking a look at this very special gift. Enjoy, @thedrarryaddiction !

Our gifter says:

“Hey babe. Hope your Valentine's is going well. Remember that all of the chocolate will be on sale tomorrow and please take full advantage of that. Also, please enjoy this fic I wrote for you, I hope you find it very soothing xxxxxxx”

Home County - Harry is an architect and the reluctant part-owner of his own firm. Malfoy works at The Ministry but doesn’t actually have a proper job title even though what he does sounds like it’s pretty important. It would be hard not to become friends, probably, when they have to deal with the truly terrible weather, and Harry’s irrational hatred of his assistant, and building thirty whole houses from the ground up in a wet field outside of London. 10k.

Tags: no smut.

JANUARY

Harry had put squishy chairs in his office for a bloody reason. At the time it had only been because he’d thought they’d looked nice, and because they had gone with the green 'good-luck-in-your-new-office' rug Luna had woven him to go over the dark floorboards. Now, though, he liked the way that people would sit down and just... sink into them, deeply and inescapably. Then get this look on their face, as though they knew how embarrassing it was going to be when they had to try and climb their way out of the soft yellow cushions at the end of the meeting. Harry loved that look. He dreamt about that look. And Harry didn’t think he was a particularly vindictive person, but if Cho insisted that he had to have a bloody office then he was damn well going to make it as inconvenient as possible for everyone involved.

Back when he’d first started working, (before he’d gotten cocky and decided starting his own firm would be in any way a not-stressful and good idea) he’d been shoved in with a load of other trainee architects. They’d had this big warehouse space with about thirty desks, and it had been loud and messy and everyone had got on each other’s nerves half the time, but he missed it fiercely, when he went into his own office and there was nobody in there to talk to or share their biscuits with him. Granted, his current office was a nice room. Spacious and light, with high vaulted ceilings and a pale wood drafting table set into a track so that he could follow the sun as it moved across the floor, spilling in through the half-moon windows. It was just-- missing some people, that was all.

So when Harry kicked the door open one day, with a heavy stack of paper balanced in his arms, and saw Malfoy sitting there, all rigid and proper, he wanted to punch a wall or something. Malfoy was… sitting in the chair wrong, somehow, the bastard. Harry didn’t know how he’d managed it, exactly, possibly some sort of firming charm, but he’d perched himself right on the very edge, back straight and ankles crossed primly. He looked the way Harry had always tried to look in school when a professor turned around from the board and he wanted it to seem like he’d been paying attention. Malfoy’s hands were folded carefully in his lap and he was watching Harry with a blank gaze, as if he was already incredibly bored by the proceedings. Harry let himself feel disappointed for a second. He had genuinely been looking forward to watching Malfoy wrangle himself out of the chair’s clutches. He’d even imagined it a bit, the way Malfoy would get all embarrassed and flustered, it was one of the reasons he’d even agreed to this meeting in the first place.

“Do you want tea?” Harry asked, dropping the paper on his desk with a loud bang. A couple of sheets flitted slowly onto the floor and he ignored them. Malfoy watched for a moment with a bewildered look on his face, then, visibly collecting himself, he stood up and attempted to shake Harry’s hand. Harry looked at one of his horrible, heavy, silver rings and deliberated. He didn’t really shake people’s hands anymore, which everyone always told him was a weird thing not to do. But he’d sort of given it up after all the stuff that happened in the aftermath of the war, after a thousand people a day wanted to press their palms against his. He figured he may as well indulge Malfoy this small luxury, though. Malfoy seemed like the type of person who would be very comforted by formalities. Malfoy looked like the type of person who liked forms. And questionnaires.

“No, thank you,” Malfoy told him, in a cool voice. “I was given a water by your assistant.” Harry wrinkled his nose. The assistant. Hired by Cho, also called Harry, number one cause of strife in Harry’s daily life. He tried not to think about the other Harry if he could at all help it.

“Great,” he said, and took a couple of books off his own chair so that he could sit down. He balanced them precariously on a small patch of available desk surface, right on the corner. Malfoy watched this process closely but chose not to comment.

“I was under the impression I’d be meeting with both you and your partner,” Malfoy said, sounding so formal. Like he’d never even met Harry before.

“Cho’s on site today,” Harry told him apologetically. He was actually sorry about that, because if Cho were here then she could do all the talking and Harry would be able to do what he normally did; sit mostly in silence and nod at all the right moments. Possibly doodle a bit. “So it’s just me, I’m afraid.”

“Alright,” Malfoy said, and pursed his lips. Harry got the feeling that Malfoy didn’t think it was alright, actually, but was holding his anger back for the sake of an easy life. Harry took a moment to appreciate that, because he really wasn’t in the mood for an argument, least of all with Malfoy. “I’m here on behalf of the Ministry,” Malfoy said, apparently done with niceties, as he reached down into a smart briefcase propped up against the leg of the chair.

And before Harry could even fucking think he was saying “I didn’t think they let--”

He cut off abruptly and put a hand over his mouth, almost in slow motion, and it probably would have looked comical. If it had been in literally any other situation. Harry, just for second, considered punching himself in the face to save Malfoy the trouble, but Malfoy only raised a pale eyebrow slowly. It was a bit fascinating, actually. Harry hadn’t met many people who could raise only a single eyebrow at one time. He wondered if rich people were just… taught that sort of stuff from birth. Malfoy didn’t even look flustered.

“What an incredibly rude thing to start to say,” he said.

“Fuck,” Harry replied, “I’m so sorry. I have no fucking filter sometimes.”

Malfoy lifted the corner of his mouth in a dim approximation of a smile. “I get the feeling you don’t do too many meetings.”

“Fuck,” Harry agreed, resting his forehead for a moment on the pile of crisp paper. It crunched underneath his skin. “I don’t even know why I fucking said that. I already knew you worked at the Ministry.”

To his eternal surprise, Malfoy waved it off. “It’s alright,” he said, “Well. It’s not, but I get it a lot. They let Death Eaters work at the Ministry? You should have been put in Azkaban. Etcetera, etcetera. It’s lovely, I truly love it.”

Harry grimaced, feeling guilty now about the way he’d just wanted Malfoy to be embarrassed, not twenty seconds ago. “Do you want another water?” he offered, and Malfoy honest-to-god snorted.

“What?” he asked, “An apology water?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, smiling now, “You can have two, if you want. One for now and one for the road.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Potter, it’s fine, you said something without thinking. I actually planned for that, I’ll have you know, and I’m relieved we got it over with so early in the meeting. Now I won’t be anticipating it the entire time.”

