#fitting for a slowly recovering white london | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hotwings0203 · 3 years ago

Note

as ur irl bestie i am cashing in my favor and am asking- no begging for a dilf damon fic pls <3

😑fine fineee I guess I can take a quick break from writing BNHA stuff for you🙄

CW: NSFW, Damon Albarn being an a-hole, manipulation, gaslighting, language minor stuff like that

The studio itself was pretty spacious, you couldn't lie. As much as you loathed to give this cursed group any more credit, you were hard-pressed to remember the last time you´d been called into such a professional recording booth. You were used to dingy atmospheres, crumbling walls, stained carpet, and even cramped garages at times. It felt like your years of meticulously swaying your hand back and forth on the rosin and tuning your strings until they damn near popped were slowly going down the drain, lost in spaces of screaming adolescent boys and shady market agents. The streets of London were unforgiving for a young musician like you, no room to turn to since others were exactly in the same position as you.

It was by pure coincidence that the day you had played for a local cafe for a small commission, Graham fucking Coxon was sitting in the back of the run-down joint, sipping a murky glass of Bourbon.

You didn't notice him at first, of course. You had simply let the music in your mind travel from your head down to your arms, and allowed it to move through your fingertips to your bow. The serene melody that sang through the air had turned his head to face you, the shitty drink in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth.

Your solo was only a couple of minutes, but the second you were done and packing your bags to head out, the brunette made a beeline for you, blocking your exit.

¨Uh, can I help you?¨ You cock your head and shift your violin case.

¨Yes, you can actually. Listen, I know this is gonna sound a bit straightforward, but I really liked your piece. Did you compose it yourself?¨ He sounds quiet and sounds nervous, with him barely looking you in the eyes.

¨Yeah, I did!¨ You can´t help but beam-it took you several days just to perfect a few meager lines, but in the end you were content with the piece.

¨Wow...that's serious talent right there,¨ He opens the door for you, and you nod before you head out, him trailing behind you as he leaves with you.

¨You make a good amount of money doing small jobs like this?¨ His voice is nasally and low, but with a slightly higher pitch than your typical London accent.

At this, you squint your eyes a bit and turn your head at him. It was nice of him to be interested in your work, but for someone you don't personally know, the idea of talking about your small gigs that merited little to no money was not something you were fond of.

He senses your hesitancy and immediately withdraws. ¨I´m sorry, that was probably rude of me to be so blunt about it. Actually, I don´t think I´ve properly introduced myself.¨ He stops to face you, and you do the same.

¨I´m Graham Coxon. You may or may not have heard of me, but I can assure you that I too enjoy music, as an understatement.¨ He extends a calloused hand and smiles a little bit, adjusting the blocky glasses on his face.

Graham...Coxon? Graham as in....oh, holy shit.

¨No way.¨

¨Er...unfortunately, yes way.¨ His soft voice lilts as he holds back a laugh, and you gape at him.

¨Oh my god!¨ You drop your violin case in the excitement of eagerly returning his handshake. ¨You-you're from Blur! I know you!¨

¨Was from Blur, and ´careful now, don´t wanna ruin your instrument. But listen, I´m kind of in a bind here so I´ll get to the chase. We´re working on a few chords here and there back at the studio, and I´ve been on the lookout for a while for someone who fits our tune. ´Thing is, the deadline for submitting our song is comin´ up fast, so we only have a couple weeks left.¨

You raise your eyebrows, heart pounding in your chest as you listen to his proposition.

¨So I´m thinking, you sound pretty good, it's exactly what we need to fill in our bridge. I´d love it if you came in and played a tune for us. If we like you and you´re cool with it, you could feature on our song.¨

It feels surreal. Were you hearing right? Graham Coxon from Blur asking you to play on his song? This had to be a prank.

¨Ẅait, but you've only heard me once, what if my sound doesn't match what you're actually looking for?¨ You stammer, palms clammy as you wipe them off on your trousers.

¨Well, that's what a rehearsal session is for, lovely,¨ He chuckles nervously and slides his slightly foggy glasses up his nose. ¨So, you wanna give it a go?¨

You think for a moment, biting your lower lip. There wasn't exactly anything stopping you now, was there? I mean, sure, the prospect of playing in front of one of UK's most famous bands was daunting, but this was your chance to finally be recognized!

Taking a deep breath, you pick up your fallen case and nod. ¨Alright, I´m in. When you do wanna meet up?¨

Graham visibility deflates in relief, letting out a shaky exhale. ¨Great. I'll text you the time and place, yeah? The boys and I´ve gotta get a few more things set up, so we´ll be in contact soon.¨

You both exchange numbers, your phone tingling in your hand long after you bid farewell and drive home in a buzz.

When you finally get home to your apartment, you throw your keys onto the counter and flop down onto the mattress. What a fucking day.

So many thoughts bounce around in your addled head. You want to do well, but obviously you don't have their kind of experience in the industry. Should you play more in tune with their song, or continue with your own sound? An idea pops into your head amidst your lunch, a few hours later. Why not just do some more research on the band themselves? Then you'd know exactly what kind of music they're looking for.

The boys and I´ve gotta get a few more things set up.

Oh yeah, who else was in the band? It's not like you didn't know who Blur was at their peak, but you paid more attention to their music rather than their faces. Truthfully, you never really basked in tabloids and newspapers purring about the next big scandal, or the top dogs of Britain´s industry when that stuff was relevant.

You abandon your pathetic sandwich and make your way to your laptop, sliding into a chair and getting down to business. After a few quick searches, you pull up a couple tabs around the name Blur.

Graham Coxon- Recovering alcoholic. Big fight with Damon Albarn.

Alex James- Cute boy turned conservative. Classic case.

Dave Rowntree- Mainly untouched. Became a successful lawyer. Good for him.

Damon Albarn- A fucking mess.

Puffing up your cheeks and putting your hands behind your head, you lean back in your chair. Good god, this man is a wreck. Headlines from decades ago swim in and out of your eyes, loud, obnoxious neon prints of Justine and Damon broken up again? Suede claps back!, or Will the Blur Brothers ever come back to each other? Find out first-hand from Coxon himself!, and worst of all, Albarn relapses again, Damon Albarn from Blur goes head-to-head with Liam and Noel-news flash, the brothers win!

You think you see something about him and a potential wife and child, and that's when you decide it's time to sleep.

After all, there's no point in getting caught up in any of their backstories.You were just there to play a solo and get out. Nosing around in their lives was more trouble than what it was worth, anyways.

Which is exactly what you kept trying to tell yourself as you walked into the modern studio two weeks later, its grey soundproof walls and white floor screaming fancy and rich to you. And fancy and rich didn't come without grit and experience, which you had none of. As if to emphasize your inexperience, you went into the wrong halls twice before you exasperatedly checked your messages with Graham and saw that no, it wasn´t room 311, it was room 113.

Finally, finally, you came across your designated room. The mahogany door was closed, and you placed a hand on the silver knob. You could faintly hear the sounds of a guitar being played from the inside, and it was curiosity above everything else that compelled you to push it open.

From behind the clear window that separated the booth from the recording area, you see them. Graham, Damon, and other men you don't recognize are all in the midst of the song, the same song Graham had texted you the PDF of for the violin notes. You sheepishly take a few steps forward and clear your throat to catch the attention of a bald man leaning back against his chair right in front of the glass. He turns around and you give a weak little wave, clutching your case in the other hand.

¨Hey, I´m here for-¨

¨-Yeah, yeah, Graham told me all about you. Go on ahead and join in, they just started.¨ He pulls a toothpick out from between his lips and gestures to the door of the divider.

You feel your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way through the second door, and the second you step inside meekly, Damon and Graham´s eyes are on you.

Graham continues to play the guitar, only lighting up his eyes and giving you an encouraging nod when you step in, and the other two men on bass and saxophone also give a quick smile in greeting. And Damon…well.

Damon barely acknowledges you.

He continues to sing and stare straight ahead at the wall in front of him as if there's an interesting scene being played out on the grey paint.

You´re unsure of whether to catch his attention and give a proper greeting, but you decide not to as it would interfere with the song. So instead, you quickly grab a nearby chair and stand and set up your rosin and papers.

Your timing is perfect; the bridge is about to come up. Just to be certain, you look up from your poised position and catch the eyes of most everyone except for Damon´s. They all give you a quick thumbs up or an expectant look for your confirmation of playing.

And then, it comes. Damon stops singing, and your cue to sweep your bow across the horse hairs of your strings comes.

Melodious, whole, fulfilling, it was. Graham´s guitar chords harmonized with the tones of your violin, and music that you´ve never dreamed of creating was made by your hands exceptionally.

Everyone was in awe of your raw talent, from the way their gazes were rapt onto your bow, moving back and forth,staying still in some highs and whittling away at the lows. You even thought you saw the producer from inside the booth turn his head towards you from the corner of your eye, but you couldn´ be sure.

Everyone except Damon Albarn.

The song ended a minute later with the signal of a fading out bass, and then there was silence.

¨Right on with that tune.. ´Thought we'd be fucked ova´ if we didn't find someone to take that melody.¨ The bassist with long shaggy hair grinned and you returned one back.

¨Yeah, I was kind of hesitant when Graham ´ere told us he found one to take this position on, but I'm pleased.¨ The saxophone player scratched his chin and hummed his agreement. You felt relief.

Until he spoke.

¨Is this your first time playing?¨

You look incredulously over at him, looking straight on at his face. Sandy hair, lines on his cheeks, slight scruff around his chin, he looked older than his online pictures.

¨Uhh, no?¨ You laugh a little, trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice. ¨If I was, I doubt Graham would think I´m good enough to play with you guys.¨

¨I don't think Graham is the only one who needs to think that.¨ Everyone shifts uncomfortably, looking nervously from Damon to you, and Graham tugs his collar as if the temperature had gone up.

But nonetheless, you don't back down.

¨Oh yeah? How so?¨

¨You played the G-string too high,¨ He deadpans, looking utterly bored amidst oceanic hues.

¨What?¨ You flip your music pages a couple of times until you find the page where you played that part. ¨No I didn´t, I was right on tune-do you even know how to play the violin?¨

¨No,¨ he smirks, and with your blood boiling steadily you open your mouth to argue, but thankfully Graham butts in.

¨Damon, don´t be a prick, she played fine. Unlike you, who fucked up on the 5th verse.¨

The man in question lazily stretches his arms above his head, causing his white tee to rise a few inches over his belly button. You can´t help but glance at the skin-it's smooth, cleanly chiseled with part of his v-line showing, a happy trail rising from the juncture.

¨Oi, sweetheart, eyes up here.¨

You snap your gaze back to his smug face, cheeks burning.

¨I didn´t-¨

¨Sure you didn´t. Just like how I didn't mess up on the 5th verse, and how you didn't ruin the song with your shitty violin, yeah?¨ He simpers, and you almost rise out of your seat to snarl at him before Graham jumps in between you two, scolding a very inappropriately-grinning Damon.

You get up out of your chair and huff, shoving your belongings back into your bag as everyone else packs up, the men bickering and playfully throwing shit at each other.

The producer even congratulates you on your successful first day, and everyone cheers and pounds you on your back, your hair falling in your face and gracefully hiding your 120k watt smile.

Damon shoulders right past you, knocking your case right out of your hands. You grapple with it for a second before it hits the ground, and when it does you whip around and shoot him an icy glare.

He's not even looking at you, he's already out the door.

It's quiet for a moment.

¨Well, there he goes again being a dickhead. Classic Damon, you got.¨ The saxophone player points to the leaving blond and grins sheepishly at you.

¨What's his problem?¨ You ask in disgust, shaking your head as you join the rest of the boys leaving.

¨Uh, well...¨ Graham scratches the back of his head and avoids looking at you. ¨He's always been kind of like that, y´know, so don't take it too personally, but between just us four, his wife´s been on his arse for a bit about um...some...domestic affairs.¨ He finishes lamely, and the other two men guffaw at your raised eyebrow.

You don't have a chance to press further as to ask what domestic affairs, exactly because a loud clap of thunder shakes you all to your cores as you step outside.

¨Aw, come on!¨ You stamp your foot and hold out your hand for confirmation of the raindrops about to drop on you all. ¨I didn't know it was gonna rain today,¨ you grumble.

Graham squints up at the sky and wipes some droplets off his blurred glasses, covering his head with his jacket hood as he begins walking to the parking garage. ¨I´ll see you lot in about a week, yeah? Just keep practicing, good rehearsal we had today!¨ He waves his hand and dashes off.

¨Good job on your first day, Y/N. Fancy the weather on your walk back for us!¨ The sax and bass player bid farewell and also do a sprint to their respective cars, splashing through the puddles and sending muddy water on your pants.

¨Urgh!¨ You raise your hands to try and protect your bottoms but to no avail- London's sewage strikes again.

Sighing in defeat, you walk through the rain towards your car, succumbing to the grimy walk. Unfortunately you didn't think to use the parking garage due to high nerves when you first came in.

You walk for about 5 minutes, the rain drenching your hair and clothes and chilling you to your bones.

Could this day get any more annoying?

Oh, but you should´ve known that it could.

Because right at that moment, a black limo swerves right next to you on the sidewalk, sending a massive wave of gutter water right your way.

You swear loudly and jump back, barely managing to avoid the remnants of the sewage tsunami crossing your feet.

Looking up wildly at the offensive vehicle, you make a fist and flip the window off, your lip curled up into a snarl.

The obsidian glass rolls down.

¨Well that's not very nice, is it? Nasty weather we got going on right now, careful it doesn't get on your clothes.¨

Oh.

¨It's you,¨ you monotone, less than pleased to see his salacious grin at your predicament-which was being soaked to your undergarments in brown muddy water, your hair clinging to your face and your violin case lugging down towards the ground, its weight proving mutiny against you today of all days.

¨In the flesh,¨ Damon beams, and you scowl at his cheery attitude.

