#can’t help drawing two blokes walking somewhere

[gnawe]

met resistance

[weelittleweasley]

Rosy Cheeks | Fred x Reader

Prompt as anon requested: Fred has always been very forward with his feelings, especially when it comes girls. You on the other hand were always taken aback by how forward he was. 

Warnings: fluffy, blushy, cute, warm, and fuzzy :)

Word Count: 2.4k

Small chatter in the library filled Fred’s ears as he sat at a small table pushed against the wall. He leaned back, twirling his quill in his fingers, not paying a lick of attention to the study group at the table. He tuned out Alicia’s voice going on about Flitwick’s class, arguing with Angelina about an answer to the study guide they made together for their upcoming exam. This was all nonsense to Fred in comparison to what he was staring at; rather who he was staring at.

Fred maintained a soft gaze on you from across the library. He watched as you sat alone at a small table, hair pulled up sloppily into a pony tail, the loose strands falling around your face, framing it. You propped your head up with your hand as you read through a book, flipping its pages, struggling to find the information you needed for the same exam he was preparing for. Fred’s heart fluttered in his ribcage as he watched you bite your lip, squinting your eyes as you read the words on the page. How was it possible for someone to be this adorable without even trying?

George leaned back in his chair, laughing at Alicia and Angelina fighting over the right answer. He turned to his right to see his twin, staring off into the distance. He followed his brother’s line of sight and saw exactly who he was gawking at. He let out a light chuckle, “Fred, mate, stop gawking at her and go talk to her.”

Fred snapped out of his daydream and turned to his brother. “I don’t want to disturb her, she looks so peaceful,” he retorts with a small smile on his lips as he returned his gaze to you from across the library. Alicia rolled her eyes at Fred, knowing well enough that Fred wouldn’t care disturbing a girl from her work if it meant he could talk to her. “I’m serious. Anyway, what were you two going on about?”

“Ah, ah, don’t be so quick to change the subject, Weasley,” Angelina shakes her head. “I didn’t know you had a thing for (Y/L/N), when did this start?” she asks, leaning forward, more intrigued in Fred’s little crush than the work in front of them. 

George laughs, “It wasn’t obvious before? Fred drools at the mouth when he sees her.” His comment makes Angelina and Alicia both laugh as Fred punches George in the arm as a warning. “Godric, calm down, I’m just teasing you, mate.” 

You were in the same year as Fred and George, but you had never really been friends with them. Just acquaintances. Fred didn’t start having a crush on you until your fifth year at Hogwarts. You had all come back from summer vacation, and all of a sudden it seemed like you had grown up before everyone’s eyes. You cut your hair, you didn’t have braces anymore, you started wearing light make up to highlight your facial features, and not to mention you suddenly became more aware of your feminine figure. The male gaze was much more present on you and you could feel it. It’s not that you didn’t like the attention, you just weren’t used to it. You were used to blending in the background, minding your own business and keeping a tight circle of close friends. So when random boys came up to you, like Fred, you were always caught off guard by their flirtations. It’s not that you didn’t find Fred cute, because you indeed find him to be incredibly handsome, you were just not used to how forward he was with his emotions.

Fred leans forward and puts his head in his hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it seems like every time I try to talk to her or flirt with her, I just end up screwing things. I compliment her, I try to talk to her as much as I can, I offer to walk her to class, but when I do those things it seems like she just freezes up.”

Closing her book and surrendering to the conversation, Alicia speaks, “For starters, Fred, you aren’t very subtle when it comes to fancying girls.” Fred furrows his brows. “You are always very forward with them and make it known that you like them and some girls prefer a little game. Some back and forth, make the bloke sweat a bit. You on the other hand are...intense for lack of better words.” 

Her comment makes the table burst out in laughter as Fred tries to defend himself. “Intense?! I’m intense?!” he exclaims before noticing his rising volume, earning a few shushes from the people around him. “Alright, fine, I can be a little intense, but it’s just because I don’t like playing games. I like getting right down to it. Why waste time?” 

George retorts to his brother, “But how do you know that she doesn’t like the chase, mate? Maybe she needs to take things slow.”

Fred just rolls his eyes, “Have I ever not succeeded in getting a girl with my method?” Alicia and Angelina scoff before returning back to their books, their argument about the right answer ensuing yet again. Fred continues talking to George, “Look, she’s also studying for Flitwick’s exam. Maybe she needs help. How kind of me to offer her some help!” 

Fred rises from his seat, grabbing his book leaving the table. “How are you gonna help her when you barely know what you’re doing, mate?” George speaks.

Spinning around, Fred quickly responds, “She doesn’t know that. Fake it ‘till you make it.” He sends his brother and their friends a wink before heading over to your table, unbeknownst to you.

You were deep into reading your book for Flitwick’s class, flipping wildly through pages to find the charm and wand movement you were looking for. “It has to be here somewhere,” you mumble to yourself, licking your fingertips before flipping through pages. 

“Need help?” you hear a voice speak. You look up to see Fred Weasley towering over you, a small smirk on his lips. Your heart rate speeds up the moment you see him, heart pounding against your chest. Your mouth goes dry and every thought in your mind vanishes. He literally made you speechless. Don’t freak out, you think to yourself. “May I?” he asks, referring to the empty seat next to you. Nodding your head up and down, you quickly look away from him as to not draw anymore attention to yourself. Fred takes the seat next to you as you feel your cheeks heating up, suddenly becoming more self-aware in the space next to him. “Studying for Flitwick’s exam?” he asks.

Taking a gulp, you muster up the words to speak to the cute boy next to you. “Um, yeah,” you nod your head, eyes still glued to the textbook, refusing to look at him. It felt wrong to look at him for some reason. Fred’s gaze did something to you. It felt so intimate for the strangest reason. “Or attempting to,” you add. “I can’t seem to find the charm I’m looking for in the textbook.”

Fred scoots his chair closer to you and you tense up a little bit. He reaches to your textbook and says, “Maybe I can be of some help? What charm is it?” As he asks you, he places his arm around the back of your chair, resting it around you. You become very aware of his slick placement, an obvious move, and your mouth goes dry. Fred was making his move and he was monitoring your reaction carefully.

You didn't know what to do. Flirt back? Answer his question? Tell him that you’re okay and that’ll you’ll find it? You didn’t want him to think that you didn’t like his flirtation because you did, you just didn’t know how to react. Instead of saying something flirty back, you just look at him and answer the question. “Erecto,” you speak as Fred widens his eyes. Of course. You just widen your eyes back as Fred chuckles. “I-I-I didn’t mean it like that, I meant that’s the charm I’m looking for!” you justify your answer. 

Fred continues to chuckle before replying, “At least take me on a date first, (Y/N).” He sends you a wink as your cheeks go bright red, making Fred chuckle more. “You look adorable when you blush,” Fred confesses which only makes you blusher harder and look away from him, a smile forming on your lips which Fred doesn’t miss. The smile makes Fred smile wider and his heart flutter. “Alright, let me have a look,” he pulls the textbook, flipping through pages with one hand, keeping his other arm around the back of your chair. You just sit quietly and play with the quill in your hand, tucking your hand behind your ear. Godric, this was embarrassing. “And here we have it. Right next to Engorgio,” he winks at you as you bite your lip to hold back your smile. Fred notices and speaks, “Hey, don’t hide that smile from me. You look beautiful when you smile.” He pushes a piece of hair out of your face and brushes it behind your ear as you heart stops, making your mouth go dry. You let a small smile pull at the corners of your mouth. “There we are. Beautiful.”

The two of you look at each other for a moment, staring at the other. Fred’s eyes dart all over your face trying to gage your reaction to his words, nervously scanning you. You just stare at Fred’s eyes and look at how much life are behind them. Aside from being a goof, Fred Weasley had so much charm and charisma. That’s what made him so attractive. He was confident in himself. But you don’t let yourself get carried away. You break your gaze and go back to your work, but Fred keeps looking at you. “Thank you, Fred,” you tell him quietly, scribbling down the charm on your parchment.

You can still feel Fred’s eyes on you as you write, growing uncomfortable in his gaze. It wasn’t that he was making you uncomfortable, it’s just the fact that he loved look at you was something you weren’t used to. “Can I ask you something, (Y/N)?” he asks as your heart stops. Uh oh. 

Your mind is racing with possible questions he could ask you, but you still say, “Sure.”

Fred takes in a breath before speaking, “Do you consider me intense?”

You furrow your brows, “Intense?”

“Yeah, like Alicia told me I’m intense. I understand that if she was referring to me when I’m playing quidditch, but she meant like...when I’m around a girl that I like...I’m intense with them. Would you agree?” he asks, arm still around you as you bite down on your lip, confused.

You open your mouth to speak, trying to formulate a sentence. “Well, I don’t know...I haven’t seen you interact with a girl who you fancy,” you tell him as you play with the quill in your hands.

Your comment makes Fred laugh and shake his head. “Merlin,” he breathes out. “You’re bluffing, right?” You furrow your brows yet again, completely confused. You were being truthful. You knew that Fred flirted with you, but didn’t he flirt with everyone? That was Fred’s thing, wasn’t it? “(Y/N), I fancy you. I have since fifth year,” Fred confesses.

In that moment, your heart stops. Fred Weasley fancied you? So the flirting was because he fancied you? “Oh,” you speak as Fred just chuckles, waiting for you to say something. Your shyness gets the best of you again and you just blush deep crimson for the thousandth time, making Fred smile. “I didn’t know, Fred.”

He shakes his head, “For someone as smart and as gorgeous as you, you’re quite oblivious, (Y/N). I’ve been flirting with you every day, sneaking a glance or touch when I can. You thought I was doing all of that to be friendly?” You just shrug in response. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable during any of it, it’s just the way I’m used to flirting with girls,” he tells you with a soft smile. “But I am serious. I do have a crush on you. And I’d love to take you out on a date if you’d let me, (Y/N).”

Your heart is beating a mile a minute and your palms are sweating. There’s no way that this is happening right now. Five minutes ago you were freaking out over an exam and now you were being asked out on a date by one of the fittest guys in your year. With a shaky breath in and a smile, you reply, “Okay. I’ll go on a date with you.”

Fred gives you a toothy grin. “Brilliant,” he beams. “How does this Friday work? We can go to the Three Broomsticks and get some Butterbeer?” he asks. “7pm?” You give him a small nod, rubbing the back of your neck, trying to hide your excitement. “Cool. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll make it worth your while,” he winks before placing a small kiss on your bright crimson cheek. “I’ll see you then.” He rises from his chair and makes his way back to the table where George, Alicia, and Angelina eagerly wait for him.

As he walks away, you let out a little giggle, excited for what the weekend has in store for you. Now with a beaming smile on your face, you continue to study for the exam, in a much better mood than before. “I’ve got a date with Fred Weasley,” you whisper to yourself, blushing hard as you flip through pages of your book.

“And?” George asks as Fred plops back down in his chair. “You scare her away again? Or did you behave yourself?” he pushes Fred’s shoulder.

Fred looks at his friends and brother and simply speaks, “Intense my arse. Guess who has a date this Friday?” he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as his friends’ jaws drop. “Don’t act surprised. I told you my method always works.”

George scoffs, “Yeah right. Hey, (Y/N)!” He bellows from the opposite side of the library, grabbing your attention as your eyes widen at the call. “My idiot brother said he’s got a date with you on Friday. That true? Or did he bribe you to say yes?” Fred slaps his brother upside the head.

You let out a light laugh, very aware of the multiple pairs of eyes on you from various students, anticipating your answer. “I don’t do bribes, George. Besides, your brother has quite the way with words,” you tease with a little more confidence, earning a few oohs from around you.

George stares at you and then Fred in disbelief. Then he speaks, “Nice going, mate!” Fred chuckles before looking over at you, sending you a wink.

[maraudersftw]

Claudia — this prompt!!!!!!! 💕✨

1. Two characters haven’t seen each other for a while, one keeps rambling about something insignificant and the other one kisses them because “Shut up you’re rambling just kiss me.”

Omg, M, so excited to receive this from you! 😂💜 And I had a blast writing it, so obviously it got long (1.5k words). Thanks for the prompt. Hope you enjoy!

Glittering Darkness

The Butterbeer is a slide of warm froth down his throat, easing up frozen insides brought on by the biting January cold. He smiles, grin stupid on face, hazel eyes bright behind glasses, and listens to Sirius yammer on about Quidditch and teams and players—

“The Canons don’t stand a fucking chance this season, mate,” Sirius repeats for the thousandth time that week, to the audience of Remus’s rolling eyes, Peter’s enraptured gaze and James’s dazed attention. “I have my bet on the Arrows. I mean, have you seen Crossby’s performance lately? Not missed a single bloody snitch so far in. That’s gotta be some kind of record, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? Oi, Prongs!” he snaps, brows instantly furrowed at not receiving James’s immediate response, no matter that Peter’s vehement nodding probably dislodges the boy’s neck. “Someone throw a Confundus at you? That’s a dumb expression on your face, if I’ve seen one.”

James sighs, leans back, embraces the lovely chatter of his peers around The Three Broomsticks. “I’m just having a good day.”

The boys are instantly suspicious, each choosing to express such emotion with a varying degree of subtlety.

“How come?” Sirius asks, sounding almost put off at not being privy to the answer already.

“Well, I get to spend such a lovely afternoon with you lads. What more could I want?”

“To get laid,” says Sirius, a phrase that is followed immediately by Peter’s loud snort of laughter.

“By a very specific person,” Remus can’t help but add, amusement quirking his mouth in that typical way of his.

“Nonsense,” he waves off, another gulp of Butterbeer tossed back. “I’m perfectly content.”

“Okay, I take it back. It has to be a cheering charm,” Sirius ponders solemnly, just as a group of familiar Gryffindors enters The Three Broomsticks, huddling together as they brush off snow from thick robes and gloves.

Such a sight is by no means a rarity, given that the pub has already been crawling with Hogwarts students since the start of day. But James’s eyes are quick to lock onto a very specific person, a flash of red hair, pink cheeks, bright, bright laughter. No one around him seems to notice the tectonic plates shifting under their feet, nor the way that colour splashes, vibrant and sudden, painting the world afresh. No, they carry on with their conversations and snark as if air hasn’t suddenly become easier to draw in, as if her mere presence hasn’t literally lit up the room. He supposes, after a second of reflection, that she’s indeed his personal cheering charm.

Lily nods to the girls—Mary, Dorcas, Marlene—and points to a booth somewhere at the back. He can’t be arsed to check the exact location; not when it means taking his eyes off a much better alternative. But instead of moving away with them as they take their seats, Lily, curiously enough, breaks off from the group, face blank, easy grace and gait as she meanders off to the loo. Her eyes don’t travel to him, not once.

And yet, James spots that minuscule quirk of lips right before she disappears from view.

Oh.

Very well then.

He’s instantly on his feet, wooden chair scraping back with a loud groan, cutting off Remus mid-speculation as to the reason behind James’s jolly disposition. Three heads turn to him; curious, amused, perhaps even a little concerned.

“Um, you okay, mate?”

“Brilliant,” James replies, feels a thrum of excitement shiver through him, and wonders if it’s openly visible. “Perfectly brilliant. I just need to take a leak.”

“Well, alright, Mr Potter, you’re excused.” Remus laughs.

He takes the time to roll his eyes, but not the effort to dim his smile. It’s probable he looks like a complete loon on a sugar rush, but James truly has never cared about anything less. “Yeah, yeah, have your chuckles, Mr Moony. We’ll see who’s laughing by the end of the day.”

“I genuinely have no idea what you mean, and you sound completely unthreatening with that ridiculous beaming going on.”

James scoffs, walks away from another bout of laughter. “Fuck off.”

The hallway leading to the loos remains mercifully empty; luck that he doesn’t take for granted thanks to the crowd spilling inside the pub. With a quick manoeuvre honed over years of efficient marauding, he pulls out a shrunken invisibility cloak from his robes, enlarges it to its normal size, and disappears beneath the silvery material, feeling its strange softness like a second skin. And then he flattens himself against the wall, scooting around until he’s strategically placed within an alcove near the entrance to the girls’ lavatory—far away enough to give a wide berth to anyone he doesn’t want to alert, but near enough for an encounter with his target.

His target, who he presumes is not nearly as unsuspecting as she’d let on.

It takes only about ten seconds or so before he sees the swish of her robes, witnesses the easy smile on her face as Lily rounds the corner, nose teased red from cold, freckles scattered like stars, and finds the walls of his chest tighten like concrete slabs at the sight.

In a flash of movement, he’s got a hand wrapped around her wrist, sliding to her waist, yanking her firmly against his body without so much as a whispered greeting. Lily’s impulsive screech of surprise dies down the instant the cloak falls over her head, enveloping them both. The tension of her muscles melts away beneath his fingertips, and she’s quick to plant her hands on his chest, brush indelicately closer, space shrinking enough that he tastes the mint on her breath when she speaks.

“Rather indecent of you to accost me like this, Potter.”

He bends down, appreciates the excited gleam in the green of her eyes. His thumb finds her nape, massages gently. “I had something very important to discuss with you.”

“Mm,” Lily purrs. “That’s better. How may I help you?”

“You see,” he starts, chokes slightly when she grinds against him purposefully. “You see, I was just leaving the castle this morning, ready for a lovely outing with my mates, when a witch who looked remarkably like you all but shoved me into a broom closet, declared her undying love for me, and then snogged me into oblivion. And well, you’ve got to understand what that sort of thing does to a bloke’s mental state.”

“Huh,” she remarks, lets her upper lip slide over his bottom one, nothing but a ghost of touch. “I don’t know much about undying love proclamations, but do go on about this snogging into oblivion business, please.”

James drops his head, sucks on the pulse that jumps beneath the skin of her neck. “Oblivion. Abyss. A whole lot of glittering darkness,” he confesses. “And since this witch resembled you—”

“Remarkably,” she moans, soft.

“Remarkably, of course—I thought it only proper to inform you of such an occurrence, y’know, for reputation’s sake. You’ve got that Head Girl image to maintain. Can’t have imposters of you running around making out with the Head Boy. Doesn’t look too good, to be honest. And I’m saying this purely out of selflessness, of course. If, on the other hand, you were to shed some light on this act and admit to...I don’t know...a lack of an imposter, it would mean a whole other thing—”

Lily slams him back against the wall, hand shoving his chest, mouth dangerously close to his. “Shut up, you’re rambling.” She smirks. “Just kiss me.”

And almost as if unable to sustain any patience to allow him to follow the directive, her lips crush over his in a kiss that somehow burns through his every molecule, scorching the very skin he wears, rivalling even the best kiss he’s ever had in his life, which was, incidentally, shared with the same person naught but two hours ago. Lily’s hand curls over his collar, twisting the fabric, giving her purchase to devour him alive. He reciprocates with a tightening grip on her waist, tilting her jaw, slipping his tongue inside to brush over the warm wetness of hers. A mad rush of breath, of gliding mouths and hands and softly uttered moans passes between them, the air under the cloak sweltering despite the cold outside.