Malfoy looked nice, Harry noticed, rather abruptly. He wasn’t wearing those heavy Ministry robes, but a plain black set with a short cape. His long hair was plaited neatly and hung over his shoulder. He should have looked like his father, with all that going on, but he didn’t. Harry had expected- he’d expected Malfoy. Malfoy the way he’d been back in school. Slicked back hair, sneery face, posh voice. He still had the voice, and his face was still pinched and pointy, but he looked- different somehow, softer. He had grey eyes. Harry hadn’t-- he’d forgotten about that.

“Alright,” he said, and shook himself a bit. “Alright,” he repeated, and started rifling through the numerous objects on his desk. After a while it became apparent his notebook was missing. “Harry!” he shouted, and Malfoy looked startled for a second, probably thought Harry had taken leave of his senses, until other Harry popped his head around the door.

“Mr. Potter?” he asked, innocently. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Did you take my notebook?” he asked. Other Harry shook his head. He’d tied his long hair back into a massive ponytail and it thumped against the wood of the doorframe.

“No?” he replied, “Have you checked your drawer?”

Harry cut his eyes over to Malfoy, who was staring out of the window, apparently uninterested. Harry tried to check his drawer as surreptitiously as possible. “Yes,” he grumbled, “It’s not in here.”

Other Harry sighed. “Can I come in?” he asked, and then did anyway. He ducked down to look on the bottom row of Harry’s bookshelf, right beside the cushion he always sat in to-- Ah. Other Harry plucked the blue notebook off the shelf and threw it over. “Anything else?” he sighed, “I have to go and pick up your things from the printer. What do you want for lunch? Sushi?”

“Please leave me alone,” Harry said, shooing him away, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“You’re very rude to your assistant,” Malfoy told him, once said assistant was out of the room.

“Do you have an assistant?” Harry asked, “Because I feel like if you had an assistant then you would understand how terrible assistants are.”

“He seemed quite nice,” Malfoy pointed out, “How long would it have taken you to find that notebook by yourself?”

“He tries to make me go to galas,” Harry said, shuddering, “He once booked me a suit fitting and told me it was a client meeting so I’d go. He hates me.”

Malfoy blinked, then smiled a little, “It’s not his fault he works for you.”

Harry screwed up his nose and opened his notebook. Then licked the end of his ballpoint. “Should we talk about what you’re here for?” he asked, before glancing over his desk for a moment. The cup of tea he’d put there twenty minutes ago had vanished somewhere. “Did you see my tea?” he asked Malfoy, lifting up a transparent set square.

“No,” Malfoy told him, and tried to hand him a thick blue file. Harry took it after a second, reluctantly giving up the hunt. “This is a contract, obviously you don’t sign it today. You’ll look over it with Chang and your lawyers. I’m just here to talk to you about the project we’re starting.”

“Right,” Harry said dubiously, and abandoned the folder on a pile of architectural digests. “I know how contracts work, Malfoy.”

Malfoy ignored him and produced another, smaller file. This time in bright red. He passed it to Harry, who opened it and flicked through. It was a site survey. A couple of still photos of a large patch of countryside, soil samples, a reading of the magical levels in the surrounding area. “What’s this for?” Harry asked, “Is the Ministry-- is this an office thing? Are you relocating?”

“No,” Malfoy said, as though he was talking to a child, and straightened the cuff of his shirt, “We’re very much not doing that. I’m sure you know how many houses were damaged during the war.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said. A lot of their business came from that, actually. People wanting their houses repaired by people who knew what they were doing. People who wanted new houses. People who’d looked on the damage as a potential opportunity to get that kitchen they’d always dreamed of. It was sad, though, Harry thought, when he had to look around houses with spell damage and tell the owners it would have to be gutted. When he went into bedrooms with umbrella spells for a roof, when he had to tell families the prices and they’d sometimes cry. He didn’t like it much. The Death Eaters had really done a number on a lot of fucking people.

“The Ministry are proposing a housing scheme, modelled on Muggle housing estates, in order to give people houses whose own were damaged during the war,” Malfoy said, after a slight pause. He looked down at his own red file. “That’s it,” he said, when Harry didn’t say anything.

“Housing estates are--”

“I know,” Malfoy interrupted, and made a face, “I personally am of the mind that we should be paying to repair houses instead of building new ones. Some of those damaged are ancestral homes. However, it has been made very clear to me that the cost of repairs is far more than the cost of building new homes, so here we all are.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly. A wizarding housing estate. Fucking hell. He and Cho had never done anything even remotely like this. The biggest project they’d ever carried out had been a wizarding pool complex in Stratford. Maybe the housing estate could have a pool. Harry perked up at the idea. “Where are you wanting to build?” he asked, and Malfoy leaned forward until he could flick to a page in Harry’s folder. A satellite map, a bright yellow outline showing the plot of land.

“We’ve been negotiating for quite some time with the Muggle government,” he explained, “Which is partly why this has taken so long to come to fruition. We’ve settled on this site, in Kent. It’s very nice, I’ve been there myself.” He smiled, properly, for the first time. “I think it’s a shame that we can’t repair homes, but we can make the new ones as good as possible. So that people will like living there.”

Harry frowned. “No offense,” he said, “But why didn’t you pick a more established firm?” He didn’t really know that he had to ask though.

“No offense,” Malfoy echoed, “But it was mostly because it’s you.”

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said, “Of course, yeah.” Cho was going to love this. It filled her with glee every time someone came in and wanted the chosen one to build them a house. Harry had got used to it by now, mostly, but it was still weird and he still didn’t like it very much.

Malfoy sighed, “As much as it pains me to say this,” he started, “I can assure you we wouldn’t have hired a firm we didn’t believe could deliver.” Harry thought for a second. There might have been a compliment in there somewhere, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Okay,” he said, “I can’t say for definite, but I think Cho will probably want to go for this. It’s way beyond the scale of anything we’ve done before, I should probably say that.”

Malfoy nodded thoughtfully. “Shall we talk about the process?”

“Um,” Harry said, “I mean, I can’t do specifics obviously. But Cho and I will have to see the site before we do anything else. We need to talk about what specs you want the houses to have, if you want them all the same size, stuff like that. How many are you looking for?”

“Thirty,” Malfoy said, easy as anything. “No less than thirty,” he amended.

“Fuck,” Harry said, succinctly.

“You shouldn’t swear in business meetings,” Malfoy told him, then sighed. “What if I’d had to take minutes?”

