#do i even attempt to stay a couple days in london?

[ashtonsunshine]

Researching accommodation is a nightmare. Everything is expensive, and if it's not expensive, it's far away. And if it's far away, I have to find transportation because I don't drive, so I have to research buses and trains schedules. Damn.... 😪

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

More of Stanley's sketchbook because he makes me sick /pos

(Just imagine he was looking in a mirror at the subway to draw this anshfhwj. The london bus ticket is unrelated, it's just a random knick knack he had lying around<3)

People weren't the only ones Stan met on the streets.

------

+ this is an absolute fucking batshit WILD oneshot I initially wrote for these drawings that got WAY out of hand, if you feel like reading that.

The oneshot below is a stand-alone now, and in no way is related to the drawings above, but I just wanted to show you guys because Jesus Christ

------

Winter of 1981, at a subway station Stan doesn't remember the name of-

The sorry excuse of a transport system that this hellhole of a city called a functioning subway was hardly anyone's first choice of a warm place to stay the night. And yet, here Stanley was; standing like an idiot in the middle of a small bustling stairwell that led down to the full screeching chaos of a train stop on a Tuesday evening. A rowdy crowd of exhausted office workers streamed out like a tidal wave from the entrance of the station, the bustle of their footsteps all too eager to go home and relax after a long day of work.

The faint, stuffy stench of old piss and sweat followed the crowd to the surface from the deep depths of a less than sanitary and overcrowded train station. The pungent smell intermingled with the crisp stinging winter air in a cocktail of shitty city gloom often associated with this time of the year; when the holidays were too far away and the sun seemed to come and go with practically the same 9 to 5 schedule as the workers had, leaving them going to work in the pitch dark and coming back out in the inky black as well.

He might have looked like he belonged there, depending on how one would want to look at it. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of prim, pressed suits and neart uniforms. His ratty old jacket and generally unwashed appearance certainly didn’t help his case, but he also knew that stations like these also tended to shelter quite a number of homeless wanderers like him, especially during the winter. So, it wasn't exactly uncommon to see other sore thumbs seeking reprieve from the biting cold and the dangerous likelihood of frostbite from within the enclosed walls of the subway station.

Heck, if most of these underground kingdoms didn't also happen to be a breeding ground for several illicit activities, he might even have followed their lead. But, believe it or not, Stanley's already had enough experience with illegal activities to last him a last time, and he isn't looking for a new fill. He was satisfied with what meager shelter his trusty car offered him, as little a difference it might make in terms of safety.

Stanley's obstruction of the already narrow stairs with his loitering went unappreciated, as shoulders roughly shoved past him and swinging briefcases repeatedly bumped into his sides, usually coupled with a nasty glare and a snide comment or two. He paid them no mind, however. He wasn't here to start a fight with some random bum with a dead end job, as much as he thought it would probably do them both some good to duke their stresses out on one another.

The hours ticked by with wave after wave of new crowds being dropped off by a train and left to pour out of the station into the streets. By the time the streetlights turned on and the pale pink in the sky slowly faded to make way for the stark glittery black of the night sky, the tide of people had slowed to a trickle and rush hour was long since over. He was now the stairs’ sole occupier, with a few occasional stragglers stumbling up the steps and hurrying past him without a second glance.

Stanley did not move from his spot, however. He stood resolutely in the middle of the stairway, fervently rubbing his arms and stamping his feet in a futile attempt to try and regain feeling in his extremities as he waited. Rocking on his heels, he titled his head backwards to let his eyes roam the constellations that carpeted the endless expanse of the sky stretched out above his head, almost losing himself in the scintillating canvas of stars.

It reminded him of old times; of the sparkling beach sand twinkling in the dim moonlight, and the soft sound of lilting waves hovering in the background as he lay back on the cold wooden deck of his ship and watched the stars dance.

He still remembered every name his brother had once recited to him time and time again as he pointed out each star and galaxy from the night sky.

Then, like clockwork, he was broken out of his reveries by a telltale meow coming from below. The sound was a familiar blanket that immediately melted away the tension that had begun to build in his chest as he practically sagged with relief.

His body moved almost automatically as he leaned down to detach the frail tabby cat that was attempting to literally fuse with his legs, purring up a storm and rubbing her head against his pants as though her life depended on it. The cat gave a soft chirrup of dissatisfaction at being manhandled, which Stanley absentmindedly replied with a chiding click of his tongue as he lifted her up his chest and gently tucked her into his jacket in a practiced motion.

She thankfully remained blissfully limp in his grasp as he shifted around some more so that she was nestled comfortably inside the dark pocket of warmth inside his ratty jacket. The tiny warm lump that rumbled contently against his front radiated with heat, and his fingers finally began to feel like actual fingers rather than useless stiff frigid lumps of meat and bone attached to his palms.

A pointed cough startled him from his clumsy wriggling to get the cat to settle down. An oddly familiar security guard stood at the entrance of the station at the bottom of the stairs, leveling Stanley an unimpressed look with the metal gate in his grip already halfway closed, ready to seal the subway for the night. He must have been a comical sight; caught awkwardly bent over while trying to get his newly acquired cat to stop kneading biscuits on his stomach, with said cat peeking out from the gap between his collars.

Stanley faintly recognized the guard. He was a much older man, with a shock of thinning white hair neatly tucked underneath a dark blue cap and a strange depth in his eyes that reminded Stanley of the sea; with countless unspoken truths lurking far beneath the surface, but no less grand and knowing of all that the universe had to offer, as though he had already lived a thousand lives before this one.

He had seen the man around before, at another station, doing the opposite of his job by ushering stray buskers and homeless stragglers from the streets and into the (relatively) safe walls of the subway, instead of doing what any other law-abiding security guard would do and kick them out into the elements. He wasn't sure what the older man was doing here, of all places, since all the previous stations he'd seen the man at had been several states over, practically on the other side of the country.

A brief spark of panic shot through his spine at the thought that this man could be following him, but he quickly discarded the ridiculous notion as soon as it entered his mind. He had never even seen him before, and hardly ever even interacted with him; there was no reason for there to be any sort of bad blood between them. Unless he happened to be related to one of Stanley's many, many enemies, then perhaps his fear was a little warranted.

However, the old guard made no move to attack or do anything other than stare judgmentally, almost expectantly. For the first time in a long time, Stanley felt like a child being caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do. He tried his best to keep his uncomfortable squirming to a minimum under the unrelenting gaze, stubbornly returning the man's gaze with his own wary glare. His cat’s muffled whining came from inside his jacket. The traitor, she was leaving him to deal with the old man on his own.

With an exasperated jerk of his head, the security guard gestured towards the inside of the station. For a moment, Stanley stared dumbly, uncomprehending of what the old man could possibly want from him. Rolling his eyes, this time the man gestured more insistently at the small gap that still remained between the metal gate and the entrance, his arm sweeping the air in a low arc as he dramatically urged Stanley inside. Suddenly, it clicked, and Stanley shook his head.

“I have a car,” he said plainly, his voice echoing loudly in the desolate silence of the winter night that surrounded the unlikely pair.

He wasn't sure why he was so nervous, it wasn't as though he was lying. He did have a car, his trusty Stanley-mobile was parked safely away in the corner of an unassuming alley that wasn't often frequented by anyone. There was no way he was reaching it tonight, though; it was practically on the other side of the city, much too far away for him to arrive at a reasonable time. His nightly excursions to meet his small friend unfortunately left him with no other choice than to leave his car behind, the hunk of metal far too unwieldy and noticeable to drive around openly on the streets. He never knew who could be watching, after all.

He had simply been hoping to find himself a dark corner to tuck himself into with his cat, just for the night, but it seemed as though the universe had other plans. Or rather, this strange old man had other plans.

Although, if Stanley thought about it, the subway wasn't such a bad suggestion. This was one of the safer stations in the city; and with the rich neighborhoods being so close by, no rogue criminal or dealers dared to come near this area unless they wanted to be slapped with a hefty fine or face a higher potential to be arrested. And of course, there was the obvious shelter from the unrelenting cold that now seemed to permeate his bones, even with the purring warmth that was nestled inside his jacket.

So, that was how he found himself hunkering down for the night inside a shabby old subway station, with a satisfied cat still rumbling away against his chest and a strange old security guard locking down the gates behind him. The man said nothing as he hooked his keys back onto his belt and gave a firm pat on Stanley's shoulders as he walked past him, pausing to scratch his cat behind her ears before moving away. His footsteps bounced off of the grimy tiled walls with an odd reverb as he turned a corner.

“You'll be safe in here,” the man said, voice sage and gravelly. The words had a weight to them, and seemed to hang in the air with such a presence it was as though the old man had never even left his side.

The subway was empty, quiet. It was such a stark contrast to the loud rowdiness of the rush hour crowd these halls once held. Stanley hadn't yet registered the utter silence of the station as he aimlessly made his way down the winding, deserted halls of the ancient station. He mindlessly walked past the aged and peeling advertising posters plastered on the walls, his nose becoming accustomed to the stinging stench of the subway. The quiet seemed to swallow the sound of his steps as he explored the branching paths and endless tunnels. They were almost kaleidoscopic, dizzying, nonsensical. There were doors where there shouldn't be, and deadends where it didn't make sense.

The silence only began to truly settle in his bones the more he walked. He suddenly wished that he would head the telltale footsteps of the old security guard again, just to hear another sign of life in this underground hellscape other than himself. The ghostly memories of screeching trains and bustling crowds haunted the halls; now, only nothingness reigned supreme. He glanced down at his small feline companion, who slumbered away against his chest, blissfully unaware of his jackrabbiting heartbeat threatening to burst out of his ribs. The silence seemed to permeate every inch of space and crush the air out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

Stanley’s steps grew faster, more frantic as the walls and ceilings seemed to close in on him. They grew smaller, tighter; squeezing, trapping. He hardly even registered his cat's complaints as she was jostled around in his grasp, breaking into a full out run. His breathing sounded loud, too loud, and the world was collapsing around him.

When he finally broke out into a large, open platform, he could finally breathe again. He had arrived at the tracks, the empty tunnel where the trains would pass an empty, gaping maw in the wall that seemed to swallow all light around it and beckon him closer. He felt his cat wriggle out from within his jacket and hop out with a displeasured yowl, scampering away and disappearing behind a corner much like the old man had. True silence pierced his ears and thrummed like a deafening pressure in his temples. He was alone.

Stanley was stuck in that subway station for years.

[harry-on-broadway]

Fancy Dress

Word Count: 3.4K || Rating: M

A/N: So this was supposed to be posted in time for Halloween, but better late than never I guess. It can be read on its own, but I've been thinking of it as a sequel to last year's Harryween one-shot. It's not much, but I hope at least a few people enjoy it. 🫶🏻

***

“Gonna dress up for me again this year?” 

Those words had echoed through your head since he’d whispered them in your ear as the first glimpses of dawn pushed through the cloudy London skies. His body, warming yours as he inched closer to you on your pillow, threw off heat, stronger than any radiator you’d ever encountered, and you scooted closer to him in an attempt to ward off the chill of the room. 

“What are you talking about?” Your voice was hoarse, still thick with sleep. 

“For Halloween.”

“You hate Halloween.” You twisted in his arms to roll over and face him. “You’ve made that clear many times.”

“A man can change his mind.”

You sighed. “What happened to ‘Tour’s over. Let’s do something quiet this year?’ Hmm?”

Harry traced a line down your spine and you shivered under his touch. “Doesn’t have to be a big deal. Can be just the two of us.” 

“Well, I’m planning on dressing up as ‘woman who wants to snuggle and eat candy with her boyfriend.’ Accessories include sweatpants and a hoodie, as well as candy and an Apple TV remote.” You felt his laugh against your hair. “Best news of all, it’s a couples costume,” you continued. 

“Oh is it?” 

“Mmhmm. And if you don’t want in, it’s OK. I’ll just call my other boyfriend.”

“Your other boyfriend?!?!” Harry easily flipped you so you were lying trapped underneath him and began pressing feverish kisses against your skin as he tickled your sides. “You better take that back.” 

“Giovanni would never do this,” you laughed.

“He has a name?!” 

You laughed even harder as Harry doubled down on his efforts, forgetting about Halloween all together. 

***

Harry didn’t let the topic rest over the next couple of weeks, sending pictures of costumes – some tame, some a little sexier – throughout the day, earning a fair number of eye rolls from you. 

“What? I’m just trying to brainstorm.”

You looked up from your computer. “Why is this so important to you? Halloween’s never been a big deal. And it’s essentially been a work event for you for the past two years.” 

“I mean,” he shifted in the seat. “Last year was really…nice,” he said thoughtfully. “I liked getting to spend time with you.”

“You liked having sex,” you corrected. 

“Which technically counts as spending time with you.” He ignored your glare and turned thoughtful. “I’m just kidding, but really, I liked getting to spend a fun night with you and would love to do it again. If you feel the same way.”

You softened hearing how much that night meant to him. “Doesn’t it feel less special when it’s not a surprise?”

“I’m going to be honest, love, I really don’t care how it happens as long as you’re naked in my bed.” There was a slightest hint of a blush across his cheeks, and you felt a heat flame across yours as well. You’d been together for awhile now, with no plans of leaving each other anytime soon, but such an intimate admission felt vulnerable.

“You are such a boy,” you chided, not willing to let him onto the jolt of pride you felt at being so openly desired by him. “But we’ll see how I feel.” 

“I can work with that,” Harry said, turning back to his phone, a sly grin on his face.

***

The invitation arrived a few days later. A friend of a friend who he hadn’t seen in ages was throwing a “fancy dress party,” which despite your early assumptions was not a black tie affair. You weren’t that enthusiastic about going, and you could tell Harry was forcing himself to be excited, not wanting to let a friend down. 

“It’ll be fun,” he said, sounding more like he was convincing himself rather than you. “We don’t have to stay the whole time either.”

“Whatever makes you happy, babe,” you said, kissing his cheek. “Pick out whatever costume you want and we can go from there.” 

Picking the costume was easier said than done and the two of you spent much of the next week bickering over who had the better idea. Harry’d been pushing for Barbie and Ken, but you’d dismissed the idea as overdone. And your own suggestion of Paolo and Isabella was shut down by Harry who said he didn’t get the reference. It wasn’t until you all were flicking through the channels on the couch when you all came up with your idea. 

“It’s perfect,” Harry said, grinning at the screen. 

“And super easy,” you added. 

Which is how you all found yourself walking into the party dressed as two characters out of The Notebook, thanks to the blue dress you’d found in the back of your closet and the white button down Harry had pulled from his. You’d offered to splash some water on him to add authenticity, but he declined. 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting but the party was a surprisingly low-key affair. Classic simple costumes – vampires with plastic fangs and lipstick blood stains and black cats with felt ears – mixed with some that were more of the moment, ranging from a half-assed Barbie and Ken to what appeared to be Harley Quinn and the Joker. 