Eventually, James wrenches himself away long enough to get the word out; her name. “Lily.”

“Mm,” she manages, lips on his cheek.

“I’m going to need you to spell it out for me.”

The breathless sincerity of his tone gives her pause, and she pulls back, eyes dark and confused. “What?”

“Do you,” he swallows past the cowardice, the thump of his heart. “Is this happening for real? You actually want...me?”

A beat passes, a long one, and Lily stares and stares and stares. Eventually, a smile spills, and he’s reminded of that abyss; glittering endlessly. “Yeah, James. I want you. Wholly. Fully.” She kisses him again, trails the honey on his lips. “I’m just letting you enjoy this outing with the boys, because once we’re back at the castle…”

She’s trailed off, left him to articulate thoughts. “What then?”

Lily grins, glint of teeth so cruelly delicious that it steals his breath, especially when accompanied by the roll of her hips. “I’ll let you fill in the blank.”

[smcc212]

Shelby Meets Solomons

Pairings- Thomas Shelby x Solomons! Male reader

Word count- 1,966

Warnings- internalised homophobia, fluff, ooc Tommy, smut-anal, kinda hand-job? Not proofread. I think that’s it, let me know if I missed any.

A/N- Thank you, @follow-donttelltheelf-x for requesting some Tommy Shelby x male reader. I’ve actually wrote two Tommy x male reader fics. I’ll tag you in both. By the way, I’m sorry if I missed up the tag, I have dyslexia so it took me awhile to understand it-hope I got it right. Anyways, Enjoy!!

A Shelby and Solomons. A doomed love if there ever was such a thing. But, Thomas couldn’t help falling for (Y/N). He was nothing like his brother, the only thing they had in common was their name and their accent.

They met for the first time in Alfie’s office. Thomas and Alfie has just made a new deal when (Y/N) came storming in.

“Fuck sake, Alfie! Will you stop having your fucking men follow me everywhere!” He shouted, he knew Thomas was there but he didn’t care. He was pissed. All he wanted was to have a somewhat normal life, but he couldn’t do that when he had Alfie’s men trailing behind wherever he went.

“(Y/N), this can wait,” Alfie spoke sternly, glaring at his little brother.

“No, it fucking can’t! I can’t live a normal life when there are randoms following me around!” Thomas just stared at (Y/N). That part of his mind he’d worked so hard destroy rebuilding itself as he looked at the younger man. He wasn’t much younger, he looked about thirty. As the Solomons brothers continued to argue, Thomas’ eyes took in all of (Y/N). He was a strong, handsome man and Thomas couldn’t help but let himself wonder what (Y/N) Solomons looked like beneath his shirt.

They met for the second time when Thomas went to visit Ada, his sister. He stopped on the threshold on the drawing room, shocked to see the Solomons brother that had plagued his mind with thoughts he’d fought his entire life to ignore.

“Tommy, this is (Y/N).” Ada smiled at her brother who continued staring at the young man. “Fuck sake, Tom. He’s not interested in me... or girls of any kind,” mirth laced her words.

“Ada!” (Y/N)’s eyes widened, darting back and forth between Ada and Thomas.

“Come down, Tommy doesn’t care. He sure as hell won’t go to the police.”

“(Y/N).” Thomas cleared his throat before extending his hand out towards (Y/N). “I’m Thomas.”

“Have we met before, Thomas?”

“I’m in business with your brother I believe.” Thomas’ heart was racing as he looked at the younger man, but on the outside he looked his normal cold, calculated self.

“Ah, so you’ve had the misfortune of meeting Alfie. I promise I’m nothing like him,” (Y/N) chuckled nervously, not only had Ada revealed his biggest secret, but she’d revealed it to someone that knew his brother. He’d never told Alfie,he never planned on telling Alfie. Alfie was the only family he had left, he couldn’t lose him.

“Will you let me talk to my sister, alone for a moment?” Thomas asked, he could see Ada adding everything up in her head.

“Of course,” (Y/N) spoke, his eyes trailing along Thomas’ body before he left the room, left the siblings alone.

“So,” Ada began, “‘re you gonna tell me what that was about?” She asked pointedly.

“What are you talking about, Ada?” Although he maintained his calm appearance, Thomas had never been more scared in his life.

Ada took a deep breath, recognising his fear. “Tom, I know we’ve had our differences, but your still my big brother and I’ll always love you no matter what. You know that don’t you?” Her voice had softened, as had her eyes, she needed her brother to know that she’d love him no matter what; she just hoped Thomas would understand.

“Yes, Ada. I’m aware.” Thomas’ could hear his heartbeat in his ears, could feel bile rises into his throat, feel sweat gathering on his back as his breathing started to pick up.

“So, you know I’ll love no matter what, right?”

“What’s your point, Ada?”

“You introduced yourself as ‘Thomas’, no one outside the family calls you that. And, you let him check you out. Tommy, do you... y’know... like men?” She spoke softly, placing a loving hand on your brother’s shoulder. “I don’t care if you do,” She quickly added, “and I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

He tried to talk, but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. He nodded, so softly it was almost unnoticeable.

“Okay,” Ada said slowly, nodding her head.

“Okay?” Thomas repeated, his eyebrows furrowing. His fear never leaving him.

“Okay,” Her voice was firmer this time. “And, I’m guessing, you fancy (Y/N) at least a bit.”

“For fuck sake, Ada, keep your bloody voice down. He’s in the next room,” Panic was thick in his usually cold voice.

“Tom, (Y/N) likes men too, you idiot. And know that I think about it, I think you’re the ‘good-looking bloke that was in Alfie’s office the other day’.” She smiled, she hadn’t seen her brother act nervous since before the war.

“I wasn’t the only person visiting Alfie that day, don’t be stupid. Anyway...”

*

(Y/N) couldn’t stop himself, he knew it was wrong, but he listened in to Ada and Thomas’ conversation. He hadn’t forgotten Thomas’ face, how could he? Thomas was beautiful. His ocean blue eyes. His chiseled face. His jet black hair. His... everything.

He asked Alfie who he was, but all Alfie said was: ‘don’t get involved with him, (Y/N).’ But (Y/N) wasn’t known for following Alfie’s orders, why should he start now?

When Thomas started to talk to Ada about business, (Y/N) stopped listening. When he heard Thomas walking out the door, however, he jogged out to catch him. He’d never been more scared in his life, his heart was racing as he spoke:

“Thomas.”

“Yes?”

“Erm... I-I was wonderin’ if ya’d, maybe, wanna get a drink sometime?” It came like a question, (Y/N)’s nerves getting the better of him.

“Well... alright, I’ll... call Alfie I guess.” Thomas tried his best to seem calm and collected, but the excitement in his voice didn’t go unnoticed by (Y/N) not Ada.

“Right, well, erm, okay. See you later I guess,” (Y/N) spoke, instantly kicking himself for sounding like an idiot.

“Okay,” Thomas chuckled. “Goodbye, (Y/N).”

“Goodbye, Thomas.”

*

They met for the third time when Thomas came to his house.

“Hey,” (Y/N) mumbled as he opened the door, his nerves eating him alive. It didn’t help that his brother was glaring at his date.

“Hello, (Y/N). Ready to go?” Thomas asked, his voice clear and firm.

“Aye. See ya, Alf,” He exclaimed before shutting the door behind him.

“It was kinda difficult to find a place we could go,” (Y/N) began, “I mean there’s clubs but someone might recognise you, so, I thought we could go somewhere more... private. Only if you’re okay with that,” He added quickly.

“Where is this ‘more private’ place?” Thomas inquired. He didn’t want anyone to see him, but he was also aware that he was going on a date with Alfie Solomon’s brother, so, he was wary.

“There’s a spot near by that’s isolated at night, it’s just over there-“ He pointed to the north-east.

“Alright.” Thomas nodded.

They sat there talking to each other for hours, getting to know one another-jobs, interests, aspirations, family, friends, and everything in between. Both men, for the first time since France, could feel butterflies in there stomach as they slowly inches closer towards one another. Hearts race as lips brush together.

*

The first time the family found out about the relationship was after Arthur saw Thomas and (Y/N) together. They were careless, sharing a moment of passion in Tommy’s office when Arthur walked in to see them with their tongues down each other’s throat. He whipped around to tell the rest of Shelby/Grey clan. Thomas and (Y/N) rushed after them.

Ada knew, and Polly didn’t seem fazed, the boys, however, all looked perplexed.

“Well, what’re gonna say, Tom?” Arthur grumbled, but a wave of worry flushed through his words.

“What do you what me to say, Arthur?” Thomas asked rhetorically before clearing his throat, “everyone, this is (Y/N) Solomons, my boyfriend.” At the mention of ‘Solomons’ the full family-except for Thomas and Ada- went wide eyed, staring at Thomas as though he was an alien.

“Thomas,” Polly began. “Did you say he’s a Solomons?” She asked in disbelief.

“Yes. He’s Alfie’s younger brother, but he’s nothing like him. He has nothing to do with Alfie’s business.” (Y/N)’s eyes darted back and forth between the family members. He was terrified. But he had to stay strong for Tommy, for the man he loved.

“Tommy’s right. I ‘ave nothin’ to do with my brother’s business. I’m nothin’ like him.” He takes a breath. “I love Tommy, I wouldn’t let my brother stop me being with him and I won’t let you. (Y/N) mentally kicked himself for saying that, but then Polly smiled.

“You’re gonna fight the Peaky blinders to be with him, eh?” Polly asked, mirth tracing her words. (Y/N) gulped. Took in a deep breath.

“Yes. I would,” He spoke with his chest. Arthur stepped forward, but Polly grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

“I trust him,” She spoke.

“You what?” Arthur spat.

“Call it gypsy intuition, we can trust him. We’ll still keep an eye on him, just to be sure, but for now, we can trust him.” (Y/N) let out a sigh of relief, as Polly smiled at him. Then Thomas decided to speak.

“If any of you have a problem with my relationship, keep it to yourself. Speak of it and I’ll have to shoot you, family or not.” Everyone in that room knew he wasn’t lying and agreed.

“Very good. Back to work then.” Tommy grabbed (Y/N) hand, dragging him upstairs to his old bedroom.

“Tommy,” (Y/N) giggled, “you can’t be serious.” Tommy looked at him, his eyes blown with lust.

“Deadly, my love.” (Y/N) fell back on the bed, Thomas climbing over the top of him, leaning down to capture his lips. As their tongues danced, they tore at each other’s clothes. Tommy kissed his collarbone down to chest before moving back to his lips. (Y/N) lifted up his hips, sliding down his trousers and boxers. Tommy did the same.

Tommy warms up some oil in his hands, before carefully pushing one finger inside of (Y/N), working him open while sloppy kisses were shared between the two.

Eventually, Tommy rubbed a generous amount of oil over his cock before gently rocking into (Y/N). Low groans filled the room as Tommy starts to softly thrust. One hand grabbing ahold of (Y/N)’s cock, jerking it while his hips pick up speed. Lewd slapping noises fill the room, along side pants and moans.

“I love you,” Tommy mumbled breathlessly into (Y/N)’s neck as they both chase their highs.

“I love you too.” (Y/N)’s about to speak again when the coil within him snaps, eyes rolling back as he comes onto his stomach. Tommy isn’t fair behind. A few more sloppy thrusts and he’s crying in ecstasy as he fills (Y/N) up. Using the last of his strength, Tommy carefully pulls out, rolls onto his back, and pulls (Y/N) into his chest.

As they catch their breath, the door opens and in walks the one and only Finn Shelby.

“Tom, I-“ He cuts himself off as he takes in the sight in front of him. “Erm, shit, sorry, Tom,” He stammers, turns, and walks out, slamming the door shut behind him. Tommy turns to (Y/N) and opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted by his younger brother bellowing through the house: “Stay outa Tom’s room, he’s got company!”

“For fuck sake,” Tommy groaned.

“We know, Finn,” Ada shouted.

“Tom! You takin’ it or givin’?” John asked. (Y/N) giggled at Tommy’s exasperated face.

“I’m gonna kill my own fucking family. If they don’t shut the fuck up,” Tommy complained.

“Aww, you poor baby,” (Y/N) cooed, placing a kiss on his lips and cuddling into him. “Can’t wait for Hanukkah, slash, Christmas this year. Should be great fun.”

“Oh fuck.”

[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ‘we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

“Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.

[minimitchell]

callumhighwayweek day 3 - “You just left!” (ao3 link)

.

October in Walford is this weird mixture of the last remnants of summer flooding the days with sun and warmth, and autumn plunging the neighborhood in greys and dark clouds. It’s this strange combination that means you never know if how you dress in the morning will still be appropriate in the evening.

Today, the sun bathed the day in golden hues, warming the streets and sending everyone out into the parks and beer gardens one last time. Even now, with the sun long gone and most shops closed for the night, it’s not exactly cold, only a slight chill hanging in the air.

Callum is on his way home from work, having left his office half an hour ago when he realized there was no way he was gonna get all that paperwork done today. He loves being a social worker, he really does, but he could really do without all the bureaucracy.

He’s contemplating whether he can justify getting some chips for dinner tonight when he passes right by the Prince Albert. There’s music blasting inside the bar and spilling out onto the street; the sound of laughter and chatter from the people milling around outside filling in the air.

Callum has gone there a few times himself, mostly because it’s close to home and not as tacky as a lot of other gay bars in London. He can’t help but feel a bit envious of all the punters and party-goers there today; they’re definitely having a much better day than he is.

His gaze travels over the people standing around the metal tables outside the Albert; over the people smoking, talking and flirting with one another. He watches them until he reaches a couple off to the side a bit, huddled in the corner between the bar itself and the building next to it.

The way to his apartment leads him directly past the two men and he gets a closer look on them when he draws nearer. The guy pressed in the corner is more than a head shorter, oversized denim jacket hanging over a tight, burgundy shirt. Callum can’t see his face from his current angle, his view shrouded by the taller man standing in front of the guy. One of his arms is outstretched against the wall next to the shorter guy’s head and he’s not only taller but also wider, muscles bulging under his ridiculously tight shirt.

They make an odd couple but who is Callum to judge anyone. Just because he doesn’t have a relationship at the moment, hasn’t had one for quite a while to be honest, doesn’t mean he gets to pass judgement on others.

Upon stepping closer and closer to the pair though, Callum realizes the situation isn’t at all what he had previously thought. Because from where he’s coming to a stop now, only a few meters away from the two men, it doesn’t look like they’re a couple at all - quite the opposite in fact.

He can now see the face of the man being pushed in the corner and he definitely doesn’t look very interested in the other guy. He keeps leaning away from the man and rolling his eyes, looking down into his pint glass or looking over the other guy’s arm for something. What, Callum isn’t really sure of. But it’s clear the taller guy is blocking him from leaving the situation.

It only takes a second for his brain to decide he needs to step in. He needs to intervene.

There’s no way he could ever square up to this guy and his bulging muscles though so he does the next best thing he can come up with in that brief moment it takes him to cross the street to get to the two men - he creates a lie.

“Kevin? How dare you, we were supposed to be getting married today. I stood there at the altar and you- you just left! And now you’re here frolicking?”

The guy in the corner looks torn between laughing in his face at the ridiculous line he came up with on the spot and being grateful Callum’s giving him an out. Callum knows his acting is completely over the top, pearl-clutching and dramatic breathing bad, but it seems to do the trick. When he looks over at Muscles the man looks exasperated and he’s finally retracting his arm from the wall between Callum and the other bloke.

“Are you the reason he left me? Because he will do it again, you know.”

The man mouths an irritated ‘what the fuck’ before he shakes his head and heads away from them, disappearing around the corner with not even a glance black at them. Callum watches him leave, making sure that he’s really gone and not just lingering somewhere until Callum is gone again, before he turns back around to face the other man.

He’s leaning back against the brick of the building now, looking up at Callum in amusement. Up close, Callum finally has time to take in his face, noting how his pretty, blue eyes are sparkling with mirth and how his nice, pink lips are twisted into a smirk.

“I don’t know whether to thank you or be offended.”

“Sorry?”

Callum doesn’t remember saying anything that could’ve offended the other man but now that he’s said it, his brain starts going a mile a minute, recounting every word. Maybe it was stupid for him to assume that he needed to be saved by Callum and couldn’t defuse the situation on his own.

Thankfully, the bloke takes pity on him before he can overthink this even further.

“Do I honestly look like a Kevin to you? I feel like that’s an insult. And I don’t know how I feel about apparently leaving you at the altar. Seems pretty stupid.”

Callum huffs out a laugh, tilting his head to the ground to mask the smile breaking out on his own face now. He isn’t sure whether he should take the guy’s flirting seriously or not, but he can feel his cheeks heat up anyway.

“It was the first thing that came to my head, okay. Don’t take the mick now.”

He isn’t sure where all this confidence is coming from right now. It’s not that he’s shy or anything, but he usually isn’t the best at flirting with guys he doesn’t know. But this guy in front of him just has an aura about him that calms him and gives him that tiny boost to flirt back.

“Well, I’ll be forever grateful, strapping young stranger.”

Callum is just about to reach out his hand and introduce himself - he doesn’t exactly know why, he just knows this guy is drawing him in an almost miraculous way - when the guy gives him a wink and walks back towards the entrance of the bar.

The guy only turns around again when he’s already pulling the door open, hand wrapped around the metal handle, giving Callum another small smirk and a very obvious onceover.

“See you around, hero.”

Callum watches him disappear back into the bar, leaving nothing but a growing curiosity behind.

It takes him embarrassingly long to continue his way back home.

.

Callum can’t help but let his thoughts drift back to the stranger again and again over the next few weeks. He lies awake at night and thinks about his pretty blue eyes and his devilish smirk. He zones out while he’s doing paperwork at the office and imagines all the ridiculous ways they could meet again - at the café, while grocery shopping, while he’s out on a run. All the romcom clichés possible.

He thinks about going back to the Albert and looking for the guy multiple times a week but he doesn’t want to come off as desperate. He has an unsubstantiated crush on a stranger, he doesn’t want to add the term stalker to the mix of things already swirling around in his head. Who even gets lovestruck like that anymore?

Callum’s not a teenager; he’s had relationships. So he doesn’t understand what it is about this one guy that drives him crazy likes this. It’s like he subconsciously knows there’s a reason they met; a reason why he’s so drawn to him. There’s something special there.

It simultaneously intrigues and scares him.