¨You almost drowned me, asshole,¨ You turn your nose up in scorn, and he chuckles in his baritone voice.

¨Nah, cant´ve love, I can't drive,¨ he clicks his tongue and jerks his thumb to the seat in front of him, where you assume his chauffeur is.

¨Oh, so it was under your orders that your poor driver practically waterboarded me?¨ ¨Well, yeah, I mean what else do you expect me to do when I see a pretty lady walking so harmlessly in the rain?¨ Your voice catches in your throat for a second from his words and the way his glacial eyes twinkle for a moment, but then he erupts in dry chuckles at your demeanor and you throttle your hesitancy at speaking.

¨Shut up, you're absolutely vile, y´know that?¨ ¨So I´ve been told, but to be honest sweetheart, I´d rather hear that in bed, where I´m used to hearing it. Now are you going to get in or shall I talk about my sexual prowess with you the rest of the afternoon?¨ He opens his door from the inside and mockingly winks at you.

You feign a gag, but still decide to jump in the spacious limo when a flash of lightning lights up the sky.

He scoots back to give you space to sit and adjust your violin case on the seats in front of you, but just as you´re about to close the door, he leans in right next to you and reaches behind you to pull it shut himself.

You´re caught still as he draws close, you´re extended hand frozen in midair as his arm against your back flexes and stiffens with it pulling the door. You can feel his breath against your neck as he exhales, can feel some of his hair tickling against your ear and cheek. You hold your breath, not daring to move lest you accidentally brush up against his proximity.

The loud slam of the door causes you to jump, and he laughs a little at that, signaling his driver to go.

You don't quite face him, your gaze down in your lap as his entire body is facing you, still stuck in its position when he was closing the car door.

¨Not nervous, are you?¨ He murmurs in your ear, and you can´t help it when your whole body shivers at feeling the rumble in his gravelly voice.

¨N-no, I´m not. Do you have to be so close?¨ You stammer, barely giving him a sideways glance which eggs him on, much to your displeasure.

¨Not really. But if you´re not nervous, then it shouldn't be a problem, right?¨ He says quietly and leans around to catch your eye.

Before you can lose your nerve and jump out of the car, you snap at him. ¨You just don´t quit, do you?¨

He finally relents and the side of his pink lips lift lazily as he stretches his knees out and practically manspreads across the expanse of three seats. ¨Nope. Not that you really were against it though, ´could feel your heart pounding a mile a minute sweetheart. Trust me, I´m used to making girls nervous, I would know.¨

You sneer at him. ¨Don´t call me sweetheart, and yeah, I was nervous about getting some disease-ridden prick like you getting close to me. God knows how many STD´s you've contracted from bedding some poor groupies.¨

¨Only one way to find out, right love?¨ He leans his head up to the car ceiling and lets his tousled golden hair flop back, his jawline accentuated by the cream-colored seats contrasting with his tan skin.

You catch yourself staring, and shake your head quickly.

¨You must´ve been more hopped up on heroine than I thought if you think I´d ever fuck a self-absorbed, narcissitic bastard like you.¨

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, but once they do your eyes widen and you clap a hand over your mouth in horror.

Damon lifts his head and slowly turns to face you, his mouth set in a thin line.

¨A self-absorbed, narcissistic bastard whose limo you're riding in, need I remind you, so I can´t be all that bad. ´Can't say I haven't heard any of that before love, but most girls who say that end up in my bed anyways.¨

You open your mouth to argue but he cuts you off.

¨Although, ´hopped up on heroin´ is a new one. Just exactly how much research have you done about me so far?¨

Your rebuttal dies in your throat. You were caught.

Your ears burn and your face flushes as you bite your lip in embarrassment. Maybe you went too far, and on top of that you let it slip that you knew about him beforehand.

But you refuse to kowtow in humiliation to this idiot, so you think quickly.

¨I doubt you´ve got your head that far up your ass to disregard how half the world was tuning into your personal life when Blur was big, Damon.¨

He looks unimpressed with your excuse, but before he can open his mouth to question you further, you hurry up with another save.

¨Also, where are we going? You never asked me where my car was.¨

Bingo His eyes brighten and he shouts at the driver, harping on about him being a brain-dead idiot for driving in circles the past 10 minutes.

What a save.

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

The moment you step into the booth next week, a drumstick is lobbed at you from seemingly nowhere. You yelp and hold your case up, blocking the weapon as it bounces off your makeshift shield. You bring the case down and shoot a glare towards the only man you know capable of acting so childishly at his grown age.

But he´s already scrolling through his phone, looking for a measure to start from.

¨You´re late.¨

¨Hardly,¨ you mutter, glancing at the clock on the wall. Two minutes past shouldn´t be an excuse for having a drumstick pick out your eye.

¨Good to see you again, Y/N,¨ Graham pipes up softly, sending you an apologetic glance from Damon to you and you stick out your tongue in faux annoyance.

The other two members of your group greet you as well, and you all begin practice. Notes begin harmonizing together, voice and sound coinciding to make music you´ve swayed your hips and nodded your head to on blue nights.

It´s a hot day, humidity clinging to your skin akin to the perspiration hanging off your forehead, and halfway through the song you decide to take off your sweater. You´re wearing a white tank top underneath, nothing too revealing save for the slight dip in the V-neck, but you couldn't care less about modesty at the moment when your fingers were literally slipping in their grasp on your sweat-slicked bow.

During a quick break in your part of the song, you slip off your sweater and fan yourself out. It feels good, but you feel a pair of eyes staring at you. Following the laser gaze, you turn your head to face Damon, but he´s nose-deep in the lyrics sheet, warbling about a broken love or friendship.

Huh, must´ve been imagining it.

Your solo comes up, and you prepare yourself for tackling the notes to your best ability, keeping up with Graham´s rapid guitar pace. Sweat continues to build on everyone´s vicinity when the rapid movement of arms waving around their own instrument causes more body heat to suffocate you all.

Miraculously, the song finishes, and you collapse in your seat like the rest of the men, panting and wiping slick off your foreheads. You reach for a bottle of water on the floor and unscrew the lid, grimacing at its lukewarm temperature but drinking it nonetheless.

For the second time, you have an unnerving feeling of being watched. This time, you whip your head to the side and catch him staring straight at you.

Damon´s face is flushed, his hair tousled, his rose colored glasses steamed up from the muggy aura in the room. His denim jacket is hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his torso covered with a sheer wife beater that accentuates his chiseled dad-body.

But he just stares you down, saying nothing. You frown at him a little bit and shift your body away from him, feeling vulnerable to his laser-gaze. His eyes darken, but Graham speaks, cutting him off from whatever he was about to say.

¨That was pretty good, you lot. Greg, Taz, hold off on the third beat of the fourth measure. We´ve gotta crescendo slightly-¨

¨Y/N, do you have a job?¨

Damon's voice cuts off Graham, and everyone falters as they look at him and then you in surprise.

¨I don´t know what you mean,¨ you respond coolly, knowing that whatever he was about to say wasn't good.

¨I mean, do you have a job? Because as far as I know, most people who work don't dress like whores at their job.¨

His eyes travel from your face down to your slight cleavage, and you sputter in rage as the rest of the boys shift uncomfortably.

¨Damon, for god's sake what´re you on about?¨ Graham asks wearily, taking his glasses off and rubbing his shiny neck.

¨I could ask you the same thing, actually. Because as far as I know, you've fucked enough women in your lifetime that one would think you could keep it in your pants for five minutes without acting like a twelve-year-old. Oh, but unless that´s too professional for you? I guess you´re not as serious about your work environment as you claim.¨ you laugh, and the sax player, Greg, snorts into his water bottle.

Damon sneers, ¨How could I forget, you actually have done your research about my life and sexual endeavors, what a cute little fangirl you are. If you wanted an autograph, you could've just asked, sweetheart.¨

¨Go fuck yourself,¨ you snap. ¨You´re all wearing wife-beaters anyways, what's the difference?¨

Damon starts again but Graham claps his hands loudly, startling you all.

¨Enough, both of you! What's gotten into you? Need I remind you that our song is due in less than two weeks? We need to finish this shit and get on with it. Stop acting like children.¨

You mumble under your breath and Damon shoots a dark look to his childhood friend, but the brunette doesn't back down, and continues to give advice on how to improve their song. You don´t look at Damon the rest of the session out of pure spite, but that doesn't stop him from shamelessly staring straight at you, right until it's time to leave.

The second Graham checks his watch and exclaims that it's a quarter past twelve already, you´re already bolting out of your seat and shoving your violin in its case, eager to get out of the disgustingly hot room.

Fortunately, this time you had the right idea to park in the garage like everyone else to avoid any other unwanted encounters, but unfortunately while it was nice to not be waterboarded on your walk, it wasn´t enough to stop said unwanted encounters from occurring.

Take right now, for instance.

As you stumble to your car in the blistering weather, your energy depletes faster and faster, causing you to be light headed. Practice was already tough enough in the sweltering heat, but after Damon's little scene you don't have any energy to even walk.

You crash blindly into your car, the metal of the doors burning your skin as you make contact with the handle. You hiss and jerk back, swaying slightly as your head fogs up. You can barely see, you feel like your clothes weigh a ton on you, so you slide down the vehicle and sit up against the tires, throwing your head back against the car and groaning. The idea of unlocking your doors and sitting in the seat where no doubt several temperatures higher will be settling on the dashboard and in the front row is nauseating.

Weather-2

You-0

You don't know the building well enough to know where a vending machine is, and even if you shot Graham a text, you don't have enough energy to wander around and scout for it.

And lo and behold, from a distance, a figure approaches. You squint as it draws nearer, and let out a laugh as the features come into familiarity.

The heat must be getting to you worse than you thought, because you´re certain you´re hallucinating Damon Albarn of all fucking people swaggering towards you, one hand holding his denim jacket over his shoulder, and a shit-eating grin on his face as he comes to stand in front of you.

All you can do is pant like a dog, looking up at him with unimpressed eyes.

¨Oi, G-String. ´Brought you some water.¨ he holds out a hand, and you choose to ignore the offensive nickname, insead noticing the large bottle in it, cold condensation covering its expanse.

Your eyes widen and you lick your lips unconsciously, holding your hands out for it.

Damon watches your tongue poke out and loses focus before snapping back to reality and moving his arm above your head. You pout and try to reach for it again, but he laughs and holds it even higher.

You glare and turn your head away from him, suddenly remembering how he embarrassed you earlier.

¨Go away. I don't want it anymore. You´re an asshole.¨ you mumble, perspiration hanging off your lip as you lick the salty beads away once again.

Damon´s eyes never leave your mouth as he listens to you and watches the pink appendage make its appearance again, and his mouth hangs open slightly unbeknownst to you for a second. You cross your arms and glare at the empty parking lot, silently willing him to go away.

He snaps back into focus yet again and shakes his head at you. ¨Oh come on love, I´m just teasing. You look like you´re about to die anyways, might as well make this your last meal-er, drink I mean.¨

¨I´m not taking anything from a complete dickhead who enjoys harassing women about their clothes. You know, for such a womanizer, you act pretty clueless about how comments like that would make a girl feel. No one else but you had an issue with it, or rather, had the audacity to point it out.¨ You cough at the last word, your dry throat and heavy head making it harder to talk.

He sighs and crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet. He pops open the cap and gently turns your chin towards his face, much to your surprise. You´re genuinely too weak to protest, but when you look at his concerned face, eyebrows scrunched up and accentuating the lines on his forehead, you don't think you'd want to turn away even if you could.

He coaxes your agap mouth even more open by dragging a rough thumb down over your lips, and you obediently open your mouth, mesmerized by his eyes. His movements are soft and slow, as if you were a fidgety rabbit about to run off at the slightest touch. He scoots closer, right over in front of you as you simply gaze up at him, allowing him to pour cool water down your throat, quenching your bone-dry palate.

For a couple of seconds, water floods your mouth but all you can do is stare up at him. The light rays are reflecting off his back, casting a yellow glow around his silhouette and he almost looks like an angel. His hair is mussed as if he'd spent the day running his hands through the golden locks, and the scruff on his face peeks through soft-looking skin.

¨Swallow, or I'll really waterboard you this time,¨ he says lowly, chuckling a bit as he catches you staring so adamantly right in his face. You jerk back to consciousness and swallow hastily, accidentally choking on the gulp in your rush.

He laughs even more and lets go of your chin much to your disappointment as he adjusts himself to sit next to you, not seeming to mind the scorching car metal. The absence of his hand on your face leaves a cold, empty feeling in your heart despite the heated blush on your cheeks

¨You´ll burn yourself,¨ you mumble, lolling your head over to look at him.

But he looks straight ahead and shrugs casually. ¨Not any more than you.¨ You both sit in silence for a few minutes, occasionally sipping from the bottle he passes towards you and watching cars go by.

¨You didn't answer my question. Why do you harp on me in the studio? You act like a normal human being here.¨

Damon looks thoughtfully at a white sedan passing by, then speaks.

¨As I´m sure Graham has blabbed to you already, I´ve been having some...trouble with the missus, let's say.¨

You say nothing and raise a questioning eyebrow.

¨For the shitty attitude,¨ he mutters and swipes the bottle from your hand, taking a large swig himself.

¨And, like you said earlier, I am an asshole. Of course I´ll enjoy harassing pretty women over their revealing clothes,¨ he smirks and gives you a once over.

There it was again, pretty woman.

You scowl and get up to leave, but what he says stops you in your tracks.

¨Taz was lookin´ at you,¨ he says quietly, suddenly very interested in the now-empty bottle. ¨´Didn't like it, but I couldn't say anything to him. Graham likes him too much.¨

Huh. Maybe the pair of eyes you felt back in the room didn't only belong to Damon.

He cracks a small smile and looks up at you, his face adorably innocent and wide as he sheepishly admits, ¨I´m used to butting heads with blokes like him for women.¨

You jerk back up to your feet, brushing off any insinuation he was giving and pat his knee awkwardly, ignoring the fire now igniting once again in your chest.