“Told you,” you whispered against his ear, as he passed you a drink, looking on as a Barbie walked by looking for her Ken, earning you an elbow to the ribs. 

“Nice look,” Johnny said, fixing a drink of his own. “How did Harry convince you?”

“It was actually a group effort,” you said, with a laugh. 

“Felt a little like fate. We were watching TV one night, the movie was on and it was like a lightbulb went off,” Harry said, wrapping his arm around you. 

“It was easy too,” you chimed in. 

Even though you all had been together for a while, Harry’s circle was so vast that you still hadn’t met many of them, making the party a little nerve wracking, a bunch of faces that weren’t familiar yet. But Harry stayed by you the entire night, hand in hand, steering you around the party, introducing you to his favorite people, and shielding you from the ones he wasn’t as fond of. Going into the evening, you all had made a pact to stay for only an hour, but two had passed by the time either of you looked at the clock. 

“OK to stay a little longer?” he asked and you’d nodded, before turning your attention back to Erin and her story about a costume contest gone wrong. 

Three hours in, you found yourselves on a couch in the back of the house. The room had unofficially been designated at the quiet zone, with a few people taking calls or a breather before returning to the party. Harry flopped down on the end of the sofa, pulling you onto his lap before sighing contentedly. 

“Are you tired?” You rested your forehead against his as pressed a gentle kiss to the bridge of his nose. 

“A little.”

“Well that’s too bad,” you said softly. “Guess I won’t be able to give you your treat tonight.” 

At the mention of the treat, he perked up tremendously. “I mean I’m not that tired. I’d hate to miss it after you put in the effort.” His eyes were steely as he held your gaze. 

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t think you could ever disappoint me.”

You grinned and shifted in his lap, causing your dress to slip up and you guided his hand up your bare leg to rest just under the hem of your dress. His fingers groped blindly and when they reached the edge of your lacy undergarments his eyes widened. 

“Oh fuck,” he whispered against your neck. 

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?!”

“I mean you haven’t seen it yet…” 

“I’ll bloody well be pleased with anything you wear,” he breathed against your neck. 

“Thirty more minutes and then we’ll head out?”

“Fuck that, we’re leaving now.” He gently pushed you up and out of his lap before standing and nearly dragging you to the door.

Harry made a beeline for your coats and bags, and when he had them in hand he caught your eye and nodded towards the front door. You held up a finger and signaled for him to wait before enacting the second phase of your plan. Slowly, you walked up to the first person you could see, thanking them and chatting some more about the party. You repeated this for the next person and the next and the next, until you finally found yourself reunited with Harry. 

“Ready?” you asked. 

“It’s not funny.”

“What?” you asked, feigning innocence. 

“Making me wait when I’m…” Your eyes drifted down to his pants. “How bad is it?” he asked, almost wincing. 

“Not bad, baby, but we should probably do something about that.” 

“You don’t say? Please, for the love of God, get in the car.” 

You laughed, enjoying having him beg for you. “Whatever you say.” 

What followed was the most tense car ride in recent memory. Harry’s leg bounced up and down, his hand gripped tight on your thigh as he looked ahead. His breathing was even and measured but the intensity in his eyes told you he felt anything but. You smiled, pleased with the effect you had on him. 

When the driver pulled through the gate, Harry thanked him, quickly and politely, and you did the same, scurrying along when Harry all but pulled you up the path, jamming his key in the lock and throwing the door open. You closed the door behind you, securing the deadbolt when Harry spun you around and pressed you against the door. 

He held your face, angling it to look up at him and he took a shaky breath, before pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly restrained, almost chaste, but you savored the way he felt so close against you. Again and again he kissed you. Lips, neck, cheeks, no part of you went unnoticed. You wanted to show him the same affection, but he wouldn’t give you the chance. His hands found your shoulders, pulling your coat off, and then working the straps of your dress down your shoulders, his lips trailing in the wake of his hands. 

After a few moments, you managed to pant out a single word. “Upstairs?” 

Harry pulled back, his lips plump and pink from his efforts, his hair messed from the way your fingers had been threaded through it. “Yeah,” he managed to nod, looking dazed, and you took the lead this time, pulling him towards the stairs. 

In your haste to get to the bedroom, you tripped, over the step or your own feet, you weren’t sure, and landed face first on the carpet, Harry tumbling down after you. 

“If you wanted me on top of you love, all you had to do was ask,” Harry muttered, as you shoved his shoulder. “Are you OK?” 

“I’m fine. You?” 

“No worse for wear. Shall we try this again?” He pushed up from the stairs and offered his hand, which you gladly took. Slower this time, you all continued up the stairs and into the bedroom, where Harry sat on the bed, pulling you onto his lap. “Sure you’re good to do this.” 

You nodded. “Yes, I just need a minute to get ready.”

“Get ready?” Harry arched his brow. “Tell me more.”

“You need to close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes…OK.” He shut his eyes and you wriggled out of his grasp, walking over to your dresser and doing your best not to make a sound as you fished around for the headband you’d stashed there earlier. 

“What is this?” Harry called from across the room. “Some sort of Notebook roleplay? Do you have a thing for Gosling too?” 

“Hush, or you’re not getting your treat.”

That silenced him and you double checked to make sure the accessory was secured on your head. You shimmied out of your dress until you were wearing nothing but your second costume. If you were honest, costume was a liberal description of the flimsy Halloween store lingerie you ‘d been wearing all night. According to the package, you were a dark angel, but the only thing angelic about it was the halo that was precariously perched on top of your head. You stood in front of the mirror, surveyed yourself and tried to summon the confidence to tell Harry to open his eyes. 

“Are you taking your clothes off? I thought that was my treat!”

It was almost funny how outraged he sounded, like a petulant child robbed of a promised prize. 

“Oh I think, you’ll like what I’ve picked out for you,” you shot back. At least you hoped he would. Once you contorted yourself into the black wings that came with the ensemble, you turned to face him, still sitting on the bed with his eyes shut. You padded over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, as you climbed astride him. Once you’d settled into his lap, you uttered the word he’d been waiting for. “Open.”

His eyes flew open and you had to fight a laugh at how comical his face was. Eyes wide and mouth open he was like a teenaged boy who’d yet to see a pair of breasts, as he glanced between yours, covered in a sheer, lacy bralette and your face. 

“Fucking hell what is this?”

“You said you wanted me to dress up…”

“Yeah, I did. I did say that,” he said, wetting his lips, his eyes transfixed on your chest. 

“And I didn’t really know what to dress up as since you weren’t doing a show this year and we didn’t really have a theme and I couldn’t think anything on my own and this was the only thing left at the store and –” 

He cut you off with a kiss, more passionate than those he’d first given you in the entryway. “It’s perfect, love. Better than I could have imagined.” 

He held you tight against him as he kissed you, his fingers tangled in your hair and yours in his. You tightened the grip of your legs around his waist as you returned his kisses with a passion you didn’t think you’d ever felt before. In the heat of the moment, you rolled your hips, dragging your center over his lap and feeling every inch of his growing erection through the flimsy fabric of your panties. You moaned at the sensation and did it again. He felt even harder than before and you shuddered involuntarily at the thought of him inside you later. 

“You like that baby,” he huffed against your mouth. “Does my angel like that?” he asked as he bucked his hips. 

“Yes. Yes, please,” you replied, practically begging for more. 

“Going to be good and let me take this off of you?” His hands were on your hips, stilling your movement. 

You closed your eyes and bit your lip, nodding, not trusting yourself to speak. Suddenly you felt Harry’s teeth against your shoulder as he used his them to pull your bra strap down, the movement scratching at your skin in the most delicious way, before Harry trailed kisses down your arm, soothing the sting away. He repeated the action on the other side before placing a kiss on the side of your breast and wrapping his tongue around your nipple. Hands still on your hips, he gently pushed you, encouraging you to rock back and forth on him once again. 

You were so sensitive that even the smallest action had a massive effect. The combination of his mouth and the rhythm of your hips moving in time together had you feeling the beginnings of an orgasm deep within you, a feeling that was only magnified as he moved across your chest to your other breast. 

“Love,” Harry said after a moment, pulling away from you. 

“Yes?”

“I-I-” He started again. “We need to do something otherwise I’m not going to last.” His cheeks were red, whether from passion or embarrassment, you weren’t sure, but you nuzzled against his neck. 

“That’s alright, baby. I’m all yours.”

“Yeah, you are,” Harry said, almost as if he didn’t believe it. “Wanna get up for me?” 

You climbed off of him with wobbly legs, nearly landing on your ass – and taking Harry with you – in the process. But Harry scooped you up in his arms, helping you get comfortable on the bed, as you all laughed off the moment of clumsiness. 

“Do you want to take this off?” you asked, gesturing to the cheap black wings that were shedding all over the white sheets. 

“No, I kind of like them,” Harry said. “It’s uh…kind of sexy,” he mumbled, against your neck. 

“Noted.” 

“May I?” He’d hooked his fingers around the waistband of your panties, waiting for your nod of consent, which you readily gave him. He slowly pulled them down your legs, tossing them somewhere behind him, before moving his lips down your body. 

It was almost a ritual at this point, the way he explored you as if you were uncharted territory each time he had you naked in front of him. You’d been told this wouldn’t last forever, that all couples eventually tired of each other, that sex became a routine thing, a means to an end. That may be the case, but you secretly hoped that you and Harry were the exception to this rule. 

He’d made his way down to your thighs at this point and you opened your legs wider, inviting him in. Your back arched when you felt his fingers inside you, testing the waters. 

“So wet for me already and I’ve barely done anything. Careful love, this will go to my head.” 

You made to kick him, but he dodged your attack and managed to hit that spot in the process, drawing a cry from you. 

“Was that good?” You could hear the teasing smirk in his voice. 

“You know it was.”

He crooked his fingers, earning another moan from you as you tried to pull him up to you. “Ready so soon?” he asked, as if he wasn’t already aware. He lined himself up with you and thrust forward with no preamble. 

His sheer size still took your breath away – quite literally – and you breathed heavily at the feeling of him, all of him, inside of you. 

“Easy, love. Slow,” he said, calming you as he gave you a moment to adjust, waiting until your breath had steadied before gently rocking forward.

You angled your hips up, meeting his pace and trying to drive him as deep inside of you as possible. You brought your legs higher around him, giving him more freedom to move and his pace accelerated. 

The sounds coming from your bedroom were, quite simply, ugly. Between the moans and groans and heavy breathing, the grunts that meant move over or shift this way that you all inherently understood, the sounds of sweaty bodies rubbing against each other. It was brutal, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Love, I’m going to come,” Harry said, words urgent against your ear. “I’m not going to be able to hold on.” 

“It’s OK baby,” you said, encouraging him. He was always so selfless, you wanted him, just once, to take a moment for himself. “Just let go.” 

His hips stuttered, once, twice, three times in quick succession and you felt the tell-tale warmth and wetness of his orgasm between your legs. 

“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he wheezed. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” 

You sighed softly, contentment radiating through you. “You don’t have to. Sometimes it’s nice to just…” 

“Yeah…” 

The two of you lay there like that for a while, ignoring the stickiness of the sweat, and for you, the itchiness of the costume pieces that were still on you. 

Finally, Harry rolled off of you, and you cuddled into his side. 

“That was a very nice treat,” he said, voice hoarse. “I think we both need more treats.” 

“I’ll second that. And I promise next year will be even better.” 

“Next year?” Harry said aghast. “I think you deserve one of your own right now.” 

***

talk to me! || master list

[fangirlingfromdownunder]

A Sweet Mishap - Chapter 11

Pairing - Jensen Ackles x Reader 

A/N: I just want to start by thanking everyone for all the love on this story so far. Here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.

A Sweet Mishap Masterlist | Main Masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

As has become a habit of recent, the first thing I do when I open my eyes – despite the headache pounding behind them – is check my phone. I smile at the sweet good night text that must have come through mere seconds after I’d fallen asleep and then text back.

Mornin’ Remind me to stay away from eggnog…Or at least not mix it with wine…

I sit up slowly and take a sip out of the water bottle that I’d somehow had the presence of mind to prepare in advance and reach into my bag for some pain killers. I take a couple of pills before laying back down. After a few minutes my phone buzzes.

Awe, Darlin’ That sounds like a lethal mix You ok?

Yeah, my head hurts

I bet You’re gonna hate what I have to say but... Water, pills, breakfast, exercise also helps

Check, Check, I don’t even want to think about food and not a chance

Fair enough Go back to sleep then I’ll be here when you wake up

I gotta get up Work later

Today?

People need their coffee…I’m closing

Please at least eat something first then Even if you don’t want to

I won’t be allowed to leave here without eating first So don’t worry

Good

This is the only thing I miss about London You know they get the day off after Christmas It’s called Boxing Day Though they mainly watch soccer But it’s a nationwide holiday

First you tell me you’re from Texas and now you’re saying you lived in London? Another long story, I’m guessing?

Yeah…I lived there for almost a year with my boyfriend after high school

Wow I thought my move to LA was ambitious and scary You actually went overseas

Yep…At the time I thought I was in love Anyway, you know the rest of that tragic story I really do have to get up now I’ll talk to you after work

Alright Darlin Hope your head feels better

I smile at his sweet message as I shut off my phone, get up, change into fresh jeans and a hoodie and pack all my things back into my bag. I leave the box from Jensen separate. Without all the extras from the cafe, I could easily manage my bag and the box, but I also know that Nick didn’t drink nearly as much as Stella or I, always wanting to be the responsible one and ready to look after her. So, I know he’ll insist on driving me home. With everything organised, I go to the bathroom to freshen up and then downstairs to indulge in whatever my stomach can handle.

In the kitchen, Nick takes one look at me and sighs. “You girls and your wine…”

“What about your eggnog?”

“I was deliberately light on the alcohol, if it wasn’t for the wine, you’d both be fine. How many times do I have to tell you both how much worse wine-hangover are?”

“Maybe a few hundred more. It’s fun at the time…”

“Yeah, and now you’re both a mess.” He hands me a plate with one of Stewie’s croissants heated up. “You’re gonna have to eat on the run. Stella has to go into the office, I’ll drop you off at the same time. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to make sure she’s getting ready.” 

I sit at the island bench and pick at the croissant while I wait for Nick and Stella to come back downstairs.

“Some manager you are…” I playfully tease Stella from the backseat as she uses the tiny mirror to fix up her make-up, attempting to make herself look more alive and less hungover.

She meets my eyes in the mirror, “Like you’re any better?”

I shrug, “At least my customers will be just as hungover as me.”

Nick cuts us both off as he parks in front of her office building, “You’re both as bad as each other. I really wish you would stop doing this.” He leans over to peck Stella’s cheek, “I love you, go kick some ass.”