It’s also, just maybe, the reason he suggested going to the Albert when Frankie brought up the idea of a family night out. They’re not biologically family, all of them, but he’s grown up with the Carters and he’s been around them more than his own family. So he’s like an honorary Carter. To him, they are as much his siblings like his biological brother is.

Tonight, it’s him, Nancy and Frankie all settled around a table away from the dancefloor with a good view of the whole club. Callum is sitting with his back to the bar, knocking back one of the many shots Frankie made them buy, scrunching up his face in disgust. He’s not a hard liquor guy; it goes to his head way too quickly and the result is almost always him embarrassing himself in some way.

Your turn.

Frankie points at the cocktail glasses on the table after she signs the words, bright smile on her face. Callum loves his sisters, he does, but they do take advantage of him being nice way too much. He grumbles but he still gets up and makes his way to the bar regardless.

It’s only when he squeezes past the people blocking his way and his view of the bar is clear, does he see a face he didn’t think he’d see again behind it. A face he desperately wanted to see again. It’s the guy from the other week, only this time he’s only wearing a black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms.

Yeah, Callum’s definitely interested in him.

He slides up to an empty space at the bar, waiting for the man to finish up with his current customer and take his order. Recognition washes over the guy’s face when he turns and faces Callum, the same smile from before tugging at his lips.

“Hero! What a nice surprise.”

His voice is even smoother than it was in Callum’s memory and he does seem pleasantly surprised to see Callum in front of him right now. It calms the erratic beat of his heart a little, because it’s better than disinterest or the guy not even remembering him at all.

“I didn’t know you worked here.”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say because he doesn’t know the guy at all; doesn’t know the first thing about him really.

“I don’t. Just helping out my mum for the night - she owns this place.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

The guy keeps looking at him and Callum is almost embarrassed to admit that he gets a little lost in his eyes, drowning in a sea of blue and grey. The moment stretches, their gazes locked on another for what feels like an endless time, but is probably only a few seconds. The guy seems to shake himself out of it after a moment, closing his eyes and seemingly shifting back into business mode.

“What can I get ya?”

“Uh, two Strawberry Daiquiri and a pint, please.”

His order is met with a nod and a sly smile and the guy gets to work straight away. Callum follows the movement of his hands with his eyes, watching as he grabs the bottles of alcohol and starts mixing the drinks.

“You here with some friends?”

It takes a second for Callum to register that the guy is still talking to him, trying to keep their conversation going while he’s making Callum’s order. It makes heat travel to his cheeks, because surely this means there’s at least some interest there from the guy as well.

Or maybe he’s just looking to make a good tip.

“Family actually. Well, kinda.”

The drinks soon appear in front of him and Callum scrambles to pull his card out of his wallet, when the guy behind the bar darts a hand out to stop him. In doing so, he touches the back of Callum’s hand with his fingers, making goosebumps break out over his arm at the touch. It’s like a current is running from his fingers right to his heart.

“It’s on me. Little thank you for the other night.”

He gives Callum a wink, smile still firmly in place. Callum can’t put it any other way, he’s completely bewitched by him.

“Well, thank you. Kevin.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

Callum gives the guy one last, flirty smile before he gathers his drinks and focuses on getting back to the table in one piece. The last thing he wants is to embarrass himself in front of the man right now. He does however hear the faint question from the other bartender about why he called the guy Kevin.

There’s adrenaline flowing through his veins though and he can barely conceal the stupid glee on his face when he joins the girls back at the table, sliding their drinks over to them. He almost feels like a little schoolboy again, getting the guy he has a crush on to notice him and flirt back and feel fucking good about it.

They fall back into easy chatter, talking about their work and what’s happening in their lives. Callum conveniently leaves out any details about the guy he’s infatuated with, only telling them about their first meeting in vague details. They think he should go for it, find the guy and ask him out. If only they knew the guy is closer than they think.

Nancy seems more and more distracted throughout the evening though, looking behind Callum again and again until finally, she slaps his arm and leans forward to him.

“Okay, don’t turn around now but the fit bartender keeps looking over at you.”

Frankie runs her hand through her hair to mask her looking over to the bar but when she looks back at him her eyes are as wide as the smile on her face and she pats his forearm excitedly a couple of times.

“Oh my god, he is. Cal, go get his number.”

“What? No, I can’t just do that.”

They don’t agree with that sentiment.

Over the next hour they keep pestering him about going back to the bar and getting the guy’s number. It’s futile to argue with them, he knows that from many, many experiences growing up, but he’s adamant that he’ll just make a fool out of himself and that they must be mistaken about his apparent interest in Callum.

In the end, he comes back from the loo to an empty table and a text from Nancy saying ‘go get him. we’re rooting for you xx’. Callum sighs and falls back into his chair, tipping the last of his pint into his mouth. He should’ve seen it coming; they were way too giddy about him going to the bathroom.

So much for a family night out.

He’s about to pocket his phone to call it a night when a bottle of beer appears on the table in front of him. When he follows the arm attached to it, he finds the guy, Kevin, on the other end, a beer in his own hand as he sinks into the seat opposite of Callum.

“Ben.”

It’s all he says and the confusion must show on Callum’s face because he huffs out a laugh and continues.

“My name is Ben.”

He tips his beer bottle towards Callum, waiting until he grabs his own and clinks them together in a silent toast, bringing them both to their lips in perfect sync.

“So not even close to Kevin.”

“Not even close.”

They share another smile with each other and it might be the alcohol flowing through his veins but from where Callum’s sitting Ben looks more than interested in him. More so, he looks almost hungry, full off barely restrained want now.

Maybe he’s also dying to get to know him; inspired to turn their chance meeting into something more.

“Hm. I’m Callum.”

“Nice to meet you, Callum.”

Ben buys them another drink once they’re finished and Callum doesn’t even notice the hours ticking by, too enthralled in getting to know Ben. They stay until the other bartender yells at Ben that she wants to close up and when they leave the bar with loud laughter spilling onto the street outside, Callum doesn’t feel an ounce of hesitancy when he accepts Ben’s invitation to continue the evening at his flat.

He feels good about this one. Really good.

He thanks his lucky stars for chance meetings.

[itsclydebitches]

Discredit Pt. 2: More Recommended Reviews For A.Z. Fell’s

Alright, folks. Some notes first: 

1. You all rock. I’m sending out 20k+ virtual hugs for all the notes I NEVER expected to get on this nonsense. 

2. This is probably the final section, just because I’m not sure I can adequately follow up part one and it might be foolish to attempt it here. Let alone twice. But for now, here we go. 

3. Kudos to the anon who reminded me of Aziraphale’s cash-only policy <3 

4. Nicole Y’s review is based off an actual comment I read years ago, but heaven only knows where online it was. I’ve got the memory of a goldfish. 

5. Trigger warning for the use of a queer slur in this. It’s the same review as above, number 5 if you want to avoid it. 

6. There’s a text-only version of just the reviews at the end, after all the images. I’ll upload that to my Sparse Clutter collection on AO3 in a bit. 

Bonus 7. People thinking this is a real shop deserve all the good things in this world. 

That’s all I’ve got. Hope you enjoy! 👍

****************************************************************************

I’m a simple guy who likes simple jokes. If there’s a whoopee cushion I plant it. I will call you up to ask if your refrigerator is running and then tell you to go catch it. (Actually that one died out so thoroughly it’s actually capable of a comeback now!). Yes, I’m a dad and yes, I have a t-shirt that says Dad Jokes? I Think You Mean Rad Jokes! which I wear un-ironically every Saturday. All of which is just to say that my wife was well prepared for my stupidity when I walked into Fell’s.

I? I was not.

You see the bibles when you walk in? The ones to the left? Let them be. Don’t even look at them. Definitely don’t pick out the fanciest one you can find and absolutely don’t walk up to the owner with it held in your pudgy little fingers, grinning like a loon, cheerfully asking whether this should be in the fiction section. Just don’t. Mark my words you’ll regret it. Though your wife won’t. She’ll get a great old laugh out of it all.

In conclusion: it’s quite possible that mama did raise a fool and he just got his ass verbally whooped by a guy in a bowtie.  

***

Shout-out to Mr. Fell for being the only decent bloke in this city. I’ve popped in and out of his store for years—including before I started transitioning. So he knew my dead name, dead look, whole shebang and I was definitely nervous to play the ‘You know me, but this is what’s changed and are you gonna throw a fit about it?’ game.

You know what he said? “Oh, Rose! What a lovely choice. Crowley dear, why aren’t you growing any roses? Some white ones would look splendid next to my Henredon chair.”

That’s it. He just went straight into dragging his partner for not giving him roses. So hey, Mom? Next time you’re snooping through my social media why don’t you explain to all these nice people why the 50+yo book seller accepts me in ways you won’t. Don’t go telling me age is an excuse or that you’re ‘Stuck in your ways.’ I’ve watched Fell dress in the same damn clothes since I was ten!!

Yeah. Sorry. Rant over. Fell’s a gem. That’s my take. Rose out.

***

Anyone else in the shop when that guy started yelling about buying pornography? And then got escorted into the back room for some ‘private conversation’? Well done, Mr. Fell! Didn’t know you had it in you.

***

Alright alright alright alright I am TOTALLY calm about this.

Went into A.Z. Fell’s last Thursday. Not because I knew anything about the place. Just because I’ve been hitting up every bookshop within a twenty-mile radius, asking if they’re hosting any book signings. Long story short I self-published my novel Blight last month—which you can get for a mere £5 here but I swear this isn’t a promotional thing I’m just BROKE—and have been looking for networking opportunities, tips, stuff like that. So the owner listened politely as I explained all this. Then said he didn’t do anything of that sort, which didn’t surprise me given the shop’s vibe.

But then? Then??? He offered to let me do a signing there??????

As said. Totally calm about this. This man either plans to kidnap me or is actually giving me my first shot at an audience outside my blog. AKA totally worth the risk.

Tuesday the 9th. 7:00pm. Just in case anyone’s interested ;)

***

holy sweet baby jesus i was tripping balls last week you tryin’ to tell me that kING KONG SIZED FANGED FUCK SNAKE IS REAL

***

Witnessed the most perfect exchange the other day:

Grumpy Dude With No Manners: “You. Boy. Where’s the man I spoke with over the phone?”

Mr. Fell’s Partner Who Knows Damn Well Only Two of Them Work There But Clearly Doesn’t Like This Guy’s Tone: “Did this man give you his name?”

Grumpy Dude: “Might have. Don’t remember. Sounded like a fairy though.”

Me: “....”

My girlfriend: “....”

This Poor Sweet Startled Kid On Our Left: “?!?!?!?”

Fell’s Partner In The Drollest Voice I’ve Ever Heard: “None of us have wings. Out!”

***

This shop gets full stars simply because every time I walk in they’re playing Queen.

I mean, I’ve walked in once, but once is enough when you’ve got Crazy Little Thing Called Love blasting full volume.

***

Okay, I’m still kind of shaken up but I needed to write this out somewhere and this seemed as good a place as any.

I spilled my latte on a book. Just tripped on thin air, popped the lid, and chucked a venti’s worth of coffee all over a very expensive looking text. I didn’t mean to, obviously, but it happened and I just started bawling on the spot. Full on sobs because this semester has been absolute hell, I ruined this guy’s antique, there’s no way I can pay for it, I can’t even sneak away because I’m drawing the whole store’s attention...just all the things all at once. I really was straight up panicking and was seconds away from pulling out my inhaler. I couldn’t breathe.

And then Mr. Fell showed up.

Jesus it’s embarrassing to admit but I think I hit him once or twice. On the arms I mean, because he was trying to touch me and I figured, I don’t know, it was a restraint or something. He was going to call the police and hold me until they got there. But then he managed to start rubbing my back and I lost it like I hadn’t already been bawling my eyes out in this shop. Ever cry into a perfect stranger’s chest? I have! But if Mr. Fell seemed to mind he definitely didn’t show it. Just kept holding me while I probably ruined his shirt and then took me into the back and made me a new coffee in this cute little angel mug. He let me stay there while I called my sister and waited for her to arrive.

She’s a good twenty minutes outside of Soho, so we talked for a while. It’s not like Mr. Fell could fix my shit roommate or bio classes, but I guess just talking about it all really helped. I was a lot calmer by the time my sis arrived and Mr. Fell insisted I come back any time I wanted—for browsing or more coffee.

Of course, sis offered to pay for the book herself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so surprised in my life. “Certainly not!” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, no one should pay for their mistakes. It’s what makes you all so wonderfully human.”

So yeah. Thanks, Mr. Fell.

***

This little shop must have started a book club for kids! Lately I’ve seen the same group of children hanging out at Fell’s. Three boys and a girl. They’re a bit rambunctious at times, but who isn’t at that age? So wonderful seeing literature passed down to the next generation. Even if some of it is rather questionable looking...

***

It’s an honest crime that more of you aren’t talking about what a wonderful bookstore this is.

I’m a book lover at heart and Fell’s always makes me feel like I’m coming home. I just arrived somewhere safe and familiar after a particularly harrowing day. I’ve slipped under the covers of my bed after dinner and a bubble bath. It’s something like that, but with an element of surprise too. One of the reasons why I adore private and used shops over chain stores is that little touch of chaos. You walk in and sure, there are general sections to browse, but everything is just a little bit disorganized from people leafing through books and then putting them back somewhere else. There’s no real record keeping, you’ve just gotta head to one particular corner and hope for the best. It’s not the sort of place you go to if you want something specific because the chances of them having it are slim—that’s just how the universe works—and even if they did no employee knows where it is anymore.

But if you wander the shelves for a while, crouch down low to get a look at everything on the bottom shelf, pay attention to the books that don’t have easy to read titles or any summaries to speak of... you just might find something you didn’t know you were looking for. That’s Fell’s: the comfort of the familiar and the excitement of the unknown.

*** A lot of people might assume that these stories are embellished or outright made up, but as a bookseller myself going on twenty years I believe every single one of them.

That being said, I accidentally moved a rug and found chalk sigils that look like they belong in a cult. Make of that what you will.

***

There’s a special place in hell for 21st century shop owners that only take cash. Who carries cash anymore? Not me! I haven’t bothered with that nonsense in years! You can get a card reader for 15 pounds on Amazon. Or you know what? Be stingy and pay 7 for the little attachment on your phone. This place is nuts if it thinks it’s going to survive much longer on a cash-only policy, especially with some books that look like they’re worth hundreds or thousands of pounds! Yeah, yeah, just let me pull out this giant wad of bills for you. I’ll carry them around a crime-laden city because there’s no ATM near you either.

I mean jesus, you’d think this guy didn’t want to sell anything.

***

I walked in. There was a man screaming at a fern while another threatened him with an umbrella. I walked out.

5 stars do recommend.

***

I once walked in on the same (?) guy yelling at a book for daring to fall on the owner’s head. I think that’s just a Thing over there.

***

Like a lot of people here I didn’t actually go to Fell’s for any books (flat tire, Angel Recovery taking forever) and ended up staying three hours (not because of Angel). No, I wandered towards the back and found this ancient CRT set propped on a table of books, the kind that my Dad used to watch Twilight Zone on. This lanky guy had a marathon of Gilmore Girls going... though how he was managing that with a broken antenna and no DVR, I really don’t know. But yeah. He told me to pull up a chair and I did. Guy gave me popcorn.

I wish I’d paid a little more attention to his name. Charlie? Curley? I really can’t remember, but thanks for the enjoyable afternoon, man.

***

I BOUGHT A BOOK HERE

Not sure how though. Just kinda happened. First edition of Just William. Frankly I didn’t even want the thing, but the owner basically shoved me out the door with it when I took two seconds to look at the spine. Odd that he was so willing to part with this one.

Update: ... hold up. I didn’t buy a book because I never actually paid the guy. ‘Basically shoved me out the door’ was literal. Do I go back??

***

This page has really gone feral the last couple of months so I’m just gonna bite the bullet and say it:

Anyone notice that Fell’s snake and Fell’s partner are never in the same room together?

***

I really don’t like the implications of this…

***

This is precisely why the Internet has turned into a cesspool. You all should be ashamed of some of the stuff you’re writing here. Can’t two men just be friends anymore? Two real life men? These guys aren’t some characters for you to ‘ship’ or whatever. Quit making outrageous assumptions about their sexualities and use this website for what it’s actually for: reviewing the bookshop. Honestly I’m so sick of this sort of this shit.

***

Dude. They run a queer-focused shop together with a flat on the second floor. Fell calls the guy ‘Dear’ and he’s always calling him ‘Angel.’ People have literally seen them kissing. If you want I can give you the number of my physician. He might be able to help you pull your head out of your ass.

***

What the hell is your problem? I’m literally just reminding people to stop making assumptions. It’s gross and insulting. These guys check their Yelp page. You really think they’re gonna be okay with this stuff?

Also: I’m not the five-year-old relying on insults, so.

***

Making an account purely to set the record straight: I’m the hot twink in question and I married that angel. Peace

[writingsfromhome]

Lookalike

Request: Can you do another cone song? Maybe lookalike or maniac? [Can you do it like harry dates a lookalike of you?]

A/N: I know this is way later than I said, I honestly wrote four version of this and deleted them before settling on this one and it’s still not the best. I’m just posting it so I can move on to my other ideas. I hope you enjoy it anyway! Soz it ends kinda on a cliffhanger, I didn’t want to make it super long. It already feels really long.

———————————

It was a humid summer evening, not the kind of evening you wanted to step out in. But here I was, in line with my best friend Jules who’d somehow gotten word of this pop-up club that was recently getting more popular with social media. The location would be dropped in code somewhere online for a limited time and then the rest was just word of mouth. Jules worked as a makeup artist so she usually knew what the “in crowd” was doing. This time, she knew where the club was going to be.

Myself, I was just a recent masters-graduate with low job prospects and big time loans. Always tired, single, and at the moment, very, very sweaty. The humidity was really damaging the effort I’d put in for this night out.

“Do you think we’ll spot Ed Sheeran?” Jules asks, her one true desire. “Then I can finally tell him how much he means to me.”

“Don’t know if this is Ed’s scene,” I tease her. “He seems more like a laid-back pub sort of guy.”

“You’re so right,” she still peers around us. “You hoping to see any celebs here? This one’s the biggest so far I’ve heard.”

His face pops into my head but I slam my guard down. “I’ll be lucky just to find a cute guy.”

“Two of you?” The bouncer asks Jules as we make our way to the front-she looked twelve, and we finally head inside. We’d stepped into a storybook.

Vines and tiny lights covered the ceiling and floors, rays of green and pink lights flash around us and the ground was littered with flower petals.

“Oh my god the seats are trees,” Jules whispers in my ear. This was insane.

“They probably have themed drinks,” I grab Jules’ hand and pull her to where I see the bar. We loved a good themed drink.

“This is amazing,” Jules shouts. “I think I just saw Adele!”