“Thirty houses,” Harry said, ignoring him, “Thirty. Thirty houses.” He didn’t know if Cho was going to murder him or throw him a party. They’d been talking about hiring a few more junior architects but now they would definitely fucking have to. He didn’t want to ask about the budget. He really, really didn’t. He wondered if he could call Cho and make her do it.

“Yes,” Malfoy said calmly, “Do you want to talk about the budget?”

Harry sat back in his seat and looked at the ceiling for a minute. It was very dark blue, almost midnight. He usually found it soothing, when he was lying on the floor and trying to think of a way to make three rooms fit into a space the size of a shipping container. It wasn’t quite doing the trick now, though.

“Yeah,” he said, and groaned, “I suppose we’d better.”

“Three million galleons,” Malfoy said coolly, and Harry stared at him for a few seconds, mostly in disbelief.

“I--” he started, “I thought you said this was supposed to be on the cheap.”

“That number was on the lower end of the scale,” Malfoy said, “But if you feel as though you can make it happen for less than by all means do so.”

“I need to talk to Cho,” Harry said, breathing hard, “She’s way better at this than me. She probably would have just like, nodded at you. And I’m over here having a bloody panic attack. Three fucking million, for thirty houses. Where is the Ministry getting all this money?”

“You’re not having a panic attack,” Malfoy informed him. And then paused delicately, as though what he was about to say was particularly distasteful. “And it’s mostly what they confiscated in reparations after the war.”

And then Harry wanted to die, because Malfoy was as good as saying that it used to be his money. He wanted to sink into the floorboards and never look anyone in the face again. Harry blamed other Harry for this. He wasn’t sure how but it was definitely his fault. Or Cho’s. Or the both of them.

MARCH

It was pouring with rain. The hard, driving kind that soaked through clothes in about ten seconds and wasn’t even nice to look at since it made everything grey and dull and faded. The air smelled like wet earth and cut grass, brought in on the strong breeze blowing through their makeshift shelter. Harry was sat in a rickety camping chair that had creaked ominously when he’d sat down, thinking about how soon they could get a permanent office set up on the site. One with walls. And a floor. He stared at the ground beneath his feet, a pink worm was squirming near the toe of his steel-capped boot. His knee was getting steadily wetter and wetter from a small leak in the plastic roof.

“Harry?” Cho said, tapping her pencil against his neck. “You’re getting rained on.” Harry moved his knee out of the way and sighed. He hated days like this, where you were lucky if you could fit in a few hours of work around the downpours. He watched assistant Harry talking on his phone just outside the shelter, a golden umbrella charm sheltering him. Harry couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“How long do you think this will last?” Malfoy asked, from across the table. He had both hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, and he was peering at the clouds on the horizon. Harry yawned and caught his elbow on the sheet of thick plywood that made up the surface of the table. The junior architects had built it the other day using some scrap wood they’d found in the store room of their office building. It wobbled dangerously on the uneven floor.

Cho looked up from where she was scribbling notes onto a piece of slightly damp paper. They’d put up wards to stop rain blowing into their workspace, but they weren’t very sturdy. Harry kept having to apply drying charms to all the plans. “I’m not sure,” she said, “I think it’s just a shower, it’s been doing this all day.” She was wearing a black roll-neck and a pair of black trousers turned up at the cuff. Her wellington boots were resting on an upturned blue crate that had held a kettle and a couple of boxes of tea. Malfoy made a noise and opened his briefcase. The same one he’d had last time, monogrammed with his initials and lined with dark green fabric. He got out a book and started flipping through the pages.

“Have you overseen many projects like this?” Harry asked him, bored out of his fucking mind with nothing to do except wait.

Malfoy glanced up and then gestured to himself, eyebrows raised. Harry snorted and then nodded. “Um,” Malfoy said, resting his book carefully in a dry spot on the table, “Not one of this size, no.”

“What do you usually do?” Harry asked. He knew Malfoy worked at the Ministry, it had been all over the papers when he’d been hired three years ago, he just didn’t know what his bloody job was. The papers hadn’t been able to find out either, Malfoy hadn’t been given an official title.

“Oh,” he said, and then sniffed. “I’m part of a team that oversees where the reparations money goes to. So some of it’s on healthcare, some of it goes to direct payments for people affected. And some of it ends up on public works like this. All the repairs done in Hogwarts came from that money.”

“Did you help with that?” Cho asked, and Harry stared at her. Malfoy had been in fucking community service when Hogwarts was being rebuilt. He remembered the sentencing, he’d been there.

“No,” Malfoy said, and huffed out a wry laugh, “That was before I joined.”

“Do you like it?” Harry asked. Malfoy thought for a second, his brows knitting and his forehead wrinkling a bit. Harry thought he was definitely going to say no. Nobody had to think for that long about whether they liked their job or not if they actually liked it.

Malfoy didn’t, though, he said “Yes,” in that posh, stern voice of his, sounding totally sincere, “It’s not what I ever thought I’d be doing, but I like it.”

“That’s good,” Harry said, and meant it. Malfoy raised his eyebrows but he didn’t comment.

Harry had spent quite a bit of time with Malfoy in the past few months, even if all of it had been spent talking about the houses. Preparing and arguing and holding meeting after fucking never-ending meeting with the most boring Ministry people imaginable. Malfoy was hardworking, serious, but he seemed to like Harry, and even when he was visibly stressed he never got angry or raised his voice. Which Harry was definitely guilty of. Malfoy was just-- calm, never flustered, never rushed. Once or twice Harry had had to do the thing where he put his head in between his knees, when someone demanded an extra bedroom be put in, or that the garden double in size. Malfoy had barely batted an eyelid, just made some strong tea and stood back while Cho patted Harry on the back and laughed only a little. Malfoy was nicer than he’d been in school, while Cho had just been getting steadily less indulgent of Harry’s issues. Which, he supposed, was probably fair enough.

The rain started easing off and other Harry came inside, his phone tucked up between his ear and his neck and a scrap of paper in his hands. “--won’t want to do that,” he said, and Harry fucking knew it was going to be about him.

“Nude photoshoot,” other Harry said, “Yes or no.”

The three junior architects that had been working quietly on the other side of the shelter looked up. One of them started laughing and the other two shushed her. Cho snorted and Harry elbowed her in the side. “Is that a joke?” he asked.

“No,” was the reply, “Witch Weekly are bringing out a not-safe-for-work edition and they want to interview you about the housing project.”