“I love you too, both of you,” she says with a glance over the backseat at me before slipping out of the car. 

Nick waits until she disappears into the large, tinted glass doors before driving off. He sighs as he glances in the rearview mirror to meet my eyes briefly. “None of this funny business at the wedding, remember?” I nod. “You know she’s so close to another massive promotion, she’s in the middle of the pitch of her career. I get that you’re her best friend and that your life's a mess and you’re lonely but please don’t bring her down with you. The wedding is enough of a distraction. She wants this so bad, she won’t tell you because she loves you, but she can’t afford anymore distractions right now.”

My jaw drops. He’s never been this candid or harsh with me before. I’m lost for words. Shocked and hurt, all I can do is bite my cheek to hold back my emotions and nod. The rest of the drive to my apartment passes in uncomfortable, tense silence. The second the car stops I swing the door open and jump out. I quietly thank Nick for driving me and then slip into my apartment building. 

I dump my stuff in the corner of the room and go shower. Feeling sick, hurt, sad, and like a woeful disappointment I scrub every inch of my body as I stand under the scalding water. I wash my hair, shave my legs and thoroughly exfoliate in an attempt to wash away all my feelings and make myself feel at least a little better about myself. By the time I shut off the water and step out of the cubicle I’ve made a list of resolutions that I’m not going to wait until New Years to enact. 

Only contact Stella for wedding related matters

Be the best Maid-of-Honor ever

Get my life back on track - Stop chasing pipe dreams

Get a good-paying, stable 9-5 job

Be realistic about Jensen

I get dressed in the same jeans and a clean long sleeve shirt and then as the first step of my new resolutions, I tape up the box and write ‘return to sender’ on the top. I tie up my hair in a messy bun, put on comfy work shoes, grab my designated work backpack and the box, but as I check the time I realise I won’t make the post office before my shift so I leave it by the door and make a mental note to take it first thing in the morning.

My shift passes by in a blur. I hand out order after order with practiced speed and a forced smile. After flicking the sign to ‘closed’ I scrub every surface until it shines and then lock up. As I walk home I briefly check my phone, I see a text from Jensen but don’t let myself read it. I stuff my phone back in my pocket and quicken my pace to get out of the miserable, cold December air. For a second I;m transported back to my time in London.

I walked down a quiet lane back towards my shared apartment. The bleak weather matched my emotions. The light drizzle matching the tears still falling down my cheeks. I had been sitting alone in a park all day avoiding the place and person I had called home for so long. I only got up once I knew he’d be at work, likely serving fancy cocktails to the pale, model-like brunette he brought back to our apartment. I’d only been gone one night, for an acting class in Paris. But when I got home, excited to surprise him, knowing he’d still be sleeping from working until 2am, I found he wasn’t alone; there was another naked woman laying on my pillow.  A chorus of car horns startles me out of the unpleasant memory and I finally slip back into my building. I have another scalding shower to wash away the sweat and unpleasant smell of mixed foods and beverages clinging to my clothes, skin and hair. When I sit down to eat a bland frozen lasagne I flick through the channels. Supernatural is on again but I force myself to flick past it before Jensen’s face appears. Settling on an animal documentary I open my laptop and search for jobs as I eat. My phone buzzes on the coffee table but I silence it. I feel a little guilty for ignoring him since Jensen has been nothing but nice to me, but then Nick’s words ring back through my head, “I get that you’re her best friend and that your life is a mess and you’re lonely but please don’t bring her down with you.”. And I know he’s right, my life is a mess and I am lonely, but until I sort it out, I’ll just bring anyone around me down with me.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Taglist: @stoneyggirl2 @hobby27, @n-o-p-e-never, @deansimpalababy

[elisedonut]

Perciver

all the numbers

1. Which one is the better cook

Percy I know I've seen Oliver used pretty often but I like the idea of Percy helping Molly in the kitchen as a kid and so he's just always known more or less how to cook While Oliver is more focused on making food that's good for Quidditch vs like tasty food so can he cook? yes. will it be bland as hell? also yes

2. What their love letters look like

I think the war fucked them up when it comes to letters so even years later anything they write to each other is very to the point and at times even like coded? Like they still sign as From instead of love even years later

3. Which one outlives the other, and how they cope

dfshgfhsgf I feel like this could go either way. But if i had to pick I think Oliver would die first because if they are together Oliver would make sure Percy's taking care of himself but no one not even Percy could keep Oliver off the Quidditch pitch and that's just one accident away from dying I think regardless of how it went down that Percy would blame himself like crazy over it because he'll always find something that he thinks now that he could have done even when its not true

4.What they do on date night

What do you even do on a date night uh ok I think a normal date for them is staying home and doing their own things but just with company maybe maybe they visit Muggle london occasionally and go shopping or something or go out to eat Not the Movies though the dark space and loud noise mix freaks Percy out even though he tries to hide it

5. How many kids they’ll have

Typically for Any Percy ship when I think about kids I do like four? Molly and Lucy then one from the partners last partner In Oliver's case I typically call him Cypress and one that they either adopt or have together a couple years after getting together Who I typically call Leon regardless of pairing because in most situations he's a Gryffindor because I like giving Percy a full set of Hogwarts house kids and i think its funny

6. How they decorated their bedroom

Cluttered but not like super cluttered like it's not a Lovewater bedroom like two desks that always have something going on on top of them I think Oliver has a whiteboard and they have a rug that's soft enough to sit on for when they need to like spread work on the floor I also think none of the other rooms in the house are as cluttered and they spend more time in there then like the living room

7 Which one is the worse driver

Oliver Unpopular choice I know but every time he drives he just gets annoyed he's not flying and that makes him drive worse

8. What they argue about

Either Weasley Drama or one of them not taking care of themself

9. Which one swears more

Percy but if you asked anyone but Oliver they would say Oliver because Percy mostly swears at home or in the presence of friends

10. What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other

I think they listen to Quidditch games together I have no idea what was airing around the 2000s so my brains drawing a blank I like the idea of Percy watching cartoons because their simple to turn his brain off to

11. What their first impression was of each other

I like the idea that they meet later on the first day vs on the train because Bill and Charlie had Percy sit with them so by the time they meet Oliver already knows Charlie Weasley is the Quidditch captain so his first thought is just more about Charlie then Percy Percy thought he was loud

12. What they do for their anniversary

Dinner at home honestly maybe they just don't leave the house all day in an attempt to the other relax typically this fails

13. Which makes a bigger deal of birthdays

about their own? they make more of a deal about one another's Percy doesn't really think much of his own and Oliver loses sight of the date of his pretty much every year

14. What nicknames they call each other

Ollie + Perce it's basic but i love it every time

15. What they would change about each other

I think would both want the other to rest more but would be very >:c no if they heard the other say that

[i-just-want-to-be-a-bumblebee]

Here is Chapter One of A-Z Sullivan whumps.

Trigger warnings: house fire, burns, vomiting, description of blood and injury.

A is for Arson

“This is madness.” Goodfellow stated. He stood next to Inspector Sullivan as they surveyed another burning cottage. This marked the fourth in the last month of fires. 

“I’m certain this one won’t be an accident either. We need to catch whoever is setting these fires before someone is killed.” The dark haired man replied. He could feel a headache coming on and the sight of a priest in a black cassock made it worse. 

The fire brigade nearly had the house fire out. Spectators had come out of their homes to watch, nearly an hour ago. It was something that bothered Sullivan, these fires were started in the middle of the day. No one ever saw someone fleeing, there was never someone who didn’t belong at the scene watching. And there didn’t appear to be any obvious link between the four houses that had been set alight. 

They were lucky so far that no one had died in the fires. There had been one case of smoke inhalation and one of the men on the brigade had received a minor burn. They needed to catch this arsonist before it got any worse. 

“Did everyone make it safely out?” Father Brown asked from where he was suddenly beside the officers. 

“Yes, please stay out of our investigation Father. Unless you know who is doing this?”

“I am afraid I have yet to hear anything of interest. I am not trying to be in the way of your investigation, Inspector.” The priest stated mildly.

“Please do. We don’t need you becoming a target and this mad person deciding to light up the church.” Sullivan responded dryly. He turned and strode toward the fire Chief, where he was talking to a couple men who had just exited the smoldering shell of a house.

“Is there anything you can tell me, Chief?” 

“It was intentional. Just like the others.” The man replied. “Whoever is doing this isn’t a random child either. They know what they are doing.”

“Thank you, Chief. Would you mind stopping by my office once you’re finished?’

“Not at all Inspector. Give me a few hours and we can discuss this more.” Sullivan liked the fire chief, he was no nonsense, work came before anything, and he took pride in his work. In another life they may have even been friends. In another life they may have been more. 

Sullivan made his way back towards Goodfellow and the Bain of his existence. 

“Dawson is going to come by once this is under control. I would like to look at the other fires and see if there is a connection between the homeowners. This can’t be purely random blazes.” He turned to the priest who made no attempt to remove himself from a likely official conversation. “Father, do you know of any links between the home owners? Any at all?”

“None that I can think of off the top of my head inspector, but I will ponder it a bit more and ask around. I am sure you’re right. These seem too intentional to be random targets.”

“Goodfellow, could you go ask around as well? People are more likely to talk to you than me.” The inspector hated to admit it, but he knew he came off as brash and insensitive to much of Kembleford. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Thank you for coming, Chief Dawson. I trust you were able to get the Thompson home put out?” He waved the other man in, offering him a seat and a cup of tea. 

“Yes. Although, there’s not much left of the place, sadly enough. Ben Thompson was telling me that they’re considering moving north, towards her parents.”

“We’ll be sad to see him leave the cricket team for sure.” Sullivan added, attempting to keep the small talk smooth. 

Dawson nodded, Ben was a good player, one that the team would surely miss. He looked up, not making eye contact with the younger man but able to see how his face remained impassive. He knew there were many in Kembleford that wanted nothing more than for the inspector to leave town and head back to London, the inspector included. But, he had always found the man professional, if a little stiff. Perhaps if he stuck around they may even become friendly. Perhaps if he stuck around they could become more than that.

“What can you tell me about these fires, Chief?” Dawson was torn from his musing at the question. 

“I can tell you that they're all the same person, and it's not a kid.”

“Just one person?” Dawson nodded, taking a sip of his tea, pleased that Sullivan got his preference right. 

“Seems likely. It’s all doable for one person, and doesn't appear to be a second source of ignition.” Sullivan saw the man hesitate. 

“What else did you notice, Chief?” 

“I think… I think it may be one of my men.” Sullivan eyebrow lifted in surprise. 

“Indeed? What led you to that conclusion?” Dawson set his cup down and leaned forward, trying and failing to catch Sullivan's eye. 

“I told you before that it's someone who knows what they're doing. But beyond that, it’s someone that has an understanding of how to put fires out as well. Middle of the day, so it’s someone local. No one is ever home, so they’re familiar with the house's routine. And, it’s never happened when I didn’t have a full house of men ready to go, so they know my station's routine as well.” He sagged back into his chair, saddened at the thought of one of his own causing this kind of harm. 

It was Sullivan's turn to set his cup down, elbows leaning on his desk. 

“I need a list of names of your men, Dawson. And I need you to tell me if any of them have been acting odd lately.”

Dawson nodded, reclaiming his tea cup. He studied the other man for a brief moment. Hard, determined eyes, clenched jaw and pinched eyebrows should not have made him attractive but Dawson found himself appreciating the look. Even with as much as he wanted to make his way back to London, Sullivan put his all into keeping this community safe. Dawson appreciated that at the very least. 

“I can’t think of anyone acting obviously suspicious. If I had to guess I’d say Nelson, McLeary, or Davis. They’re seasoned but still young, not married, dedicated.” He hesitated but continued. “They’ve been good men. They all get along with the rest in the house. But those three, I would say, run a little hotter than the others.” He shrugged, looking helpless at the thought of pointing fingers at someone under his command. 

“I would like to see your schedule for the days of the fires, and their personnel files as well. Please.” The please was tacked on. He didn’t want to appear rude. Training that had been beaten into him as a child kicking in. 

Dawson nodded and drank the last of his tea. “I’ll get that for you. I’ll stop back by tonight with it.” He stood and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. He still smelled faintly of smoke and wanted nothing more than a shower and a good night's rest. Sullivan could see the exhaustion hanging off the other man. 

“It’s late. I have a few other things I can work on. Bring it in tomorrow.” Dawson smiled in relief. 

See he wasn’t totally oblivious, Sullivan thought of himself. Dawson nodded and headed out the door, closing the door behind him with a soft click. 

Sullivan spent the rest of his evening reviewing the other fires, the owners all similar ages, all married couples, not all had children. The husband's service records varied, nothing linking them there. The wives had similar hobbies, had all attended the same secondary school but weren’t close now. Two of the families had pets, one vacationed in the north, another didn’t make enough to take vacations. Different workplaces, different social classes, different social circles. Surely there was something that connected them all.

By half seven in the morning Sullivan was once more standing at his desk. He looked over his notes from the night before with fresh eyes, enjoying his tea. A quick knock on his door had him turning away from his work.

“Come in.” Dawson’s head peaked through the crack, Sullivan found him amusing.

“Wanted to drop this before I head in for the day.” He handed Sullivan the three files. He felt… guilty? No that wasn’t it. Apprehensive? That may have been closer to the truth. He felt apprehensive about giving the files to the Inspector, he had a bad feeling about this case. 

“Thank you.” Sullivan set the files on his desk. “Chief?” Dawson straightened up, looking attentive. “You’ve been here your whole life, minus your years in service. Do you know of any connection between the victims? I’ve been looking but I am not finding much to go on, besides that the wives all attended the same secondary school.” Dawson nodded, thoughtful.

“They all went to the same school, same year possibly? They graduated…what, six years ago? Maybe go around and ask the teachers? It’s a small school, they may remember something that I never knew about.” Sullivan nodded, he would send Goodfellow. The headmaster at the school hated Sullivan for reasons unknown. 

“Thank you, Chief. I won’t take up any more of your morning.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Goodfellow came back later that morning with news.

“That was a good tip sir. Looks like all three girls were part of some club back in school. The teacher that I spoke to couldn’t remember what, but does remember that there were a few other members, all young ladies but the others moved away-”

“So it’s likely someone they went to school with, which narrows it down by age to… Johnathan Davis.” 

“Sir, one more thing. There’s one woman left from the group in town, Cynthia Pierson.”

Sullivan and Goodfellow raced from the precinct to the Pierson residence. 

“We will warn them first, then head to the Fire Station to pick up Davis. Hopefully we can keep this quiet.” As they were driving up the road they began to see smoke. Sullivan punched the accelerator and came to a skidding stop outside the cottage gate, leaving room for fire rescue vehicles. Both men jumped from the car, spotting a blonde man watching as flames engulfed the small cottage. 