On a second look, we decide it was Adele’s doppleganger but we’re soon preoccupied by drinks. I order a Cosmic Boom and take another look around the open space. It was getting pretty full, people dancing but a lot of people hanging about talking.

Jules and I take our drinks to the dancefloor and enjoy ourselves. This was new all over-enjoying myself. I’d spent the last five months working hard at school, job searching, and then a bit of travel. But I was so busy convincing myself that if I worked hard enough I’d forget about the awful year I’d had. Would forget about Harry and the way he left me.

Nobody would believe it, but Harry Styles was my boyfriend for a solid year. We’d met when I was visiting Jules on set of some talk show. He’d been there, after his interview, and mistakened me for backstage crew. He asked me to show him where his room was. He’d been so embarassed when I told him I didn’t work there, but I volunteered to help him find it anyway. I was just killing time ‘til Jules was done.

We had gotten lost and ended up in this storage space where it was clear stage props were stored. We’d found half a car-cut clear through the middle and ended up sitting inside and talking. It was weird, just an hour before that, Harry Styles was this iconic and unattainable person who lived in the fantasy part of my brain. Sitting in the semi-dark with him, in a half-car, and being only a foot away, he was just another person. A regular bloke who was gorgeous, talking to me about his recent mother’s day disaster while I laughed and told him about something similar that had happened when I was a child.

It was quite silly to think we were going to leave that room the same way we walked into it.

He’d leaned in once quiet had settled down around us, both of us just watching the other, afraid that speaking would ruin the moment. His finger had ghosted my face, hesitating, asking me without really asking me. I’d leaned in the rest of the way to tell him it was okay. That’s when I knew I was a goner.

He was gentle with me, but also entirely self assured, leading the way. I couldn’t keep track of his lips or his hands but every part of my body was alive and I lived entirely in the moment for him.

He’d called me later that night asking if I wanted to have dinner at his place. We knew we had something good going. So we kept at it.

Until five months ago.

“Y/N?” Jules says in my ear. I snap out of my memories and look to where she’s pointing. And then back to her ecstatic face. There, sitting near the DJ was actually Ed Sheeran.

“Jules,” I say, lost for words. We had to do this now. We had to approach him, now or never.

“I can’t,” she says close to me. “I’m going to vom right now.”

“Come on!” I grab her and try to move her stiff body one step at a time until we’re only a couple feet away. That’s when the group he’s talking to shifts and I see Harry. Harry with a girl on his arm. My Harry.

“What’s wrong?” Jules halts as my own body goes rigid. “Don’t tell me you’ve got nerves now...oh hey isn’t that Harry?”

“Yeah...” my mouth was dry and I couldn’t believe it. He was here, I really didn’t think I’d see him ever again.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry says as I pour my morning coffee. It was the first week of my final semester so I was actually in a good mood, optimistic before all the deadlines hit. I never saw it coming.

“What’s up?” i was so innocent, drinking my coffee with no idea what else was brewing.

He takes the coffee cup from my hands and puts it down, gathering my hands in his. I notice his hands are slightly clammy, that was the first red flag.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, the anxiety spiking up.

“No-nothing. I was just thinking about how I have to on tour for the next year. You’ve still got school to finish and a great big career ahead of you. I feel like I’m just going to hold you back and I-“

“That’s silly,” I interrupt. “You’d never...”

“I might. I’ll have tour and you’ll have school-“

“Hold on. Are you just trying to say...is it you who’ll hold me back or me who’s going to hold you back?” I asked, confused. How would Harry ever hold me back? I offered to go on legs of his tour with him when I could. I could do my work on the road. Nobody was going to hold anybody back

Harry opens his mouth to explain but I don’t let him get a word in. How dare he try to twist the situation. He should just say what he felt!

“Is that really it? I’m just a regular girl-next-door who’s run out of her luck with the famous superstar? She could never understand your fame, you could never want her in the public’s eye? Is that it? You’re too good for me? You can’t even think about going public with our rel-“

“Trust me you don’t want tha-“

“Don’t tell me what I want!” The coffee had curdled in my stomach and I felt like dry-heaving but I hold it together. I was so in love with this man, to think about living without him was painful beyond comprehension. But all he saw me as was deadweight. The realisation is crushing. “Just leave Harry. Just bloody leave then, I don’t want to see you! After all we had together I’m just deadweight to you? I’m going to hold you back? And yoy can’t eve be a man and say what you really want!”

He’d ruffled his hair, given some explanation, tried to tell me he loved me but I was somewhere else. My life felt like it was falling apart, and I had a lab to teach in a few hours. He was so bloody selfish. I decided I hated him.

“-show him who cares. Go right up and pretend you don’t even know who he is...” I wasn’t sure how long Jules was talking but she was right. I didn’t care about him. This was my night out.

Jules walks ahead and uses her charm to wriggle her way into the small conversation, inserting me right beside her. She knew the business, taking her time to talk to Ed Sheeran so as not to overwhelm him. In the meantime, my eyes catch Harry’s, and it’s like a movie line. Time slows down, I hear the breath I take and see the surprise register on his face. But I let my eyes skim past his, he meant nothing to me. Instead, they land on his girlfriend and that’s where I fight to hide the surprise.

There’s these photos I see online sometimes, you take a picture and draw it in your own style. His new girlfriend was kind of like that. She looked just like me, except slightly off. More like how I looked last year. Since then, I’d grown out my hair and let its natural colour grow in. But I nudge Jules and use my hair as a curtain, trying to tell her to look. She speaks my language so she sees right away and her eyes widen. She mouths oh my god.

I watch from the corner of my eye while pretending to be engaged by Jules introducing what she does to Ed Sheeran. Harry says something to his girl and she laughs. Jesus, even her smile was reminiscent of mine. I try not to stare, using my drink as a distraction but some small part of me-most of me is upset-but a small part of me feels like I’d won. Harry had told me I wasn’t good enough for him, and then gone out to find someone who looked just like me. That gives me the confidence I need to finally look him in the eye. It’s like he was tracking my moves because he looks at me too. He smiles and I just raise my eyebrows.

“Y/N,” he says in that deep silky voice of his. It carries across despite the noise. My heart squeezes.

“Harry,” I say. I let my eyes slide to his girlfriend and she raises a hand.

“Hi, I’m Katy.”

“Hi,” I smile, she’d done nothing wrong except look like me I guess. She looks up at Harry, waiting for him to introduce us. Ugh.

“And this is Y/N, she’s my best friend but she always says she never understands my absolute obsession with your music.” Jules from the right of me catches my attention. She was introducing me to Ed Sheeran-and exposing me.

“Okay. Ouch.” I give her a look which makes her laugh and shake Ed’s hand. Oh my god. “I’m definitely a fan, just not as big as Jules.”

“She’s more of an indie rock girl,” Harry’s deep voice comes from behind me and I’m surprised to find him standing right behind me.

Jules raises her eyebrow at him, glances at me while Harry and Ed talk before interjecting and resuming her conversation.

“I’d say I’m more of a pop girl.” I turn to Harry. I look for his girlfriend but she’d disappeared.

“But that’s not your guilty pleasure,” Harry says and I avoid the tingle in my stomach as he says it. “And Kat’s gone off with her friend, they saw Adele they want to get a picture.” I don’t bother to say it wasn’t Adele. “How’s it going with you?”

He has to lean in close to be heard and I find myself drawing closer to his orbit. I had to be careful here. I remind myself that I hated him.

“Same old,” I say. “I’ve graduated, now looking for full time work. Travelled a bit too.”

“You finally see those tourist traps you wanted to?”

I forgot how intimately Harry knew me, I wanted to forget how much history we shared. But it’s so painfully obvious now that that would be impossible. Even holding onto my hate was proving slippery.

“The Great Pyramids were better than the Eiffel Tower,” I reference an old conversation we’d had. “So I was right.”

This makes Harry laugh and the club narrows down to just us as he steps to the side with me to a quieter area.

We stand in silence for a moment, just watching each other, memorizing the details about each that time had blurred. Like the laugh lines around his eyes, or the depth to his eyes. It feels like he’s cheating with me, with how fiery and focused his gaze is on me. The unspoken words in his eyes.

“Harry I-“ I raise my hand to tell him I should go, I didn’t want anything to happen we would regret. But he takes my hand and puts it to his warm chest. The words leave my mouth as I look at him again. Really look at him. From afar he looked like he was doing better than he ever was but up close I notice the tired bags and the lost look in his eyes. It was the same one I saw in my own after we’d broken up.

This was ridiculous, I tell myself. He left me, I shouldn’t feel bad for him. I’d won. But I want to ask him about Katy, when he looked in her eyes, did he think of mine? And when he looked at her smile, did I cross his mind? I already knew that he saw me instead ‘cause she looks a lot like I did back then. I wanted to ask him and tell him not to lie.

“How are you doing?” I finally break and ask even though I want to ask, is she just a lookalike?

He looks away, his hand letting go of mine. His fake smile is back on his face as he performs for me once again. “Not too bad. I’ve got a break from tour right now so just layin’ low.”

I look around and point to the club around us. “Laying low?”

“Yeah,” Harry laughs at being caught. “My girlf-Katy-she really wanted to come out to one of these with her girlfriends. She convinced me to come along.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I just smile. My phone buzzed and I see a text from Jules. I look for her in the crowd and she’s staring at me with a raised eyebrow. I give her the everything is okay smile and she looks relieved.

“Jules is overprotective as usual,” Harry notices. What did he expect, I think, when he’s the selfish arse who broke my heart. The small flame of anger reignites as I watch Jules smile at me with caring eyes.

“She just wanted me to hook up with a cute guy tonight,” I say to Harry. “Spending it with my ex kind of kills the vibe.”

There, I’d addressed the elephant in the room. And just as I suspected, Harry gets uncomfortable.

“So I take it you’ve not got a boyfriend?”

“Nope,” I cross my arms. “Was busy travelling...” and feeling depressed at home I don’t add.

“Right,” Harry straightens up. “Well don’t let me keep you Y/N. Sorry to...”

I look up at him, his pause. His apology seems to be about something bigger than keeping me from the rest of the club. But I don’t mention it. I don’t push it. Yes, I wanted to stay here in this corner of the club with him but I don’t want to make it a big deal. I give him a squeeze on the arm to tell him it was alright. He paints a smile on and I walk away even though I want to just stay.

I walk to Jules, tell her I’d get another drink for us. At the bar, waiting for our drinks, I notice Harry with Katy again, they’re dancing with her friends, she laughs, he pulls her closer.

That was us not long ago, before that morning chat. God. I really did hope, in his head, he saw me instead. Cause...he’d been in mine every day since then. I admit it, some nights, no almost every night...I still though about him. I tried to hide it, I did an amazing job at hiding it, but I couldn’t erase him from my mind. The thought almost makes me laugh as I get my drinks...maybe I just needed to find a lookalike.

[renee-writer]

A Way Chapter 3 Frank Reacts

AO3

“So, this is the chap you f*cked.” They come apart with an audible ‘pop’. Jamie’s protective instincts have him drawing Claire and his bairn behind him as he turns to face… Ah Dhai! It is Randall.

“Frank!” Claire declares from behind him. Frank right. Christ almighty, he is Black Jack’s bloody double.

“James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.” Jamie formally introduces himself.

“So you two are really playing this out. Where did you get the outfit, a museum somewhere.”

“He came through the Stones, Frank. Just like I did.”

A huge eye roll. “Yeah right. Look chap, she is my wife and Bree is my daughter. So you can head back to wherever it is you came from.”

“Frank, I appreciate all you did to keep them safe for me, but I am back now. My wife and my bairn will be taken care of by me now.”

“Brianna carries my name bloke.”

“And my da and mam’s.” he feels himself tighten up. His wife’s restraining hand, resting on his back, prevents him from challenging the stupid lad to a duel. That is probably not how things are worked out here anyway.

“Jamie, mo ghrá, don’t. We will work it out.”

Another person enters the tense atmosphere. The doctor’s eyes go up. “This is the lass you were searching for, I assume?”

“Aye, meet my wife, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser and our daughter, Brianna Ellen.” He doesn’t mention Frank.

“I am Frank Randall. Her husband and her father.” The doctor looks between the two men. They both are on the verge of combustion. Then at the lass and child. All he has learned in genetics says that his patient is right. The baby is his. If the lass has cheated on her husband…? He needs to get control of the situation, and quick.

“It is nice to meet you. Mr. Randall, if you would take the baby so I can exam Mr. Fraser here.” He smirks as he reaches for Bree. Jamie is faster, taken her in his arms.

“Sorry doctor. Our daughter stays with us.”

He looks to the mam. She nods. “Give us a moment, Frank. Please.” He looks at her, his eyes narrowed, then steps out. Everyone can breath easier.

“So, I sense a story.” The doctor says. Claire and Jamie look to each other. Even with the years separation, they can still communicate without words.

“Yes, I was married to Frank. We separated for a time. I meet and fell fully in love with Jamie. We did marry and conceived Brianna.” She looks to her child and her heart jumps. She rest, fully content on her true daddy’s chest. “We were separated by war. I thought him dead. Finding myself pregnant, I returned to my first husband. But Jamie is obviously alive. This situation is quite complex.”

“I see. Well for your legal troubles, I can’t help you but medically, Mr. Fraser, you are quite healthy. Extraordinary so. I have no reason to keep you here. Mrs. Randall, he will be safe with you?”

“He will. We will work something out.”

“Good. Well, I wish you luck with all this.”

“Thank you doctor.” She shakes his hand and Jamie copies her. When he leaves, they look at each other. Now what?

“Come Jamie. You will come home with us.”

“You and Frank? Is that such a good idea?”

“Not really but, I can’t see another option.” He squares his shoulders and nods. Placing his free hand in hers, they walk out together.

“Absolutely not!” Frank thunders out. Several patients waiting to see the doctor look up.

“Out of here Frank.” She leads them out. “Now Jamie is coming with us or Bree and I go with him. I imagine she can travel as both of her parents can. Now what will it be?” He utters curses.

“Fine. For now.”

They all head back to the Randall’s house.

[bibliocratic]

s1 martin and tim go drinking, mlm/mlm solidarity

(some cws on this one, check the tags)

“Looks like it's up to us to paint the town then, Martin!”

“Huh?” Martin glances up, not really in the mood for Tim's hi-jinks. He doesn't want to admit he's been frowning over this statement follow-up for about forty minutes, because Jon sent it back, covered in corrections, again, and it's getting on late on a Friday evening and Martin's brain's decided to clock out from the working week.  If Tim's been talking, Martin's not heard a word.

Tim playfully throws a rubber-band ball over to him. Martin fumbles but manages to catch it.

“Sasha's got 'plans'” Tim makes finger quotes, and gives Martin a wink like he's in on a joke. “And it's not like Jon's going to come out with us. So it's you and me buddy! Two stunning single bachelors, us against the world!”

Tim grins at the idea, and Martin automatically smiles back, warmed by Tim wanting to spend actual time with him.

“O-ok!” he says, bolstered by Tim's enthusiasm. “That's... yeah, great, cool! Where are we going?”

He hasn't been out in ages. He's struggling to remember when he last did.

“Was thinking some food first,” Tim replies, catching with ease when Martin lobs the ball back. He throws it from hand to hand thoughtfully. His eyes light up as he snags on a thought. “Let's make a night of it! Head into Soho, what d'you reckon. Bit of a walk, but it'll be a nice night for it. I'll take you to G-A-Y, see if we can't set you up with some strapping lad who finds Star Wars t-shirts sexy.”

Martin's hands suddenly twitch like a grave spasm.

“I – ah, I'm s-sorry. I – er. What?”

Tim leans back on his chair, disregarding both gravity and Martin's panicked expression that's slammed the brakes down on his previous bubbling excitement.

“I know, can get packed on a Friday. If it's too busy, we'll try for the Admiral Duncan or somewhere else. The bartender at Ku Bar is really fit, might even be your type, so we could head over there...”

“I – ” There's a lot of words in Martin's throat, and he's not sure how to work with the stiff material they're formed of, making them into something sensible. “I... I've... I mean...”

It's not that he's ashamed. It's not the word he'd use anyway, even if there's defensiveness in his posture, insecurity in his constant omission, and he's strung up in a reaction that scratches up him like fight or flight. He's wondering, despairingly, does everyone know?

Tim must notice something wrong, because he's knocking the legs of his chair back onto the ground. Frowning and leaning forward, putting the ball down on his desk.

“We don't have to,” he says, holding up his hands as though backtracking. “If you've got some secret fella on the go, hey, you're allowed to keep the mystery man a secret. Just thought it might be a good night out, that's all.”

“I don't... I don't have a secret....” Martin can't even say the word, splutters and swallows it bitterly. “How did you...?” he stops again, miserable and irate at his own inability, embarrassed that he's nearly thirty and this is so hard, worrying about what gave him away. He'd been so careful.

“Ah,” Tim's face clears from the clouds of his confusion, and it's abruptly replaced by the weather front of something heavy, a sad kind of comprehension. He adjusts his cap a bit further back from his face. “Let me guess, and tell me if I'm barking up the wrong tree here. You've not been to G-A-Y before.”

Martin gives a little stiff shake of his head.

“You've – and again, I might be wrong – but you've never actually been to a gay bar before.”

Another shake of the head.

“But you like blokes, right?”

Martin's throat is dry. He feels overwhelmingly looked at, and he wants to shrink away, he wants Tim to just shut up, and leave it, and forget they even started this whole thing.

It takes a lot for him to nod.

Tim's expression blooms into a kind-hearted sympathy.

“I'm not going to tell anyone, Martin,” he says, and the air in the room is a little less tight at that earnest promise. “If that's what you're.... No one here would bat an eyelid, but I, I won't say anything that you don't want me to, ok?”

“I don't...” Martin says falteringly, and he fidgets with the stapler on his desk, prods at a biro. “I don't tell people.”

There's a lot in that. Tim knows not to push.

“We don't have to go,” Tim finally replies quietly. “Not if you don't want to. If it's too much...”

“No!” Martin surprises himself with the force of his response, and colours violently, feeling his entire face heat up. “I mean – I – I'd like to. If you – if you still want.”

Tim grins, and his cocksure manner is on display like a theatre curtain lifted. He stands up, doing a stupid little bow like he's trying to make Martin laugh.

“t'would be my honour to lead you astray, Master Blackwood,” he puts on the snobbiest toff voice, and Martin can't help but unwind a little at how daft he sounds, how at ease he looks. It could be, he thinks to himself, maybe it could be this easy.