“What,” Harry said, but he didn’t think anyone was listening. Cho had started properly laughing now, and even Malfoy had the beginnings of a smirk. “I don’t even know where to start with that.”

“What?” other Harry said, into the phone, “I’m bloody well asking him right fucking now. It’ll be tasteful, apparently,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Harry took a deep breath but couldn’t think of anything to say. “You should do it,” said Leah, from across the room, looking up from a drainage plan. Harry regretted ever learning the junior architect’s names, if this is how they were repaying him for it. “It’ll get a lot of buzz for the project.”

“The project doesn’t need buzz,” Harry sighed.

“I know,” said Leah, “I just think it would be funny.”

“You’re fired,” Harry told her, but she just laughed and went back to her work. Harry blinked. He did have firing authority. He wouldn’t ever actually fire someone, obviously, but it was nice to be able to scare people who were suggesting nude photoshoots. He turned to his assistant. “You’re fired,” he tried.

Other Harry rolled his eyes, again, and went back outside. “He’s not going to do it,” he said into the phone, “I only asked because I owed you a favour.”

Cho stood up and stretched, Harry heard her shoulders crack and he winced in sympathy. “Shall we go?” she asked, gesturing to the light rain, “I think this might be as good as it’s going to get for a while.

They left the other architects sitting in the dry and ventured out by themselves, over a small rise and down into the flat ground that would make up the housing estate. There were white lines spray painted onto the grass in the outline of the floor plans, markers stuck in the ground indicating where windows and doors were going to go. Cho led them to the nearest house and stepped inside.

“So this is the front hallway,” she said to Malfoy, who just nodded silently. He looked utterly miserable, dressed in his customary black robes and a pair of heavy boots with laces up past his ankle. He’d done an umbrella charm but he couldn’t do much about the wind, and it was whipping strands of hair out of his plait and into his eyes. Harry had tied his hair back that morning into a very sturdy bun, and then made Hermione put a couple of pins in it when he’d gone over for breakfast. He wondered for a second if Malfoy knew about hairpins, and if Harry should tell him or not.

After a while they made their way back to the shelter, damp and shivering with cold. Malfoy had seemed to like the layout, he hadn’t said much but he’d nodded a lot when Harry had talked about how much sunlight all the rooms would get.

“I’m going to get out of here,” Cho said, shaking her ponytail out and prodding Harry into doing a drying spell on it. “My girlfriends are waiting. Gin’s back from Holyhead for a few nights so we’re going out.”

Harry leant against the side of the table and folded his arms. “Have fun, I might stay for a bit,” he said, “Order some food or something. I want to look at the hallways one more time, I think we might be able to get away with making them a bit wider.”

Cho kissed him on the cheek, before apparating away in a haze of lavender and amber perfume. Harry had just kicked other Harry out of his seat when Malfoy came to sit next to him, swinging himself up onto the table and steadying himself with a nervous laugh when it threatened to topple. “Did she say girlfriends?” he asked curiously, “As in, girlfriends plural?”

Harry tilted his head. “Yeah,” he replied. “As in, Luna, Gin, and Cho. They all live together. They’re--” he cut off and wriggled his shoulders. “You know.”

“I don’t,” Malfoy told him, expectantly.

“In love,” Harry sighed, “With each other.” It was really sweet and really cloying, and he was so happy for them but they made him a bit sad sometimes. There were three of them, and they’d all found each other. And he was still by himself a lot, when Hermione and Ron were busy with child number one.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, carefully, “That’s nice, I suppose.”

“It’s brilliant,” Harry said, and he really did mean it. “Did you know Gin plays for the Harpies?”

“I think everyone knows that,” Malfoy said gently, as if he were afraid Harry was going to burst into tears or something. “She’s very good.”

Harry hummed in agreement. “Do you want to order Chinese?” he asked, after almost no deliberation. Malfoy laughed.

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose so. Are we eating it here?” Harry looked around them. It was darker now, still raining outside. And Leah or one of the other two had lit the lamps hanging from the roof so that the whole place was bathed in a pleasant golden glow. Other Harry had his face buried in his laptop, and he kept checking his watch as though he was waiting to be sent home. Malfoy shifted a little closer, seemingly without meaning to. He’d been close to begin with, but now Harry could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell leather and clean shampoo.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and Malfoy smiled. “I’ve still got a couple of drawings to do, if that’s okay.”

“So where are you living now?” Malfoy asked, after carefully swallowing a mouthful of spring roll. They were the last ones here, it was late in the evening and Harry was trying not to get sweet and sour sauce on any of their plans.

“Um,” he said through some noodles, and then dropped them back onto his plate. Malfoy made a face and Harry ignored him. “In London?” he said.

“Yes,” Malfoy said patiently, “But where? Wizarding district?”

“No,” Harry said. Grimmauld Place was probably as far as fucking possible from being a Wizarding street.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, and pointed his chopsticks in Harry’s general direction, “You’re living in the Black house.”

“Grimmauld Place,” Harry corrected him, “How did you know that?”

“I’m very smart,” Malfoy informed him, and then licked a bit of grease off his thumb. Harry averted his eyes. “Also I only just remembered that I already knew.”

“Oh,” Harry said, “I guess Andromeda told you?” He’d known, for a while, that Malfoy saw Teddy quite a bit, but they’d never run into each other and Harry hadn’t ever particularly wanted to change that. Andromeda never talked about Malfoy, never really brought him up, and Harry never asked questions. For a little while he’d wondered whether or not Teddy should even be allowed to see Malfoy, but he had been firmly overruled by Andromeda on that point.

Malfoy hummed in agreement. “I’ve been there, you know,” he said.

Harry blinked for a few moments in surprise. “No,” he said, “I didn’t know that.” It made sense though, now that he thought about it. Malfoy’s mother had probably taken him.

“I don’t remember it,” said Malfoy, “Other than how dark it was.” He’d taken his cloak off and loosened his tie. And sprawling over a conjured armchair he looked rumpled and soft and relaxed. Harry thought he should always look like that.

“It’s changed a lot,” Harry told him, “It was the first house I ever did any work on.”

“Really?” Malfoy asked, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t know why, but I expected you to sell it.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, “I did think about that, but I decided it would be better to just… I don’t know, change it.” It was practically unrecognisable now, actually. Open windows at the back of the house leading into the fecund garden, that fucking portrait finally gone, light and bright and airy. It felt more like home than any place Harry had ever lived, even that one year after the war he’d spent at The Burrow while he’d been working out what to do with his life. Crawling into bed with Hermione and Ron after a nightmare, skirting around Ginny when she came back from Wales and the Harpies, a year of Molly and Arthur laughing in the hallways. He’d needed that, then, but he was happy having something of his own, now.