Sullivan ran towards the cottage as flames burst from the windows. Goodfellow had grabbed their suspect, whom they caught with the lighter in hand, too entranced by the flames to hear them coming. He scanned the building and surrounding areas, looking for any injured. Just as he was about to relax his shoulders he heard a small cry.

“Help… please!” A child, a small boy by the sounds of it. Sullivan raced towards the engulfed cottage, ignoring Goodfellow’s cry of alarm behind him.

“Sir?! What are you doing?!”

“There’s a boy inside! I can hear him!” He shouted over his shoulder and he kicked in the front door and dove into the inferno. 

Smoke overtook his senses immediately. He covered his mouth and nose with his elbow, but it didn’t help. His eyes began to water as he scanned frantically in the blaze for the child calling for help. Finally after what felt like eons he spotted a small shoe peeking out from by the stairs. He sprinted towards the child, falling to his knees, he scooped the boy into his arms, the child frighteningly limp in his hold. He attempted to stand when a deafening crack overtook the house and a beam from the ceiling collapsed onto him.

Goodfellow could hear the house crumbling down. He could hear the sirens from the fire brigade coming closer, he could almost make out the sound of the onlookers. But he didn't hear his Inspector. He had already handcuffed their suspect to the car and he tried to keep people away from the house. Minutes ticked by and he was certain that Sullivan and the boy had already perished. 

The fire brigade flew into the drive with a spray of gravel.

“Inspector Sullivan is inside! He said he heard a child!” Two of the men in full turnout gear and masks raced past him and entered the house without hesitating. The gathered crowd was silent as they waited with baited breath to see if anyone would come out of the blaze. 

“God will protect.” If he wasn’t already so shell shocked Goodfellow figured he would have jumped at the sudden appearance of Father Brown. “They will find him and the child. I have faith in that.” The giant of a policeman nodded his head, his eyes never leaving the flames. 

The two men who had dashed into the blaze were able to quickly find the downed Inspector and his charge. He was stuck and writhing under the beam. His suit jacket ablaze. They worked quickly, tearing the flaming fabric from his back. With haste that did not allow for gentleness they pushed the beam off the man and child, amazed when Sullivan managed to stand and stagger his way towards the door, the boy clutched tight to his chest. 

Cheers of elation broke out when he breached the door, quickly turning to gasps of horror as he stumbled to his knees and fell onto his side. Firemen, medics, police and priest darted towards the downed man, moving him out of the way of the firemen who were attempting to put out the house fire. 

Sullivan’s breath was a rasping, hacking cough. His face coated in soot, dirty tear tracks down each cheek. Father Brown dropped to his knees at the inspector's head and began to pray. The medics were barely able to pull the small boy from Sullivan’s tight grasp. They passed the unconscious child to another pair of medics and dove back for their patient. His left sleeve and onto his shoulder and back were a charred mess of fabric and muscle. There wasn’t much they could do at the scene. They loaded him into the transport with as much gentleness and haste as they could manage. 

“Father, you may want to ride along!” 

The scene had fallen silent as those gathered watched the transports peel out of the drive with the inspector and his rescued child. Father Brown held onto his right hand, muttering prayers under his breath. Prayers of gratitude for the man being able to rescue the boy, who must have been little James Pierson, six-years old, and waiting for someone to come home. He prayed that the inspector wasn’t in any pain, as he was unconscious since they had left the scene. He prayed that it would be a quick recovery, or if it wasn't meant for the man to survive, that he would be taken swiftly. 

The good Father felt his prayers dry in his throat as the inspector began to shake, gaining just enough consciousness to be aware of the agony he was in. The Inspectors mouth opened, as if to scream, but only a choked out gasp escaped. 

“Inspector? I need you to take a deep breath. You’re all right. We are heading to the hospital.” The medic stated, close to the inspector's head. He attempted to take a deep breath but it caused his lungs to rattle and he began to choke on soot that had gathered in his throat and lungs. The medic jumped to turn him on his side, just as he began to vomit. Strings of ash filled bile ran down his face and gathered in a puddle on the floor of the van.

“It’s alright, Inspector. We’re nearly there.” Father Brown could see the agony the other man was in. He shook so fiercely that he feared the younger man was having a seizure. It was merely minutes later that the vehicle jerked to a stop and the doors were thrown open. Hands appeared and pulled the gurney from the bus, rushing the still shaking man away. 

Father Brown saw another ambulance pull up, slower in its approach and additional personnel pull little James from the back. He was unconscious but from what could be seen he didn’t appear to be burnt. Father Brown offered a prayer of praise and thankfulness that at least that mercy had been granted. 

It was over an hour before Goodfellow joined him in the waiting room. 

The duo sat in silence for a short time before Father Brown had to ask. “Did you discover why Mr. Davis was setting those houses on fire?” Goodfellow nodded sadly. 

“It was over childish cruelty. Apparently the girls were part of a club. One that had some influence over the dating lives of its members. I don't understand it myself but apparently they were cruel to Davis, and he decided that waiting nearly seven years and lighting up their houses was a suitable revenge. He said he didn’t know Jamie was home or he would have waited.” Goodfellow looked tired and baffled. How another person could do something this extreme just didn’t make sense to him. Father Brown shook his head sadly. A lost and troubled soul.

It was nearly two hours before the door opened and a doctor stepped out. Dr. Aoki was a man of small stature, delicate features that made him appear years younger than he was. He and his family had come to Kembleford after the war, looking to escape the poverty of Japan. They had settled in well, after the initial outbursts at least. The village could hardly turn away a trained doctor such as Aoki. Currently he looked drawn and tired. 

“Are you here for the Inspector?” Dr. Tatsuki Aoki asked. 

“Yes. How is he?” Both Goodfellow and Father Brown rose to their feet as soon as he walked in. 

“He is… settled. He suffers from second and third degree burns along his left arm and shoulder. If we can keep the infection out he will not lose the arm.”

“You may have to amputate?!” Goodfellow gasped out, his knees going weak. Dr. Aoki held up a calming hand. 

“We hope it does not come to that. I have him sedated currently. He is not breathing well. Hopefully clean air and water help to clear his airways of soot. He also appears to have broken two ribs. He is going to be my guest here for several nights. Likely a couple weeks.”

“He’s going to hate that.” Goodfellow felt the need to add. 

“Yes, I anticipate that. You are welcome to come sit with him. Please don’t touch him if you can avoid it. We are trying to keep him as free of contamination as we can.” The unlikely looking duo followed after his brisk steps towards the long term use rooms. 

Sullivan was stripped to the waist. He had been bathed and scrubbed clean before dressings had been applied; they covered him from finger tip to chest. He was reclined partially upright and turned so they could see the expansive bandage around his back and shoulder. From the doorway they could hear the rattle in his lungs as he breathed in and out. 

“Is there nothing we can do to help? His breathing sounds painful.” Father Brown whispered in deference to the injured man. 

“We are doing what we can. I would have liked to attempt clearing techniques with him but it isn’t possible with the burns and broken ribs. If it worsens then we will suction out his throat and lungs as needed. Again, hopefully it clears up on its own. For now, keep him company. He is heavily sedated but he may still hear you speaking. Please alert a nurse if you need anything.” 

Brown and Goodfellow took another step into the room and claimed the only two seats available. They sat in silence for only a moment before Father Brown spoke. 

“Thank you Inspector for saving James. His parents will be so grateful once they hear. I know you do not believe it but I will continue to pray until you are well enough to tell me to stop.”

“I’m here sir. You did really well. Didn’t even hesitate to rush in and save that boy. You’re a hero. Now you can rest and heal. We’ll be here when you’re ready to wake up.” It could have been their imagination but it seemed to them that Sullivan breathed just a little easier. 

[thiefbird]

prompt: stephen, jack, and beethoven? (brought to you by: i NEED them to play beethoven even though POB didn't. why not POB? is it just style? is stephen bitter about the whole eroica thing?)

finally getting around to my prompts! This one suited my needs perfectly for an interlude in my transmasc Stephen Maturin series, So Long Lives This, so I cheated a lil maybe <3

True concord of well-tuned souls [on ao3]

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Why lovest thou that which thou receives not gladly, Or else receives with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married, do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, Resembling sire and child and happy mother Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee: ‘thou single wilt prove none.

Life at Ashgrove Cottage had finally settled into a routine, and in the absence of the hectic pace of the early days of marriage, Jack began to notice an odd sort of loneliness of an evening. He was happy - more than happy - and content all day, and slept warm and settled beside his dearest Sophie at night, but in those hours between the set of the sun and bed, he missed Stephen with a vehemence that surprised him.

They had written, of course - or more accurately, Jack had written, Stephen being rather unreliable a correspondent; Jack had received precisely two responses to his weekly letters, one a rather short and scattered response to several letters at once, and the other an apparently wholly disconnected treatise on the India elephant. Jack did not take this to heart, of course; that Stephen had written at all was a rarity. But his long-established habit of conjuring Stephen's presence in his mind, while sufficient for periods of a week or two, was proving tedious and lifeless now after three months apart.

And so he had kissed Sophie goodbye before dawn that morning before walking into town to catch the post up to London, on the excuse of having business at the Admiralty. Sophie had protested lightly the night before, he remembered with a smile as he settled himself more comfortably into the corner of the cramped carriage, violin case on his knee; she had expected him to stay ashore longer, she said, would she not get to keep her husband even six months before he was pining for the sea? He had kissed her cheek, pressed her hand, and assured her he was not chasing after a ship just yet, merely paying his due respects, as was right.

Jack's traveling companions were a rather random assortment: a well dressed and therefore presumably miserly merchantman, in the corner furthest from Jack, reading a newspaper; a fat and happy couple gossiping; a pair of rather silly young girls and their matronly, discontented chaperone, giggling and glancing at Jack in his fine gold-laced uniform. He felt rather a great deal older than them now, being made post and married - the very model of a great man - and he ignored their coy looks with a sense of kindly complacency. 