They get pub-grub in a Wetherspoons near Camden Lock, and they talk about things that aren't work. Films and sport and TV, and it's deliberately breezy and Martin's so appreciative. After a couple of pints, Tim starts teasingly pointing out people around them like he's some sort of cold war spy, asking Martin under his voice to give them a score out of ten – hey, he defends himself when Martin gets flustered and half-heartedly objects, as your wingman I need to know what I'm working with. And there's a giddy delirium to how suddenly all very simple it is to talk about things like this with someone, the cider lubricating his thoughts, his easily tied-up tongue, and soon they're a few pints down, and Martin's snorting a laugh and arguing with Tim about his taste in men, because apparently their opinions and interests vary wildly. The debate only ends when Tim points his fork at him, mock haughtily, replying that at least he's got the common sense to not fancy the boss, and that sends Martin choking on his drink for a good minute, eyes streaming and face burning.

Finally, Tim stands up and claps his hands together as though it's a moment of great grandeur.

“And now!” he declares. “It's time we got this young cub a boyfriend!”

“Would you – Tim! Would you, shush! I'm only a year younger than you, you absolute pillock.”

“No one cares! Best thing about London, Martin, everyone's too wrapped up in their own bollocks to care about ours. Now, are we going or what?”

It's... it's a really good night. They get in easily, and Tim apparently knows the bouncers at the door because he picks up some banter with them easily. Martin looks around at the lights and the people while Tim buys the first round. It's not as scary as he'd imagined. It's, well, it's a normal night club, and it's not late enough to be packed, so people are milling around in groups, drinking, half-dancing to Lady Gaga. The floor is sticky with spilled drink and the music is a little too loud for conversation to be heard, but Martin finds his feet tapping along to the music regardless, and when Tim hands him his plastic glass and holds his own drink up for a cheers, Martin's smile is wide and genuine, the knotted sensation in his chest gone slack.

He'd entertained the worry that Tim might ditch him as soon as he got a hint of attention. Tim certainly gets appraising looks and a few flirty glances which he coquettishly returns, but he sticks to Martin's side, pulling him onto the dance floor and woot-ing with delight when a song comes on that he likes.

They buy more drinks. Martin's round, then Tim's round, and then it's someone's round but Tim's had the grand idea of shots. It must be after midnight, and the music has dissolved into thumping chart-toppers, and Martin is buzzing. Dancing in his own artless way to the music, his shoes stained with some drink he spilt earlier, sing-shouting to the words he knows in the songs. He's danced with people, people who were interested, interested in him, and he hasn't felt the urge to step back, to make sure no-one is watching, to make sure no one gets the wrong idea.

Tim's nudged him forward with a go on Casanova, strut your stuff towards a short blond man, dancing flat-footed and throwing himself into the music, who has been giving Martin impressed, slightly wowed side-eyes all evening, who beams when Martin joins his dance space and draws him into a complicated dance move which Martin stumbles over but tries his best. The man is trying to shout something complimentary in his ear but the music is too loud to hear.

They're both sweaty but the other man is giving him such a look, and Martin feels like an uncorked bottle of champagne, and he finds himself shyly smiling back as the song merges into something louder and more energetic.

He doesn't notice his mobile vibrating. Can't hear it over the music. He pulls his phone out of his pocket almost absent-mindedly, intent on checking the time, figuring he'll have to get the night bus back if they stay here much later, and he blinks as the blurry words and shapes realise themselves into multiple missed calls.

He is suddenly, shockingly sober.

He pushes his way through the dancing throngs, throwing out apologies like scattering seeds, and he clatters back down the stairs, bumping to a few people queueing for the toilers, and then he shoulders his way inexpertly through the downstairs bar and its clusters of people, and then he's out the front door. His breathing is too fast. He's returning the call with a panic, clearing his throat, hoping desperately he doesn't sound too drunk, that he's not slurring his words, because what if something's happened, something bad, and what's his excuse, really. He should have been there, he's just been out, getting pissed, and what's she going to say when she realises....

“Martin?” comes a hollered shout, and Tim's tumbling out of the doors, holding both their jackets and an expression of such concern. “Martin, what...?”

Martin desperately shushes him with an expression.

“Hey,” he croaks down the phone line. “I got your....No, m-my phone was.... No, n-no honestly, it wasn't, I wasn't ignoring....... I-I know, I know, I'm............ yeah........... yeah, I know, but................. Just some people from work, I just lost track of time, I'll.............. I know...... I'll get a taxi, I can be there in...... Ok. I-I know. Sorry, I'll...... Ok. Ok. Bye, mum.”

He ends the call. Rubs at his face. He feels wound up in his chest again.

“I have to go,” he says, and he refuses to meet Tim's eyes. He has the strong suspicion his own eyes are shinier than he wants them to be. “She's not well. She had an episode earlier, and I.... I just need to go. Make sure she's ok.”

“She doesn't know, does she?” Tim's voice is rough from singing, from drinking, but his expression is hard and dark.

“It doesn't matter,” Martin replies shortly.

“Of course it matters!” Tim says, almost with disbelief. “Martin, I know it's your.....  but this isn't, this isn't ok. You can't let people tell you what to do with your life!”

“What are you doing then?” Martin snaps back. Because Christ, he's tired and the night's drawn on too late, and his skin feels sticky, and his mum, she sounded bad, sick under the snapping annoyance at the bother he's caused her yet again. He wasn't there, wasn't there to check up on her, and she'll know he's been drinking and he doesn't need this, not now. He can't do this now.

“That's unfair,” Tim replies curtly. There's something like anger on his face before it dissipates into something Martin can't read. “Martin, you can't keep... one of these days you're going to have to be honest with yourself.”

“You say that like it's easy!” Martin responds, almost enraged, his voice cracking. “I can't be – I can't be like you! I can't – it's all so easy for you, a-and I just... I can't. I'm, I'm sorry. I can't.”

Martin breathes out a tear-stifled breath. He thinks there's a taxi rank a few streets away that he saw on the way over. The lights and loud music are pulsing away, and it's distant, like a bubble he's had to walk away from.

“Thank you for... for trying,” he says hoarsely. “I did.... I had a really nice night, you know.”

Tim pauses and then nods wretchedly, a weight to his shoulders. He walks up to Martin, a little wobbly from the shots, the skin of his exposed arms beginning to get chilly, signposting his intentions so Martin has the chance to move away.

Martin doesn't. Tim's arms come crushing around him, and he slumps into it, full of emotions he doesn't have the ability to name, he doesn't have the bravery to face up to yet.

“We'll do this again sometime, yeah?” Tim mumbles encouragingly into his sweaty hair.

“I'd like that,” Martin replies faintly, before he pulls away, taking his jacket back. Gives Tim a worn-down little wave before he turns away.

The music takes a long time to fade from his ears.

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Sirius on anaesthesia from a muggle surgery (needed for something his parents did or his incessant smoking) with lots of care fluff 🥰

((A/N: Mentions of child abuse, serious injuries, and recovery, and mild homophobia))

It was hard to find Sirius appropriately cute being all doped up because of the circumstances. James would like to make one thing quite clear: Sirius was adorable. At all times and in all ways. 

But the situation was... well, utter shite. It proved how much it was utter shite that when James accidentally used that exact phrasing in front of his parents, they agreed instead of telling him to watch his language. Sirius hadn't said (yet) what set it off, but his parents had gone completely mad. Beat him so bad he ended up in hospital, and the Potter parents had been granted temporary custody. Sirius was old enough that he'd probably become an adult before they finalized his custody with anyone. 

The cute part of this-- if there was one-- was how Sirius acted when he was all loopy from pain medication. James tried to enjoy the way Sirius would go full puppy eyes, and then he'd see the stitches on his head and have a hard time feeling good about anything. 

"Jaaaames," Sirius whinged, pawing half-heartedly at James's arm. His depth perception was buggered up with one eye covered, so he ended up a few centimetres short. And slightly to the left, but it was hard to say if that was an injury thing or a meds thing. 

"Yeah, Si?" 

"'m bored."

No screens, no moving... yeah he was real sodding bored and James couldn't blame him for it. The music Sirius normally listened to was punk, which Mum and Dad had declared too grating for his current state. That Sirius didn't fight them on it was proof enough that they were right about it. Sirius could sort of play games right now, but sometimes sitting up for too long was taxing, and again, depth perception was an issue. They'd tried to play Monopoly the other day, but he hadn't been able to put the money in the bank without fucking up and he got upset. All of this was to say that Sirius was bored, and while James was sympathetic, he didn't really know what he could do about it. "Alright. What- er, what do you want to do?" 

"What I really want to do is go got a malt from Fortescue's. Or have a smoke. But I'm guessing you're not going to let me do that." 

"Fuck no. I didn't like you smoking before, I'm sure as hell not going to help you do it now." 

Sirius gave a forlorn sigh. "Yeah, I thought not. What've you been doing?" He was pretty coherent right now, which was rare. His words were still a little slurred, but the doctors had said that would last for a while with everything going on. (They hadn't phrased it quite like that, but it's what James had taken from it.) 

"Staying with you? Your memory might be shite right now, but what did you really think I'd be doing?" 

"Hm. You're getting boring in your old age, Prongs." 

"I've gotten halfway through that series Remus was going on about," he offered. 

"That makes me more old, not less." 

James blinked at him. "Alright. Whatever." 

Sirius waved his arm at him, managing to hit his leg. "'m bored." 

"I can read to you?" James offered with a slight grimace. It's not like Sirius hated books or summat, but it was the only thing available to them right now and he'd always been more on the active side. 

"Can I pick the book?" 

"Sure." 

"Do we have any Seuss books here?" 

"Y'know, when you said you wanted to pick the book, I thought you were going to force me to read the history of punk or summat." 

"I want to hear you bugger up your words as much as I've been doing. Get one of those tongue-twister ones." 

"You haven't been that bad," James protested. 

Sirius tilted his head just to look him in the eye and give him a flat look. "Memory's shit, but I can hear what I sound like." 

"Your sentences are perfectly coherent." 

"Yeah, now. Didn't used to be." 

James didn't really know what to say to that, so he went off to find some Seuss books-- he knew that Dad had some around here somewhere-- with a careful pat on Sirius's shoulder as he left. 

*

"What'd your parents get in such a snit about anyways?" Peter asked. 

Sirius was healed enough that Mum and Dad had let Peter and Remus come over. "Told them I was queer," he said casually. "Well, technically I told them I was dating James, but like, same outcome for grandchildren. I guess they found it horribly offensive." 

James tried to remember how to breathe. He'd known that the Black parents were bigoted pieces of rubbish, but he hadn't realised just how bad they were. That they'd do this to Sirius at all was bad enough, but over something so trivial as who he liked to sleep with? 

"You're dating?" Remus asked. If he hadn't known about them, he was the only one. 

"Yeah mate," Peter said, doing everyone a favour by answering. "For like three years, where've you been?" 

"I-" Remus blinked. "Well I dunno. I knew they fancied each other, but I didn't know they'd actually done something about it." 

"How are you the dumbest bloke I've ever met," Peter asked flatly. 

"Practice?" 

James snorted, rubbing at his face. "Yeah, well maybe stop practicing. I think you've perfected it by now, Moony." 

"I second that," Sirius added. "Time to call it quits and make fun of us for being all sappy." 

"You're not the sappy sort," Remus said dismissively. 

Sirius and James shared a look. They kept things mildly toned down around their friends, but they were definitely the sappy sort. And even then, James was pretty sure they were more sappy in front of Remus and Peter than either of them really cared to see. "We'll see what you say at Hogwarts in a couple weeks when we're all stuck in the dormitory together again," Sirius said. 

"You gonna be better by then?" Peter asked, surprised. 

Sirius opened his mouth to give a customary answer that of course he'd be fine, nothing could keep him down, but then he stopped. He wasn't going to be going back to school with the rest of them. He was doing the work at home for the first month, and then they were letting him go back to Hogwarts if nothing else went wrong. The cut on his leg from surgery had started to get infected, and it had set back his recovery time. Originally though, he should've been able to go back for their final year of Hogwarts. "I meant you two having to watch James stare at his phone all moody and pining for me," he said with half a smile that none of them believed was real for a second. 

*

"I hate that you're leaving," Sirius muttered. 

"I hate it too," James said glumly, squeezing him carefully. He wanted to be comforting, but he also refused to hurt him just because he wasn't paying enough attention. He'd already asked his parents if he could stay here and join the term late like Sirius was doing, and the answer had been a firm no. 

"Don't get your phone taken away." 

"Wouldn't be the first time it's happened." 

"Yeah, but then I wouldn't have anyway of talking to you. Or showing you my progress with liquid eyeliner." 

"Is that really what you're going to be doing while I'm gone?" 

"Gotta do something with my time. Homework doesn't take but, what, two hours?" 

James hummed in agreement. He knew it wasn't like that for everyone, but school was boring as all hell. And he wouldn't even have Sirius to help distract him this time-- not for a while, at least. "So what am I supposed to do while you're busy doing your makeup?" 

"Hone your doodling skills?" 

"There's only so many times I can draw Slughorn running a furniture store before I get bored." 

"Then draw a comic, you lazy bastard." 

"What if Grubbyplank takes it away?" 

"Ask for it back. After class, of course." 

"Of course," James repeated, rolling his eyes. 

"That sass is not going to help you." 

"Aw c'mon. By this point, all the teachers know what to expect from me. Whether or not you're there," he added, because it seemed like the kind of loophole Sirius would try to use. "But fine. Comics about us and our epic love." 

"We're already living that. You should make one where I'm a dog." 

"Are we still in love when you're a dog? Or are you my pet? Or am I a dog too?" 

"How should I bloody know? I just think being a dog would be pretty relaxing." 

"Unless you're one of those dogs that has to pull a sled." 

"Then make me a house dog that lays around in the sun and goes for walks twice a day. That sounds nice." 

"Going for walks?" James asked. 

"Laying in the sun." 

"You realise you can do that now, right?" 

"Every time I lay on the floor, you think I'm hurt and freak out." 

"You did fall once," James pointed out, because it was important that Sirius remember there was a reason to him panicking. 

"I tripped. I didn't fall." 

"Does it matter?" 

"Meh. Not really." Sirius sighed, grabbing James's arm and repositioning it so he could hug it. "I just hate that I'm not gonna see you for so long." 

"Maybe you can visit on a weekend." 

"Yeah," he said neutrally. "Not sure Mum will let me. She's more paranoid than you are." 

"I'm not paranoid." 

Sirius scoffed. 

"I just want you to be healthy, is that so wrong?" 

"Saying yes would make me sound suicidal, so no, I guess it's not so bad." 

"Just- I dunno. Send me lots of snaps." 

"Course. Can't keep this beautiful face all to myself. Hell, by the time I'm back at school, it'll probably be safe for you to kiss me again." 

"Here's hoping," James said, pressing his lips lightly to the top of Sirius's head. 

[viskovie]

Almost Like Family

Chapter I

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

      Following his return to the States, Matt would like to say he was productive. Would like to say that he found a job, connected with old friends again, and started looking at apartments so he could finally move out of his mom’s house. In reality, he put in an application for college - after haphazardly picking a degree - and then lay around doing nothing. For six weeks.

      He knows he needs to get his shit back together, but how the hell are you supposed to do that when some of it’s still in some godforsaken war camp on the other side of the world? His mom is worried about him, and usually that would be enough to guilt him into getting off his ass. But now it just gets under his skin. He’s been to war - literally. If he was only a boy before he left, he definitely isn’t anymore. 

      Part of him is uncomfortably aware that he’s being unreasonable. Of course his mom’s worried. Her baby just survived hell on earth - the same hell she lost her husband to. She doesn’t want to lose him, too. But still. Matt doesn’t appreciate the coddling. She was an army wife, so she of all people should know to leave him be. 

      The first thing he bought when he finally had his feet back on familiar ground was an armful of the most American fast-food he could think of. Later that evening, with his system flooded with relief and his belly full, he’d seriously considered ditching the whole college idea in favour of aimless travel. He’d wanted to buy a car and just roam the country until he’d seen everything there was to see. But his mom had - luckily - had the foresight to shut him out of his bank account before he got home. No better way of making your kid stick to the plan than not giving them any other options, he’d thought moodily, but he knows she was right. He still wants to travel around the States, but he reasons that he can do that after he’s graduated and got a good job. 

      He wants to be a veterinarian, although it was kind of a snap-decision. Besides, it’ll be a better reason to call himself a vet than going to war is. Will ever be. His time there was… useless. A waste of resources; of life… He doesn’t want to think about it. 

      He’s been having this recurring nightmare ever since he got home. He’s standing out in the desert - somewhere familiar, but he can never place exactly where. He always looks around, trying to remember, and when he turns back Chutsky’s walking toward him. There’s blood on his helmet and smeared all over his face. His gun is in his hands, but the trigger is missing. He gets close. Close enough for Matt to see how glassy and vacant his eyes are. He looks ragged and disoriented. He’s a shell of himself; all the life in him gone. Sometimes he just stands there, with a sad, longing look on his face, but sometimes he talks directly to Matt. 

      “Why didn’t you help me?” 

      “Why didn’t you try to stop me?” 

      “I had a family…”

      It’s infinitely worse when he speaks, because Matt can never answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He’d been too busy covering his own ass to worry about anyone else’s, and his teammate had died for it. Chutsky always looks at him like he’s waiting for a response, but when he seems to realise that Matt isn’t going to reply, he turns away with a lonelier expression than before. He breaks into a sprint, gets a few steps away, and gets gunned down. He hits the dirt exactly like he did in Baqubah. The shot echoes in Matt’s head even after he’s sat up in bed, drenched in an icy sweat. It’s his fault that Chutsky’s dead. His fault, and there’s nothing Sergeant Harper can say that will change his mind. 

      He often wonders how Harper’s doing. The Sergeant’s a career soldier, so for him this is probably just an intermission before the next tour. Matt doesn’t envy him, but he does miss him. He wonders if Harper ever reconciled with his fiancée (Anne? Andrea?). He doesn’t like to think about that either. 

      Matt had discovered his sexuality in ninth grade. It had not been a particularly fun experience; he’d immediately told his best friend at the time, but the friend hadn’t taken it well. He was never mean about it, and never told anyone else (which Matt was, admittedly, grateful for) but there had been a weird tension between them ever since. Eventually, they drifted apart and didn’t really speak to each other again. In eleventh grade, Matt had his first - and last - boyfriend. Once they’d moved past the excitement of a new relationship, the whole thing had been disappointingly average. It had ended quietly. There were no hard feelings, but they were never friends. All in all, Matt isn’t proud of his attractions and tries to keep them under wraps as best he can. He’d been doing a pretty damn good job of it, too - until he’d met Sergeant Harper. 

      It hadn’t been some Romeo and Juliet, love-at-first-sight bullshit. There were plenty of good-looking men around, and statistically speaking some of them should’ve been gay, but something about Harper fascinated Matt. 