¨Thanks for the water, I needed it. You might wanna move if you don't want to get run over by my car.¨ You reach down and pick up your case as Damon clambers to his feet.

He looks amused as you fumble for your keys, nervously turning the lock and sitting in the hot car, obviously eager to get away from his intimidating gaze.

¨I´ll see you next week, yeah?¨ You laugh breathlessly and roll your window down to call out to him.

He says nothing, but merely cocks his head at you, his eyes now obscured by the rose-colored glasses he puts over his eyes. He waves a little and watches as you drive away a little too fast.

But as it turns out, you don't see him next week.

******

It was just your luck that one of the cutest guys from your work asked you out on the very same week you had practice with the boys. You contemplated moving the date to another time, but...you deserved to have some fun time off too, right? It's not like it would make too much of a difference in your skill, anyways, you´ve gotten all the strings down and such.

So, you decide to go on this date. It goes well, the dude was cute, dorky, lacked a little pizzazz but nothing a bottle of fancy red wine and a night of movies couldn´t coax out of him. It honestly wasn't anything too big, you exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up again soon. After parting ways, you threw yourself back into the regular regime of practicing your violin and meticulously listening to the booth recording every night, just so you could perfect your part to a T.

The day came where you had to go back to practice, and you were ready, veins pumping with determination to make these last few sessions the best you´ve played yet. You texted Graham that you´d be there soon, and he gave you a thumbs up in return. When you finally arrived in front of the room, you were 10 minutes late. The boys were already playing, by the sound of the percussion booming outside the door. You grimace and take a deep breath, turning the handle in and hurrying inside the booth.

No one really spared a glance at you, so you assumed you were okay in terms of punctuality. You opened your case and started strumming your strings, counting the measures and beats until it was your turn. Damon´s voice rang out, melodious and airy as ever, dropping octaves and floating on soprano tones. Your bow moved across his words, accenting his tones and adding emphasis to his sorrowful song. And then, after a couple of minutes, it was done.

¨Alright you lot, pretty good for today. ´Specially you, Y/N, you caught up pretty quick, I expected you to slack behind but I'm actually impressed.¨ Graham flashed you a nervous grin and you beamed back at him in return.

¨Yeah, speaking of, why were you gone last week? I expected someone who makes below the poverty line would actually want to work for their money,¨ Damon chuckles a little meanly.

You feel your smile drop a smidge.

¨Well actually Damon, not that it's any of your business, but I went on a date.¨ You smirk at him, enjoying the way his mouth opens slightly and moves silently.

But he regroups quickly and glares at you. ¨None of my business? The deadline is only a few days away, and you´re whoring yourself out and going on dates? I guess you´re not as professional as Graham thought.¨

Everyone shifts uncomfortably, and blood rushes to your face, anger clouding your mind. Why was he being like this? He was fine the last time you saw him, you actually thought maybe he was going to change the way he addressed you.

Graham speaks up. ¨Damon. You´re overreacting man, I gave her the okay, and she played fine today. No harm done, seriously, there's no need for that kind of language towards her.¨

¨Actually, there absolutely is a need. If I knew you were going to invite a prostitute as our sub-in then I would´ve never agreed to have her here. Didn´t know you were so low on money Y/N, I would´ve spared you a couple pounds.¨ He sneers.

¨Damon!¨

You laugh bitterly and rise to your feet. ¨Oh that's rich, coming from the man who fucked half the continent just because he couldn't get over one girl. No wonder every real woman in your life including your wife wants to leave, nothing is ever good enough for you. Except heroin maybe.¨

The words leave your mouth before you can take them back, and there's a pin drop silence as if a bomb had been dropped. In a way, it kind of did.

Damo glares at you. Everyone is holding your breath, including you.

¨Get out.¨

¨Hey,-¨ Taz tries to gently interject but Damon throws the mic at him.

¨I said get the fuck out. You´re not practicing with us anymore, you can pack your shit and leave.¨

Tears brim at the corners of your eyes, and you choke out a small ¨Fine.¨

You hear Graham berating him behind you as you fly through the door, telling him that they need you, it's too late to change people, but the words jumble in your ears as the door slams shut. You don't hear what Damon says, if he even says anything, and you aren't interested in his comebacks right now.

It's only when you leave the car, tears streaming down your face in rage and embarrassment that you groan to yourself, your hands reaching an empty seat with one foot out the door-

You forgot your violin case.

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

It's nighttime.

The crickets chirp as you creep silently through the parking garage, the soft thud of your shoes echoing a lot louder than you wanted in the empty lot. The studio itself wasn't closed, but you were sure Damon must have informed the manager there not to let an ex-musician like you back in there.

Wearing a black hoodie and black pants was a smart move- you blended in with the shadows well. The doors weren't locked, and you hiss out a small ¨yesss¨ as you slip inside the mostly dark building. Needless to say, you were proud of yourself for navigating through the windings pitch-black hallways to your old booth.

Testing the handle lightly, you sigh out in relief when that too gives way. Unfortunately though, the second the door shuts behind you, you immediately stumble forward and fall.

The room is dark, darker than the other hallways so you can barely see your hands. The only source of light you´re granted is the dim red bulb on top of the booth door. And speaking of, that's exactly where you need to go...which proves to be harder when you keep bumping into random shit and cursing when you feel potential bruises forming on your shins.

Miraculously you stagger through the next door towards where you last sat, and blindly feel around the floor and chairs for your violin case. You feel nothing there, but panic starts settling in your heart when you can't find it.

¨Looking for something?¨

You scream and lurch backwards, knocking your head into some kind of stand. Groaning, you rub your head and hold a hand on your racing heart as you squint into the dim red room, placing the voice to the person.

¨D-Damon?¨

¨In the flesh sweetheart. ´Knew you'd come back for this, s´just my luck I came back to get it tonight so I could give it to you personally in case you wanted to be stubborn. But this is even better than I could´ve hoped.¨

You make out his silhouette in the obsidian abyss in front of you. He's sitting with knees spread on a chair, a few feet in front of you as he leans his head back on the wall. Your precious violin case is being held hostage in his arms, and it's the absolute love you have for the brittle instrument that propels you to your feet and moves you to get the hell out instead of interrogating him.

¨What, so you were just here the whole time listening to me falling around like an idiot?” You laugh incredulously, and you see the area of his shoulders move up and down.

¨Was pretty funny to watch, honestly. You sound cute when you curse.¨ He stands up to his fullest height now, the red light bouncing off his back, giving him a sort of demonic halo.

You knew it was actually time to leave when you felt those stupid butterflies in your stomach rise up again.

¨Right, well, I´ll be on my way then. Good luck with your song and whatever, I´ll just take the case...¨ You trail off as your extended hand is left in midair, no violin case reaching it.

He cocks his head at you. ¨Why are you in such a rush to leave?¨

You can´t help the scoff that escapes you.

¨Are you serious? You were such an absolute dickhead to me this afternoon, you said all sorts of horrible things to me, and you even fired me for Christ's sake! I want nothing to do with you, so could you please give me my case back so I can go?¨

He's silent for a moment before answering. ¨Are you done yet?¨

It isn´t just the light that's making you see red now.

¨Fuck you, honestly.¨ You whirl around and stomp towards where you guess the door is, ignoring the clatter behind you and bingo you locate the handle, but as soon as you turn it-

A hand reaches from behind you and pulls the ajar door shut.

¨Don´t go. I´m sorry.¨

You´re absolutely still as you feel him towering over you, his arm dangerously close to your midriff as his hand remains on the knob.

His voice is low, and you can feel him breathe against your neck, mere inches away. You can´t help the involuntary shiver that passes through you, and he feels it too, inhaling deeply when he gets close to your ear.

¨You smell so good.¨

¨Leave me alone, Damon,¨ you whisper, your voice catching in your throat from the overwhelming onslaught of emotions passing through you.

He breaths in and slowly lets his hand rest on your side.

¨I can't do that. You know why. You have to have known by now.¨

You tremble in his touch, yet allow his hands to wander down to your hip, the other coming around in a sort of hug to pull you closer to him.

¨We can´t.¨

¨Sure we can.¨

You can feel his erection bumping against your ass.

¨You´re not worth this.¨

¨I´ll make myself worth it.¨

And as soon as he latches onto the back of your neck, you´re like putty in his hands, a moaning mess as he sucks galaxy-colored hickies on your skin. You can feel yourself grow wetter as he shoves his hands up your shirt and teasingly pulls down the bridge of your bra, letting the weight of your tits fill up his hands appreciatively. He starts rolling your hardened buds in between his skilled calloused fingers, and you whine and throw your head back when you feel him rut against your ass, panting raggedly in your ear.

You rub your thighs together, desperate for some form of friction as he squeezes your tits, and then letting one hand ghost across the expanse of your stomach, down to brush against the rim of your panties. Damon chuckles meanly in your ear when you buck against the stilled hand over your mound.

¨You want this?¨ He lightly nips your ear. He smells like old spice and sandalwood.

You nod desperately, frustrated with him not giving you his thick fingers already.

But it's not enough for him. ¨No no, pretty girl, use your words now. I´ve barely touched you yet and you´re already moaning like a wanton little slut for me? And here I was thinking you weren't that easy.¨

You stop jerking your hips and blood rushes to your face at his insulting words. You try to move out of his grip, huffing and regretting the whole thing but he outright laughs now and spins you around, tugging you forward until your chest is slotted against his. You pout at him and look away, but he's quick to grasp your chin and pull you in for a rough yet sensual kiss.

Pushing you backwards against the wall, he deepens the lip-lock, tracing his tongue over your lips, nipping at the soft flesh and darkening his eyes when you whimper and look up at him.

He knows what he´s fucking doing when he again drops his hand under your pants and over your panties, his other palm wound up firmly through your hair. He pulls your head back and lets you breathe for a second from his kiss of death before he speaks again.

¨I didn't hear an answer, slut. Do you want this?¨ He leans forward until his nose brushes against your neck, flicking his tongue out to taste your saccharine flesh.

You tremble against his firm body when he pushes his pelvis against you, letting you feel how hard he is for you.

It doesn't matter anymore. Maybe he was right, maybe you were just an easy slut putting up a facade for him, but when his clothes erection grinds up against your pussy you can't care less.

¨Y-yes, yes, ´want you, please,¨ you pant, frantically gripping the back of his cropped hair as his head descends to mark your neck again.

¨What a good girl,¨ he whispers, finally allowing his digits to oh-so-slowly trace over your mound, pressing down harder when you jerk against him. He finds your wet clit and flicks it a few times, snickering when you gasp and moan. Your body writhes in place but he holds you literally between a rock-or, wall- and a hard place, preventing you from scampering off.

He drums his fingers against your folds, paying no attention to the way you grip his head tighter against you, silently begging him to go further.

But he relents eventually and retires from just pushing and prodding your folds, allowing his slicked fingers to slowly dive into your drooling hole. You whimper and bite back a string of curses when you feel him fill you completely, scraping against your walls for that one special spot.

His mouth moves off your neck and he rises to face you, a stupid smug grin on his wet lips, his eyelids lowered and trained on you. You flush at his lustful expression and gently push his head away, not wanting to accept his victory yet.

¨My fingers are literally fucking you right now, and you still won´t let me look at you? What, too embarrassed you couldn't continue being a stone-cold bitch for long?¨

You open your mouth to snap back but right at that moment he curls his fingers and grazes your G-spot, simultaneously grounding his wet palm against your clit.

With a loud gasp and the sluttiest moan you´ve ever made, you cum hard, your mouth open in a silent scream and your tongue hanging out like a bitch in heat as you do so. You fall forward against him.

You don't even need to look up to know that he has a shit-eating grin on his face.

¨What was that sweetheart? Sorry, ´couldn't hear you over those slutty moans. I think even the pornstars I´ve been with would give you a standing ovation if they heard what you just sounded like.¨

Your words are slurred as you curse nonsense at him, yet you´re still gripping his forearms to keep a hold on yourself. Your ears are ringing and you see spots as you come down from your climax, and surprisingly enough, Damon holds you close and doesn't let you slip down to the ground as you expected to when your knees start to give out.

Instead, he lifts you up quite easily and carries you over to a table in the corner of the room. You don´t know how he even navigates his way through the dimly lit room, but you suppose after almost half a lifetime in studios he knows his way around.

You offer no resistance as he sets you down gently and begins to lift your shirt off of your body. You manage to lift your arms weakly up in the air for easier access to stripping, but when he starts to kneel down to take your pants off you stop his hands at your knees and look at him with scrunched eyebrows.

He stops and looks up at you. His eyes aren't so darkened anymore, they´re wide and imploring, probably noticing your hesitation.

¨Damon, I...¨ You trail off as he maintains eye contact with you and slowly lowers his pursed lips to your calf, lightly pecking his way up to your knees and ensuring that you´re watching his every move.

Your breathing increases again as his pink appendage darts out, his saliva cooling on your exposed thighs. He sucks on the plush skin and turns his head upwards to face you.

You want to run your hands through his hair.

¨You have a wife,¨ You breathe.

¨Not for tonight I don´t.¨

Your voice gets caught in your throat at that. He positions his hands at the side of your knees, fingers curling around the hem of your pants in a second attempt.

¨Let me make you feel good, love.¨

His answer is in the form of your hand reaching for his collar and pulling him up into a standing position until he towers over your seated form, once again breath stolen in a heated kiss.

Damon fumbles with his zipper as you shove your pants off, fully ready for him now, your dampened panties solid evidence of your need for him.

He pulls his cock out and it bounces out, slapping up against his stomach.

You do a double take. The tabloids were right. He was absolutely huge.

It was disgusting almost, it was insulting really. How the fuck could he be that big? You lose count of how many inches he is when you start to get light headed, realizing with a jolt that he plans to put that monster inside you.