The coach arrived in London as the sun was beginning to touch the horizon, and Jack sprung eagerly from the coach. He quickly engaged a pair of boys to bring his luggage to the Liberties, and with his violin safely over his shoulder, he walked the well-remembered route to a favoured music store. He had taken in a recital in Portsmouth with Sophie a few weeks ago, a piece by Beethoven on German flute and pianoforte, and he had thought immediately to make an attempt upon it with Stephen; he meant to purchase the score as well as staved paper for their attempts at arrangement.

~~~

Jack arrived at the Grapes in good humour, full of an eager anticipation of seeing Stephen - his very dear Stephen - for the first time in many months; his dunnage had arrived much before he, and so Mrs Broad was well warned of his imposition upon herself and "the gentleman doctor". 

"Oh, Captain, it has been an age since we have seen you!" that lady cried as he strode through the door of the inn, and then, more quietly, with a tone of confidentiality: "Your bags are already up, though Doctor Maturin is not in yet, sir - an engagement with the Society, I believe - but I am certain he shall be glad to see you; he has not been entirely in spirits, I am afraid."

This, of all things, was surprising in the extreme to Jack. In the past, a poorly Stephen had been marked by a rather markedly dutiful correspondence, whereas Stephen in a better mood or health was remiss and forgetful of his absent friends, and he had heard so little from his particular friend as to be convinced that whatever sort of blue devils he had been most understandably beset with after Ms Villiers' cold and heartless treatment of him - Jack's face formed a momentary, involuntary grimace at the remembrance of her callous jilting by letter - had wholly passed by in the months apart. 

"He has said nothing to me; I am sure it is nothing," he reassured Mrs Broad; she had always been prone to fussing over Stephen, he knew, and moreso since the incident in Mahón that nearly permanently crippled his hands. It would all be just her overly solicitous concern for Stephen, he could be certain. "When is he due in?"

"Not until late - he ordered no dinner, no supper, and he will always ask me for one or the other if he will not be gone til all hours of the morning." This was accompanied by a terse look, and in this Jack Aubrey and Stephen's landlady were wholly in agreement: the doctor did not eat nearly well enough were he not carefully watched.

"Well then, dear lady, whatever you might have in the way of a cold collation will suit us perfectly, no need for any fuss. And perhaps a pot of coffee against the falling damps."

With a tray laden with coffee and cream - still a luxury even after so long ashore - and the promise of bread and meat and cheese sent up shortly, then, Jack took Mrs Broad's spare key and ascended the stairs to Stephen's apartments.

They were comfortably appointed rooms, to be sure, if a little worn, and kept tolerably clean by shore standards by Mrs Broad and her rotating selection of nieces and foundlings, despite Stephen's terrible tendency towards slovenly sluttishness. Still, with little to engage his mind once he had started a fire in the hearth and tuned his fiddle, he set himself to the familiar and comfortable task of tidying after Stephen: dusting the various jars, skins, and skulls littering the sitting room and collecting the neckcloths and stockings strewn between the chairs and tables. 

When the small parlour was as well as he could make it in an evening - it could use a fresh coat of paint, he noted, and the fixings could use a buffing with a handful of Killick's brick dust, but those would have to wait - he risked a look into the bedchambers, a blush newly on his face; he had slept in this room times beyond count - in the bed, even - but never had he been admitted to Stephen's own bed, as opposed to a borrowed one, since the change in their relations. 

This room, too, was not as bad as it might have been without Mrs Broad's delicate attentions, and he busied himself with folding Stephen's linens and tucking the least egregious of the lot back into the press; the ones with stiff and rusted stains on the cuffs he placed into a basket for laundering with a shudder. The bed linens he smoothed and tucked away before retreating back to the living room, adjusting himself in his trousers in a shamefaced manner. He was a married man, now, and ought to have greater control of himself, by rights. Except-

It was not Sophie's fault, sweet girl, that she had been brought up to fear the marriage-act. Jack blamed Mrs Williams, her mother, for that: there was a wincing, disagreeable prudishness to her, almost childlike despite her careful conniving of all financial matters in arranging the marriage contract. Jack did not blame her for her distress, not at all - but it had still been a rum thing to have a girl, his own new little wife, crying in his arms if he did more than kiss her a little.

Things were better since those first weeks - she did not cry now even when they were in bed together - but he felt properly strange still; he did not want her scared. So he had done his best to be gentle and sweet with her, and take care of himself as needed - it was nothing he was not accustomed to at sea. Still, the idea of surprising Stephen in London had been made all the sweeter by not just the promise of music and companionship, but also of renewing their affections.

It was not quite right, Jack knew, to be so discontent so soon after marriage - not quite the done thing to leave his wife to sneak away to his lover in London. But Sophie had all but pushed him out the door with a basket she'd made up for Stephen - new-knit stockings in wool and silk, lampreys and jars of jam, and a pair of mittens against the still-chilly early April damps - and he had happily taken the excuse as justification for his ardent wish to be in Stephen's company and in Stephen's bed.

Shaking himself from his thoughts as he knelt to encourage the fire higher - Stephen still took cold all too easily - Jack heard Stephen's distinctive tread on the stairs, the result of the disreputable lead-soled half-boots he insisted on wearing if not bullied into more Christian footwear, and hastily rose, dusting off the knees of his breeches.

"Should not have thought it were so- Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

"There you are, Stephen!" Jack felt his cheeks stretching in a broad smile at the look of shock on Stephen's usually inscrutable face. "Come now, be a good fellow; sit by the fire and have some coffee. Mrs Broad will bring us our supper soon, now you are home."

"And what, pray, are you doing skulking about my private apartment, Jack Aubrey?" Stephen demanded as Jack took him by the elbow and steered him into a chair. "Have you no respect for the laws of society? Have never you learned to write in advance of a visit? I might have been in Ireland, for all love, or Spain, and then where should you have been?"

Despite the sharp words, Stephen's tone was warm and fond, and Jack's smile softened into tenderness as he poured their coffee. "There's always Blacks, you know, if your Mrs Broad could not be convinced to let me in; never you fret. Ain't it a surprise, though? Ain't you pleased to see me, Stephen?" 

This last part was accompanied by his hand landing on Stephen's knee in what could have almost been a brotherly gesture, had Jack restrained himself from stroking the inseam of Stephen's breeches with his thumb. Stephen's eyes went nearly wider than when he had noticed Jack in his sitting room at the gentle touch, and Jack was obliged to move his hand away and steady the mug in Stephen's grip to avoid the coffee being wasted on the rug.

"I am glad, sure; I did not think you should drag yourself from your love in a cottage another three months yet. A pleasant surprise, so." And yet Stephen's hand trembled so in Jack's, till despite Jack's efforts coffee sloshed hot across their fingers and Jack stole the mug from his grasp.

"Did I frighten you so much, Stephen? You are trembling like that dreadful mop of a sloth did in the cold. Are you cold, soul, shall I warm you proper?" he added with a playful leer that did not quite have its intended effect; Stephen froze for a long moment before narrowing his eyes into a haughty glare and stealing his hand away.

"Do not poke fun, Jack. I am perfectly warm, besides; in my line of work, an uninvited guest in one's private rooms is rarely a safe happenstance."

'You are laid by the lee, Jack, do be careful; he has more pride than Lucifer,' Jack said privately as he set Stephen's coffee on the table and picked up his own. Truly, Stephen seemed unsettled as he ran his fingers over a rend in his cuff - Jack, long accustomed to darning Stephen's linens from their poorer days immediately prior to and after the Peace, itched to pick up needle and thread and set it to rights. "You will accept my apologies, Stephen, will you not? I did not mean to scare-"

"You will hold your tongue, Jack Aubrey, I insist you hold your tongue! I am not some ninnyheaded tit, to be frightened by an old friend in my rooms - no, no. I am well, Jack, there is no need to fuss." 

Certainly the strength of Stephen's glare was in no way affected by whatever was the cause of the trembling of his limbs, and Jack resolved to change to subject. He had never known forcing a topic to work on Stephen, and had learned years before that Stephen would more likely come around if left alone.

"Then, when we have had our coffee, I thought we might play a tune," he said as he leaned back into the worn and familiar armchair and sipped his coffee, now perfectly warm instead of the scalding temperature it had been when Stephen had spilt it over their hands. His free hand waved idly towards the desk where he had left the fresh manuscript and his fiddle atop a box that had, upon investigation, revealed some truly distasteful viscera - his fault for looking in; he had known Stephen intimately, had lived on top of him, for six years now. "What do you say, Stephen? I heard this lovely tune in Portsmouth last month at the recital, for the German flute and piano, and thought I might attempt an arrangement. Shall we give it a run?"

Jack felt himself relax in tandem with Stephen, the strange and unpleasant tension between them dissolving like sugar. "I should like that of all things, Jack." Stephen's habitual glower cleared, and he rose to ponder the score.

Stephen, considered objectively, was not a particularly excellent specimen of humanity in aesthetic terms - scrawny as he was, and with his tendency towards an unhealthy yellow pallor; still, Jack enjoyed looking at him the way he enjoyed looking at Sophie. There was something not quite beautiful or handsome, but certainly compelling about his form, and after such a long period of separation - the longest since their affair began, and the longest but one in their entire friendship - it felt like a homecoming to be able to rest his eyes on the familiar sight of Stephen cradling Jack's fiddle as he leaned over a desk.

"Really, my dear?" Stephen said, a note of not unkind derision on his tongue as he flipped through the pages. "I should have thought you, of all people, might disdain Beethoven."

Jack had never considered himself a sodomite or paederast, had never been drawn to the coltish, beautiful midshipmen or young lieutenants the way some officers were, nor to the powerfully built hands he kept company with when turned before the mast. 

But Stephen was unquestionably no sort of woman, in looks or mannerisms, and the fact of his sex seldom occured to Jack even on the previous occasions they had been in bed together, let alone outside of it. Certainly his knowledge of the fact of it had precipitated his awareness to his love - his romantic love, for he had believed himself to love Stephen as a friend since nearly the day after their meeting in Mahón - but it was in no way the cause of it; it had merely come up upon him so slow and subtle that he had been wholly immersed for months or years before coming to. No, he loved Stephen as he was, as a man. 

"Beethoven ain't a Papist, is he? No, no, ignore me; you should not seem so put out by his appearing on your desk if it were that, soul."

He was still not entirely certain what it was so intriguing to that sort of fellow: some liked boys so pretty they scarcely counted, mincing mollies with rogue on their cheeks or the half-grown and soft second sons foisted on the Navy to have them out of the family's hair; Jack didn't see the point, unless one were so hard up he felt like fooling himself he had a girl under him, as opposed to a true desire for other men. His own hand had done service well enough when he had been too young or too poor for doxies - or too far from shore - and he had never felt the need to risk his neck for an awkward, fumbling pull from another's.

He could not name a particular thing about Stephen he liked; rather, it was the whole of him that had Jack leering at his turned back. Some unnameable, immutable element that made his chest feel light and his breath speed in his chest as he was reminded of its existence after their long separation.

Stephen turned to look at him, then, the expression of consternation on his face fading into that earlier unnamed look as he caught some note of Jack's thoughts written on his face. "I- No, no, that is not it, though he is Catholic at least in name, I believe. No, he is a Jacobin, joy, and a supporter of Buonaparte - or perhaps a supporter no longer, though he certainly admired the scoundrel at one point or another, sure." There was a strange pinkness in Stephen's cheeks now, and he spoke somewhat at random, snapping his mouth shut and returning his gaze to the music to hum a line.

"What things you tell me, Stephen. A Jacobin? And yet it is lovely, ain't it? I should never have guessed a Jacobin might write so well." Jack sat up in his chair and reached an arm out to Stephen. "Shall we make a first go of it, before your Mrs Broad brings us our well-earned supper?"

Stephen absently lifted the fiddle from its case and passed first it and then its bow to Jack, still intent on the melodic line of the piano that he sang sotto voce. "By all means, my dear, nothing should give me- ahem, I should like nothing more in life."

The wind shook from his sails by Stephen's rephrase, Jack began tuning, wincing at the sour note. "I tuned this A last night, you know. I ought get a fiddle that can hold a pitch from one noon to the next now I'm ashore a time, don't you think, Stephen?"

"I have told you so once or twice, so. A good violin should set you up nicely, Jack. You play well enough, sure, it is that thing's tone that holds you back, my dear; you might play rings around me if you had an instrument to suit."

"We might look for one in the shops tomorrow, then; I trust you immensely on tone, I should not like to purchase without you hear it." Jack pushed the pin back in as far as he might, but held little hope it would stay even till the end of the piece. Laying the fiddle across his knees, he ran a finger down the hair of his bow. "Pass me the rosin, dear Stephen; I think I must have left mine in Hampshire. I seem to remember setting it on the mantle in my little office."

"Do you take me for a fool, Aubrey?" Stephen asked, the acerbity of his voice muted by the familiar gentle curl at the corner of his lips as he tried to hide a smile. "No, you shall give me your bow and I shall apply for you, or else I shall never see my rosin again; it shall disappear into your pocket as countless other have gone before it!"

"Do not accuse me of theft, Stephen; I am too tired to be shot at tonight." Jack relinquished his bow, resisting the lure of a bawdy joke half-formed in his head at the sight of Stephen industriously stroking the nub of rosin down the horsehair. Stephen's colour was still high, and he could not quite mask the fact his hands still trembled; he did not want to truly upset Stephen, and he had been so discomfited by his teasing offer of warmth. "Let us make an inroads, then, soul."

[talentforlying]

thinking about john's multitude of short-lived, often quickly-abandoned apartments for some reason, so a couple details:

although you might expect to find a very wizard-y interior to any place he's currently living at — you know, grimoires, skulls, dust, clutter, etc. — his flats actually tend to be fairly spartan in terms of decor; they've even been accused of looking modern, here and there. he just moves too frequently to really settle in & accrue Things, and has so often had to simply up & leave everything he currently owned behind (with very little chance of getting any of it back) that he no longer attaches much meaning to household objects.

besides the consistent presence of at least one bookshelf with at least 12 books on it, and a sad sprig of garden sage that miraculously hasn't died yet, the one exception to his lack of personal touch is his extensive collection of records + tapes, all of which he has repeatedly & methodically tracked down and bought / bid / traded / stolen / threatened for / blackmailed for / simply taken back whenever an enterprising landlord or new tenant left him the opportunity to do so. his record player itself has never needed to be taken back, since it has always mysteriously vanished from whatever flat he's leaving and mysteriously appeared wherever he's staying; it's convenient like that. his 10th anniversary walkman, however, frequently goes missing, only to turn up again later in a place he KNOWS he checked when he's least expecting it.

lack of home decor isn't to say he doesn't own much, mind: the bulk of his personal possessions — assorted occult paraphernalia, blackmail documentation, miscellaneous crap from his mucous membrane days, and anything he is able to take with him from past flats — are usually stored off-site, in a secure location that can't easily be tied back to him. this guy's been accused of being a satanic killer on multiple occasions, he knows better than to keep all the real shit out where anyone can just swan in and see it.

currently, this storage location (which i lovingly call occult shit central) is an abandoned inner london storefront + adjoining flat that was formerly his old friend ray monde's shop and home, called brick-a-brac antiques. it's decidedly cozier than the last place, (in that there are chairs, plural,) and has fewer bear traps laid out in anticipation of unlucky thieves; in fact, if a person were to visit without already knowing where constantine actually lives, it'd be easy to mistake it as his expectedly-wizardy flat. it's not an ideal location for an occult shit central, too close to the heart of the city and too close to people to avoid drumming up suspicion should constantine attempt any sort of ritual inside, but until chas finally quits ducking the paperwork and signs over his storage lot (which he may or may not be dragging his feet on out of pure resentment for having to do it at all) ray's place is the best option there is.

constantine's previous (and future) storage location was a lock-up in streatham that chas had been letting him use (see: all but surrendered to him entirely) since he got out of ravenscar, but after constantine's sister died, john decided he was done with magic and, in a spontaneous fit of rage, burnt the place down with everything but a few necessities still inside. he regretted this later, when he inevitably returned to the occult scene after just over a year away, and spent a lot of time calling in favors / hypnotizing arson inspectors to try and put together an inventory of everything he'd lost.