      It could’ve been anything, really. Even after fifteen months in Iraq, living practically on top of one another, Matt still couldn’t say he knew much about him for certain, besides what he knew as a soldier. Harper was fair, he knew when to pull rank and when to let things slide, he did his best to keep his team safe, and he showed a sensitivity that most of the other blokes had lost long ago. The only thing Matt didn’t like was that he never stepped in when Burton, Enzo and Chutsky’s teasing had gotten nasty. Harper had a “fight your own battles” attitude, which was all well and good, but sounded frustratingly like his middle school teachers. And so Matt did his best to ignore them, but it was hard not to feel alone when he noticed Harper watching and never intervening. 

      He also had this weird ability to know what Matt was thinking. After he’d broken his hand, Harper had asked how it happened. The question was casual, innocent, but Matt couldn’t quite force himself to make eye contact as he answered. The sergeant wasn’t an idiot. No way he bought the story, even if he never really mentioned it again. The rational part of Matt knew he couldn’t actually read minds, but still. He’d tried not to take any chances.

      He knows he’d been in hot water by the time he finally left. He thinks back on their conversation in Baqubah, after the mission that was supposed to be quick and painless and ended up being a total shitshow, when he finally came clean and told Harper everything. Why he’d broken his own hand, how it’d happened, why he’d even signed up in the first place. Harper had nodded - he hadn’t brushed him off or told him to suck it up like the others would’ve, and Matt couldn’t tell him how much he appreciated it. Harper seemed to understand. But Matt thinks he’d confessed more than he’d meant to, even without explicitly saying it. Harper had given him a long, searching look before going back to his cigarette. Matt can’t stop thinking about it. 

      They were never exactly close, but did Harper suddenly seem to hold him at arm’s length? Was it because he’d known more than he was letting on, was it because he was still in shock over that ill-fated raid, or was it all in Matt’s head? Had he projected a little too much, desperately hoping for reciprocation and terrified of rejection? 

      He sighs, staring up at his bedroom ceiling. The paper stars he stuck up in sixth grade are still there, hanging from their fine white threads in a loose cloud. He thinks the original idea had been to cover his entire ceiling in them, make it look like a galaxy. He can’t quite remember. What would his twelve-year-old self think of him now? He’d dreamed of working at NASA. If he searches, he’ll probably find all the drawings and plans to build cool space tech that he made when he was a kid. The thought makes him smile, but it’s heartbreakingly bittersweet. Poor little Matt; lost his dad at six, lost his best friend at fifteen, and now losing himself at twenty-two. 

      His mom knocks gently on the door, tactfully waiting for invitation to enter. She’s holding the home phone. She looks a little sad, but quietly knowing. 

      “It’s for you, hun.” She says, holding it out for him. Matt accepts it and she gives him a small, tired smile. 

      “Don’t keep him waiting too long, he seems sweet.” She adds, shutting the door again as she leaves. Matt brings the phone to his ear. He doesn’t know who would be calling him, nor does he really care. It’s probably one of his few high school friends, making a token attempt to reconnect. He’s not expecting to hear Harper’s voice. 

      “Hey Ocre. How’s it feel to be home?” 

      Matt nearly drops the phone. He sits heavily on the edge of his bed. 

      “I- uh, good, sir. It’s good to be home.” Even to his own ears the words sound hollow. He sits up a little straighter, subconsciously falling back into the familiarity of addressing a senior officer. Over the line, Harper laughs softly. 

      “Yeah, it takes a little while to get used to the fact that nobody’s trying to kill you anymore.” He says. There’s a few moments of awkward silence, in which Matt can’t think of anything to say. Harper makes a sound like he’s clearing his throat. 

      “Are you still in the area?” He asks carefully. The question takes Matt by surprise. He fumbles his anwer, suddenly self-conscious about still living with his mom. 

      “Good. There’s some stuff we never got to talk about back there.” Harper continues steadily. Matt’s heart skips a beat and his blood runs inexplicably cold. No, no, no, no. What happened in Baqubah was going to stay in Baqubah, including their little ‘chat’. 

      “Ocre? You still there?” 

      “Uh…”

      “When are you free?”Harper prompts. Never, Matt wants to say. 

      “Whenever.” Is what he actually says. He cringes as soon as the word has left his mouth. God, he sounds like a teenager with a crush! He hopes Harper doesn’t notice. But of course, no such luck.

      “Damn, you’re that excited to see me again, huh?” Harper teases, laughing again. It sounds more genuine this time. Matt opens his mouth to snark back, but realises there’s nothing he can say that will let him win. They arrange a time and place to meet, and when they hang up he feels lighter than he has in weeks. He lies back on his bed, looking up at his stars again. 

      He isn’t sure whether to be relieved or agitated that he’s gonna see Harper again. He’d left Baqubah with the sense of absolute certainty that if he never saw or thought of the guys again he’d be able to forget what he’d seen and done. But on the other hand, Harper may well be the only other person in the world who knows exactly how he feels. It’s confusing, and Matt’s getting another headache. 

      He isn’t sure when he dozes off, but for the first time since he got home, he doesn’t have his regular nightmare. It’s not a peaceful sleep, but he doesn’t wake up with the shakes so he counts it as a success.

[captain-aralias]

Trivia Tuesday!!! (The Sweet Fruit of a Palm Tree)

Creators: give a “behind the scenes” look at one of your works. This could be things that got removed or changed, the origins of ideas/details, whatever you like!

tagging some people who might want to share trivia: @sharkmartini @krisrix @annabellelux @llamapyjamas @sharing-a-room-with-an-open-fire​ @ninemagicks​ @milo-fanarts​ @carryonvisinata​ @f-ing-ruthless-baz​

(yes, i am on leave from work this week with nothing to do - why do you ask?) 

i have almost 2,000 words of cut scenes from my 3,000 word @goldendayszine zine fic - and those are only the scenes that I saved. there was also an ending from simon’s POV but i think it must have been very similar with different names because it’s not in any of the versions i emailed to people, or my cut scenes doc. 

i have never cut so much. 

some scenes and lines i cut for space; most i cut and re-wrote because they were ruining the mood. in almost all cases the fic is much better without them.

please enjoy if this is the sort of thing you enjoy. i think there are genuinely some interesting choices here! 

cut-cut-cut: 

original title was ‘The British Museum Job’ - which is objectively a better title, but the more the fic was about baz’s mother and how he wanted to date simon, and the less it was about a heist, the less that title fit. so i changed it.

--

in approximate chronological order. bits in bold made it into the original. italics are comments from me. 

--

Snow keeps yawning as I try and show him my favourite parts of London without explaining what I’m doing. He’s not even tired. (We slept in the same room again last night. I know he slept most of the night – I heard him snoring). I’ve already offered to buy him a coffee.  

“Thanks, but I still don’t trust you not to poison it,” he said. Which was hardly romantic.

We walked along Regent Street because I thought he might enjoy the lights. (He didn’t even look at them.) Down through Piccadilly Circus and up Shaftesbury Avenue. I thought about suggesting a show – it would have filled the time perfectly – but that really would have felt like a date. And anyway, he told me he hated musicals before I could buy the tickets.

“If you’re going to do something, you should just do it. Not just sing about it for five minutes.”

reason for cut: 

space. although it’s also unnecessary. 

--

I might even tell him I was kidnapped.

That I was alone underground for weeks. That thinking of him was the only thing that got me through it.

It could be our first really intimate moment.

But before I can do it (not that I was going to do it), Snow strides off. He’s actually weaving through the crowd in the direction of one of the exhibits, his expression purposeful – and I have to grab his hand and pull him back into me.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Snow scowls at me, as though I’m the one being unreasonable. “There’s a vampire here.” I raise my eyebrow. He frowns. “I mean another one. Obviously.”

My gaze follows Snow’s pointing finger towards a man with long dark hair and a well-tailored winter coat. He’s with a brunette woman, leaning against her as they peer into a case of shabtis.

Even from several feet away, I can tell he’s human. They both are. He smells like coffee and steak; she smells like cream.

And next to me Simon Snow smells, as always, like the thing I want to eat most in the world, which at the moment seems to be a bacon sandwich warm enough to melt the butter.

I should have fed before trying to spend the evening with him. Or perhaps I shouldn’t be trying to spend the evening with him at all. I could have done this on my own.

“That’s not a vampire,” I tell Snow, trying to sound bored. “He just looks like me.”

“He was biting that woman’s neck,” Snow insists.

I roll my eyes. (It helps distract me from thinking about how much I’d like to bite his neck).  

“I think he was kissing her, Snow.”

Snow looks dubious. “On the neck?”

“For Crowley’s sake.”

We’ve barely started the Egyptian section, but I don’t want to be here anymore. In the place my mother brought me. Not now that both Snow and I are thinking about how (unlike the poor man Snow was about to assault) I actually am a vampire. One of the creatures who caused my mother’s death.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mercifully he follows me. He must believe I can identify vampires. Which I think I can, even though I’ve just never tried it before (I can definitely identify people who aren’t vampires). Although he’s still grumbling as we take the stairs back down to the ground floor.

“I don’t think that bloke did look like you.”

“Fine, Snow.”

“He wasn’t even that good looking.”

I don’t react. (Not visibly anyway.)

He says things like this sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything. Objectively, I am good looking and Snow isn’t blind. Of course he noticed. He noticed in the same bored, completely dispassionate way that I’ve noticed that his ex-girlfriend is good looking. She’s gorgeous. Objectively. It doesn’t mean I want to date her.

Snow turning up at my house for Christmas doesn’t mean he wants to spend more time with me.

And this isn’t a date.

But somehow – even though I know that absolutely that none of this means anything – it feels good to hear him give me a compliment. I want him to think I look good – it’s why I wore this suit in the first place. (Yes, all right – it’s for him, not the vampires. I know I’m delusional, but at least I look fucking incredible.)

A moment ago, I was ready to give up. I was ready to go and sit in a coffee shop or an alley somewhere and glare at Snow until I was sure the vampires were done feeding.

But now Snow’s lit another pathetic flame of hope inside me. This might not actually be a date, but I want it to be one.

reason for cut: 

space. but when i went back to re-write it, i also though the mood was wrong. this is quite an antagonistic scene between the two of them. it’s about how simon wants to get on with the job at hand (killing vampires) and it’s about how baz is a vampire, but in a way that baz quite rightly tells us makes him sad. nobody wants that!! so you see i kept simon complimenting baz, but made it into a much more straightforwardly lulzy compliment. i also do not have time to introduce random secondary characters who have no lines. they’re gone. 

--

here’s a slightly different version of the above: 

We’ve barely started the Egyptian section, but I don’t want to be here anymore. On this … whatever-it-is with Snow. I don’t want to be in the place my mother brought me. Not now he has so eagerly reminded me of what I am. A dark creature. One of the monsters who caused my mother’s death.

“Let’s go,” I say. “You’re clearly bored.”

“I’m not bored,” Snow says, although he is at least following me. “I’m concentrating on the mission. I’ve never seen another vampire before. Do you think they’re all fit like the goblins?”

reason for cut:

as above. but it’s getting closer. 

--

originally the shakespeare exhibition was an exhibition on aztecs, because of all the GOLD, you see, and because there was an exhibition about aztecs in the museum at some point. i thought the exhibition could be called - get it - ‘golden days’. i don’t think i ever told milo this idea, but it would have made it into the fic if this had been a movie and no one had to draw attention to the idea. 

--

remember - bold is what i kept in the published draft.

All I need to do is remember a single thing that Snow likes doing and then find a way we can do it together. It can’t be too difficult. We’ve lived together for seven years and I’m obsessed with him. You’d think I’d have a list.

I don’t – but I could make one.

Things I know Simon Snow enjoys, a list:

Food. Which is fine – going to a restaurant is actually a perfectly good date activity, even though I don’t eat in front of other people. We can do it later, but at this point we still have five hours to kill. I don’t think even Snow wants to eat for the next five hours. (Does he?)

Following me around.

Making my life miserable.

Fighting dark creatures.

Going on ridiculous quests for the Mage to retrieve magickal objects and/or fight dark creatures. I don’t get it – Snow seems to almost die every time – but he does seem to enjoy them

Playing football.

Watching football. And other sports. I’ve seen him at a few lacrosse games, but I don’t know whether he actually enjoyed them. It’s possible he felt like he had to watch Wellbelove play

Talking to Bunce and Wellbelove about whatever ridiculous quest they’re currently on. Although, now they’ve broken up (again), perhaps Wellbelove is off the list. But I’m not exactly going to summon Bunce here either. That wouldn’t be a good date.

Video games?

As I’m thinking, we get to the bottom of the stairs and enter the Great Court. I don’t usually spend much time here when I’m visiting the museum – too much sun streaming in through the glass panels in the ceiling – but it’s dark now and artificial light doesn’t bother me.

There’s an exhibition on Aztecs on in the Reading Room space. It’s being advertised on long banners hanging down across the expanse of white space. I’d like to see it – another time.

“What now, then?” Snow says.

I still haven’t worked that out. (The list wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped.)

reason for cut:

space. this was one of the first things to go. it doesn’t say anything that we don’t already know. i liked the idea of writing a list to be more like rainbow - but like baz i couldn’t think of anything simon liked ... and that was the point! 

--

“What the fuck?” Snow hisses at me as we get in line to pay for tickets. “You can’t do this.”

“It’s research.”

“It’s treason.”

If he asks, I’ll tell him that Shakespeare wrote about vampires in Timon of Athens. (He didn’t - obviously. But the odds of Snow having read that particular play are non-existent) (even I haven’t read it – it’s obscure. Terrible for spellcasting.) I’d tell him that there’s a crucial spell I need to understand before we go and deal with the creatures who killed my mother.

But Snow hasn’t asked. (He probably never asks the Mage why he needed to find the Third Gate or what was so important about all the white hares he was looking for in sixth year. For Snow it’s enough that there’s a job to do and that he can do it – I shouldn’t like that about him, but I do.)

He also isn’t objecting. Well, no – he is objecting, but he isn’t stopping me. He isn’t asking me any questions I can’t answer. He’s going along with it – letting me buy us both tickets for the exhibition and following me into the slightly darker interior of the Reading Room.

“Which one even is the First Folio?” he asks once we’re inside.

“I don’t know. Perhaps the one under the sign that says First Folio?” I say witheringly, although I’m actually delighted. (He’s helping. He’s part of it. This is going to work.)

“Right,” Snow says. “You mean, the one in a massive alarmed case, surrounded by people?”

We’re about three metres away from it. My heart speeds up as I look at the display. I’ve never stolen anything before – there’s a good chance this will go wrong. This is an idiotic idea. But it’s getting me closer to Snow.

Also, although I wouldn’t have chosen to do it this way, I do love the idea of owning a copy of the First Folio. It won’t be useful tonight, but I’m sure I’ll be able to work out something to use it for later.

“So, what’s your brilliant plan?” Snow says. “Hide in a cupboard until everyone’s gone home?”

He’s not being serious, but that probably is the most sensible thing we could do. And we’ve got the time.

But I don’t think I can handle being trapped in a confined space with Simon Snow for minutes, let alone for hours. Even if I hadn’t recently been trapped in a coffin for weeks.

He smells far too good for that.

“We’re magicians,” I tell him, remembering to sneer. “One of us is, anyway. I can do this in broad daylight without anyone noticing. All I need is a distraction – that’s your job.”

“What kind of distraction?” Snow asks.

“Collapse,” I suggest. “Start shouting about colonial theft, whatever appeals to you. Just as long as everyone turns to look at you. I’ll even cast, Your attention please.  Then I’ll take the book while everyone’s looking at you. I can cast a silencing spell on the alarm.”

“What about the cameras?” Snow asks.

I don’t want to tell him I’d forgotten the cameras.

“And I’ll cast Nothing to see here on myself,” I say smoothly – although I have no idea whether the spell works on technology. It’s not something we covered at Watford, a school where technology is banned. (I really hope my attempt to bond with Snow isn’t going to result in me being arrested. Think what my father would say when I had to explain myself.)  

“Penny usually uses Through a glass darkly,” Snow says. I shrug – I don’t know that spell.

“What’re you’re going to do when they find the book’s missing?” Snow prompts.

“Walk quickly. The attention spell won’t wear off before we leave the Museum.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t count on that,” Snow says.

“What do you suggest then?”

“Spelling something to look like the book we’re nicking and leaving it in the case.”

He’s right – spells last longer if they have something physical to catch hold of. The attention spell will eventually wear off, but a transfiguration spell could last years without anyone noticing.

I’m grudgingly impressed. (And also increasingly alarmed about the kinds of things that Snow and Bunce have been up to. How many of our national treasures are carefully spelled replicas?)  

reason for cut:

this isn’t really cut - it’s just re-written. again, the mood is wrong in this version. simon is angry not flirty. the timon of athens bit is cut for space - it’s the kind of pointless baz ramble about magic that i’d include if time wasn’t an issue. 

you can see the seeds of what was eventually printed here - baz has never stolen anything, simon’s stolen lots of things and is competent at it. there’s the idea of the distraction - although i like it better when simon comes up with that one too. 

the real thing is much better though, right? i think i cracked it when i realised i didn’t have to play ‘you cant do that’ straight - because baz is right: simon enjoys this shit. 

--

these are bits and pieces of the above that don’t fit into a wider narrative:

There are tourists surrounding the case right now. And at least one security guard. My Nothing to see here is good, but it seems foolhardy to rely on it entirely. It works best when the person being distracted doesn’t want to see what’s happening. (It only sometimes works on Snow, for example.) It might not work on the security guards.

and another one:

I try not to smirk too broadly. “Right, then. Do something distracting. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I cast Nothing to see here on myself and take a few steps towards the case. My heart is beating wildly. The tourists surrounding it are definitely not looking at me. manage to take a few steps before Snow catches up with me. Taking my shoulders and steering me off towards a completely different case full of Tudor props.

“What is it, Snow? Couldn’t think of anything?”

His arm is still around my shoulders, drawing me in. Frankly I’m struggling to

“Sorry, was that really your entire plan?”

--

“Perhaps I’ll think about bringing them back after the British return the artefacts they stole from the rest the world.” I nod towards the nearest case. “My great-great grandfather hasn’t been back in Egyptian soil for hundreds of years. They wouldn’t even let us take him back to be buried in Pitch Manor.”

“Your––” Simon starts, and then he stops, frowning, as he presumably remembers that I am of Egyptian descent. “That’s not your grandfather,�� he says – but he isn’t certain.    

“Didn’t I tell you I’m descended from royalty?” I say archly, which is enough to make Simon laugh. He presses his face into my neck, which I love.

“It was definitely implied.”

“That’s what my mother told me anyway,” I concede.

“I think she might have been having you on.”

(missing some thoughts here)

“It’s one of my clearest memories of her

“I’ll bring the books back,” I tell him. “I only took them in the first place to get your attention.”