And fuck, why did it have to be so pretty too? Normally you wouldn´t use the word pretty to describe a dick, but fuck, that´s the only appropriate word that came to mind as you admired the white flesh as it mixed in with a dull pink flush turning into an angry shade of red as your eyes progressed up to his tip...which was soaked with precum, mind you.

He was neatly shaven everywhere, including his plush balls. No wonder he got to fuck half the continent.

Damon notices your gawking and smiles lazily, taking a fist around his prick and stroking lethargically up and down.

¨You gonna just stare at it all day or are you going to spread those cute legs for me?¨

Spoken like a true middle aged fuck-boyman.

You look up at him beseechingly, thoroughly intimidated by his length. He merely scoffs, winking at you when he wrenches your tightly closed knees apart.

It's almost like he falls into a trance when he presses his now-naked torso against your chest, when he slots himself between your legs and drags his tip through your sloppy folds and up onto your clit. His mouth falls open slightly and he moans when your juices coat his dick, making it slippery and easy to push the first few inches ever so slightly into your spasming cavern.

He can't help but want more, need more as he practically smothers his weight onto you, forcing you to lie back on the table and letting your legs dangle off the edge. He hunches over you and thrusts minutely into your pulsing folds, groaning when you whine and lace your fingers around his neck and tangle your legs around his back, dragging him impossibly close into you.

For a moment it´s just the sound of you two panting and moaning like inexperienced teenagers, and a zing of pride zips up your spine at the realization that Damon Albarn, one of the world's most renowned playboy is whining and humping against your pussy, reduced to nothing at your hands.

He takes your hands from around his neck and grips your wrists, forcing them above your head on the table. He leans down and kisses you, hard. You give him back the same energy when your hips move up and down along his length, pushing your inviting hole towards his eager and jumping dick.

¨Pretty little girl,¨ he murmurs against your lips, and you nip his bottom lip playfully in retaliation. He slowly starts to sink himself into you, and you practically purr at the feeling of his veiny member dragging against your sensitive walls until he stops.

You look at him questioningly, and blanch when you see the mischievous glint in his cobalt eyes.

¨I want you to count for me.¨

¨Count…?¨ You shake your head in confusion and he pulls out, making you groan in annoyance.

¨I want you to count every inch I put inside you. Unless your slutty mouth can't even do that? I'd be surprised if you couldn´t, you usually have so much shit to say.¨ His voice is low yet teasing, and a shiver passes through you when the rumble of his chest vibrates against your nipples.

¨F-fine, I´ll count.¨

He hums in approval and regroups, guiding his length into your awaiting pussy once again.

It´s almsot torture how slow he goes, and your toes curl at how vivid the sensation is at this pace.

You almost forget to do what he asks until he ducks his head down and teeths your bud.

¨Ah, fuck! One!¨ You yelp, writhing to get away from his lecherous gaze and hold on your poor tit.

He tuts and licks the swollen area until the pain subsides a bit, and then he continues to push.

¨T-two,¨ you moan and let your head fall back. It's unfair how tightly he´s holding your reins-you want him to plow you down, not take his sweet time in this punishment.

¨Damon, can´t you go any faster? Please, I want y-¨

¨-I didn't take you for a masochist, Y/N, but I´m happy to play around with these cute tits if you want to bitch more.¨

Your scowl is cut off when he suddenly shoves two more inches into you, and you mewl loudly at being filled so much.

¨Three! Four! Fuck, oh god, please,¨ you babble nonsense as he curses above you, his form shaking in an effort not to push all the way in.

¨Doing so good sweetheart, you´re almost halfway,¨ he smirks and you gape at him in disbelief.

Halfway?

Five, six, seven, eight, and nine go painfully slow, and by the time he´s fully sheathed inside you, plush balls pressed against your ass, you´re an incoherent, drooling mess.

Your hair is in your face, your cheeks are flushed, and your body bounces up and down as he begins to rock inside you, finally giving you what you want.

His name is chanted like an obscene prayer from your mouth as he grunts and shakes the table. Your legs are wobbly and unable to do anything except press him tighter against you to the point where he can barely move back. The skin of his stomach slaps against yours, his balls slap against the crevice of your ass, and your pussy practically sloshes with every stroke in and out.

He fists your hair with one hand and pulls your neck up to meet his searching lips, his other hand holds your wrists fast against the table. You want to touch him, you want to explore your body as he has conquered yours but he doesn't let you feel anything else apart from the rapid thrusts inside your battered body.

Damon switches positions and lifts the back of your knees up and pushes them forwards until they meet your chest. He lets his body weight rest on the back of your thighs as he pulls out and pushes back impossibly close inside you, closer than he did in missionary.

You sob with need as he plunges into you and reaches a higher spot than before, his tip grazing your cervix. He pounds into you, and you thrust your hips up to fuck back into him, calling out his name as if he were your god.

It´s a good thing the rooms are soundproof.

You feel your second climax comes when he paves way through your tight walls and batters your uterus. It doesn´t hurt so much as feel intense, and your choked moans become panting gasps when he brings a hand down to swirl his thumb over your aching clit.

¨You´re not going to meet with that prick from your work again, yeah? Say it. Say it if you want me to let you cum.¨ He could have been speaking an alien language for all you knew. Your poor addled brain didn't pick up anything except for the word ¨cum¨, and you were a goner.

¨Yes, yes, anything you say, anything you want, just please let me-¨

And oh he does.

It comes over you like a tidal wave, your mind going blank, your eyes seeing white as your legs shake from your earth-shattering orgasm. You feel like you´re going down a rollercoaster, and you never want to stop dropping.

Distantly, you hear him groan and say your name. You can feel pulsing in your filled walls, with what you assume is his ropes of cum. It feels like when you came, it practically squeezed all his cum out with your clenching.

He lets out a shaky breath and falls forward, his nose inches from yours, his breath puffing in your face.

Your eyes are glazed over, but you´ve never seen anything more clearly before.

Maybe Damon Albarn really was worth it.

#blur #damon x reader #damon albarn #damon albarn smut #britpop #90s damon #90s #smut #fluff #britpop smut #damon fluff #Damon Albarn #damon albarn x reader #Damon albarn smut #Damon albarn fanfic #Damon albarn fanfiction #blur fanfic #blur fanfiction

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darkmindsotome · 3 years ago

Text

On the Riverbank

Title: On the Riverbank

Fandom: Love365 Masquerade Kiss

Pairing: Kei Soejima x MC

Word count:3,963

Warning: NSFW Smut

Written by: darkmindsotome

Summary: After suffering from cabin fever a date is in order. Only this simple date plan is going to get spicy.

Tagging @voltage-vixen as requested. Prompt #15: Free Prompt (Picnic on the River)

---

I was willing to blame uncontrollable events on the fact that we hadn’t managed to go on a date in a while. Between work and recovering from work, it had been impossible to plan anything. However, it had become the new norm for us to remain living together at Kei’s rooms in Raven.

At some point, I began to feel like I had cabin fever. I was happy to be with Kei and a secret part of me loved being at home with him 24/7. To think there was a time when I thought this was a prison sentence. I couldn’t deny the fact I wanted to go out and do something now things had settled down though.

After looking out of the large windows in the suite over the streets of London, sighing for what must have been the sixth or seventh time, into my nighttime cup of tea. Kei put down his book and announced we would be going on a date. Later that night I curled up happily in bed wrapped in his arms and fell fast asleep.

The next day I woke up alone. My mysterious man had vanished before I could say so much as a good morning or ask about our date plans. Patting down the sheet on his side of the bed resulted in me finding them stone cold. He was always an early riser but this was ridiculous. I then noticed a note left on his pillow.

“Good morning, forgive me I had some things to tend to. I have arranged a car to bring you to our date. K”

I rubbed my fingers over his beautiful cursive writing just as a courier arrived at the door and delivered a beautifully wrapped box. The duck egg blue container was almost pearlescent with a thick cream coloured satin ribbon all perfectly tied around it.

The timing was so perfect I really had to marvel at the man organising this and wonder if I was always this predictable or if I would discover a hidden camera somewhere in the room. Opening the box up revealed a single white rose with a card resting on top of a black dress that fitted Kei’s tastes perfectly.

“I can’t wait to see you. K”

The message had me smiling long before I took the dress out of the box. It was a vintage style tea dress with little cap sleeves made from some of the most delicate lace I’d ever seen. It looked almost like patterned smoke.

There was something different about getting ready for a mission and getting ready for a date. The feeling I got from both was similar but I found I was much more nervous about a date than a life-threatening mission. I rushed through my prep stage of shower, hair and make-up.

Slipping into the dress I instantly fell in love with it. Kei knew my measurements off by heart and I was pretty sure he had them on file with his usual tailor so he could get the outfits he gifted me perfect right down to the last stitch.

Walking into the closet to find a pair of suitable shoes I discovered some already sitting out. They were naturally also black with the addition of ribbons that wrapped around my ankles. Securing the bows, I couldn’t help but make the comparison between them and cuffs. I felt heat climbing up from them at the thought. I imagined Kei and what was probably going through his head as he picked them out for me. How his fingers would have traced the shoes and the ribbon. The idea of tying me up was never far from his mind and with these shoes, it felt like he had already started.

Shaking my head, I looked at my watch and doubled checked my reflection in the mirror before leaving to go get in the car. I watched from the back seat absentmindedly playing with my choker as the car took me away from the centre of the metropolis.

The modern landscape changed slowly into something that felt more historic. The buildings looked older; the concrete jungle had passed into something more like a tv drama set. In fact, if I hadn’t known how far I had travelled I might have thought I was somewhere else entirely.

My eyes caught a familiar figure standing near the roadside. He was dressed in more casual clothes. The white trousers, cream coloured cricket jumper with a blue stripe around the collar and the light blue shirt under it all made him look like a student. The car slowed until the backdoors aligned perfectly with him. I had seconds to smooth down my dress and mentally brush off some of the nervous excitement before the door was opened.

“M’lady.” I smiled at the Princely Kei as he offered me his hand. It was all too easy to forget what he truly was like even for me. Yes, I loved his sweet and angelic side, but I also loved that tricky Devil he hid behind his mask too.

“Thank you.”

Kei guided me to his side, away from the car, and sent it on its way. Now completely alone he used our still joined hands to make me twirl for him as he looking me over from head to toe.

“You look even better than I imagined.” Kei smiled and brought me closer to him. Sweeping some of my hair away from my neck so he could brush his fingers along the neckline of the dress and the choker around my neck.

I once more felt the difference in attire. I was all dressed up and felt far more formal than he did. The idea of him being a student once more flitted through my mind conjuring up kinky scenarios of a socialite sneaking off for a romantic rendezvous with a hidden student lover. It was silly, Kei was older than me even if there were times it was hard to tell that from appearance alone.

“Careful now or you might start sounding like Kazuomi.” I joked attempting to forget the thoughts going through my mind.

My eyes naturally fluttered shut. His cold elegant fingers ghosting over my skin was enough to remind me of the many nights we spent together. Where he had dyed me in his own colours and shown me the abyss behind the door to depravity. Joining me as we fell through purgatory to our own private Eden.

“Perish the thought.” He let go of me. A sensation that left me feeling the need to chase him.

Opening my eyes, I saw that impish look on his face. He was slowly becoming more and more adjusted to life outside of his own nightmares and past. It was still obvious he was a little lost and confused at times but when he was like this, I could almost imagine him as a little boy. It made my heart sing to think we could stand here now together and I could enjoy such a candid fragment of my elusive boyfriend.

“Come now we should get this date started.” Kei laced our fingers and matched his pace to mine.

We walked through some trees and right up to the side of a riverbank. There in front of us was a beautiful craft floating on the water. Inside were some large cushions a few blankets and a basket.

“I thought I would show you a little hospitality and tradition.” Kei let go of my hand briefly to climb onto the small craft and then held out his hand again to help me get on board as well.

“We are going boating?” I giggled as the whole thing rocked under my feet. The idea of mixing something traditional from his own country and a date was so him it made me happy.

“Punting. It is quite different but I trust you will enjoy yourself.” Kei’s correction came with all the patience I had come to expect from someone who knew so much and was used to sharing it in the course of his work.

“I think I’ve seen it before. It looked like the river had turned into Venice or something.” I sat down carefully feeling rather small when I looked back up at Kei.

“I can understand your comparison and whilst you can use a pole on both vessels a Punt is different to a Gondola.” He smiled and retrieved the long pole from the riverbank using it to cast off.

I watched him standing near my feet moving the pole through his hands with little effort. If you were really quiet you could hear the smooth wood, polished with years of use, slipping through the water and his palms.

“It doesn’t feel as safe as I thought it would.” I commented as the pole in his hand seemed to get stuck on something under the water and give a little tug that made the punt slightly rock.

“I assure you that I am an excellent Punter.” Kei’s expression was so deadpan and relaxed as he declared this I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“I get the feeling your friends would be doubling over in laughter right about now hearing you say that.”

“Yes, they probably would. Thankfully they aren’t or I would have tipped them both into the Thames and made them swim.” He looked down at me. The shadows from the trees we were moving through were casting shadows on his pale skin. I didn’t miss how his playful eyes shone through the shade.

“You wouldn’t…”

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride. I did consider placing the seat facing forward but selfishness prevented me from doing so. I wanted to see your face, forgive me.” The Devil faded in the light once more replaced by the charming Prince.

“You know I never once pictured you doing this?” I sunk back into the cushions, finding them much more comfortable than I thought they would be. The blankets as well were a mixture of textures but each one was thick and luxurious.

“Oh? Punting has been a traditional pastime in England since the 1860’s it really caught on by the 1880s and 1900s though. Before they became used for recreation these little crafts were used as part of the transporting of traders.” He spoke as he manoeuvred the pole and pushed us forward in the water. “Are you familiar with Alice in Wonderland?”

“Yes of course it’s a children’s classic.” I happily nodded. I know it is kind of a strange thing to enjoy but I did genuinely love how knowledgeable he was and how he explained things. It was like having my own personal tour guide and professor.