Malfoy nodded slowly, let his head fall against the high back of the chair, rested his plate in his lap. “I think this is going to be good,” he said, gesturing at the plastic roof and the haphazard furniture, at the dark sky, at Harry. “I honestly do.”

MAY

Malfoy in a green hard hat. It was a sight Harry never expected to fucking see, and it was brilliant. He thought about taking a photo and then realised he’d left his phone in the office. Also there was the fact that Malfoy would probably murder him. It was a nice day, fresh and blue, the breeze cool and sweet-smelling.

“Afternoon” Malfoy said, striding over from the apparition point. “How was last night?”

Harry grimaced. Last night had been babysitting night. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, and Malfoy laughed.

“So it went exceedingly well, I take it.”

“Did you know kids were so messy?” Harry asked, “Like-- he kept trying to draw everywhere.”

“You know I’ve looked after him before,” Malfoy said, with a look on his face like he thought Harry was being ridiculous and was trying hard not to say anything about it.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “I know. He just- ruined a perfectly good lighting plan, that’s all.”

Malfoy rubbed at his face for a few seconds. “What did you do?” he asked.

“Um,” Harry said, feeling oddly guilty all of a sudden. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I sent him to his room but I don’t know if that was right or not.”

Malfoy bumped his shoulder. “Did you shout at him? I did once and then felt so awful about it. But he’d gone onto the balcony and was sticking his little hand out and I was fucking terrified.”

“He goes everywhere,” Harry said sadly, “Once I caught him with his arm literally inside the toilet. But-- no, I didn’t shout. I try not to shout.”

“I’ve seen you shout,” Malfoy said, surprised.

“Yeah but--” Harry paused, “Not at Ted, though. I wouldn’t shout at Ted.”

“He’s the worst child on the entire planet,” Malfoy said, but he was smiling.

“I love him to death,” Harry said sincerely, “I was so shit at being mean to him. After about five minutes I went upstairs to check on him and he somehow managed to persuade me to read him a fucking story.”

“Does he have his own room in your house?” Malfoy asked, with a faintly surprised air.

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I live in a big house though.” He didn’t want to make Malfoy feel bad about it, since he knew that when Teddy stayed at Malfoy’s place he slept in the guest room. Malfoy only had a small apartment, apparently, although Harry had never seen it. Harry probably didn’t even need to give Teddy his own room. Except that he’d remembered what it was like to be jealous of Dudley’s, when he had been growing up, and he wanted Ted to have his own space in Harry’s home.

“I just--” Malfoy said, and cut off. “I was thinking about making the guest bedroom into a room for him. But I don’t know how Andromeda would take that. I only have him a few times a month.”

“That’s like, more than I do,” Harry said. He was busy all the fucking time, lately. And it was difficult to look after a toddler and also run his own business. “I mean. I can’t have him more at the moment. Hopefully during the summer.”

Malfoy hummed in agreement. “Is he back at Andromeda’s tonight, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “And I’ve made myself a promise not to work this eve. I have no idea what I’ll do. The world is my oyster.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “You’re so odd,” he said, and then blushed a little when Harry smiled. Which was weird. “Shall we go look at the machines?” he said hurriedly, “I’ve never seen them up close before.”

They’d broken ground about a week previously, and so far had actually refrained from fucking anything up. It was going well. He and Cho were on site almost daily, supervising and doing work on other projects, with a continued rota of baby architects reporting to them about what was happening back at the office.

“Careful,” Malfoy said, grabbing onto Harry’s arm after they’d been walking for a few minutes. They were almost up to the site now, surrounded by the outlines of houses and men in hard hats and uniforms. “Hello,” he cooed, bending down to look in the cropped grass. Harry had never heard anything like it.

Curled up beside a dandelion stalk was a tiny grass snake, pretty and brown, with little black spots and beady eyes. “Hey,” Harry said, in parseltongue. Malfoy swore softly and took a step back.

“Hello,” said the snake, stiffly. It sounded terrified. Harry would be, and he was surprised it hadn’t been stepped on yet. “How are you?” it asked.

“I’m alright,” Harry said, and he was already kind of in love with the little thing. “Are you alright? You seem a bit scared.”

“You can still do that?” Malfoy asked, wide eyed. When the snake had started talking he’d bent close again to hear, even though he couldn’t understand. “I didn’t know you could still do that.”

Harry nodded at him, and the snake said “No, I’m perfectly well.” It sounded as though it was lying.

“Do you want me to move you somewhere?” Harry asked it, and the snake bobbed its head, like it was considering. It wasn’t making eye contact, but Harry didn’t think snakes really did eye contact the way humans did.

“No, thank you,” it said, “I wouldn’t want to cause you any inconvenience.”

Harry laughed, and loved the way that Malfoy smiled at that even though he didn’t know what was going on. “I think I’ll have to insist,” he said, “I don’t want to scare you or anything, but I think this place is about to be dug up.”

“Oh,” said the snake, “I don’t know what that means.”

“I’m going to pick you up,” Harry told it, “Is that okay?”

The snake weaved its little head, and then said “Alright. Yes, alright.” Harry cupped his hand so that it could slither on, and then lifted it slowly, taking care not to jostle it.

“Should I put it in my pocket?” he asked Malfoy, who was getting right up close and smiling at it. “I don’t want to drop it. Should I ask if it wants to go in my pocket?”

Malfoy made a face. “Do you think snakes know what pockets are?” he asked, “I don’t think it would understand. Does it have a name?”

“Do you want to go in my pocket?” Harry asked, “What’s your name?”

“Brown Branch,” said the snake, sounding pleased and proud, “And yes.”

“Can I touch it?” Malfoy asked, as Harry deposited the snake in the front pocket of his shirt, “Or would that be weird?”

“I’ll ask it when I set it free again,” Harry laughed, and started making his way for higher, safer ground, Malfoy keeping pace beside him. “It said it’s name was… I don’t know, it’s not really properly translatable. Brown Branch.”

“Probably because it looks like a branch,” Malfoy said seriously.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, trying not to laugh. They walked past the office tent on their way up the hill, a couple of people were smoking outside and they waved.

“Harry!” other Harry called, from the doorway. “What are you doing? Can I go home?”

“Yeah,” Harry called back, lifting his hand, “I’m transporting a snake!