Simon smiles at me in the reflection in the glass cabinet, his face superimposed over the golden burial mask below. I can see his chin hooked over my shoulder and his arms wrapped around my waist.

“Well. It worked,” he points out.

reason for cut:

again - space! i was right at the end and i knew i was running out of words. but i also think that being forced to cut the royalty joke which i hung onto for some time through several drafts was good for the fic. we dont need baz talking about the sarcophagus - we were there, we already read it at the beginning. 

the thing with the eyebrows that simon says in the published draft doesn’t quite work still, but what it does is kick us back to the memory (are they related? yes - we know they aren’t) in the same way that baz is doing actively in this draft. 

and what you see in the published version is that the point of the fic is (as we see here) that simon and baz are happy in the future, but also it’s that baz can talk to simon about his mother and... about the british museum. so the emphasis isn’t quite right if we end with ‘well it worked’. 

the emphasis should be on baz’s mother. i’m trying to get at it in this draft, but it’s in the middle rather than the end - shift the mother stuff/museum stuff to the final line, and bob’s your uncle. 

--

here’s the real thing: The sweet fruit of a palm tree 

[missmalice202]

Designing Your Melody: Chapter 04 - Chocolate

Chapter 01 - Chapter 03

“All right, mate?” Luka looks up from his guitar and sees Jagged Stone, rock star extraordinaire, poking his head into the recording studio. “Something’s got your sound all mixed up. So tell me,” he cajoles as he strides into the room, brimming with confidence and larger than life, “what’s got your knickers in a twist, eh?”

Luka stills his fingers and gives his attention the other man now sitting on a stool in front of him. He could literally feel Jagged staring at him, a look of unabashed anticipation on his face. Running his fingers through his teal tipped black hair, he closed his eyes and sighed.

He’d tried not dwell on how utterly frustrated he was. It’s been almost a week since his fateful encounter with his new inspiration, but he’s no closer to finding her. All he has is the mysterious melody playing on an infinite loop in his head and the scrap of paper that he now carries with him everywhere he goes, tucked securely in his jacket pocket. He isn’t sure where to even begin to start looking for the girl. After some serious thought, he contemplated asking Juleka if she would know how to track down a certain fashion designer because if the drawing he had in his possession was any indication, she was obviously very skilled and therefore had to be well known in the fashion industry.

But unfortunately for the guitarist, by the time he had worked up the courage to ask his sister to do some investigating on his behalf, she had been booked for a photoshoot overseas and had left the country. Sometimes he just had the worst luck. Plus, between doing deliveries in the morning and getting some studio time with Jagged to prepare for his next album, he honestly really didn’t have the time to be hunting down a single girl out of the two million residents of Paris. The odds were not in his favor.

In the end, he had resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to wait until Juleka came back and then ask her for help. Until then, the only thing he could do was tweak her melody and keep her design safe. He’s sure their paths will cross again. They had to.

“Nothing has my ‘knickers in a twist’ as you so delicately put it. I’ve just got some stuff on my mind, is all.” His fingers pluck at the strings of his guitar restlessly, the notes contradicting him wordlessly.

“Sorry to tell ya this, bloke, but that guitar of yours is callin’ you a liar. Level with me, man, anything I can do to help a rockin’ musician like yourself out, just let me know. We’ve gotta get that sound of yours back in harmony.”

“Yeah,” Luka responded listlessly, “I know, Jagged. Thanks.”

Luckily, they were interrupted by a knock on the window separating the recording studio from the control booth, signaling that the producer was ready for them to begin their session. The last think Luka wanted was to be interrogated by the flamboyant rocker, regardless of how well meaning he was.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-

After their recording session was over, Luka decided to grab something to eat before heading back home to log in and get some grinding done in-game. However, he seemed to have acquired an extremely obnoxious and over-eager shadow.

“I’m telling ya, mate, that’s some of the best playing I’ve heard since I worked with your mum. You could become a superstar if you set your mind to it.” Being ambitious and hungry for attention, someone like Jagged Stone just couldn’t understand that there were some people who preferred to linger in the shadows.

“I’m happy just playing my music, to be honest. I don’t have any grand ambitions of stardom.” A small smile graced Luka’s lips. “I don’t want a record label to try to dictate what I play or how I sound. I don’t mind playing your music because it speaks to my soul, but I want my freedom when it comes to my own music”

Jagged threw his head back and laughed, holding his stomach in mirth. “I feel ya, mate. There’s times I wanna kick some of these record labels prats out on their arses. They have no respect for the artistic process. I can’t just snap my fingers and deliver a chart- topping song. It takes talent and dedication and, most importantly, they gotta feel it in their soul!

“Oh! That reminds me! Penny!” he called over his shoulder at his ever present and long suffering personal assistant, “I want you to send some chocolates or flowers or whatever it is that girls these days like to Marinette. That girl is fabulous and dedicated to her craft and I want her to know how much I appreciate her help.” She nodded, tucking a stray piece of her sleek burgundy hair behind her ear and took out her tablet, tapping a reminder in her notes.

That caught Luka’s undivided attention. The Jagged Stone he knew wasn’t the kind of guy who just gave other people presents. If anything, he expected other people to do things for him, without a seconds hesitation or complaint. For him to go out of his – or rather, his assistant’s – way to offer a gesture of appreciation was, quite frankly, unheard of!

“Who’s this Marinette girl?” he asks. “What did she do for you that was so important that you’d want to send her a gift?”

Jagged reeled back in shock. “Oh, what hasn’t she done for me? Whenever everything goes pear shaped and I’m in a pinch, I know I can count on her to help me out. I mean, one time she made the wicked rock n roll shades for me. Another time, she basically saved my career when she redid my album cover after the bloke who did the first design wouldn’t accept any of my input and came up with this absolutely bonkers cover art. And now this time, she’s really saving my skin. I had to ask a massive favor of her and in such a short amount of time too.” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “I just want her to know that I appreciate her style and all that fabulous girl does to help me when I’m in a bind.”

Honestly, Luka was a bit surprised. Jagged usually wasn’t one to sing another’s praises, so this “Marinette” girl must really be something special.

Luka looked at his phone to check the time. “Well, Jagged, I’ve got to run. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

“Cheers, mate. I’ll catch you next time.” Jagged saluted the younger guitarist. “Do what you need to in order to fix your sound. It’s doesn’t sound right when it’s all jumbled up like that.”

Luka waved goodbye and left the record label, heading home to his boat.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-

When got back to home, the quiet slapping of waves against the hull of the boat was the only sound he heard as he strode across the deck, taking a moment to appreciate the beautiful sunset reflecting over the Seine. It was kind of lonely being the only one on board. He couldn’t wait until his sister got back in a few days. Until then, he’d just have to fill the silence in other ways. Shaking his head at his own melancholy, he ducked into the cabin and made his way to his bunk.

Deciding that he needed to find his center again after such a chaotic week, he toed off his sneakers, settled onto his bunk, crossed his legs and gently rested his wrists on his knees to meditate. Maybe that was why he had been so off lately; he just needed to clear his mind and get rid of the negative energies swirling inside his mind. Taking a deep breath in, he closed his eyes and relaxed into his meditation.

Thirty minutes later, he opened his eyes feeling refreshed and less off balance.

Glancing at his phone again, he figured he had time to get some gaming in before heading to bed. With any luck, Ladybug would be online too. He liked playing with the rest of his clanmates, don’t get him wrong, but Ladybug was just such a badass. Her skill was unparalleled and when they were in the midst of an intense battle, she took command of the situation and always led their team to victory. She fought with grace and made everything she did look effortless. If he were honest with himself, he just enjoyed being in her company. She had such a sweet voice that even when she was barking out orders on the battlefield, she still sounded as clear as a bell.

After logging on, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that luck, for once, was on his side: she was online. That was a relief, especially considering she’d been MIA all week due to being busing working on whatever project she had going. Deep down, he was a little jealous that “real life” was dragging her away from the UMS4, and therefore away from him. But he did have to admit that it was a bit hypocritical of him to be jealous of her being busy when he was bordering on obsession with finding someone who, if he didn’t currently have her design tucked into the pocket of his jacket, he would have thought that the whole encounter had been an extremely vivid figment of his overactive imagination.

Walking up to her avatar, his own waved in greeting. “Hey, Ladybug. Just you and I tonight, huh?”

Her avatar waved in response. “Hi, Viperion. Looks like it. Want to do some grinding and work on equipment upgrades since we don’t have enough people on our team right now to do any major missions?”

He smiled and his avatar gave a thumbs up gesture. “Sounds good. Let’s go”

As they traversed through their online world, she struck up conversation to fill the silence. “So what have you been up to this week? Anything fun and exciting?”

He chuckled softly. “Not exactly. Just working and practicing. How about you? How’s your project coming along?”

Her groan echoed in his ears, making him laugh under his breath. “Oh god, I’ve been working non stop since I last played with you. Five days, working ‘round the clock without even leaving my house. I’m pretty sure my parents were about to send a search party up to my room to check and see if I was still breathing,” she laughed.

“Oh? You still live with your parents?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “We have a very good relationship, so it works out well for us. I help them out with their shop from time to time when I have time and they give me food.”

Luka laughed, shaking his head. Sometimes she really was too cute. “That’s nice. I live with my mom and sister, but they’re out of the country right now, so it’s just me. I never thought I’d think this, but with them gone, it’s too quiet here and the music in my head is a bit overwhelming in the silence.”

There was a brief pause before she responded, “the music in your head?” He could hear the confusion in her voice.

“Yeah, I’ve had this song stuck in my head for almost a week now and I can’t get it out of my head until I find what I’m looking for.”

“Uhh- Okaay, I’m not sure what you mean, but I wish you the best of luck finding what you’re looking for.” He heard her yawn audibly through his headphones. “And on that note, I’ve got to go. I have to get up early to help my parents with their shop since I have some time before the next phase of my project.”

A little disappointed that he wouldn’t get to spend more time with Ladybug, but he understood that she had prior commitments. “All right. Will you be on tomorrow at all? I had fun just messing around with you tonight.”

“I should be able to get on for a few hours tomorrow night. I had fun too,” she admitted. “Well, goodnight, Viperion.”

Smiling softly, he replied, “Sweet dreams, Ladybug.” And logged off himself.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Turning her console off, Marinette plugged her controller into the charge cable and turned off her desk light. Stretching her arms over her head as she walked over to the ladder leading to the loft where her bed was located, she giggled as when she realized that she had learned more about Viperion in that one conversation than she had in the months she had been playing with him since he’d joined “Miraculous Kwami”. She enjoyed playing with him. He was just so calm and collected, completely relaxed even in the most stressful situations. There were many occasions where his level head had really helped keep her calm enough to figure out how to defeat an especially tricky boss. Plus, it didn’t hurt in the slightest that his voice was really hot. Idly, while she changed into her pajamas, she wondered if his face matched his voice.

Shaking her head, she thrust that thought right out of her mind. Online was online and reality was reality. It wouldn’t do to confuse the two. For all she knew, he was a 45 year old bald man with a pot belly and a handlebar moustache. Shuddering at the thought, she shook her head again and made the decision to just leave things as they were. There are just some things that are better of not knowing.

Chapter 05

*Not going to lie, I had a lot of fun writing Jagged Stone. I also tried to stuff in as much British slang as I possibly could while still having it sound relatively natural.

Oh, and if you want to understand a little bit what Luka’s music sounds like when he’s confused and stressed out, this is what I listened to when I wrote the first scene of this chapter.

Until next time Lovelies XOXO*

[virgyvandijk]

For that au idea, idk if it meant any ideas or juat your own. But if its any could you do a liverpool x peakyblinders/mafia style one if you don't mind?

this got so long i’m sorry it’s going to have to go under a cut 

virgil’s father is the kingpin of a drugs gang that near enough rules the netherlands. they control what goes in, what goes out, and ron built the empire up from scratch, dating back to long before virgil was born

he was a flaky dad when virgil was a kid, but when he turned twelve, he disappeared completely. just upped and left without a trace, leaving a whole trail of destruction in his wake. eventually he got back in contact and left his number

when virgil got old enough, he realised what his dad actually did. it disgusted him, to be honest. made him feel sick, because he knew what happened down the production lines of drug gangs. he knew about the violence that so many innocent people inevitably faced, and he couldn’t believe his dad was a part of that

people still recognised him though, when he was in the right bars or even just walking on the right streets. they knew who he was and who his father was, and they’d stop him. sometimes it’d be compliments, sometimes anecdotes, and sometimes threats. he hated all of them

when he turned 18, all those people on the streets started asking him when he was going to follow in his dad’s footsteps. then it turned into trying to convince him to join, and it began to feel constant

the day after his 19th birthday, he packed a bag, kissed his mother goodbye, and moved to the uk. he had a friend in liverpool who had somewhere for him to stay and the offer of a job, so he got on the next flight out and started fresh

he set up a life in liverpool – a good one. he had a decent job as the head of security for concerts in the city, and moved into his own little flat, right near the docks. nobody recognised him, and that was absolutely perfect, it was a proper New Start 

he met jordan through a friend of a friend of a friend at a house party and they hit it off straight away. he’d never been so attracted to someone after only speaking for them for a few minutes, and he wasn’t even nervous when he asked jordan if he’d like to go for lunch the next day, because he knew jordan was going to say yes

their dates were more often than not, every other day for the first week and then every day after that. they got on so well, just spent hours talking and laughing and getting to know each other. virgil didn’t think he’d ever met someone quite like jordan

it wasn’t long until they decided to move in together. they were together most of the time anyway, spending time at virgil’s flat away from jordan’s housemates, so it just made sense. they both had decent jobs and put together a considerable amount for a deposit on a house, and they moved in not even a month later

things were good. virgil knew that he’d found his forever and he was happy about it, settled in his own little house with his own little family (jordan and two cats), in a country where nobody knew about his father and what he did for a living

except, of course, things aren’t always that easy.

gini is the only person he still talks to from back home, because he moved to liverpool shortly after virgil did – after virgil told him how happy he was in the city. they’re inseparable by now, and virgil considers him a brother

they go out for dinner every tuesday (jordan leaves them to it, has a night in with the cats and a pizza), somewhere different each week. gini chooses the restaurant, because he’s much more exciting than virgil is, but that’s fine by virgil. he doesn’t need to be exciting, he enjoys his life as it is thank you

one tuesday, virgil parks somewhere in town and walks to the restaurant that gini suggested. he’s never been there before so he’s using google maps, head buried in his phone, and he quite literally bumps into someone heading up paradise street. he looks up, and he swears he recognises the bloke, but he can’t quite place him

before he can ask, the man speaks. his accent is dutch – the same recognisable region as virgil, and he grins, but it’s more evil than kind. says, “i know you – your dad is ron van dijk. expanding his business, are you?” 

virgil tries to walk away, but the man calls him back. he says he’s got some information about his brother, about what he’s been up to. virgil didn’t even fucking know, but the man has some documents on his phone and virgil can’t deny it. his grin grows wider, and virgil wishes he could forget his next words completely

it’s a choice, that’s the thing. it’s a choice and he makes it, but it’s a choice between his brother’s entire life being ruined for a stupid little mistake that he made when he was a kid, or virgil running a few slightly illegal errands for some shady man. it’s a choice, and it’s one he makes willingly. not only is his baby brother’s wellbeing at stake, but also his own. he doesn’t know what he’ll do if hendo finds out about how shady his family is

but it gets out of hand. at first it’s just a few drops of packages that virgil determinedly doesn’t look into, because he knows he won’t like what he finds. he can do that, can just pretend it’s something different, that this stranger doesn’t have all the information in his pocket to ruin so many lives. the packages eventually turn into bigger requests – into violence. virgil has never been a violent person. he might be big, and some people might find his stature imposing, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly

the violence is where he draws the line. he tells the stranger that he’s not going to do it anymore, that he’s done what he asked and he’s done it perfectly, so there’s absolutely no reason for him to carry on

in hindsight, he probably should’ve been a little suspicious about how calm and casual the stranger was when he said that, but he was just so relieved that he didn’t think twice

he forgets about it. well, as much as he can – it still plays on his mind but days pass and turn into weeks, so he doesn’t think about it. it’s over, as far as he’s concerned, and now he wants to make his boyfriend a nice meal and spend quality time with him and the cats

he picks a friday night, when neither of them have got to be up in the morning. buys a nice bottle of wine and cooks jordan’s favourite meal, because he always finishes earlier than jordan does

except jordan doesn’t come home when he’s supposed to. virgil doesn’t hear the familiar crunch of his tires over the gravel in the driveway, or his keyrings clinking against each other. he doesn’t hear the familiar inflection of jordan’s accent shouting virgil’s name or the incomprehensible muttering about virgil leaving his trainers in the middle of the hall

at first he thinks jordan is just caught up at work, but then an hour turns into three, turns into five and the worry is gnawing at his stomach, making him nauseous. it doesn’t help that jordan isn’t answering any of his calls, either – no matter how many times he dials that familiar number 

on the twenty second time he calls, the ringing stops and there’s silence. jordan has finally fucking picked up, and virgil snaps at him, asks him where he’s been and why the fuck isn’t he home, but the voice that answers isn’t jordan. the accent is dutch. familiar. virgil’s heart sinks into his stomach and tears prick at his eyes, because he should have known he wasn’t getting out of it this easily

his chest feels tight, breaths struggling to go in, but the stranger just laughs. tells virgil that he got what he deserved for thinking he’s the one in control here. tells virgil that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, his little boyfriend will die, and it won’t be quick and painless

virgil agrees, says that he’ll do whatever he wants, whatever he needs – as long as he doesn’t hurt jordan. that’s the only thing that matters

the stranger gives him instructions and hangs up. he sounds so smug that it makes fury boil in virgil’s veins and before he even realises what he’s doing, he’s scrolling through his contacts until he finds his father’s number. he’s not even sure why he kept it, but right now he’s glad. the nausea sets in while he listens to it ring, and he bites his tongue when his dad answers

“i fucking hate you,” he spits, means every word of it. “i hate you. i hate what you’ve done to me. you’ve ruined my life, you’ve ruined everything, and i will never, ever forgive you.” 

“okay,” his dad replies, completely unfazed. virgil somehow hates him even more. “is that all you called for?” 