“Quite so. Well, the author Lewis Carroll used to punt along the Thames and during one of his outings where he was with a friend’s children he started to tell the story of a curious little girl who followed a rabbit. He later put pen to paper and created the beloved tale as a gift.” He lowered his voice as if he had just shared a piece of information vital to national security.

“I didn’t know that.” I don’t know what face I was showing him when he looked down at me. His face seemed to soften, although it could also have been my imagination.

“Literature aside I thought I would show you some more of England than the inside of Raven or shopping in the capital.” I looked around at the countryside slowly passing. I knew there was more to London than concrete and cars but I didn’t think there was this much greenery.

“I thought the Thames was larger than this.” I mused and put my hand over the side dipping it in the cool water playing with the ripples made by the punt as it moved.

“It is. We are currently on one of its many streams. Still part of the river but not as heavy with the tourist trade. You will also know of the boating traditions between Oxford and Cambridge, yes?” Kei always seemed to become a little more animated when talking like this. It was like he suddenly had an outlet for all the bottled-up information and facts he had in that well-read brain of his.

“The boat race?” I titled my head against the sun and saw him nodding happily.

“Yes, it is covered by the media extensively at the time. Well, the competition between the two on these waters doesn’t stop with rowing. There is a traditional Oxford way to Punt and then there is the traditional Cambridge version.” Kei grimaced theatrically as he explained.

“Haha, you don’t sound like you approve of the Cambridge way.”

“I am an Oxford man.” He almost seemed to stand up straighter as he said that. “The flat raised planking behind you is called the Till. A Cambridge man would stand on the Till and punt like so.” He stepped over me and demonstrated what he meant. It caused the punt to lurch which had me clinging to the sides of it thinking it might tip us both in the water. “Whereas an Oxford man, He will stand in the punt and work from here.” Kei stepped back into the punt and resumed moving us from inside. The vessel settled back down and I ended up breathing a sigh of relief. “Also a notable difference is the till. Following Oxford tradition, it is always facing front in the direction one is moving."

"I had no idea there were so many traditions.”

“There are more but I fear any more information will bore you under this hot sun. Here should be suitable.” He pushed the punt so it brushed up against the bank again this time next to what looked like a very secluded spot. The grass was short and looked to be recently cut. Surrounding it were high hedges and some trees.

“What is this place?” I asked as we left the punt for more stable ground.

“You will find them all around. They are locations people usually used for picnics.” Kei spoke as he stuck the pole into the bank and tied the punt to it.

“Are they all this well maintained?” I was still looking around. I don’t think I have ever been to a part of London that has ever made me feel so totally alone. It was pleasantly unusual.

“The ones that are owned are yes. This is one of my family’s spots.” He leant over and scooped up the basket and grabbed a blanket. With them in hand, he then walked into the centre of the grass and quickly set up.

“What do you have hidden away in your basket of tricks?” I sat down on the blanket and waited for him to reveal his secrets.

“We have tea, the very seasonal and traditional strawberries and cream.” He placed a flask down next to the punnet of fresh fruit and a pot of thick white cream. “We also have peanut butter sandwiches…”

“You made this picnic, didn’t you?” I couldn’t help but giggle. When he said he had things to do in his note I thought it would have been work-related. Now I had visions of him shopping and preparing this picnic instead.

“What is wrong with it?” He asked. His golden hair shining like a halo under the sun.

“Nothing just it's very you. If you had brought the basket from somewhere or had someone else make it, I doubt peanut butter would have made it on the menu.” It was true he could have ordered it from room service or had it made up somewhere in town and just brought it along. The fact that he actually made anything himself was endearing.

“Did you want something different?” His expression shifted and he looked like a child that was waiting to be scolded.

“No this is perfect.” I reached over and took one of the sandwiches from the plate in his hands.

“I did think of bringing some Pimms but I reconsidered.” Kei recovered fast, the cracks in his mask reformed.

“Why?”

“The time of day for one thing. I mean as Kazuomi would argue it's five o’clock somewhere but I would hate for you to be so drunk you fell overboard.” He poured some tea from the flask and handed it to me. Our fingers touching for a second, more than long enough for me to realise his body temperature was still as cold as normal.

“We both know I have a better tolerance to alcohol than that.” How can he do that? It was so hot the world could be melting and Kei would still be sitting there in a pullover surrounded by his own internal climate control. “You said this was one of the quieter parts of the River. Why come here? Oops!”

I had been so concerned with not spilling the tea he had given me I had completely misjudged the integrity of the sandwich in my hand. Part of it failed to make it to my mouth and vanish down the neckline of the dress. Embarrassment threatened to bloom inside me and I really hoped Kei had missed what I had just done.

“Is it a crime to want to spend some time alone with my girlfriend?” His voice was so close and I hadn’t felt the blanket move or even seen him shift. Yet he was right next to me his face so close to mine I could feel his breath in my ear. “Honestly I did think of following one of the other paths of the river. There are more pubs and places to go along them but I wanted to enjoy something more scenic with you.” He trailed his fingers along my choker and then slipped them down the front of my dress. “Now I’m glad I made this choice.”

“Something about how you just said that makes me think you weren’t referring to a quiet picnic together.” I acted cooler than I felt. I knew he could feel my heart beating and see the pulse running wild in my neck. All the time I faked being calm as his fingers extradited the rogue peanut butter sandwich from my body.

“You always were very observant.” I followed his hand as it carried the salvaged food to his own mouth. Those eyes of his locked on me looking like pools of golden lust.

They drew me to him like a spell and held me there as he locked me up in his arms, his hands roamed freely over me. Tumbling back together onto the blanket the picnic was threatening to be forgotten.

“Mmm Kei.” My breathy cry came out as he nibbled on my collarbone and began moving a hand up my leg under the fabric of the dress.

“Careful now. It might be a secluded spot but there is no telling who you might summon with a voice like that.” He teased as his fingers did some teasing of their own. Rubbing the outline of my sex through the sheer fabric of his favourite lace panties.

“As long as one of the people I summon is you I don’t care.” I was done with coy. Coy and demure didn’t get you anywhere fast with this man. There was a time and place for all that and when we were alone and things were heating up was not one of those times.

“Mmm, have I ever told you how stunning you are when you are honest with your desires?” He slipped his fingers past the lace pressing his thumb onto my clit before pumping a couple of digits inside me. I wanted to moan louder but his warning from before made me stop.

I looked up and found him smirking. He knew I was holding back. He knew I was trying to be a good girl but damn him if he wasn’t trying to break me.

“I don’t think I can remember.” Two could play that game and I tried to make it look like I was still in control. With every stroke from his hand, I was losing my sanity, but I kept up a strong front and played the game.

“Then I’ll have to take my time and remind you.” He moved on top of me his hand still driving a fever through my core as he spread my legs wide with his own.

“What about the picnic?”

“There is time enough for both. I don’t intend to let anything here on this blanket go to waste.”

His voice purred erotically as he slid the zip on the dress down my back and dragged the bodice low enough to expose my breasts. The cap sleeves I had thought were a nice addition were now part of the binding of fabric that was preventing my arms from freely moving.

Kei brushed his fingers over the lace of the bra and once more slid his hand inside. Treating each nipple to a firm pinch as he ravished my mouth with his tongue. I squirmed under him trying to wrap my legs around his and return the restraint in kind.

“Hehe, you really are the only one that has ever tried to dominate me.” His laugh was like a clear bell whilst the things he was doing to me had my head crashing like a drum.

“Kei… please stop teasing me already.” I moved some more only to find his weight was gone. He had stopped touching me completely and was sitting back on his heels looking at me.

“As My Lady commands.”

I watched as he licked his hand clean and used the other to undo his belt and trousers. It wasn’t unusual for him to remain clothed but it rarely happened where it was so bright. I bit my lip as he rolled my dress higher exposing all of me. He said nothing as he undid the strings on the panties and placed them into his pocket. The silence was deafening given how aroused I was. He leaned over and dipped a strawberry into the thick cream holding it just out of reach of my mouth.

“Eat it.” His command seemed absolute even if it was given in a sugary-sweet tone. I tried to stretch for it but couldn’t. His eyes twinkled and his smile became more wicked. “I guess if you can’t be a good girl then I’ll just have to treat you like a bad one instead.”

I felt my core tighten as he brought his palm down with a crack against my bare thigh. He pressed down on me again. His mouth connecting with mine. Fruit and cream filled my senses as he used his own mouth to feed me. The escaped juices were lapped up by his tongue as he arranged himself to take this to the next level.

“Ah!” A slight sharpness ripped through my body and was quickly numbed as the pleasure of us finally connecting took over. With each rock of his body, it moved my body against the ground far more than the swaying of any boat.

Our mouths connected again and again at different angles to the point where I was sure I had forgotten to breathe. His fingers ran through my hair sometimes pulling grabbing at it but each time it only emphasised his desire for me and made my whole body tingle.

I never did find out if anyone else was around as Kei had said or if it was all just another layer to his devilish lies to set the mood. I did discover that I would never be able to eat a picnic again without the addition of a peanut sandwich.

---

#summer of smut #summer of smut content creation challenge

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oswinpond · 5 years ago

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Even after the new film, which certainly popularized Amy/Laurie in a way I’ve never seen before, I keep hearing a lot of the same old arguments: “Laurie never stopped loving Jo”, “Laurie didn’t really love Amy”, “Amy was a second choice/consolation prize”, “Jo should’ve been with Laurie” etc. And a lot of these people claim this is book canon. As I’ve just reread the book, I’ve got a lot of thoughts on all of this...

(Note: This is all purely based on book canon.)

In the book, after Amy harshly scolds Laurie, he decides to go back to London and work for his grandfather to better himself. At first, he thinks he’s doing it for two reasons: Amy despises him and that hurts him, but also the idea that if he does something “splendid” Jo may love him (or at least respect him, as Amy put it).

So Laurie decides to write a requiem for Jo “which should harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the heart of every hearer”. But he can’t come up with anything because he keeps humming the dance music reminiscent of the Christmas ball in Nice which he spent devoting himself to Amy all evening. So then he tries to compose an opera with Jo as his heroine, but it doesn’t work. “He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo’s oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects.”

Jo no longer fits as his heroine, no matter how hard he tries. So he gives up on that, and his imagination promptly comes up with another heroine for him without even trying:

“This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind’s eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.”

While Laurie doesn’t realize it, the woman he’s imagining is Amy. Amy with the blue ribbons in her golden hair, who put roses in his buttonhole, who he watched feed the peacocks in Paris, and who he first saw again in a carriage drawn by ponies. It’s also a little prophetic, as he does escort the real Amy through future trials. (Bonus: at the same time, Amy spends her time sketching some faceless man who clearly resembles Laurie, but she doesn’t realize it either.)

Contrary to what some in the fandom would claim, Laurie isn’t at all forcing himself to love Amy just so that he can be part of the March family. He doesn’t even realize that she’s become the “heroine” in his story, that she’s the woman he’s fantasizing about. He thinks he’s doing this to improve himself for Jo, but it’s Amy that’s inspiring him.

And then Laurie realizes that his feelings for Jo are disappearing:

“Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn’t understand it [...] Laurie’s heart wouldn’t ache; the wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burn into a blaze: there was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.”

This passage alone pretty much puts to rest the idea that Laurie never got over Jo. He actually got over her so easily and quickly that he felt disgusted with himself, thinking this made him fickle. His romantic feelings are gone, and soon will leave only a “brotherly affection” when the last of the hurt is gone as well. Maybe he got over her so easily because he simply mistook his strong bond with her for romance, or maybe it was just a rash and immature first love that was never going to last long anyways, or whatever else... point being, he got over her.

And Laurie was actually trying, and failing, to rekindle any love for Jo (unlike his unconscious growing feelings for Amy, which he wasn’t pushing for at all). As a last ditch attempt to revive that love, he writes to Jo asking if she was sure about her refusal, and when she responds that she absolutely could never love him that way, he accepts it without sadness or complaint this time. He’s already over her, so there’s nothing to be heartbroken over. That was his closure. He takes off the ring she gave him and locks it away with her letters, and that’s that.

And that’s when he’s ready to open his heart to Amy. He starts corresponding with her so often their letters are flying back and forth constantly. He wants to go back to her, but he doesn’t want to until she asks; she finally does after she hears about Beth’s passing, and Laurie immediately drops everything to go to her “with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense” (and this is after he knows she’s turned down Fred, so we know what he’s hoping for now). Amy is his first priority after Beth dies, even though Beth was dearest to Jo. Laurie meets Amy in Switzerland and, without saying anything, they both know their relationship has changed.

They spend weeks doing everything together and spend all their time out at the lake. Despite the sad tidings, they wind up being their happiest together in Vevey. They both know that they’re in love with each other without even having to say it (they really seem to develop an unspoken communication at this point). And while Laurie knows that she’ll say “yes” to his proposal, he’s still nervous so he puts it off to enjoy his time with Amy in Switzerland. He imagines proposing to her in the chateau garden at moonlight, but instead blurts it out while they’re on a lake in the middle of the day:

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things; and, though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water. “How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected to silence just then. “So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?” very tenderly. “Yes, Laurie,” very low. Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake.

And there’s so much to say about this little scene. While he had to beg and argue with Jo just to finally accept her firm “no”, he just has to ask a simple question with Amy and he gets his simple answer because they’re on the same page. The rather blunt metaphor of rowing well together, even when he uses one hand and she uses two, is all about how despite their differences they work. They keep time. And it calls back to Jo’s talk with Marmee where they both agree that Jo and Laurie never would’ve worked, in part because their similarities would clash horribly in a romantic relationship (but mainly because , y’know, Jo never once felt a single shred of romantic love for Laurie).