in the nearly 20 years since the fire, he's managed to replace or find substitutes for about 2/3 of what he had (occult-wise), and gather enough fresh dirt / do enough favors / orchestrate enough compromising situations to accumulate a little over 1/4 of the political / interpersonal power he once maintained. ( the lack of success in the latter being, in part, because people now in power aren't as familiar with his name & reputation as they once were; in part because people just don't believe in magic as much as they used to, or were otherwise bought by hell / heaven / other parties a LONG time ago; and in part because he's come to absolutely fucking despise most politicians / people in power more than he is willing to work with them, or more than he is able to plausibly believe they won't try to drop him at the first opportunity. )

you would be hard-pressed to find a landlady/landlord that speaks kindly of this man. if he wasn't kicked out for suspicious smells / disturbing noises / sudden infestations / suspected satanic activity, then it's likely that he abruptly up and disappeared in the middle of the night, with no warning and no rent. (on a few occasions, this vanishing act also coincided conspicuously with a gruesome death on the premises, sometimes of the landlady/landlord themselves, although no one's ever been able to prove anything.) frankly it's . . . magic, that people still rent to him.

due to these aforementioned bad ends, he's incredibly lucky if he gets enough time or leeway to take any sort of furniture with him from one place to the next. however, there is one incredibly comfy, wing-backed, sapphire-blue armchair that's miraculously managed to survive every move in the last ten or so years without being reported stolen — even though it has survived every move because it has, in fact, been stolen in the dead of night nearly every single time, by john and at least one of his buddies.

[vickyvicarious]

I decided to see if I could figure out how often Dracula drinks from Lucy. We don't get direct confirmation of every single instance, but by looking at how Lucy's health trends over time I think I can speculate fairly accurately.

I'm putting the details under a cut just so I can keep updating this post with any future instances. There's three tallies: confirmed (typically by sight of Dracula in some form or a severe dive in health), likely (based on her health), and total added together. I'm not sure yet how many speculative bites there will even be, but I figured a system for counting them wouldn't hurt. All are running along with the updates, so no spoilers here.

Confirmed bites: 11

Likely bites: 2

Total bites: 13

Foiled attempts: 10

Evidence (dates based on entry dates talking of her condition; sometimes the actual date would have been the night before) below. I'm also counting foiled attempts at bites now, which are when something/someone prevents Dracula from getting to her.

11 August - Mina witnesses Dracula biting Lucy for the first time in the graveyard. She had trouble breathing, but seemed better the next day.

12-13 August - On the 12th Mina notices Lucy trying to sleepwalk out of the room again, but she is successfully kept in the room. On the 13th Mina sees a bat at the window but the window stays shut. It seems likely that Dracula was trying to call her to him, and then went to find her himself the next night when that didn't work. I'm counting this as two attempts for that reason.

14 August - Mina sees Lucy asleep on the windowsill with a "good-sized bird" next to her.

17 August - Mina found Lucy leaning out of the window, where she was weak and having difficulty breathing. The marks on her neck were worse than before. The next day, Dracula leaves Whitby and Lucy is doing better.

24 August - Lucy arrives in London and starts dreaming/feeling ill again. She says she feels weak and worn out.

25 August - Lucy's bad dreams continue, and her symptoms get worse. She complains of throat pain, paleness, and difficulty breathing.

26 August-2 September - Arthur says on the 31st that Lucy is getting worse every day, and she isn't well when Seward visits her on the 2nd. Since usually she starts to recover if time goes by without a bite, I'd guess she has been bitten during this time. Based on the other bites often being a couple days apart/her health getting much worse when she's bitten more often, I'm guessing at two more bites during these eight days. Could also be three, or possible even more, but I'm keeping the speculative numbers conservative.

6 September - After her still seeming unwell on the 2nd, she has several days of improving health. But on this day she takes a sudden turn for the worse.

7 September - When the doctors visit her, Lucy is deathly ill from lack of blood. Only a successful transfusion from Arthur keeps her alive, and she requires enough blood to weaken him a fair bit.

8 September - I'm not quite sure this counts as a foiled feeding because I don't think Dracula necessarily tried to come and feed. He assumed Lucy was dead. But then again, he might have come to check that she did indeed die, and if not for Jack might've tried to drink from her again. Given what happens the next night, I'll go ahead and count it as a foiled attempt.

10 September - Seward fell asleep the night before and Lucy was near death again in the morning. A transfusion worked to revive her somewhat, though she was still weak.

11 September - van Helsing sat up with Lucy the night before, then garlanded her room with garlic flowers during the day.

12 September - Lucy says that she feels better with the garlic flowers, and looks forward to sleeping with them. Her narration seems to suggest that this is happening on the same day van Helsing gave them to her, but if so the dates do not line up. If we accept the dates then they must give her one night of safe rest.

13 September - Mrs. Westenra removed the garlic during the night, and opened the window. The next day Lucy is deathly ill and requires a third transfusion.

13-16 September - New garlic is delivered every day, and van Helsing sits up with her. Lucy writes on the evening of the 17th of having had four nights of peace.

17 September - Dracula attacks with a stolen wolf, kills Mrs. Westenra, bites Lucy, and then drugs the maids before returning to bite Lucy a second time. He drains her terribly.

18-19 September - After they find her on the monring of the 18th, van Helsing and Jack make sure to keep someone with Lucy at all times. On the 18th, Quincey also patrolled around the outside of her house. However, before dawn on the 20th, Dracula comes back and flaps at the window again. While he doesn't make it inside, Lucy's condition gets worse at his arrival and she soon dies in the morning. So, while he doesn't bite her, I am not counting this last instance as a successful foiling, and am only counting once for the night of the 18th.

.

In amongst all these many bites, there are definitely some which are worse than others. In my opinion, these are the worse ones (getting worse as you go down the list):

11 August - the first time Dracula bites Lucy, he's interrupted by Mina and yet she still has trouble breathing afterwards (not true of some of his other Whitby sips). I think he was drinking deeper that time, though still not to the degree of later nights.

17 August - Dracula is leaving town right after this, and he drinks more deeply from Lucy since as far as he knows it will be the last time. It doesn't seem like he was intentionally trying to kill her necessarily, given how quickly she recovers, but her symptoms are worse that night so I think he was tanking up before his trip, so to speak.

6 September - After a few days away, Dracula drinks extra hard from Lucy, leaving her very ill.

7 September - Dracula intended to kill Lucy today. She would have died of blood loss without the transfusion.

10 September - Once again, this bite would have killed Lucy.

13 September - A third would-be-fatal bite.

17 September - The bite(s) that prove fatal in the end, despite one more transfusion.

[aquilathefighter]

Fluffbruary 18: Recovery

Yet again the ficlet gets away from me! Hob can be hypermobile, as a treat (for me)

Find all my @fluffbruary ficlets on AO3 here!

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

“Turn that light off or I’m gonna rip up that book you’re reading, I swear,” Hob grumbles, arm thrown over his eyes.

A single lamp is on in the hospital room, overlooking the armchair Dream has sat in since Hob was admitted.

Dream scoffs, “Darling, you could call the nurse for painkillers. That is what they are there for, no? I recall many dreams of comfort from nurses.”

“You must be missing the nightmares of ‘em too. Fine, I’ll do it for you,” Hob fumbles for the call button in his bed. “You really don’t have to stay, love. I’m sure you’ve work to do.”

Dream shuts his book and sets it on the side table. He crosses the room to hold Hob’s other hand, the one free from IV line and oxygen monitor.

“Beloved, you are unwell. My place is here with you.” He presses a kiss to Hob’s forehead, sweaty and tasting of hospital as it is. “I will not leave you.”

Hob weakly squeezes his hand.

“How did I ever survive without you? Hell, even I don’t know how I’ve managed this long. Imagine what it was like when bloodletting was the in thing.”

Hob attempts to stretch his legs, wincing at the twinge in his knee. It’s reset in its proper place, held in place by braces and tape. The physical therapist will be there in the morning, no doubt to tease him about another go-round in hospital and to assess the damage to his connective tissues. They’ll let him go in a couple of days, it’s not too serious considering everything Hob’s dealt with over his lifetime. It wasn’t until he settled into a more comfortable life in the 16th century that his body started to fall apart. The musculature of soldiering and later working the printing press kept his joints in place, but when he no longer had to use his body as a tool, the joints soon felt loose in their sockets.

Eleanor had helped him then, massaging his shoulders through the twinges and calling the local physician to provide him laudanum before he wrenched the bone back in place. If he weren’t immortal, there would’ve been much more damage than lasted. There was certainly a lot of scar tissue that stuck around, but Hob retained his hypermobility and occasionally had to break through it to keep moving.

Things got better as time went on, though he’d rather forget the 17th century altogether. Medical knowledge advanced and by the time of the 20th century they had words for people like him, more than double-jointed, more than flexible. Sometime during the 70s, he saw a rheumatologist who told him he had abnormal collagen that lead to the scarring, dislocation, and bruising. Ehler’s Danlos Syndrome, he said. The doc had introduced him to the brilliant world of physio, which kept him moving most of the time.

But like anybody, he got lazy. Skipped his exercises for too long, and inevitably he’d dislocate something he couldn’t put back himself. Somebody would call an ambulance or he’d drag himself to A&E and spend a couple days in hospital. It was lonely, then. Days staring out the window into the dreary London skyline, nothing to entertain himself with but the telly.

But now Dream is here. And Dream understands. He’s explained it like this: having a corporeal form is in itself a form of body horror. He’s grown used to it, spending more time in the Waking with Hob, but still it is frightening to be trapped within skin and bone, muscle and sinew, to take damage and feel pain. So to Hob who’s body seemingly fights against him, Dream’s being fighting against his body is not so different.

Dream comes with him to A&E, rests in the uncomfortable armchair on the observation floor, brings him a phone charger and crossword puzzles and reads to him. Like sitting in this dreadful room, pungent with bleach and alcohol, is no hardship at all. And it isn’t, not in Dream’s eyes.

Dream leans down to kiss his lips, soft and gentle. He pulls back, staring at Hob’s face. Even when he is sweaty and pained and hasn’t bathed since Thursday, Dream gazes at him like he is a masterpiece. His heart clenches with how much he loves him.

“I am glad you survived alone. And I am glad you no longer have to.” He releases Hob’s hand and goes back to his seat as the nurse comes in.

“Hi, Robbie, sorry it took so long. Busy day up here! What can I getcha? More juice? A blanket for your other half?”

“Hey, Michelle. I was wondering if I could get my PRN? My head’s killing me more than my knee, frankly,” he chuckles.

Michelle pulls up his chart on the little computer she’s brought with her. She hums as she clicks, and clicks, and clicks about five more times before arriving at the correct tab.

“Looks like it’s certainly time for you to get more pain meds! Let me page Dr. Lansing and we’ll get that in right away.”

Hob smiles at her, grateful for the beauty of modern medicine. He can wait as long as they need to get his pills.

“Do you need anything else while I’m here? I can grab one of the nursing assistants for ya,” Michelle says as she drags the computer cart towards the door.

“I think we’re alright, right love?” Hob looks at Dream, already lost in his book again. He doesn’t respond.

Hob smiles. “Yeah, we’re good. He gets lost in a story so easily.”

Michelle leaves, shutting the door behind her. Hob sighs and lays back in the bed, replacing the arm he’d thrown over his eyes.

“Dove?” Hob calls out. Dream hums in response, looking up from his book.

“Can you come up here with me? These rooms are too damn cold.” Dream closes the book once again and climbs into the bed, lifting Hob’s bum leg to help him scoot over. He lays on his side, gazing at his love. Hob buries his head against Dream’s lithe chest, inhaling as much as his lungs can hold of his scent. Dream pulls the thin blanket over the both of them, then brings his hands up to hold Hob and stroke his hair.

“Rest, my love. I will be here as long as you are to recover. Then, we will go home. I will not let you ‘forget’ to do your exercises anymore.”

Hob huffs and snuggles closer, drifting closer to sleep with Dream’s aid and ministrations.

Michelle gives Dream a soft smile when she returns to the room with a glass of water and two giant pills in a plastic cup.

“Have him take these when he wakes up,” she whispers. “Promise I won’t tell on you.”

For once, Dream gives someone else a gentle smile, knowing his Hob is loved and cared for.

[wearelondonhq]

it was meant to be just another day in london. never calm, never truly relaxed, with chaos lurking in every single corner. regardless, what was new there, right? people were used to it by now. enough to carry on with their daily lives. children being taken to school by their parents and sent off with a kiss and a promise to see them later, people rushing to their places of work, couples strolling through the streets, holding hands and talking about their futures. what did all of those things have in common?

the belief that there would be a future.

people slowly letting their guard down, slowly believing that.. maybe, they could make london their home after all.

soon enough, they'd realise what was a mistake that truly was.

it started off very simply.

a hint of confusion as someone woke up in their own bed, not remembering how they had gotten there. looking at their so called loved ones with confusion and rushing out of the house, thinking.. how did i get here? who are they? who am i?

and of course, that was not even the worst of it all, was it?

oh, no. that was reserved for those with abilities.

once, they might have looked at their powers as a gift.

a way to be different.

a way to protect those that needed help. the vulnerable ones.

or perhaps.. for the other side of the coin, it was a way to stay in power. a way to get what they wanted. what they wished for. never mind that, for.. both heroes and villains would suffer the same fate before the day was over.

slowly, slowly, slowly.. the individuals with abilities started feeling different. for some, as they felt the dread reach them? perhaps they attempted to use their powers and found them to be gone. completely. just like that.

where there was once magic, there was now confusion. dread. panic.

for others? perhaps they went to sleep the previous night being certain of who they really were. a vampire. perhaps a werewolf. perhaps a sorcerer. a mutant. who knows? you can, of course, imagine their certain confusion as they woke up the next morning feeling.. slightly different. what was wrong with them, you may ask?

oh, not much. they had just been turned into a completely normal.. human.

leaving them wondering.. what happened to me?

for others? slowly, they started feeling.. strangely out of control.

perhaps they lose their cool at something as simple as an argument and end up blasting the other person across the street.

perhaps they get distracted and open up a portal in the middle of their living room and.. only realise it when they notice half of their furniture is gone.

and who knows? for the worst cases?

oh, it's those that you should worry about. after all.. never underestimate the allure of darkness. even the purest hearts are drawn to it, are they not?

never underestimate what people can do, when they lose their cool.

when they lose.. themselves.

what caused all of this? ah, yes.

one could say there is indeed SOMETHING IN THE WATER, AFTER ALL.

WELCOME TO OUR BRAND NEW EVENT! the magic of the city or.. shall we say, the water, has been at work overnight! for those that are human and that have drank the tap water within twenty four hours of this one fatal day? they can kiss some or all of their memories goodbye! imagine waking up in a strange house, surrounded by strange people and having no idea of how you got there? yikes! how dramatic is that going to be? and for those with powers? well, here's the real problem. if they have been adventuring and drinking the water that they should very much not be? perhaps they lose their cool! perhaps they lose control of their powers. perhaps.. they give in to their dark side? who knows? one thing is for certain, though? the water allowed them to keep their abilities, just.. completely enhanced and out of control. for those that did not drink any of it? they wake up to find that they have lost their abilities completely! either be that their magic has been taken away, that they have been turned from a vampire into a human or something else? who knows? the possibilities are endless but one thing is for sure.. it's sure to be one hell of a chaotic day.

HOUSEKEEPING!

welcome to our very THIRD event, friends! it will start on friday, the 12th of April and go on until sunday, the 21st of April! What will follow afterwards, one might ask? Well, Well. First things first, shall we?

As was mentioned up there, the magic of the city has once again been at work, affecting those with powers and without powers! How, one may ask? Well, that is up for you to decide! For the human folks without any kind of abilities? They can have either drank some of the tap water without twenty-four hours of when things went crazy and have lost some of their memories! Or perhaps.. they drank a lot of it and were more affected! Who knows? That is up for you to decide and to plot accordingly!