“Okay! Have fun!” other Harry told him, over the noise of the diggers, and Harry just knew he was rolling his eyes.

“I was wondering,” Malfoy said, hesitantly, once they had reached the nearby treeline and Harry was trying to extract the snake from his pocket with minimum fuss, “If you wanted to go for-- to dinner. Tonight.”

“Oh,” Harry said, taking his fingers away from the warm scales for a second, trying to concentrate. They went for dinner all the time, and Malfoy never sounded formal and nervous when he asked. This was- different. “Like--”

“A date,” Malfoy interrupted hastily, “I thought you might want to. You don’t have to. I mean, obviously you don’t have to. It goes without saying that you don’t have to,” he continued, in a big rush. He blushed faintly and looked away, his fingers twitching and his face impassive and cool. Harry wanted to mess him up.

“Yeah,” he said, and watched Malfoy turn back around with this incredulous look in his eyes, as though he’d never in a million fucking years expected Harry to agree. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Are you sure?” he said, slowly, and Harry burst out laughing. “Only that it’s quite unprofessional. I was going to wait until we’d finished working together, but you were just adorable about a snake and I gave in.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t sure, Malfoy,” he said, breathless with it. His stomach felt melty and warm. Malfoy smiled, the tiniest upturn at the corners of his mouth, and it made Harry want to touch him and never stop. “I’m sure,” he repeated, and Malfoy’s smile fucking bloomed, until it was wide and happy and gorgeous and lit up his eyes, and it was ridiculous how much Harry wanted to see him smile like that every moment of his life. Utterly fucking ridiculous. Out of fucking nowhere.

“Merlin,” Malfoy said, when he stepped into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and saw the skylight, the windows at the back, the polished concrete counters. Harry felt his face go hot, and then smiled when Malfoy ran his hand over one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table with a muted noise of appreciation. “It looks nothing like it did.”

“I thought you didn’t remember it,” Harry said, swinging himself up onto the counter next to his bottles of liquor. He reached behind himself to get some cups out of the cabinet. “Do you want a drink?”

“What do you have?” Malfoy asked absently, one fingertip against Harry’s KitchenAid, poking at it suspiciously. “What the fuck is this?”

“Um,” Harry hummed, searching through the mostly empty bottles that he kept forgetting to replace. “I have like… vermouth? It’s unopened, I don’t know what it is. Also, a coffee slash orange liqueur. Sounds horrible, can’t remember ever having it.”

“You put vermouth in martinis,” Malfoy told him, “Have you got any vodka?”

“No,” Harry snorted, “Not since I was about eighteen, mate.”

“I suppose I’ll have a neat vermouth then,” Malfoy said, “Just to see what it’s going to be like more than anything else.”

“Oh,” Harry said, splashing a bit on his finger as he poured it, “That’s a stand mixer. For making cakes and stuff?” He nodded towards the KitchenAid.

“You make cakes?” Malfoy asked, “Potter, you’re full of surprises.”

“Everyone makes cakes,” Harry said, extending the glass towards him. Malfoy took it from his hands and leant back against the dishwasher with one palm resting on the countertop. “That’s not like, a weird hobby to have. If I’d have said oh, that’s for mixing glue when I make my model trains, it would have warranted surprise.”

“You make model trains?” Malfoy asked, wrinkling his nose, “That actually makes me significantly less attracted to you.”

Harry felt himself flush, and looked into his drink as he said, “No-- I-- I mean, it was just an example.”

“I can’t tell if you’re lying or not,” Malfoy said, then took a sip of his drink and made a face.

“I swear to you, I do not make model trains. I don’t make any type of model other than the ones for work,” Harry said seriously, watching as Malfoy took another three sips in quick succession. “Do you like that?” he asked.

“What, the drink? No, it’s horrid,” Malfoy said, raising the glass to his lips again, smiling.

“I see,” Harry said, although he wasn’t sure he did. He never really ate or drank anything he didn’t like the taste of, and always got confused when other people did.

“So you like living here,” said Malfoy, and it wasn’t really a proper question.

“Yeah,” Harry told him. “I really do. You know Hermione and Ron live about a ten-minute walk away?”

Malfoy laughed. “That explains so much,” he said. “What’s the maximum distance you’d ever actually live from them?”

Harry thought he might be joking but considered it anyway. “I don’t think I could live anywhere where it took me more than an hour to get from door to door.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said, sounding surprised. “That’s actually a full twenty minutes more than I was expecting.”

“Do you like where you live?” Harry asked. He didn’t want to seem insensitive, but it seemed like it would be rude not to ask. He remembered when the Manor had been destroyed after the war, its contents stripped and sold off, or burned. He had no idea what Malfoy must have felt, knowing the place he’d grown up was gone. He wondered if Malfoy missed it. He wondered if Malfoy was glad. Harry thought that the house he’d grown up in could disappear off the face of the earth and he wouldn’t feel a single fucking thing. He wondered if Malfoy was sad about seeing Grimmauld Place, sad about how he’d never have an opportunity to make his old home a better place.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, and didn’t volunteer any more information, just swirled the clear liquid around in his glass. He looked upset, and Harry didn’t know what to say to make it better.

“I heard you lived with Parkinson after the… war,” Harry ventured.

Malfoy glanced up and smiled slowly. “Yes,” he admitted, “I think it’s probably fair to say she’s the worst roommate I’ve ever had. She never cleaned. There was a mouldy mug on our counter for about seven months that I didn’t do anything about because I kept hoping she’d move it. It was like she couldn’t even see it.”

“I lived with Ron and Hermione,” Harry told him, “While I was in uni. And then we moved here for a bit before they got their own place.”

“Ten minutes away,” Malfoy laughed. He looked like something Harry had dreamt up, in that moment, bathed in soft light with his mouth wide open. He looked happier than Harry had ever seen him, just because of this. Just because he was teasing Harry in his kitchen, a little tipsy from the wine they’d had at dinner, hair coming loose from his fucking plait; the one Harry wanted to get his hands in, to shake out.

“Exactly,” Harry said, because his mind had gone a bit blank and he couldn’t get it together enough to come up with something more intelligent.

Malfoy looked at him, then. Hard. And Harry had known, obviously, where this was going to end up, but now was the first time he’d actually felt it, could almost touch it. Malfoy set his glass down on the counter with a quiet knock, then took a few hesitant steps forward before pausing beside the fridge, worrying his fingers against the torn corner of a strip of photobooth pictures. He brushed his fingertips over Hermione and Ron’s smiling faces and avoided eye contact.