Now, I can understand where people come from thinking Laurie was “replacing” Jo with Amy with lines like "Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who could fill Jo’s place and make him happy”. I get how this can be interpreted as Amy filling in for what was meant to be Jo’s place in his heart. But it makes a lot more sense in the context of Laurie’s speech to Jo towards the end when he explains his feelings:

“I never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my heart, that’s all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me; but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent; and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn’t know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you both alike; but I couldn’t. And when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places.”

Laurie didn’t settle for Amy. Amy took Jo’s place in the sense that they swapped places in how he saw them, from romantic to platonic for Jo and vice versa for Amy. And those wound up being their “right” places. He believes he was always meant to fall in love with Amy and see Jo as his sister, and that he would’ve gotten to this point naturally even if things had played out differently.

I’ll admit I wasn’t a fan of how the 2019 film portrayed Jo in this situation, because in the book she was absolutely thrilled for Laurie and Amy, and is happily surprised when Marmee tells her she’d been hoping for them to fall in love. But in the film, they take her sadness over her loneliness too far IMO, and make it seem like she was actually bitter over Amy and Laurie being together, which unfortunately fuelled the “Amy stole Laurie from Jo” crowd a bit. And after her conversation with Marmee where she admits that she only wants Laurie because she longs to be loved, and Marmee points that “that isn’t the same as loving”, this makes movie!Jo seem “silly and selfish” as book!Jo puts it (because in the book, that was only a “what if” she entertained and never wrote any letter).

Anyways, to conclude on all of this, when Amy and Laurie are married at and home, we get the thoughts of other characters on their relationship, and the unanimous opinion is that they’re completely in love and happy with each other. Jo herself insists that their happiness will for sure last, and notes how proud Laurie seems to be to call Amy his wife. Laurie, meanwhile, can’t stop talking about Amy through to the end (and Amy is clearly just as smitten). I dare you to read the last half of Part 2 and not find Amy and Laurie adorable together.

And to hammer that last nail in the coffin on Jo/Laurie as a romance, we get Laurie meeting Professor Bhaer. It’s specifically noted that while Laurie is suspicious of Bhaer and notices his interest in Jo, it was “not of jealousy” but a “brotherly circumspection”. Amy even asks him if he’s at all jealous and Laurie tells her “I assure you I can dance at Jo’s wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?” and it says that Amy’s “last little jealous fear vanished forever”. Laurie actually winds up happily supporting Bhaer once he sees he’s a great guy for his sister Jo, and suggests to Amy that they should try to help them out as a couple.

So no, Jo never loved Laurie romantically, Laurie absolutely did get over Jo, Laurie and Amy are so happy together it’s almost obnoxious, Jo is pro-Amy/Laurie and Laurie is pro-Jo/Bhaer, and Amy wasn’t a second choice, she was Laurie’s “meant to be” by his own words.

#amy x laurie #laurie x amy #amy march #laurie laurence #little women #this wound up way longer than i intended #oops #so i added a read more #anyways all this to say that laurie and amy are OTP and laurie and jo are brotp #and jo and amy are my favourite sisters and their relationship is amazing

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sitp-recs · 4 years ago

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hello! i love your blog and recs! thanks for doing what you do!

could you maybe rec some fics with sexy banter, talking that’s leading up to sex, or talking during sex that kinda thing. they don’t have to be smutty! thank you!!!!

You’re very welcome anon, thank you for sending such a lovely message ❤️ hehe I have a few recs but I’m sorry to say most of them will be quite smutty ;) I also did a dirty talk reclist a while ago, if you’re interested. Enjoy!

Tense by Faith Wood (2013, 3k)

Harry and Draco have sex. Very, very slowly. Seriously, this is, like, 3K of penetration.

Lucid by @dracoladon (2020, 4.7k)

Harry's not sure what makes him harder; listening to Draco talk about astronomy, or shagging Draco so thoroughly that he can't talk at all. Both, probably.

This Christmas, I Give You My Everything by @l0vegl0wsinthedark (2017, 6k)

This holiday season, Harry decides to claim the gift he wants more than anything else.

Born Slippy by @dracoladon (2020, 8.3k)

Harry finds that it's less 'one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor' and more 'one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, decide Malfoy's quite fit, actually, and decent company after your friends traitorous abandonment, floor.' With Malfoy lying next to you.

The Page Eleven Wars by fireflavored (2010, 8.5k)

In a gossip-hungry post-war Wizarding World, Rita Skeeter has a wildly successful column in the Daily Prophet known as Page Eleven. Naturally, her favourite targets are the poster boys of the two sides of the war: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Bored and annoyed, the two take up tabloid baiting for sport and pleasure.

Meaningful Conversation by RurouniHime (2011, 9k) - thank you @devinesis for the rec!

The best conversations happen at the oddest times. Harry Potter returns to London and finds Draco Malfoy there, ready to pick up where they left off.

What’s My Age Again? by @lazywonderlvnd (2018, 12k)

Harry Potter has had enough of pleasing the public, and his reckless tendencies are finally getting out of hand. The Quidditch World Cup is only a week away; as Captain of the English National Team, Hermione has assured him that his immaturity won’t be tolerated by the Ministry. And then Malfoy shows up.

Kill, Fuck, Marry by @lettersbyelise (2018, 12.6k)

Malfoy leans toward him with a baleful look. “I do believe Pansy Parkinson, my best friend, paid you to spend the evening with me. It’s my birthday, Potter. So you’re going to get off your Gryffindor arse, and you’re going to dance with me. I want to dance. I want to win. I want that bloody trophy on my shelf before the end of the night.”

Harry and Draco unexpectedly meet again on Draco’s birthday, years after their last encounter.

Shining, Like A Present by @bixgirl1 (2017, 13.6k)

The discovery of a small silver box at the site of a case opens up new possibilities.

Potter’s Parselprostate (and the Chamber of Secrets) by @dictacontrion (2014, 17k)

Hogwarts’ future depends on Malfoy’s texts. Too bad the key is up Potter’s arse.

White as Snow by @bixgirl1 (2018, 19k)

After a quick escape from danger, Harry and Draco find themselves trapped in a blizzard, a small cabin their only refuge from the storm. It's the perfect place to recover and regroup — and to have a long-overdue conversation or two.

I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor by birdsofshore (2015, 28k)

Harry felt lit up from inside as soon as he entered the bar. There were blokes dancing together, their bodies close to one another, not keeping a wary distance as Harry was always careful to do when he was near another man. God, he wanted this – wanted it so much he could taste it, a metallic tang of heat and desire. He suspected nothing would ever be the same again – especially when he saw who else was in the room.

#anon #asks #Drarry reclist #sexy banter

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bi-writes · 4 years ago

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the light in our eyes — mob!tom

a notorious extra

I haven’t always been this way; there was a time when nothing mattered but the stars.

type: one-shot, alternate universe detail: mob!tom x fem!reader word count: 4k warnings: mature language and themes series masterlist

The sound of rain was familiar. It pitter-pattered against the windowpane, a kind of quiet that drew in the need for something warm. You didn’t feel needy for long. After a few silent, cold moments, you felt a rough hand slide up your side, fingers brushing your hair away from your neck, cool lips on the soft skin where your neck and jaw met. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling, but then those fingers wrapped around the base of your throat, drawing your head back, and you let those lips kiss your own.

Your tongue slipped out from between your lips, and that was when your heard that airy, husky, warm chuckle sound in your ears. You shivered at the sound, feeling that rough hand creep up the back of your shirt, up your bare spine, caressing the place between your shoulder blades, pushing now to draw your body closer to their own. When you opened your eyes, there he was, in all of his glory. Tom Holland, with a wicked grin on that sinful mouth and a light in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before.

“What time is it?” You asked against his lips, and he let out a sigh, his curls flopping over his forehead.

“Half past two, love.”

“What?!”

You sat up quickly, realizing now that you were still wearing your clothes from the day before. Jeans, a t-shirt, and you still had your heels on, your gun tossed haphazardly beside you. You took in Tom’s appearance, his suit jacket thrown onto the back of your vanity chair. His dress shirt was still on, but you noticed specks of blood along the collar of his shirt now, bright against the white of the fabric. You ran your fingers over the blood, smoothing your hand up his jaw and around his neck, and he stared up at you with those lovely dark eyes. You shook your head at him.

“What happened?” You asked. “Why…Why didn’t you call me, Tom? I’ve been…I’ve been waiting, I was worried sick.”

“Got a little sidetracked, but it’s all well and over now,” he said simply. You scoffed a bit, glaring down at him.

“Whose blood is this, Tom?”

“Not mine.”

“I’m not going to fucking ask again,” you said darkly, and Tom let out a frustrated breath through his nose. He sat up against the headboard, loosening the tie around his neck.

“Another Petrov.”

You rolled your eyes angrily at the sound of another Russian name. Being in London only made it easier for your international adversaries to watch you. Not just watch you; they did watch, but they listened for you, found you, made empty grabs at you. You relied on your instincts more than ever now, and you found yourself again and again grateful for always having one hand on your gun and always taking a glance over your shoulder. There were more times than not that you managed to slip away from someone’s angry eyes, from the barrel of their gun, from the blade hiding up their sleeves.

It wasn’t easy for you, and even worse for Tom. He made it a point for you to stay home, away from public, away from open streets, crowds, people. It was too easy to hide in London’s dark corners, and he found it difficult to focus on you and business at the same time, so he had resorted to hiding you away. You had agreed at first after one too many close calls, but now you were itching to get out, to help him, to do anything except sit in this house and be nothing more of a burden.

“Tom,” you said softly, “no more. I’m not…I’m not going to stay here anymore. Not after this.”

You kicked your heels off, grabbing your gun and putting it on the bedside table, opening the drawer to put it away. You sat on the edge of the bed, shaking your head adamantly.

“I’m sick of this shit, Tom,” you said firmly, slamming the drawer shut, standing up. You turned around to face him, and he was taking his tie off, saying nothing but scrunching his nose angrily and clenching that sharp jaw of his. “Did you hear me?!” You grabbed the pillow and threw it at him, hitting him square in the face. He pushed it off of him angrily, grimacing. “I’m not staying here anymore while you risk your fucking life. I’m sick of these people, and I should’ve taken care of it a long time ago.”

You rummaged through the drawers of your dresser, grabbing a pair of black pants and tossing them onto the bed. You took your jeans off, tossing them onto the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tom asked suddenly. “Get back in bed, y/n.”

“Fuck you, Tom,” you snapped, slipping the pants on, grabbing your thigh holster off the desk of your vanity. Tom stood up, coming towards you. You stiffened as he grabbed the holster, snatching it out of your hands and tossing it behind him. You turned to face him, your eyes meeting, and you could feel an angry heat rising up in your chest.

Tom was easy to meet that heat. He stood up straighter, his face stoic and hard, and he felt his own body quickly build with a frustration that had him biting back all the things he wanted to say to you. Tom had to do this a lot. While he could lash out at his men whenever he wanted, it wasn’t the same with you. As soon as he raised his voice, he knew you would have him on the floor. You had done that once before, when he had done something reckless. He had yelled at you, and you had shown him just how careful he had to be when he spoke to you. You had said something about respect, but it was enough for Tom to never dare raise his voice at you again.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Tom growled, reaching up to grab your chin. You smacked his hand away before he could touch your face, and when he tried with the other hand, you swiped the blade out of your belt and held it up to his chin. Tom knew you wouldn’t hurt him, but he wasn’t completely comfortable with the position, nonetheless.

“I’ll go where I please,” you said defiantly. For a moment, Tom could feel a swell of pride rise up in his chest. You didn’t back down for anything, and he admired how strong and confident you could be. Even like this, angry and disobedient, he thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful; but he couldn’t let you leave, not alone, not at this hour, and certainly not without a plan.

He brought his arm up suddenly to take the blade off his neck, but you moved to the side too quickly, lifting your foot up and kicking in the back of his knee, bringing Tom straight to his knees. You dropped the knife as he grabbed your waist, moving to bring you down onto the floor with him. You grunted as he had you on your back in seconds, and you could sense he was about to trap you against the floor. You rolled out from under him before he could, catching his head between your thighs and crossing your ankles, using the last of your strength to squeeze his neck between them, rendering him completely slack as he tried to breathe. Normally, Tom would kill to have his head between your thighs, but this wasn’t exactly romantic.

You kept squeezing, watching as Tom’s entire face became red as he tried to breathe, coughing out uncontrollably as you slowly choked him. Finally, you heard his hand smacking the floor repeatedly as he tapped out, and you let go of him. Tom fell onto his side onto the floor, letting out wheezing breaths and coughs as he tried to recover, and you stood up, blowing hair out of your face as you went to retrieve the thigh holster he had thrown across the bedroom.

You did feel a little bad to see your husband gasping for air on your account, but you were sick of him telling you what to do, keeping you hidden away while he unsuccessfully tried to take care of your problems.

“Bloody hell, y/n,” Tom croaked, standing up finally. He rubbed the back of his neck, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as you dropped your gun into its place around your thigh, grabbing your jacket and fitting it on, zipping it up securely. “No, fuck, y/n, you’re not…you’re not going anywhere.”

You laughed a bit, bitterly, “try me, Tom. You won’t win.”

You met his eyes in the mirror as you adjusted your hair, narrowing your own at him, as if daring him to try and stop you again. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. You sighed a bit, watching him massage his sore muscles. You turned around to face him, coming towards him, and you cupped both of his cheeks in your palms, bringing his head up gently. The rain was falling harder, and the way the moonlight danced across his features made you admire him more a bit more carefully, taking the time to appreciate the gentle features of his face.

“I know why you want to stop me,” you said lowly. “But I’m tired of letting them get to us, Tom. It’s me they’re after, and you’re the one that’s trying to fix things. You can’t do this by yourself, I thought…I thought we said we weren’t going to do things alone anymore, Tom.”

“Then why are you going, love?” He asked gently, scrunching his face a bit painfully. “You don’t even have a plan, and you’re going to go and do what? Barge in there? Kill them all?”

“If that’s what I have to do.”