Now, for those with abilities? This involves any vampire, werewolf, superhero, villain, mutant.. you know the drill! If they drank the tap water? They were allowed to keep their abilities, only.. incredibly enhanced. What does that mean? Well! Perhaps some of them are not able to control it. Perhaps they destroy a building or two and cause a lot of chaos, that other people will have to deal with. Perhaps they hurt someone they did not mean to, like a loved one. Perhaps they lose their cool and attack someone. Perhaps they attack a lot of people. Perhaps they run into a friend or loved one that has been injured and/or killed during the confusion and that is what triggers their powers and makes them go off!

Who knows? That is up for everyone to find out and to plot accordingly! We only ask the usual -- that everything is tagged properly and previously plotted with the muns involved! If they did not drink it? Well, they have woken up to find themselves completely human and powerless! Does this mean that vampires have been turned human and sorcerers have lost their magic?

Well, that is up to you to find out! Perhaps they were affected completely and were turned human because they did not have the magic in the tap water in their system! Perhaps they were not affected all that much! The degree that each muse was or was not affected by this is UP TO EACH MUN TO DECIDE! We cannot wait to see what you come up with!

of course, everyone come in to join and try to help from the outside - the point here is ANYONE can be involved! how? that is up to you to figure out! of course, given the circumstances - we ask once again that everything is tagged properly!

Oh and one more burning question.. everyone's powers and abilities will be returned as the event comes to an end. The pace can and will, of course, be decided by the mun! Perhaps they get them all back at once! Perhaps they do not. Perhaps it takes a little for them to even be able to do half of what they once did. Who knows? And the same thing goes for the memory loss status!

All opens and starters should be tagged with wal:event3! 

please feel free to post as many open starters as you’d like and to decide how you wish your characters to be involved! as always, please do your very best to be inclusive and to plot with everyone! after all, drama is only fun because everyone’s characters are in it together! thank you so much and please.. let's make some chaos!

PLEASE GIVE THIS POST A LIKE ONCE YOU'VE READ IT!

[immergladsss]

Moonacre Week 2024- Chp 1: So Long, London

Marius Merryweather looked out the carriage window and watched the city disappear with a dismal form of affection one could only describe as coming from the nostalgia of having lived in one place their entire life.

London was by no means a picturesque beauty of a city. It smelled, was rather overcrowded, and the sun hardly made its presence known. Nonetheless, it was home. It had been home for a very long time, that is until his father’s untimely death and the repossession of all that had ever made his home. He was left with nothing more than the belongings he could stuff in a carpet bag and a couple of trunks, an old book that once belonged to his father, and an estranged uncle whom he was to live with– oh, and his father’s pistol, but he doubted he’d ever need that thing. 

He looked down upon his gloved hands, then over at his governess who was busying herself with French needlepoint in a sad attempt to keep her indigestion at bay, then at the heavy tome across from him. 

It was a strange fairytale about his ancestral home. It was beautifully illustrated and spoke of some magical pearls that granted wishes. Though he didn't fancy fairytales, believing they lacked the necessary information to develop oneself, he couldn't help but wonder as he watched tree after tree pass by, what he’d wish for if he were to ever be in possession of such an item. 

Though Marius had begun his journey to Moonacre with some optimism, any hope he had for the countryside was crushed bit by bit with every ruddy pit that threw him about the carriage like some trinket in a box just gifted to a child. 

He tried his best to remain stoic.

With every jostle, he reminded himself that he had been born and raised to be a proper gentleman. 

He reminded himself he was restrained. Adaptable. Humble.

Yet none of that was enough to stop him from silently cursing his misfortune when a nasty bump caused him to smack face-first into the wall. 

“Oh, good heavens!” Ms. Heliotrope cried out as she removed the needle stuck to her finger, “These roads are certainly in an awful state.”

“I always find the state of an environment to be a reflection of those charged with its care,” he replied, rubbing his forehead. There would be a welt there the next day. “To think I would one day find myself forced to live in the countryside. And one as unmanaged as this. What could my uncle possibly be doing to keep him away from any type of maintenance?”  

“Now Marius, I’m certain Sir Benjamin is a hospitable lord.” Ms. Heliotrope held onto her hat as another ditch sent them flying.”I’m certain you’ll enjoy your stay!” 

Marius held himself back from rolling his eyes. His uncle’s lack of presence, even at his own brother’s funeral, said otherwise. But did he have a choice?

 “Moreover,” Ms. Heliotrope continued. “I hear the country balls are quite fun. Perhaps you’ll even find yourself a nice lady.” 

“I doubt I’ll find any of them tolerable enough to tempt me.” 

Next

[tctteredwings]

[ lily james, demigirl, they/them ] — whoa! HOLLY BERNE just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for 8 YEARS, working as a BLOGGER/INFLUENCER. that can’t be easy, especially at only 33 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit DITZY and HOT-HEADED, but i know them to be COMPASSIONATE and ENTHUSIASTIC. whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to STATEN ISLAND!

IN A NUTSHELL; an inability to stay still, a pack of dachshunds dutifully following behind them, messy curls, a different loungefly backpack every time you see them, a pocket full of candy, a pen tucked behind their ear, dancing until the sun comes up.

tw: death, parental death

ABOUT.

Name: Holly Joy Berne Nicknames: Hol, Hols Age: Thirty-three Date of Birth: 25th December 1990 Birthplace: Dún Laoghaire, Dublin, Ireland Occupation: Blogger/influencer Romantic/Sexual Orientation: Grey-romantic/pansexual

They’re an Irish beauty who grew up in Dublin as part of a massive family.

Middle child of six (along with their twin brother).

Born on Christmas Day… full name’s Holly Joy, brother is Joseph, you can see where this is going. Their mom really loves Christmas!

They wanted the spotlight from a young age, desperate to be heard and seen, they took dancing and singing lessons, even attempted acting at one point and figure skating.

Wanted to attend Juilliard in NYC so spent their teen years working their ass off, cleaning in the ferry port, a paper round, babysitting and dog walking. If they could fit it in, they’d do it.

Sometime during sixth form they came to terms with their gender confusion, coming out as a demigirl and asking everyone around them to use they/them pronouns. They won’t be offended if you use she/her by accident as they’re very much in touch with their feminine side still, but they is their main preference.

It was another couple of years before they discovered that they were also grey-romantic, romance just didn’t come easily and they weren’t all too bothered. One night stands and fwbs was the way to go.

At 19 Juilliard came a calling! It was a shock but one they’d been so desperate for, so they packed up and moved to the States… a couple of grand short.

Freshman year went well, they lived in halls and embraced everything the city had to offer. Second year came around and they found themselves with no money, living in an apartment with four other people, infested with roaches and so run down it was a health hazard.

A little over a year later they were forced to move out and drop out of college, moving in with family they had in London, still wanting somewhere with opportunity.

Eventually set up a blog, telling tales of their time in NYC, their discoveries in gender and sexuality. They attempted YouTube as well, but it was a bit of a fail, they never had the patience to actually make the videos. Eventually Instagram worked out for them, along with TikTok in more recent years. Their main focus was and always will be the LGBTQIA+ community.

It was then they made the decision to move back to New York City, finding themselves a small apartment on Staten Island.

Their father passed away in September 2019 and they were forced to go back home to Ireland for a couple of months. Brought half of their family back with them when they returned, including their twin brother.

Dog mom to a pack of rowdy dachshunds (Wednesday, Morticia, Sally and Mrs Lovett) and usually found fighting to control them early in the morning before starting work for the day.

Hates to admit it, but sometimes they come across as kind of dim. They’re also hyper af, constantly bouncing around the place and dancing (they never gave that up), talk way too much, and are too loud for a lot of people.

Lived:

1990: Dublin, Ireland 2009: New York City, New York 2011: Notting Hill, London 2015: Staten Island, New York

[0alanasworld0]

Change of heart (Hakim Ziyech x reader) *request

Request: "you are a new to the social media. One day during game you hear (either the players on the other team or people in the stadium) saying very rude and inappropriate which does make you uncomfortable. Ziyech notices, however continues the match, but once everyone gone, he pulls you aside and ask if you are ok. You are shock by this since he’s always hostile towards you"

Warnings: mentions of catcalling/bodyshaming

Your new job working on Chelsea's social media is wonderful. Reasonable hours, good pay, you’ve made so many new friends already. You seriously couldn’t ask for more. Admittedly, you wished a certain Moroccan player would be a little nicer to you but that isn’t enough to outweigh the positives. You love it here. However, you must admit that some of those interactions make you think twice about things. You try to be nice but it's to no avail.

“Hi! How are you feeling after yesterday?” you ask with a bright smile on your face.

“Fine, i guess.” he responds curtly, eyes looking anywhere but your own and you’re confused by his coldness.

“That cross was wonderful, I thought you’d be doing much better tha-” you attempt to joke but he just cuts you off,

“Yeah sorry, I have to get to training.” already jogging to the training ground before you can even finish your sentence.

You’ve accepted it. You and Hakim simply don’t get along. You don't know exactly what you’ve done for him not to like you but he makes his feelings clear regardless. He either isn’t bothering to acknowledge your existence or rolling his eyes when he’s forced to. 

“Hakim, we organised this shoot weeks ago and you agreed. What’s changed?” you ask, exasperated by his nonchalance. You have deadlines to meet for posts and if you can’t keep up, you fear that the job you love so much is going to be on the line.

“Let’s not be dramatic about this, it's for an instagram post. The world isn’t going to end because a couple of us can’t show up to one of many photoshoots. Your world won’t come crumbling down because of one delay.” he rolls his eyes, trying to make his way past you and to training. You stop him before he can get away from the conversation.

“You do realise all of this has been planned so I have enough time to edit, right? These posts need to be put out in a month and I’d like more than a couple days to make sure it’s all ready for posting.” you reply, anger levels rising at his lack of consideration. The players aren’t the only people in this club. You’re quite shocked by how little empathy he has for you especially.

“Well I can't exactly cancel this event so I guess you’re gonna have to pull yourself together and get on with it.” He scoffs and walks away. You don't stop him this time, it’s hopeless at this stage and you go back to your office, rearranging your whole timetable to work around Hakim’s sudden cancellation.

“... just so dramatic. I don’t know why we’re hiring random people off of the streets of London to do these jobs. If she can’t handle the stress, she shouldn’t be here in the first place.’ you overhear Hakim tell one of the other players. You stay, hoping that it isn’t you he’s talking about you. You do admire Hakim as a player at the end of the day. He puts his all into every game and makes the most of the few minutes he is given. You think it's a travesty that a player of his level is so heavily underutilised. 

“Seriously, I don't understand how one delayed shoot could make such a big difference. If she’s not organised enough to anticipate things and have back-up plans, maybe she should reconsider working here. There are more important things than the timing of some instagram posts.” Now that hurts, your deadlines are tight and there really just wasn’t much room for moving things around. You don’t know what more you could have done but how embarrassing would it be to just air out those stresses to everyone. You walk away before you can hear anymore, you don’t need your work or feelings invalidated anymore.

“Hakim, it can’t just be social media posts. There’s more to it than that and you know it.” pusilic reprimands him, sighing at Hakim’s hostility towards you.

“She’s new, getting into the swing of things and you’re only making it harder for her. It's obviously going to be a bit stressful but randomly cancelling things and personally adding to it is just a little low, man.”  there are general nods of agreement from the other players in the green room. Hakim scoffs at that. 

It can’t be that stressful. He thinks to himself. 

“Sweetheart, I’m glad that things are coming along but you need rest. you look like you haven't slept in days.” your coworker comments, noticing how you jolt awake every once in a while.

“You would be correct but there’s no other way around it. It has to be done within the next few days and the last thing I need is for everyone to think I'm some sort of weakling asking for an extension.” you respond with your head laying on the desk. It's the only way to minimise the pounding and tension.

 You didn’t realise that Hakim was eavesdropping. His heart sank at that, he knew he was being an ass but didn't really stop to think just how much his little antics could have been affecting you. It was still some stupid reasoning and he knows that. I’ll make it up to her. He tells himself.

You walk into the office the day after your deadline with a weight off your shoulders. It was very close but you managed to pull it out of the bag in the end. Strangely enough, you see a box of your favourite chocolates waiting on your desk. You look for a note to indicate who it was to no avail and you consider asking around about it. But you conclude that you deserve this after the past few weeks you’ve endured. 

Even Hakim has started being nicer to you: no longer feeling the need to let you know how much of an inconvenience it is to be around you. You don't catch as many eyerolls from him and he even says hello to you as you cross paths.

There’s also a new box of chocolates every monday which you must admit, does brighten up the day for you.

Hakim sees you walk that little bit quicker on Mondays, happy with the fact that he can make those mornings a little bit more joyful. He kinda owed you after being such a pain.

It's your first ever match working with Chelsea and you couldn’t be more excited. You were allowed to watch the match from the sub bench and food was also provided for free on the count of your work. You were buzzing as you heard the thundering chants as the players walked onto the pitch. This would certainly be a moment to remember.

The match was going well and you’re enjoying yourself until you hear the men behind you. You feel sick at the vulgar language used and you hate the fact that you’re being objectified in such a disgusting way. You were within earshot and you’re sure that they knew it. They were being so loud about it and you were going red at the idea that nearby people would know of you from this. Your excitement was falling very quickly and you’re all of a sudden wondering why you came in the first place.

You don’t realise but Hakim has also been within earshot of the men’s disgusting comments and he feels pure anger at the way you’re being objectified. Before he can even move to say anything, the play continues but he reminds himself to catch up with you after the match is over.

The match was a resounding success for the team, putting ziyech on to start was a decision that paid off. Your mood unfortunately didn’t have a chance to pick up since the men continued blabbering horrible things about you throughout the match.

You begin to pick up your things, preparing to leave as you see the stadium start to clear before Hakim runs up to you.

“You played really well today!” you say, your smile not reaching your eyes.

“Thanks! They had us on the ropes for a while but a win’s a win…” he trails off, planning on how to phrase what he saw.

“I heard what those guys were saying by the way. Are you feeling okay?” he asks with a look of concern in his eyes. You’re confused to say the least, this man would throw a hissy fit at the idea of being in the same room as you and now he’s checking up on you?

“I guess so, I don't know why it's affecting me so much. I’ll get over it, I'm sure.” you respond with a dejected sigh. Hakim shakes his head quickly at that.

“You have every right to be upset. No one deserves to be treated that way, it's disgusting.” he quickly assures, he couldn’t stand the idea of you taking the blame for the ordeal. He wraps his arms around you tightly, hand rubbing your back lightly.

“What’s gotten into you?” you joke, feeling a little bit better after his reassurance. The warmth unfortunately dissipates when he lets go to properly look at you.

“Look, the way I've been treating you has been awful. There was no need for me to be so hostile, you’re lovely and an important part of the club. I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise. If you could forgive me, I would love to get to know you properly over dinner?" He's nervous about your response, you don’t have to forgive him but if he’s honest, he’s grown quite fond of you since letting go of his anger. 

All of a sudden, your arms wrap around him and he can feel you smile into his chest. You both sigh in relief, finally letting go of all of that tension.

“Thank you, Hakim. This really means a lot- wait…” you trail off in a moment of realisation. It all makes sense now: the lack of eye rolls, the forgone snarky tone, the weekly chocolate boxes.

“It was you wasn’t it?” you ask, still locked in the tight hug. He smiles and rolls his eyes. Playfully this time.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” now its your turn to playfully roll your eyes.

“Whatever, so about that dinner…”

to the person who sent in this request, i'm sorry it took so long xx. i hope u enjoy! have a wonderful day, my lovelies <3

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