“I had a very nice time,” he started, his voice low, and it seemed like he was leading up to something but Harry honestly couldn’t give a shit, when Malfoy was close enough to reel in by his sleeve. He felt so impatient, like a child, like he did when he’d drunk too much coffee, like he wanted to eat everything in sight, like he was vibrating. Malfoy’s eyes went wide, and he huffed in surprise when he was pulled over. Then again when he found himself firmly situated between Harry’s parted knees. Harry ran a hand through his hair, once, and watched Malfoy watch him.

“I don’t think I can listen to a speech right now,” he confessed, touching the collar of Malfoy’s shirt. It was coarse and warm and Harry wanted it off.

“There wasn’t going to be a speech,” Malfoy argued, and then shivered when Harry lightly grazed the skin on his neck.

“You were about to tell me how much you like me,” Harry said, leaning in close. Malfoy blinked, and Harry had never been any fucking good at this sort of thing but somehow he’d managed to make Malfoy look like he was about to keel over. It was honestly a miracle.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy scoffed, but it was as good as an admission when his voice sounded like that. Rough and shaken. Malfoy put his hands on Harry’s waist firmly, as if he was about to make a very important point. “Seriously--” he started, but didn’t get much further before Harry was kissing him.

Malfoy immediately gave it up, which Harry thought was fucking wonderful. Tipping his head back so that Harry could lean over him, opening his mouth and sliding their tongues together a little. He backed off and bit Harry’s bottom lip, their noses bumping together, his breath hot against Harry’s mouth. He tasted like that awful alcohol but Harry was finding it very difficult to care; when he got to put his palm on Malfoy’s shoulder and kiss his cheekbones and his temples. He touched his fingertips to the soft skin just below Malfoy’s ear, at the hinge of his jaw, and just kept them there for a bit while Malfoy pressed a burst of heated kisses against his lips.

He pulled away and stared at Malfoy’s slick bottom lip while he caught his breath. Malfoy breathed in once, twice, deeply, then got his hand back on Harry’s neck and guided him in, kissing the corner of his mouth. Harry’s skin felt as though it was a couple of sizes too small, and his heart was beating hard in his chest. He smiled against Malfoy’s mouth and couldn’t stop, and Malfoy had to tilt his head away to stare at him.

“Stop smiling,” he said sternly, trying to frown. Harry laughed, he couldn’t help it. “I can’t kiss you if you’re smiling like that,” Malfoy pointed out, “Unless you want me to just… lick your teeth a bit.” Harry snorted. “Exactly,” Malfoy agreed, and poked Harry in the neck, “I’m finding the idea even less appealing than you are.”

Harry curled his hands into Malfoy’s hair, it was soft and a little bit damp at the nape of his neck. He caught sight of Malfoy’s ears, red and flushed, and then he had to kiss one of them. Malfoy sighed impatiently, and Harry got the feeling he was being indulged. He nosed against Malfoy’s hair and felt the way he had when the war was finally over, like something heavy and horrible in his chest had seeped out and fucked off. Or as though his entire future had suddenly loosened, like it was opening, spreading itself out in front of his feet.

DECEMBER

The kitchen smelled like new pine and fresh varnish and cold air, and the hot chocolate with marshmallows that Ron and Hermione weren’t even drinking.

“Why on earth did you even let her bring crayons?” Hermione demanded, as Ron tried to wrangle their squirming daughter. She was on the floor, halfway through a gorgeous portrait of a flower, done in royal purple crayon on the white wall next to the fridge.

“I have no idea,” Ron said, panicked, as Harry laughed and laughed.

“I can just paint over it,” he said, “Actually, maybe the new owners will want to keep it. She has a real talent.”

“I know you’re being facetious,” Hermione said, throwing crayons into a canvas tote bag while Rose looked on, despondent, “But I’m sorry anyway.”

“Kids are so gross,” Ron said fondly, kissing the top of Rose’s head.

“Can I draw?” Rose asked, and Hermione sighed for a very long time.

“Your dad didn’t bring paper,” she said, “And even though Harry seems very happy to let you draw on the walls here, I’m worried that you’d think you were allowed to do it at home.”

“I can draw at home,” Rose told her, seriously, squiggling in Ron’s lap. “Crayons,” she then said.

“Yes,” Hermione said patiently, “But not on the walls. You shouldn’t draw on walls unless someone specifically asks you too.”

“Rose,” Ron said, shaking his head, “Do you know what ‘specifically’ means?”

“This is fascinating,” Harry whispered, “It’s like watching a nature program.” Rose extended one hand out to him and he touched it interestedly. She was vaguely sticky, as usual. “Is that a normal kid thing?” he asked, “Like, are they just always sticky?”

“Yeah,” Ron replied, hauling himself up with a grunt, “Pretty much.”

“I’ve got some plans she can draw on,” Harry offered, “If you’re really set against the wall idea.”

Hermione leant against him for a second, a warm weight at his side. “Yes please,” she said gratefully, holding Rose’s hand when she tried to make a break for the next room. “Harry’s getting you some paper,” she said, “And when he does you should draw on that and not on the floorboards.

“Okay,” Rose said, flopping onto the floor before unconcernedly rooting through the tote bag for her purple crayon.

“Merlin,” Ron said, finally taking a sip of his hot chocolate while Harry unrolled a couple of old plans and set them out on the floor, face side down, “This is amazing. I swear you didn’t used to be so good at making hot chocolate.”

“Remember in the forest,” Hermione said, “I can’t remember where we were, but that time you added boiling water to cocoa powder with nothing else? Horrible, I’ll never forget it.”

“I was a shitty cook at seventeen,” Harry said, rolling his eyes, “Are we ever going to let it go? You were shitty as well, as far as I remember.”

“I can’t cook,” Ron said, as if he wasn’t stating the fucking obvious. Hermione patted him on the arm as she sat down at the breakfast bar.

“You know I’m categorically opposed to breakfast bars,” she said, stroking her hand over the clean wood, “But this isn’t actually that bad.”

“Oh thank you,” Harry said, “Another glowing endorsement from Hermione Granger.”

“Granger-Weasley,” Ron sighed, “Although at this point I don’t know why I bother correcting you.”

“These houses are genuinely lovely,” she said, “You’ve done a brilliant job.”

Harry had never gotten past the stage of feeling incredibly fucking proud of himself when Hermione told him he was good at something. “Thanks,” he said, “It’s worked out well, I think.”

“When can people move in?” Ron asked, looking at the mostly bare walls and the windows still with their coating of protective plastic on the surface.