“You and I both know how bloody foolish that is,” he murmured, and you closed your eyes a bit, lowering yourself slowly, taking a seat in his lap. You leaned your forehead against his, your lips trembling as you tried to listen to the gentle breaths coming in and out of him.

“W-What else am I supposed to do, Tom? God, we just got our fucking lives back, and…it never ends,” you said weakly, nuzzling your nose against him. He brought his hand up, cupping the back of your neck, and he guided your lips to his, kissing you warmly.

“This city is all over the place,” he mumbled. “I just…I needed you to stay here while I sorted things out. I can’t handle the people here if I’m always looking over my shoulder, worrying about you—”

“Tom,” you opened your eyes. “You and I both know I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not enough,” he said lowly. “They had the upper hand on you every bloody time, and the only reason you got out of those fucking situations was because you happened to be vigilant, but what happens when you’re not?”

“Tom, I never let my guard down.”

“We all do, y/n, and when you finally do, that’s when they’ll fucking come for you, and I can’t—” He stopped, gripping the back of your neck tightly, shaking his head. “I can’t protect you all the time. I just can’t, and it kills me inside.”

“Tom,” you said slowly, pulling back just a bit. “You’re going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to trust that when you can’t protect me, I can protect myself. You know I can, Tom, there’s…there’s no reason to worry.”

Tom didn’t agree. As you spoke gently, memories flashed in his head, memories of you. He thought of you that one night, the night you first allowed him to put his hands on you, the night you first let him having a taste, a touch, a drop of you. He remembered the way your eyes had been so dim, so dark, with nothing but fear and regret inside of them. He remembered how you cried, how you held onto him, how you talked about being scared. He remembered feeling defeat, feeling nothing but guilt, for not being able to protect the woman he felt everything for. He had vowed to himself, to you, that he would never put you in danger again.

It haunted him still.

“I worry,” Tom muttered. “I worry, y/n, and there’s nothing you can say or do to change my mind. Because if I stop worrying, then…then…”

You slid your hand into his curls, touching them gently as you leaned down and kissed him again, slowly at first. Then, your hands found purchase on his taut chest, pushing him down gently as you climbed over him. Your thighs on eighter side of his hips, your forearms caging his head, you kissed warmly, bodies pressed close together as he held you tight. One of his hands slid up the expanse of your back while the other traveled up your thigh. You didn’t feel heat or passion in his kiss; you felt apprehension, terror, uneasiness. Tom was afraid, and you could feel every ounce of it in the way he touched you, talked to you, breathed against you. Tom was never good with words, but his eyes could tell stories and his touch could make you feel a million feelings all at once.

That was Tom. Tom, the dangerous, terrifying man with enough power to overthrow governments, had a weakness, and it was always you, and it was always his words. He could command a room, an army, he could convince priests that he was without sin, but he was dumbfounded, speechless, absolutely silent when it came to the woman he loved more than he loved himself.

You.

You, you, always you, the single human being on this entire planet that had him overthinking every move and doubting all of his instincts. Tom was incredibly calculated, planned everything down to the very last detail, but suddenly, with you, he would forget it all. You made his stoic heart feel something, feel more than nothing, and Tom had forgotten what love was like for so long. He had it now, he held it in his arms, he held it so close to his fucking heart, and he would be damned if he lost it.

If I lose you, I lose myself. Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s cruel, but I would chain to you this bed if it meant I got to feel this, all the time, never ending, for all of eternity.

Tom loving anything was surreal because Tom Holland loved truly nothing except for himself. But with you, somehow with you, his love was endless, stretching across the vast nothingness he felt inside of him and swallowing him whole until he felt nothing but a deep, burning, hungry warmth. There was something inside of him that came alive, that became human, and he thought, for just a few seconds, that maybe God would forgive the red on his ledger and the deep, gaping wounds he left in his wake. He thought, when you kissed, that perhaps heaven was real because that was the only explanation for the intense, blinding feeling that overcame him when your lips touched.

And even when the light fades, and even when the feelings go away, she’s still here, she’s still beautiful, and I still love her because even when the world is without color, without life, blurry, she is still here, vivid, perfect, and I am still speechless.

“You have to trust me.”

Your voice came out angelic, light, a breeze filled with leaves the color of love. Your hand came up, your fingertips spreading across his face, soft and gentle, and Tom found himself in a lull of your doing as you kissed his face, held him, drew him in.

“I do trust you. It’s everyone else I don’t bloody trust.”

Cheek against cheek, Tom could feel your breath against his ear, warm and sweet.

“I love you, Tom.”

That was all you had to say, because Tom’s head was filled with nothing but paradise, and your words only made him breathe easier.

“I love you, too, darling.”

It had been a long time since Tom ever had to wait. Men in power didn’t wait. Everything came to them, fell at their feet, and all he had to do was snap their fingers, wave their hand, open their mouth and simply speak.

But Tom had to wait, for you, and it made him uneasy. Without the intoxication of your scent, your kisses, the soft way you said, “I love you,” Tom was left to think, and he thought too much when it came to you.

The last time Tom had to think, he was small. The last time Tom had to think, Tom had light in his eyes. There was a gentleness to his touch, a sweetness to his voice, and he had a smile big enough to light up a stage.

He remembered how that felt. He remembered how hot it would get when he stood up on stage with the spotlight shining down on him. He remembered how the wood underneath him would bounce and creak as he jumped, he remembered the feel of the stage curtains when he would come in and out of the wings, he remembered the feeling of everyone’s eyes on him, the sounds of their cheers, the vibrations of their applause.

I remember when they would throw roses at my feet, when they would fill the seats to watch me dance. I remember when I would become someone else for a single night, when I would live a life I dreamed of living and have my story always end with praise, applause, adoration.

Tom’s hand found its way to the bottom drawer of his desk, opening it. He pushed aside the papers and files, finding the crumpled picture hidden under it all. He dug it out, looking at it carefully. It was a smiling picture of his younger self, his teeth still crooked and his hair nothing but a mop of messy curls. He was standing on stage with a group of people he can barely recognize now, wearing a costume and stage makeup, flowers at their feet as they posed for the camera. He ran his thumb over that young boy’s face, touching his smile to see if that would make it feel more real.

I feel nothing. I feel nothing but empty.

That boy had no idea what would come for him. That boy had no idea that in just a few years, he would take up a mantle he never wanted, pick up weapons he never thought he would need, and see more blood than he ever believed he could. That boy had no idea his smile would never be the same; he had no idea that that was the last time he would grace the stage, stand in the spotlight, live in his dream.

Tom didn’t even realize he was crying until a tear fell onto the picture, bleeding into its colors and distorting the paper. He put the picture face down onto his desk, furiously wiping the tears under his eyes, feeling a gaping hole in his chest as he thought about who he used to be and what he used to want.

I don’t know who that is anymore. I don’t know who that is because he can’t be me. He can never be me.

Tom bent over, his elbows on his knees as he covered his face with his hands. Nothing could save the boy he used to be. Tom had buried that boy so deep down inside of him that he wouldn’t even know how far he would have to reach to even feel his presence. Tom had buried his dream, his passion, everything he ever wanted to become whoever he was now.

A killer, a sinner, a man without mercy.

When men like Tom looked in the mirror, they did not see the boys they used to be. The boys they used to be were cut out of them like a tumor and left to bleed out. There was no place for boys in the new world Tom had entered. There was no place for fear or for innocence, and Tom had left him behind long ago. In the mirror, he only saw himself; blood, anger, and the shell of a man that was supposed to be him.

Tom sat up suddenly, hearing the floorboards creak. It was you, standing in the doorway, the shoulders of your leather jacket wet with rain. Your hair was a bit damp, and besides a little bruise forming on your jaw, you were untouched, unscathed, perfectly okay. You took your gloves off slowly, coming into his study and shutting the door behind you.

“Is everything okay, Tom?”

You noticed the redness around his eyes, the way his face was sunken in and tired and uneasy. You came towards him, your heels sounding, and that was when you spotted the paper in front of him on the desk. You reached over to grab it, and Tom didn’t stop you. You turned it over, your eyes scanning over the picture.

You spotted Tom, easily identifiable. He looked so little, the shortest one of the group, and you smiled a bit when you noticed where the picture was taken. You remembered one of his brothers teasing Tom about being a performer, something about a stage, but you didn’t understand what they meant.

“It’s you,” you said softly. “Where was this?”

“I used to…perform,” was he all he said.

Tom had a faraway look in his eyes. You recognized that look because you had it in yourself sometimes. Thoughts about what if, maybe if, should have, could have, would have. You thought everyone in this business must have thought about everything before and wished they could be that vulnerable human again.

Everyone wishes they could still see the light in their eyes.

You took your jacket off, slowly wrapping an arm around Tom’s shoulders and sitting in his lap. He leaned back in his leather seat, holding you closer, and you took his hand in yours, playing with the ring on his finger. You leaned your head on his shoulder, still staring at the picture.

“Is that what you wanted to be?” You asked gently.

Tom was silent for a few minutes. The rain was still falling, hitting the windows with a familiar rhythm, and it filled the silence between the two of you as Tom thought about the boy he had forgotten.

“I wanted to be an actor,” he said finally. You put the picture down, meeting his eyes in the dark light of the room. The sun had yet to come up, but it was in these hours of the mornings that you felt Tom the most.

“You would’ve been…” You let out a sigh, shaking your head, “Tom, you would’ve been…an incredible actor,” you said in a whisper.

He found your gaze when you said that, blinking, his eyes watering a bit. The genuine love in your voice, the hope, it was all he needed to feel that love swell in his chest again and consume him. He no longer hated that feeling, no, he welcomed it, and as you came closer to him to kiss him, he held onto you tightly, too scared to let go.

Because when we are together, I can remember what it feels like to have light inside of me.

So Tom held onto you.

And I will never let you go.

#this was a request for some notorious extras #some angst #some fluff #but just some more background about tom #tom holland imagines #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fic #tom holland x fem!reader #tom holland x you #tom holland series #mob!tom #notorious

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not-your-housekeeper98 · 3 years ago

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Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Pneumonia

I’m so excited to share with you all my first fic for Bad Things Happen Bingo!!

AO3 link here

The Adventure of the Dedicated Doctor

Dr. Watson stamped his feet in a futile effort to warm himself. The only sounds were the crunch, crunching of the snow beneath his boots and the whirring of the wind. He shivered as it rounded the corner and hit him full on. A little ways down the street, the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, was performing similar actions.

Somewhere, a bell chimed the quarter, and then the second. Still the two figures remained at their respective posts, waiting. The plan was to prevent the fourth in a series of murders that had taken place across London. After the second murder, Holmes had discovered the murderer left clues in the advertising section of a particular newspaper. He had correctly predicted the location of the third one, but arrived too late. As unfortunate as this was, it gave him the precise time that the murderer struck; a quarter to two in the morning.

Holmes reviewed these facts under his breath between shivers. He wished he had thought to bring his heavier coat, and a muffler would have felt splendid right about now. The cold felt like it was slowly seeping into his bones. He suppressed a cough and resumed stamping his feet.

At his post, Watson was losing patience. According to Holmes's calculations, a murder should have happened fifteen minutes prior, directly in front of him, but he had seen and heard nothing.

From the darkness shrouding the opposite street corner, came the sounds of a scuffle and a muffled cry. Watson hurried towards it.

"Holmes!"

"I do believe we have our man, Watson. "

"Good heavens."

A short fellow in a tweed coat struggled in vain against Holmes's chokehold. Holmes himself had a trickle of blood trailing from a nostril but otherwise seemed unharmed.

"I'd better get Inspector Lestrade," said Watson.

By the time Scotland Yard was content with the account of what had occurred and the weary detectives reached Baker street, dawn was just beginning to color the horizon. Holmes retired to his room after instructing Watson not to disturb him for any reason, orders which the tired doctor had no intention of breaking.

It was late afternoon by the time Watson awoke. Despite his nighttime adventures he felt refreshed and decided to go for a walk. Upon leaving his bedroom, he saw Holmes curled up in his armchair facing the fire, his back to Watson.

“Ah, Holmes I didn’t know you were up.”

No answer.

“I’m going on a walk, I’ll be back later.”

Still no reply from the chair.

Watson shrugged, and grabbing his coat and hat, left the flat.

Some hours later he returned. Holmes was in the same position he had been in when Watson left.

“Good evening Holmes,” he puffed cheerily, hanging up his coat and hat behind the door. Holmes seemed to ignore him.

“Oh come now Holmes, you can’t be asleep, not with all the noise I’ve made. We should celebrate; another dangerous criminal off the streets, thanks to you. I stopped by the Yard, and they were very grateful.”

Holmes did make a sound then; a groan, followed by a hoarse coughing fit.

“Holmes!”

Watson hastened to the chair his friend was sitting in. Holmes was curled up in the chair holding his side as his whole body shook from the effort of coughing. His brow creased in pain as he sat, shivering under his dressing-gown. His face was white, except for two feverish spots of red upon his sharp cheekbones. His eyes were closed and he didn’t respond when Watson took his pulse.

“Holmes!”

Watson tried to rouse the detective in vain. The only sound in the room was the alarming rattle coming from the sick man's lungs. Holmes began to cough again, gasping and heaving for air between wheezes. Watson kept his hand soothingly on his shoulder until the fit subsided. Then the doctor left his friend for a moment in search of his black bag and calling for Mrs. Hudson, he settled down to perform his duty as a physician.

For three days and nights, the great Sherlock Holmes lay ill. Inspector Gregson and Inspector Lestrade along with other members of Scotland Yard dropped in to ask after him, and to leave cases that needed the detective’s attention once he recovered. Somehow the news had spread and all of London waited with bated breath to hear of any change to his condition. Mrs. Hudson was kept busy, when she wasn’t assisting the doctor, turning away reporters and inquisitive visitors. Past clients sent gifts and offers of aid and well wishes. Every evening, a representative of the Bakers Street Irregulars arrived to inquire as to the health of their friend. Mrs. Hudson always had the same answer.