I GOT BROWNIES FROM MY COLLEAGUE-TURNED-MANAGER😭

Because I work so much and hard. Gods, bless her🥰

But now fancy me this:

Alfie gifting you food to show how much he appreciates you.

TH Masterlist

He’s truly grateful for how much you work and keep going despite the hardships (managing rush hour on your own, colleagues being even worse than unhelpful, injuries due to ovens… or getting your hand stuck between the wall and a tall and heavy tower of crates… absolutely not spiteful still about that). Being a workaholic himself, he respects you for taking on as many shifts as you do and staying for as long as you can manage.

However, he can easily see past your smile and positive go-getter attitude. Alfie will coax you into sitting down whenever he notices your energy is depleting. Regardless of whether it’s busy, he’ll occasionally sit down with you because “he’s due for a break too” and he has your permission.

Now, this will annoy Ollie to no end when it’s like the whole of London has gathered at the bakery. Nevertheless, he knows his boss has a soft spot for you and why he acts the way he does. Funnily enough, though, the Mad Baker hasn’t worked through his feelings enough yet to understand himself. All he knows is that he wants you to be healthy and take a break, enjoy a cuppa and snack he’s made even when you want to sit by yourself for a bit.

Alfie’s also constantly checking on you. Not to make sure you don’t make any mistakes, but because he doesn’t want you to injure yourself (mentally and physically). He’ll stand nearby when you’re dealing with a rude customer, chipping in as soon as he sees an opening into the conversation. He’ll plop you down on a chair and nurse your wound when you cut yourself… or manage to remove a piece of your skin at the hand of a couple of crates with stock and no one helping you manoeuvre it around.

(I promise I’m not salty about my own predicament.)

But recently, he’s been giving you more food. He’ll have a proper breakfast ready when you two open the bakery together, vividly remembering how you told him you only drink a cup of coffee and eat a protein bar before you come in in the morning and heavily disagreeing with this lifestyle choice. Orange juice, a plate of chremslach and a piece of fruit always somehow manage to magically appear on the table by the window when you two are busy setting up. He’ll have the same, trying to get into the habit of eating breakfast himself by eating with you.

After each shift, he’ll have a small basket of bread, bagels, and baked goods ready for you to enjoy at home. Often there’s cinnamon babka (because he knows you’re not a big fan of chocolate), mandel bread (to have with your coffee on your days off and subsequently have a piece of him there), and your new recent favourite: tzimmes bread. All kosher, of course!

One consistent element in the wee package is a loaf of soda bread. Alfie’s told you it’s made according to an old family recipe, one not many people have had the privilege of tasting. And he’s secretly proud it’s the reason you’ve fallen in love with eating bread.

(Although he hopes it’s actually the way he guides your hands when kneading dough. So far you’ve never have made a single loaf without his warm rough palms covering the backs of your hands, his rings cold against your fingers when he entwines them with yours)

Alright, imma stop here before this is going to get out of hand. Nonetheless, I think I’ve given myself some great ideas to incorporate into the story I hope to start writing during Camp NaNo. Also, yes, I’m finally going to attempt to properly write again in July and despite working 40 hours a week. Mostly I hope to finish some WIPs, but most of all I finally want to get started on Dear Edna. Wish me luck!

Tag List: @zablife @potter-solomons @babaohhhriley @rose-like-the-phoenix @buttercupsandboys @liliac-dreamer @hecatemoon87 @vir-tual @wandawiccan60 @dreamlandcreations @solomons-finest-rum

[annabellewynter]

Wild Lavender

Chapter One

Summary: Everett Greenwood never expected to be the Duke of Rorchester, that was a job for his older brother. But when sudden tragedy strikes, he finds himself thrust into a life he never wanted. Then he sees Melina delivering honey to the grand hall. The girl who lives in a shack in the woods becomes the only love his heart has ever known, but can society accept the simple woman as his choice? And will secrets from her past destroy their chance at love? Find out in Wild Lavender.

Note: This story is intended to be a Regency Romance and I have attempted to stay historically accurate, however, I am not a historian, so please excuse any errors.

Everett Greenwood sipped on a glass of brandy as stared out the window of his office. The small flat he called his home for the last several years was perched above a main thoroughfare in London and gave him the perfect vantage point to watch the bustling streets below. It was evening, and the sky was slowly darkening the way it does in the early days of spring. Many were on the street, the unusually fine weather pulling ladies and gentlemen alike from their homes to enjoy the fresh air. There were elegantly dressed couples in carriages, others strolling home from dinner parties and some just enjoying an evening stroll.

London

Everett did not consider himself to be a nostalgic sort, but he had to admit that he felt a pang of sadness at the realization that this would be the last night he would take in this view.

     His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched giggle coming from down the hall, followed by the low moan of a male's voice.  Everett shook his head moving towards the door to close it when the door down the hall flung open.  A woman furiously stomped down the hall while Phillip Matthews, still only partially dressed and holding his trousers up with one hand, shouted after her.

“Is it Anne?  Lily!  It must be Lily.”  He faltered as the woman reached the bottom of the stairs and he made one final attempt.  “Ruth?”

Her head snapped back to Philip's.

"It's Beatrix, you prat."

And with that, she was out the door.

Everett watched as Phil ambled into his office and slumped onto the couch.  He poured him a brandy and refilled his own before he took the seat opposite him.  

“That didn’t  quite go as planned, I imagine.”

Phil shook his head and poured back the brandy.

“Not even one bit,”  he sucked the air in through his teeth.  “I certainly hope you have more forgiving women in Rorchester.  

Everett shrugged, taking a sip of his drink.  “I wouldn’t know.  I haven’t been there since I was six years old.”

Phil's dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Since you were six? But your father was the Duke!"

"Yes, but we never lived there. He kept the London home and we lived here where Mother could be a more central part of society. Occasionally he had to go to Rorchester, but he never brought me. George was the oldest and would become Duke, so I didn't have to be there."

"Well, this is great news then!" Phil slapped his knee in excitement. "You can just do the same and we don't need to leave London and head out into the middle of the countryside where nothing and no one exists."

The stare Everett issued to Phil said plenty and he once again reiterated, "You do not have to come Phil. I will be just fine on my own. Besides, I've been thinking of asking Kipley to join me in Rorchester to help get things in order."

Phil's mouth fell open in shock. "First, you are not doing this without me. You need me. Secondly,  why on earth would you invite Kip? He has got to be the most extraordinary dull human being in all of England!" 

Everett did his best to hide his smirk. "Kip happens to be extremely good at arithmetic. I understand he was a great help to his uncle in organizing his books."

"Of course, you understand that!" He was standing now, pacing the room, still holding his trousers up with his fist. "He told us no less than three hundred times what a big help he was!"

Everett knew this line of conversation would irritate Phil and he was rather enjoying goading his closest friend. Still, asking for assistance from Kipling Stromwell was an intriguing idea. The truth was that Everett had no idea how to run a Duchy. Not only had his father neglected to teach him, but Everett had little interest in such dealings. He had spent his years after university in His Majesty's Navy. That was how second-born sons were meant to bring their families pride. But now, with both his father and brother killed in a sudden accident, he became responsible for his mother, his two younger sisters, and an enormous quantity of land and the people living on it. He knew absolutely nothing about how to successfully do this.  The only thing he did know was that he didn’t want to do it the way his father did.  Everett didn’t take things lightly, so although it was not the position he wanted or imagined himself in, he would do it to the best of his ability, nonetheless. So, he packed up his life, sold his flat, and sent all his father's records to Rorchester. His mother and sisters could stay in the London home. There was no need to further disrupt their lives. But Everett knew the only way to learn about his duty and to do it well, was to be in Rorchester.

"Tell me you are kidding about Kip, Everett" Phil pleaded.

"He would be useful. I'm not certain you could claim the same" Everett challenged.

Phil scoffed. "My uses are far and beyond bookkeeping."

"Oh really? Such as…"

Phil stood thinking and then snapped his fingers in delight. "Entertainment. Who else will make sure you don't become some stuffy old Duke, wasting away in his grand estate? I'll keep you young and having fun…and getting laid" he smirked.

"You didn't seem to do such a great job of it for yourself."

Phil scoffed. "I've had to bid farewell to far too many women this week. I was bound to make a mistake here or there."

Everett chuckled. He adored Phil from the moment they met at University and he convinced him to cheat at a game of cards. They were both quite inebriated and their attempts did not go unnoticed.  It only took a few hands before they were discovered, but Phil, keen as he was, noticed a split second before they were confronted.  He shoved a fistful of winnings into his waistcoat, grabbed a bottle of scotch off a nearby table, and tugged Everett out the door.  

They ran as fast as they could, twisting through alleyways and side streets.  Everett can still remember how much his lungs burned with the exertion and how his cheeks ached with laughter.  Eventually, they ducked into an empty doorway and hid out of sight until they were sure they were safe.  It was then they opened the scotch and each took a long pull on the bottle.  Phil emptied his pockets and they counted their winnings.  

“You do realize that my father is a Duke, Philip.  Money is not hard to come by.  I easily could have bought a bottle of liquor,” Everett chuckled.  

Phil shook his head, still counting their loot.  “My father is the Earl of Barlington” His voice became low and stern, mimicking his father.  “We’ve always been able to buy whatever we please, Everett.  The point is”, he looked up meeting Everett’s eyes.  “Liquor tastes better when stolen and a muff feels better when borrowed.”  He waggled his eyebrows.  “Now come on, Everett.  Let's go to the brothel.  I think we have just enough.”

“What is it?” Phil asked, taking in the faraway look on Everett’s face.  

“Nothing. I was just remembering the day we met.”

Phil smirked, “Damn, I still have dreams about that blonde.”

“You do have a way of entertaining, I suppose.  Although I’m rather shocked we made it without ever getting into trouble.  Especially in the Navy.”

“We were officers in the Navy, Rett.  The son of a Duke and an Earl at that.  How much could they do to us?”

Everett shook his head, “The second son of a Duke and the third of an Earl.  It may have gotten us out of a few jams at University but His Majesty’s Navy is an entirely different story.”

“Fair enough,” Phil stood, setting down his empty glass with a clang.  “Now it’s our last night out in London for a good while.  And you, my friend, are no longer the second son, but a Duke in his own right.  Let's go out in the city and see how much we can get away with, eh?”

The following morning, Everett woke with a start.  To be clear, it was not his first time waking that day, nor was it morning.  Everett had already rose, dressed, and poured himself into a carriage headed for Rorchester.  He remembered very little of this, other than his head throbbing painfully and the sun seeming exceedingly bright for the hour.  It took only a moment before he was, once again fast asleep to the rumbling of the carriage.  

The second time he woke, was half a day later when the carriage stopped at Greenwood Hall.  Everett peeled his eyes open, taking a moment to adjust to the lack of movement, and ran his hands through his thick brown hair.  His large hand rubbed the scruff on his chiseled jaw that he had neglected to shave before departing.  It was not the impression he had intended to make but when he recalled the night of revelry he enjoyed in his final night living in London, he could not say that he regretted his carelessness with his appearance.  Everett’s muscles felt tight from the long journey and he took a moment to stretch his limbs.  As he did so, he attempted to rouse Philip.  

“We’re here, Phil” 

Phil rolled over with a groan and buried his face.  

Everett harshly nudged his leg.  “We’re here.  Get up!”

“Alright, alright.  Clearly what the Duke says, goes.” He lifted his head with a gruff.

“Have you finished mocking me?”

Phil stretched with a smirk.  

“I’m insulted!  I would never challenge the commands of the Master of the House.” 

“You are an ass,” Everett growled and exited the vehicle.  He walked towards the house, taking in the staff waiting outside to meet him.  It was a skeleton staff at this point, only the bare minimum until Phil had adjusted to what was needed and arranged for the necessary hiring.  

Everett and Phil had brought their valets from London which would be plenty for the time being. In addition, there was a butler and housekeeper, cook, and several general maids together performing the tasks that a dozen or more staff would normally do. However, since the great house had remained closed up, outside the servants' quarters, that was enough.

Greenwood Hall was a grand hall of dark red brick accented with white stone entryways and windows. The hall was wide and flanked by a clock tower on one side and an orangery on the other.  Behind the estate was one of the grandest gardens in all of England.  It had been designed by Everett’s great-grandmother who deeply loved Rorchester and Greenwood Hall.  He grew up hearing the stories, but never fully understood why his father had abandoned the hall.  It’s true, this area was not wealthy.  Everett had heard his father complain for years that the farmers were not successful in this area and the villages were poverty-stricken.  It seemed an odd revelation to behold this grand empty hall presiding over it all.  

Everett took a few moments to introduce himself to the staff and allowed the housekeeper, Edna Baker to show him through the parts of the hall that had been reopened for him.

“Unfortunately, due to the unexpected passing of the late Duke, we did not anticipate that the hall would be opening again so soon.  I apologize that we were unable to have it ready for you, Your Grace.”

Everett shook his head.  “No need to apologize, Ms. Baker.  It was quite unexpected.”

The estate felt oddly familiar to Everett, but not recognizable. Almost the way you remember a dream immediately after waking but you can never quite get the full picture clear.  It felt odd and he found himself drifting into a sort of daydream when Philip finally arrived from the car and joined them.  

“This is quite a place, Rett.”

Everett nodded, taking in the scene as they strode up the stairs of the grand hall.  The floors below were a bold black and white marble and the rich mahogany wood of the railings was shiny and smelled of fresh polish.  They had made sure to clean and polish this area of the home so that it was presentable for his arrival.  As the light shone through the rows of windows lining the front of the house, however, he could see the particles of dust floating through the air from years of inactivity.  When they reached the second floor, Everett and Phil were each taken to their respective rooms where their valets had stored their belongings.  Everett had asked not to be placed in the Duke’s former chambers.  It felt odd to him to take over the bed his father and mother slept in, even if it was so many years ago.

“Is there anything I can get you, Your Grace?” Edna inquired.

“No thank you, Ms. Baker.  I believe I will wash up and perhaps take a stroll in the gardens before dinner.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

Phil stretched beside him.  “I think I am going to rest a bit longer.  I’ll be down for dinner.”

Everett nodded and turned to go but then stopped.  “Thank you, Phil.”

Phil shrugged, “What for?”

“You’re a good friend, Phil.  I know the decision to move out here and help me to get settled into….all of this.  It was not an easy choice.”

“Sure it was.”  Phil clapped Everett on the shoulder.  “That’s what friends do, Everett.”

And with that, Everett and Phil parted ways, into their rooms.

After getting washed and shaved, Everett felt like a new man.  He once again, wandered through Greenwood Hall, this time with fresh eyes.  It wasn’t time for dinner and the weather was fine, so he exited onto the veranda to look out at the gardens.  

The gardens covered acres of land and included a hedge maze, a pergola covered with roses and wisteria, flowering bushes, and a glass greenhouse for a winter garden.  

Everett closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh air, lightly scented with the early spring buds beginning to blossom.  He opened his eyes and looked out at the sky. It was startling the colors that he could pick up when he looked. There was orange and yellow, but red, pink, and purple too. He couldn't remember the last time he had paid any mind to the sky at dusk and realized just how lovely it truly is. But when he heard the screech of the old back door open, his eyes easily left the sky to study the woman exiting below.

She was wearing a long flowing dress and he could see she was thin but strong. Her hair was strawberry blonde and pulled back into a braid, although several strands had escaped and were flying wildly around her as an evening breeze blew in. 

Everett was mesmerized by her, watching her walk purposefully across the narrow garden path and towards the forest. He had not even seen her face, but with each step she took away from him, a feeling of panic began to rise in his chest. He stared, fighting the urge to call out or run after her.  He needed to stop her, but no words came.  So he simply watched, until she was gone, disappearing into the trees.

Everett exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. He instinctively clapped his large hand over his chest, feeling his heart wake up like a bear hibernating for a long winter and suddenly coming alive with the spring. Everett did not know exactly what this strange feeling of longing and regret was, but he knew one thing.  He needed to find her. 

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