“Less than a month,” Harry replied, “Probably in time for Christmas, actually.”

“Oh that’s so sweet,” Ron said, “New houses for Christmas. You’re going to make me cry, mate.”

Harry smiled, until he heard Draco from upstairs. “Harry you absolute fucking wanker, come and look at this,” he said, in a tone that Harry could only really describe as a screech.

Hermione raised her eyebrows and Harry shrugged. “Gotta go,” he said, swinging himself down from one of the bar stools, “The love of my life is calling.”

Ron thumped his head against the counter surface. “Fuck me,” he said, muffled by his large coat. “This is so weird.”

Harry grinned as Hermione elbowed Ron square in the ribcage. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m actually so embarrassed by myself.”

“Is this what Hermione and I were like?” Ron asked, “Because if we were then you should have just hexed us.”

“We weren’t ever like this,” Hermione replied, but she was smiling, “It’s sickening. I think I would have known if we were being sickening.”

“Harry,” Draco shouted again, “Are you fucking ignoring me? I’m going to come downstairs and shout at you in a second. I don’t give a shit if there’s a child in the house.”

Ron started laughing against the table. “You’d better go,” he said, “Your lover awaits.”

“Ugh,” Harry replied, “Why would you even say that to me.”

“Have you seen this?” Draco demanded, once Harry had climbed the two sets of stairs up to the small turret room. “These windows are fucking tiny. This wasn’t on the plans. I’m sure you would never do anything so overtly ridiculous. The builders must have fucked up.” He sounded incredibly panicked, and Harry found it very hard not to find it incredibly funny

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Was that a compliment?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. Draco was half right though, the windows were shrunken down to the size of Quaffles; little portholes looking out over the house on the opposite side of the road.

“No,” Draco snapped, “When I compliment you, you’ll bloody well know about it.”

Harry sighed, “Here,” he said, and waved his wand in a perfect figure eight, watching as the windows cycled through about ten different configurations before settling on huge curved circles. The room flooded with light.

“Oh,” Draco said, mollified, “I didn’t know about those. Did I sign off on those?”

“Yes,” Harry told him, finally deeming it safe to go and stand beside him, now Draco had deflated a bit. “You were a bit stressed towards the end there,” he said, “So I can forgive you for forgetting about a couple of things.”

Draco sniffed the air suspiciously. “Is that hot chocolate? Did you make hot chocolate for the Granger-Weasleys and not for me?”

“No,” Harry lied, and wrapped his arm around Draco’s waist, until he gave in and sagged against the side of Harry’s body. Harry liked the way Draco went soft when he was touching him.

They looked out of the window for a bit, at the house directly in front of them. Dark red brick and bay windows and a green roof. They looked old. Harry had thought it might be comforting, wizards were soothed by old things. Draco sighed against him. “They’re great,” he said, “I’d love to say I knew you could do it, but there were definitely some moments when I had my doubts.”

Harry was silent for a few seconds. “We could live here,” he suggested quietly, and Draco made a gagging noise and stepped away from him.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said, “You had to ruin a perfectly good moment, didn’t you?” He bent over at the waist and started fake retching.

“Alright,” Harry said mildly, “Tell me what you really think, why don’t you.”

“I think you’re a prat,” Draco told him, laughing a little bit, “And not that I don’t love these homes, because I do, but I’m a fucking Malfoy, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I actually managed to forget that for a second there, but thanks for doing such a good job of reminding me.”

“Listen,” Draco said, straightening his back and holding Harry firmly by the shoulders. His eyes looked very serious. “I’m a Malfoy. There are two places a Malfoy will live. Their ancestral home, or the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, in the city of London.” He paused for a bit and then said, “Well, and Paris, but my parents live there and you know how I feel about that.”

Harry did. Draco had told him. At considerable length. “Okay,” Harry said.

“Okay what?” Draco asked suspiciously, “Are you going to break up with me because I said I want to live in Kensington forever? I suppose if it were a deal breaker I could stand Islington, in a pinch.”

“I meant okay let’s build an ancestral home,” Harry told him, “Not a big one though, because I don’t think I could live in a massive house. And we’ll have to keep Grimmauld Place for the weekdays when we’re working.”

Draco sat down on the floor, and Harry blinked at him for a second. “Are you okay?” he asked, when Draco moaned and thumped back hard against the dusty floorboards, closing his eyes.

“No,” Draco said weakly, and Harry sat down next to him, cross legged.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I seriously think we should get married,” Draco said, grimly, sounding not at all happy about the prospect. “I don’t think I’m ever going to manage to find someone else as good as you.”

Harry watched him for a bit, his serious mouth, his straight nose, his high cheekbones. He was so nice. And Harry thought it was entirely possible he’d never be able to find anyone better than Draco. “Alright,” he replied, and Draco collapsed with relief, letting out a long sigh.

“I thought you were going to say no,” he breathed, wriggling across the floor until he had his head in Harry’s lap. Harry had never liked anyone more.

“I offered to build you a stately home,” Harry reminded him, “I think that might have been a giveaway that I’m pretty committed?”

“Merlin,” Draco said, “I suppose it should have been. You know it better not be anything modern, I won’t live anywhere that doesn’t have a lot of mahogany and a very stuffy library.”

“I’m sure we can compromise,” Harry told him.

Draco bit the inside seam of his trousers. “Would you like a blowjob?” he offered.

“Um,” Harry said, looking up at a scuffling noise in the door. Hermione was staring, wide eyed in the hallway. He smiled, “Not right now babe, one of the Granger-Weasleys is watching.”

Draco groaned and sat up, smoothing his hair down hastily. “Of course they fucking are,” he said, and caught sight of Hermione, “Of course she fucking is.”

“We’re getting married,” Harry told her, grinning, “We just decided right now.”

“I was listening for most of that exchange,” she admitted, “Which is terrible, I know. Congratulations. I love you so much. I think I actually might cry.”

“Oh please don’t,” Draco sighed, “I know it’s a terrible tragedy that we’re both off the market, but there’s no need for waterworks.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, “Harry what are you doing?”

Harry gripped Draco’s hand very tightly. “I know,” he said, “I absolutely hear all of your concerns. But also I’m in love, so there’s really not much I can do about the whole situation apart from… wait it out, I guess. I’m really sorry.”

“Wait it out,” Draco scoffed, his palm suddenly sweaty, “I’m very stubborn, Potter. I’m going to make a point not to change my mind about you.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, and he had never meant anything more, “Amazing. I look forward to it.”

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