“i’m in liverpool. where does your gang operate?” virgil asks, voice hard. he knows his father will give him an answer, because that’s the least he deserves. “they’ve taken my fucking boyfriend, ron. they’ve taken him and i won’t let them hurt him, so tell me where they’ve set up around here.”

ron does the only decent thing he’s ever done in his life, and tells virgil. he doesn’t even say goodbye before he hangs up and then he’s dialling the number for jordan’s dad. he’s a police officer – virgil needs the back up. he’s rational enough to know that he’s too emotional for this, and he’ll never forgive himself if jordan ends up hurt, or worse, because of him

he stands back and watches as armed police surround the warehouse. it’s nothing out of the ordinary, really – there are hundreds of empty buildings around the docks, and this one is no different. virgil has walked past it dozens of times and he didn’t think twice about it

he’s not really thinking twice about it now, to be honest. he just wants his jordan back, in his arms and in one piece, and his heart is hammering against his ribcage when the armed officers burst through the doors. jordan’s dad stands next to him, an arm around his shoulders, and he’s really surprised that he’s not blaming virgil

it feels like hours, days, but it’s probably only minutes before that familiar stranger is being dragged out. he’s glaring, and if looks could kill then virgil would be six foot under already, but he makes a point of not looking at him. instead, he watches a few other men being dragged out, ones that virgil vaguely recognises from his dad bringing them around when he was a kid 

eventually, jordan is being helped out by an officer, and virgil’s knees almost buckle with relief. he’s got a few cuts and bruises, blood streaked through his hair, but he’s okay. that’s the main thing – he’s okay

he heads straight to virgil, not even blinking at the sight of his dad standing there, and throws his arms around his neck, shuddering out a sigh when virgil tightens his arms around jordan’s waist. it’s only been half a day since he’s had jordan’s skin under his hands but it felt like years, and he buries himself into the older man’s warmth, into his scent

“i’m okay,” jordan whispers, thumb stroking along virgil’s hairline at his temple. virgil still isn’t quite convinced though, and he guides jordan towards the ambulance that’s waiting and makes sure he gets checked over properly

he is okay, to which jordan mutters, i told you so, but still, virgil would rather be safe than sorry. he takes jordan home and then helps him up the stairs and into the shower, hesitating when jordan tells him that he’s okay, that he can manage to wash himself. still, he knows that jordan probably needs some space after what just happened to him, so he heads downstairs and lowers himself into an armchair

what just happened – fucking hell. jordan nearly died, and it was virgil’s fault. dragged him into this and didn’t even give him any warning. he had no idea who virgil’s dad was or what he did. he probably feels like he doesn’t even know who virgil is anymore, if anything he told him was true

he’s probably going to leave.

jordan is taking his time in the shower, and virgil manages to convince himself that he’s in their bedroom, packing a bag and trying to figure out how to tell virgil that he’ll come back for the rest of his stuff later. nothing would surprise him after the fucking mess he’s made of everything 

when jordan comes back down, he’s dressed in a comfy pair of joggers and one of virgil’s hoodies, fingers tangled in the baggy sleeves of it as he pads across the living room. he says something, but virgil doesn’t even hear it, let alone reply

“virgil?” jordan asks, close enough that virgil has to snap out of his thoughts. he doesn’t look up from the floor, can’t bring himself to make eye contact, because he doesn’t deserve that. “i said, do you want a cup of tea?” 

“if you’re going to leave me, can you just – not drag it out?” virgil says quickly, the words choked as they leave his mouth. the thought of it makes his heart beat twice as fast, tongue too big for his mouth, and he quickly wipes the tears away that have spilled over his cheeks.

jordan drops to his knees just as quickly, both hands coming up to frame virgil’s face. he lifts his head, makes him look at him, and whispers, “i’m not going anywhere, virgil.”

virgil blinks. he’s so confused. “even after all the lies? all the pain i’ve put you through? you could have died, jordan. it would have been my fault,” he says.

“no,” jordan says, shaking his head. his thumb traces along virgil’s bottom lip carefully. “i love you, and that means i love all of you. even the parts that have a shitty excuse of a man for a father. even the parts that you haven’t told me about. i love you, and that means i’m all in.”

virgil can’t help it. he bursts into tears, sobs wracking through his entire body. he’s never felt unconditional love like this before, because even his mother was half terrified he’d turn out like his father, but jordan doesn’t see any of that. jordan sees virgil, and nobody else

jordan slides his arms around virgil’s shoulders and pulls him in close, for a tight hug. he lets him cry it out for as long as he needs, shushing him gently, and doesn’t say a word when virgil falls silent

that’s unconditional love. it means more to virgil than he could ever describe.

send me an au and i’ll give you headcanons

[juniperwindsong]

A Night at the Rosier’s

This little drabble is dedicated to my very dear friend, who asked for an "emotional support/comic relief social buffer" for Christmas. Sorry this came so late, but I'm immensely proud of you. Also, to the mod of @ask-chester-davies, who said something nice about my other story. Here is some additional Felster content for your fandom.

Also important to note: if you’ve read anything else by me, you’ll recognise Juniper Windsong (my MC) but this story doesn’t exist in the same universe as my other Felix x Juniper fics. Apologies for the confusion!

Summary: Every time another oily old wizard sidles over to offer him congratulations on such a fine catch, Felix finds himself more irritated. He has made a fine catch, he thinks, and it isn't the Hogwarts curse-breaker. And for the first time, it bothers Felix that he can't show off the person he truly wants to.

-

Juniper Windsong stares glumly down at her red satin stiletto heels, then out across the cruelly cobbled path to the Rosier's manor house. It's unnecessarily long and winding, the stones fitted together in an uneven pattern and jutting out irregularly. She groans and takes a cautious step forward, instantly stumbling. "So, tell me why I'm here again?"

Juniper poses the question to the comfortably oxford-clad young man walking a pace ahead of her and oblivious to her struggle.

"I did explain that in the letter." Felix replies, his tone and pace brisk with buzzing nerves.

"Yeah, but explain it again because it was weird."

Felix sighs. "You are pretending to be my fiancée so my parents will relax about the whole "marriage thing" for a bit and I can continue seeing Chester without their knowledge."

"Uh huh..." Juniper mumbles, her eyes on her feet, working hard to avoid the cracks between the stones. "Okay, you have to slow down. I'm not good at this!"

Felix rolls his eyes and extends an arm for her to use as balance. Together, they tackle the cobbled walk at a more stately pace.

Finally able to focus on something other than her shoes, Juniper says, "Follow up question."

Felix closes his eyes, praying for patience.

"Why didn't you just bring Chester?"

Felix stops and stares at the girl next to him.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes?" she responds tentatively.

"Did you not hear the part where I'm seeing Chester without telling them? It might be a bit hard to keep it secret after I bring him as my date to their Christmas party."

Felix begins to walk again, his steps slightly faster and Juniper has to cling to his arm to keep from stumbling.

"Yes, but why is it a secret?"

"That sort of thing isn't permitted."

"Really?" Juniper asks incredulously. "Blimey, your parents are old fashioned."

Felix runs his free hand through his hair in frustration. "It isn't about the fashion. My parents are well aware of my preferences. Unfortunately, preferences are the privilege of the lower classes. Pure bloods have an imperative to procreate."

Juniper makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a retch, and her heels catch in the stones beneath her. Felix has to drag her up again as she tries hard to stifle her giggles.

"Who talks like that?"

Felix shrugs the shoulder not supporting her weight, "It's how it was explained to me."

They graduate from the winding walk-way through the grounds into the smoothly paved front drive approaching the manor itself. Juniper's steps become more confident as her heels click on the even concrete.

"Is it a preference, though?"

Felix furrows his brow, not that she can see in the twilight. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you prefer blokes but you could go either way if you met a nice girl?"

Glad for the cover of darkness that hides his flush, Felix replies tersely, "That's rather personal."

Juniper snorts and he can sense more than see her exaggerated eye roll. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot I'm only your pretend fiancee. I suppose I have to wait 'till after our pretend wedding to ask you personal questions."

Felix sighs. He is asking rather a lot of her this evening and Juniper did agree with equanimity, as she always does. He considers briefly before answering.

"I don't know. I think I just prefer Chester."

Juniper nods. "Fair enough."

She's quiet for a few seconds, then begins again. "So..."

Felix groans out loud. Juniper ignores him. "How long are you planning on keeping this up?"

"What do you mean?" he asks in a tone of weary resignation.

"Well, today I'm your fiancée, but what happens a year from now when we're not married and there's no wedding plans?"

Felix smirks just a little. "Well, one can't plan a pure blood wedding in so short a time. We have at least two years."

"Merlin's pants! Two years? To plan one party?" Juniper exclaims, and Felix can't help but laugh. "Okay then. Two years. What happens in two years?"

"You call it off." explains Felix promptly. "And the whole thing being rather hard on me, there's no way I will even be able to think about marriage again for some time."

"Wow, I really don't come out of this looking good, do I?" Juniper says shaking her head.

They reach the flight of stairs leading up to the grand entrance, and Felix waits while Juniper takes each step carefully.

"Or..." ventures Felix cautiously.

Juniper cocks her head at him as she climbs. "Or?"

"I suppose... if you're willing we could always go through with it."

"Through with what?" asks Juniper, nonplussed.

"The marriage."

Juniper stops at the top of the stairs, removing her arm from Felix's to face him fully, her expression unreadable.

"It would merely be for show." he assures her in a soothing tone. She continues to say nothing.

"And it has some benefits..." he insists.

Juniper finally breaks her silence. "For whom?"

"Well, myself obviously but for you as well."

"Name one." she challenges, folding her arms across her chest.

"Money?" Felix offers.

"Got it."

"Power? My family is very well connected."

"I'm alright in that department as well."

"Well then, a rather more respectable family name?" Felix suggests but he winces as he watches her eyes narrow at him.

"You really want to go down that road?"

From anyone else Felix would consider it an insult but, he supposes, he did draw first blood. And anyway, she's hardly wrong.

He sighs. "I suppose it would benefit me rather more than you."

Juniper crosses the short distance left to the door and pulls the bell before turning back to face Felix again, her eyes taking on that open and earnest quality that both unnerves him and is the reason they've been friends so long.

"Felix, do you know how much time and energy you would have to invest in a show like that to make it work? It's not just dragging someone else along to a party twice yearly, it's half your life! If you can think seriously about marrying another person, even just for show, then maybe you don't love Chester as much as you think you do."

Felix bristles. He opens his mouth to issue an angry retort, but before he can respond the door behind Juniper opens and the outline of a house-elf beckons them into the light and noise.

-

For all her excessive questions and blunt honesty, Felix appreciates Juniper's ability to play nice with his admittedly high brow family. She smiles politely, deflects impertinent questions about her cursed vault history with practiced ease, and does an excellent job of keeping the attention of his parents and their society friends on herself allowing Felix space to breathe. It's the reason he's been bringing her to these events since he graduated school. Juniper makes an excellent shield against the people he has no interest in talking to and the questions he doesn't want to answer.

But Felix continues to be rankled by her earlier pronouncement the entire evening. Every time another oily old wizard sidles over to offer him congratulations on such a fine catch, Felix finds himself more irritated. He has made a fine catch, he thinks, and it isn't the Hogwarts curse-breaker. And for the first time, it bothers Felix that he can't show off the person he truly wants to.

Felix continues to brood through dinner and into drinks afterward. A crafty conversational device by Juniper encourages the party to forgo the separation of men and women into their traditional different salons, in favor of hearing her recount the tale of the cursed vault hidden in a portrait she defeated in her fifth year. Felix knows she's done this on purpose, to spare him the time alone with his father and his father's friends that he so dreads. And while he's grateful, another part of him is irritated. Not with her, but with himself. He wants to work at the Romanian Reserve, Felix thinks furiously, how can he expect to handle dragons if he can't even defend himself against his own parents?

He feels a champagne glass being pressed into his hands. Felix looks up and realizes Juniper has finished her story, and his father is standing near the fireplace clearing his throat.

"I would like to propose a toast." his father addresses the room at large. "To my son, who has finally managed to do something right, and his exceptional fiancee, Juniper Windsong." He lifts his glass smugly toward Felix and Juniper. Juniper lifts hers in response, nodding slightly in polite acknowledgement. As she brings the glass to her lips, she catches Felix's eye out of the corner of hers and gives a little wink. And Felix feels some strange indignant energy take over.

"She's not my fiancee." he announces, setting his glass down firmly on the table beside him.

There's several poorly suppressed gasps from around the room, and a choking cough from the girl beside him.

"She's not?" his mother asks from her place on the sofa.

"She's not?" Juniper repeats, through her coughing fit.

"No." Felix confirms. "Juniper is just a friend. I'm currently..." he pauses, trying to find an appropriate word. "...with someone else." he finishes vaguely.

His father's eyes narrow dangerously. "And may I ask who?"

Felix can feel his heart racing in his chest, and he has to work hard to keep his voice steady as he replies. "His name is Chester Davies."

The room is deathly silent. Even Juniper appears to be holding her breath.

His father's voice is now barely above a whisper.

"Excuse me." It isn't a question.

"Chester Davies." Felix repeats carefully. "He was in my year at school, only in Ravenclaw. He works at the ministry now." And he can't keep the pride he feels from leaking out around his words.

There's the rustling sounds of small, nervous movements from the people in the room, fidgeting with clothes and glasses awkwardly. Next to him, he notices Juniper tilt her glass back and down her entire drink in one long gulp.

"I would like a word with my son." Felix's father says evenly, eyes fixed on his son. "In private."

Everyone in the room moves quickly to the door, desperate to escape the uncomfortable scene. Juniper glances at Felix, her eyes posing a question. His response is a deep breath and a very small smile to say he's as ready as he'll ever be. She returns his smile, her eyes twinkling, and reaches between them to squeeze his hand in solidarity; a gesture his father does not miss.

"That means you as well, Miss Windsong." he says pointedly.

"I would like Juniper to stay." Felix isn't sure where this courage to contradict his father has suddenly come from.

His father looks Juniper up and down disdainfully. "What exactly are you doing here in the first place?"

Juniper meets the older man's eyes, her voice as pleasant as if she were still making polite conversation about the weather.

"Oh, I'm just here as a social buffer."

His father says nothing, but his eyes twitch very slightly.

"And emotional support, I suppose?"

The silence stretches on.

"Comic relief?" Juniper tries to jest, her lips quirking very slightly. Felix chokes on a laugh and turns it into a quick cough. This seems to break the spell holding his father's tongue hostage.

"If you are not my son's fiancée, then you have no business in my house. I bid you good evening."

"She's my friend." Felix says loudly, and his father turns on him in an instant, his voice rising.

"Then the answer is clear! Marry her, fulfill your family responsibilities and do whatever you like on the side as long as your friend-" He jerks his chin toward Juniper, "approves."

Next to him, Juniper folds her arms across her chest. "Blimey, that's twice this evening I've been proposed to, and it's even more romantic the second time."

Both Felix and his father ignore her, too busy staring daggers at each other.

"No." says Felix firmly. "I can't."

"Why. Not." His father enunciates each word through gritted teeth.

"Because..." Felix hesitates for just a split second before plunging on, "I love Chester too much. The idea of spending any time and energy pretending not to, it's anathema to me. I'm all his. I don't want even part of me to belong to anyone else."

Beside him, Juniper covers her mouth with both hands in an attempt to hide her giddy smile and quiet little squeal of delight. Felix finds her display of enthusiasm encouraging. His father does not. He steps forward slowly, hand drifting to his pocket for his wand and Felix stiffens, trying to hold on to his newfound courage.

"Your selfishness knows no bounds." He murmurs venomously, lifting his wand. Felix cannot help flinching, but stands his ground steeling himself for whatever hex his father will throw.

Juniper steps between them.

"That's quite enough." And there's no humour in her voice now. Juniper faces Felix's father steadily. She holds her own wand almost lazily at her side, but Felix is all too familiar with how quickly she can change her stance. "This isn't a school yard and we're none of us children, so you can drop your posturing because no one's impressed. Whatever old fashioned sort of notions you insist on clinging to, you at least have to act like a civilised wizard."

Felix watches with a small degree of satisfaction as his father's eyes widen. He can't remember the last time anyone told off his father. It's possible it's never happened, at least in front of him.

"I will not be corrected by some minor half-blood celebrity in my own home." His father's voice hits that dangerous note that Felix recognizes as the sign that he's about to lose control. He grips Juniper's arm to pull her back, but her feet are planted firmly as if her five inch heels have stuck into the stone floor.

"Then I suggest you correct yourself. Unless you'd like to duel, of course." She challenges, raising her wand. "Although, I imagine, whoever wins or loses, that'll make for a far more interesting story in the gossip column than whoever your son is dating."

She's hit upon his father's only weakness, bad publicity, and Felix waits with bated breath to see how he'll react. He's never seen his father so pale and furious. He takes a violent breath in through his nose and lowers his wand reluctantly.

"Dueling a guest in my own home is beneath me. Particularly, a little girl." He pronounces the words with a sneer. "And you," he flicks his eyes above Juniper's head to his son briefly, as if loathe to look at him any longer than absolutely necessary. "You are welcome back in this house when you are willing to fulfill your obligations to your family."

With the final word securely on his side, Felix's father turns on his heel and marches with dignity from the room.

-

"Well, that's that then."

For once, it's Felix who breaks the silence as he and Juniper step slowly down the paved drive to the cobbled stone walkway again, Felix lighting the way with his wand while Juniper clings to his arm for dear life.

"Yes, I suppose so." she agrees with a breathless grin. "And I must say, the sitting room while everyone was trapped together? Truly the perfect time."

Felix flushes slightly. "I did it, though." he insists, quietly.

Juniper's smile fades a little and she looks up from her feet to Felix's face, his blush illuminated to a rosy glow by the light in his wand.

"Yeah, you did. And I can't imagine how hard it was."

"It wasn't that hard, actually." Felix replies in a would-be casual voice, flicking back a piece of hair from his forehead.

"Okay," Juniper laughs. "Then I can't imagine why you didn't do it earlier and save me all the million questions from your mother about our wedding." She gives a dramatic shudder, and Felix smirks.

"I needed a laugh."

"You need your head examined."

He chuckles lightly as they tread carefully across the uneven stones. Approaching the wrought-iron gate that marks the apparition point for the Rosier property, Felix turns to face the girl next to him, her heels making it easier than usual to meet her eyes.

"Juniper," he starts, then looks away before finishing, "Thank you."

Juniper cocks her head to the side. "Why? I didn't do anything."

"You... made me brave." says Felix quietly, still looking down. He can hear the smile in her voice as she replies.

"No, I didn't. I just made you mad." She gives his hand a slight squeeze. "Chester made you brave."

She's right. That, and the realization that this dreadful evening is over, and he's only moments away from seeing the man he loves causes warmth to spread through Felix, and he smiles.

"Happy Christmas, Juniper. I owe you."

Juniper shakes her head. "Friends don't owe friends." she argues. "I'm happy to help anytime. But, I'm afraid my days as your escort might be at an end, at least for any social events that involve your family. You'll have to find yourself another companion." She says with a wink, and steps through the gate.

Felix's smile widens. "Don't worry. I have the perfect person in mind."