Watson slept very little during this time. A bed had been made up in the living room for the detective both for convenience and proximity to the fire and Watson stayed in a chair at the bedside. The doctor tried every cure known to him but nothing seemed to have an effect. Holmes still lay, propped up by pillows, growing paler and weaker with each passing hour. The silence of the sickroom was punctuated only by hacking coughs from the sick man. During this time he was rarely conscious, lapsing on occasion into delirium when his fever rose.

His fever peaked on the second day after a seemingly endless night. Watson fought to bring his fever down all night, locked in a desperate struggle with the angel of death. But with the dawn came hope and he at last succeeded in bringing Holmes back to safety. The danger was not over yet by any means but the great battle had been won for the time being.

On the morning of the fourth day, Watson was awakened from a doze by the sound of his name softly called. Hurrying to his patient’s bedside he discovered Holmes looking up at him. His eyes were clear, the shine of fever gone entirely. He had regained some color, although the lines of pain and exhaustion could still be traced on the slender face.

“Holmes, you’re awake. How are you feeling? Better I hope.” Watson rambled as he fumbled with his stethoscope and checked his pulse and breathing.

“Yes, much better. Thank you, Watson.” Holmes closed his eyes, worn out by the effort of speaking.

Watson smiled and adjusted the comforter.

“Delighted to hear that my dear Holmes, now you just rest awhile and try not to undo my hard work.” Watson settled back in his chair and soon fell asleep himself.

On a brisk February morning, Dr. Watson entered 221 Baker Street, stamping the snow from his boots as he closed the door behind him. Armed with the day's newspaper he ascended to his rooms humming a cheerful tune. Entering the flat he saw Holmes engaged in intensive study of an alarmingly large volume.

“Holmes you really shouldn’t be reading at this stage. Your brain needs rest as much as the rest of your body does.”

Holmes looked up from his reading.

“Watson, the brain needs exercise in the same way a man running a race needs to exercise his muscles. If he injures one, he still works the others, otherwise, he loses all that he gained. I have let my intellect sit for too long without occupation. Such a delicate instrument needs frequent exercise lest it becomes dull and useless. This treatise on types of clay found in the north of England seemed a good place to start. Unless there’s something else?” Holmes looked inquisitively at the newspaper.

“Well, I suppose you have a point Holmes. Some light work might be healthful indeed. Scotland Yard left some cases for you to look over. They might be more interesting than types of clay.”

“Ah, let us see then, shall we?” And Holmes reached for the file Watson handed him. “After all, the game is afoot.”

#bad things happen bingo #Sherlock Holmes #pneumonia #hurt/comfort #whump #sick fic #caretaker watson

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demivampirew · 4 years ago

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Keep Calm and go to London chapter 18

The story is about Henry, not Geralt (only using this gif because it fits perfectly for this chapter)

Synopsis: This is the story of (y/n), a successful actress, musician, musical producer and songwriter. After battling depression and breaking up a long relationship, she seeks for a change of air, escaping LA for a while going to visit some friends in London and there she meets Henry. -Disclaimer: some chapters are mostly smut.

Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 (smut)

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 (smut)

Chapter 8 (smut/roleplay)

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12 (smut)

Chapter 13

Chapter 14 (smut)

Chapter 15

Chapter 16 (smut/ s&m) Chapter 17

Triggers: Smut (I know, too much smut chapters 😁 😂 🤣 , but this chapter needed to have smut, you’ll see why 😜 ); mention of rape, sex trafficking and panic attacks (while talking about a movie; only mention those words, not describing anything them in any way)

Tag list: Here’s the incredible people who showed me support (thank you so much for that) and people who asked me to tag them too ☺️ (I think I will write a few chapters of this story, if you want me to tag you, tell me ☺️ ) @cavillanche @mary-ann84 @henry-owns-these-tatas @yespolkadotkitty @dancingwendigo constip8merm8 penwieldingdreamer iloveyouyen littlefreya wondersofdreaming alyxkbrl solariumss sweetybuzz25 @thethirstyarchive @agniavateira @honeyloverogers @hell1129-blog @lunedelorient @michelle-1185

During quarantine, Henry spend lots of time cooking delicious meals, bread and desserts for the two of you. He pretended not to be good, but low key you knew that he wanted compliments because his food was freaking fantastic and you were sure he knew that already. He was in the kitchen preparing cookies for you an afternoon snack. Meanwhile, you entertained him dancing around, there were some real dance moves there, but mostly silly things that you did intend to make him laugh. Lizzo's "Juice", Nicky Minaj's "Anaconda", Rihanna's "Bitch better have my money", Bruno Mars's "24K Magic" were some of the songs you choose to perform for him. You closed your little show with N*Sync's "Bye bye bye" which make him laughed so hard that Kal barked at him. He mentioned that in his youth he made a movie with Joey Fatone and you were green with envy because you used to be a N*Sync fangirl when you were little. - What was he like? - you asked - Oh, he's great! Cool guy. If I ever cross paths with him again, I'll invite him to hang out so you can meet him too. - he replied - Oh yeah, baby. That'd be a childhood dream come true. - Have you ever meet one of your idols? - he questioned curiously - Hmm... yeah, I met Slash, he's now a friend of mine. He gave me guitar lessons. - You learned to play the guitar with Slash from Guns n' Roses? - he repeated your words as a question due to the surprise revelation - No. I was already pretty good. He gave me lessons on how to improve my guitar solos. It was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G! I've learnt so much with him and improved drastically my habilities. - you explained - I've also met Duff and he is cool too. I met Nikolaj Coster-Waldau from Game of Thrones, he's one of the sweetest people I've ever met. I met my now friend Annie (Hathaway), which you must already know because we worked together in my first acting role and she is a mentor, she truly helped me a lot to become a good actress. - you paused, thinking and after a few moments continued.- I've met Robert De Niro, he played my dad in the movie that you didn't see - previously you have had a conversation in which he confessed to having seen three on the four movies that you made in your short but successful career as an actress. You advised him not to watch the movie, because you played a woman caught in sex trafficking and there were a lot of rape scenes and you thought he may be affected to see you like that, even you had panic attacks after filming that movie and never watched again after the premiere. You couldn't even see Cillian Murphy anymore, another co-star in that movie, because he was the villain and there was a much graphic scene in which his character raped yours. "Only the twisted mind of Darren Aronofsky could come with a story dark as that one," you told Henry laughing because you liked the director, he was a good man, but with a weird taste for disaster and dark psychology-. You talked about meeting people that you admire and he mentioned Russell Crowe, Tom Cruise and Guy Ritchie, among others. As you predicted, the cookies were delicious. Your boyfriend was, definitely, the perfect man. Not only he was the sweetest, you two never fought, but he was also an amazing lover - he even made out a rule that you that to tell him if you didn't have an orgasm (or wanted more) so he could take care of that because those moments were made so both of you could have a great time and not just him. And, on top of all of that, he cooked for you amazing dishes and desserts. He was the definition of perfection. - Someday you're going to get tired of cooking for me and that'd be my doom. - you pointed out as you ate the tasteful cookies. - Not at all. I'll never get tired of cooking for the woman I love. - he assured you smiling. You chocked with the cooking you were eating and recover a few seconds later and starred at his face with an expression of full shock in yours. - What did you say? - you demanded him to repeat his words - What? I've said that I love cooking for the woman I love.- he repeated without understanding what was wrong with his words. - "The woman you love"? Do you love me? -you asked astonished - Absolutely.- he admitted with a smile on his face- I've been in love with you practically since the time I asked you to be my girlfriend, I just thought that you were going to think I was crazy and was too soon for saying the L word. - I felt the same way. I wanted you to be the first to say it. -you confessed him. - So, we are in love with eachother.- he confirmed with happiness written on his face; the kind of happiness that a child would experience on Christmas day if he/she received exactly what was expecting. You stood up from the table and run into his arms, as he embraced you for your first kiss after knowing that you were in love. Hours later, Henry was back again in the kitchen. This time he was planning to prepare dinner for him since you told him the cookies made you feel full and you didn't want to eat anything else for the day. He was preparing everything that he needed, when you showed up in the kitchen wearing nothing but translucid bran with pastel green colour and white flowers on it. The bra was delicate and made your breasts look amazing. You also wear a white thong and white stockings and stiletto heels pumps. You left Henry speechless. You got closer to him, put your arms around his neck a started to kiss him. You could feel his hands sliding through your back reaching your ass and grabbing it. That made you laughed and he joined you. You looked at his eyes and suggested him to take things to bed. You indicated that you couldn't wait anymore to properly celebrate the fact that you loved each other. He picked you up, holding you by your thighs and walked to the bedroom. He left you on the bed as he turned to close the door and took his clothes off. He got on the bed and then slowly slid your thong and then throw it away. Grabbing you by your thighs, he began to pleasure you with his mouth. He loved to stroke your clit with his tongue, grabbing it and sucking it as well. He could do that for long periods. You were used to him putting his fingers inside your underwear and make you cum over and over. He'd do that at least three or four times per week -without counting that you had sex every single night and some mornings as well. He always wanted to take you and satisfy his desires but also wanted to make you happy. He couldn't get enough of you, and the feeling was mutual. You could feel him tasting you, after several orgasms, you were dripping wet. He climbed on top of you and kissed you, grabbing your lips with his. He grabbed a condom from the nightstand and after putting it on, he put his member inside of you, making you burned inside. It felt so good. He would go from slow movements to really fast pound. He had both of his hands on the mattress and your's were on his neck. He would separate his mouth from yours from time to time only to be able to kiss your neck and breasts. He knew how much you needed the touch of his sweet lips on yours; to feel his tongue dancing inside your mouth. You put your arms on his back and dug your fingers on his back, followed by your nails scratching his back. That made him insane. He had shaved two days before that moment, but his beard started to grow again. He also left he moustache to grow. It was still on its early stages, but still made you tingle and it felt so amazing, especially when he was with his head between your legs. He made you stood up from the bed and then grabbed you by your thighs once more, as you entwined your arms around his neck and he started to thrust you. Your body was on flames. The fact that he was strong enough to fuck you while holding you amazed you. For moments, you would free one of your hands just to stroke his arm, as his muscles tense. He sat on the edge of the bed and continued to pound you, buried himself inside of you deeper and deeper each time. You pushed his back against the mattress, kissed him with burning passion and then started to ride him, placing your hands on his majestic hairy chest. Then, you enlaced your hands with his while you continue to move up and down his cock. He pulled your hands into his lips, kissing both of them, one at the time. You put your chest against his and whispered on his ear "You're mine, baby. You're mine and I'm yours", he looked into your eyes. Just as he thought he couldn't want you more, you told him everything he wanted to hear, that you were his. He remembered at that moment that if he wasn't for your ex, he'd been the only man you have been with. That thought made him feel both jealous and lucky at the same time. Another man had you before him, but he intended to be the only man you'll be with for the rest of his life. You were his. He wasn't the kind of man that would treat you as an object, as something that could belong to him, but you were his woman, he loved you and would make sure that you'll want him forever over anybody else because he could not stand the idea of losing you. You were his angel and he would love you and protect you and hopefully make you as happy as you made him. Life with you was a paradise. You woke up due to the need to drink some water. You had your head pressed against Henry's chest. You had sex until the sunrise. You felt so tired after that amazing night. You checked your phone to see the time and to your surprise, it was midday. You got up and decided to prepare lunch for the two of you. You starred at him for a moment before leaving the bedroom. Seeing him sleep so peaceful felt like a warm hug. You were so lucky. He was amazing and he loved you as much as you loved him.

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x reader #demivampirew

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ineloqueent · 4 years ago

Text

Starstruck: Part 6

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 6 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 5 / Part 7

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.

Warnings: swearing, drinking

Historical Inaccuracies:

Again, I’m sure Bri’s eyesight really was absolutely fine haha

Word Count: 5.8k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Thursday night, it was raining. Again.

Always raining, were the skies above London, and the house was big and empty once more, the echoes of conversation long since departed the halls of your residence— everyone else was working.

But you were reading, always reading. You thought perhaps that you should play guitar, but you still had yet to fix that broken string, and the thought of balancing an instructional book on one knee and your guitar on the other made you feel further discouraged.

Then there was a knock at the door, and a flutter touched your sides.

Trying to calm whatever sensation of nervousness that had swept through your core and settled in your stomach, you took a deep breath and put your book aside.

You hurried toward the door, then mitigated your pace after you slipped and nearly fell to the hardwood floor in your fluffy socks.

You paused at the door, oddly hesitant about opening it.

The knock came again and you jumped. No way you could feign calm now, with the little hairs along your arms raised, with your breath so short. But you resolved to try.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Oh, thank goodness. I was starting to wish I’d have stolen your umbrella.”

Brian stood in the rain, one arm holding a jacket over his head. Under the other arm he carried a book, and in his hand he clutched the handle of his guitar case.

He blinked up at you from the bottom of the two steps that raised the door above the ground. The ends of his hair were sodden, and he had once again neglected to wear proper boots, opting for his classic white clogs, now speckled with muddy rain.

But what drew your attention was that he was wearing glasses.

Classic wayfarers with a thinner rim added to his already delicate yet sophisticated manner, and his poise, despite the jacket he held aloft, brought forth in him a regality. Queen indeed.

“You’re wearing glasses!” you exclaimed, as it was the first thing that popped into your head.

“Yes I am, lovely. Mind if I come in?”

The endearment caught you off-guard. The incline of his head and the curve of his mouth even more so.

“Uh, yes,” you blundered, “of course.” You stepped aside and held the door open for him.

“Ta.”

You closed the door behind him. He stopped to remove his shoes and to hang his jacket on one of the many coat pegs by the entranceway.

You waited, then gestured in the direction of the hall to your room. “This way.”

He nodded and followed you.

You walked slowly down the hall so as to not slip again and Brian padded along behind you, soft footsteps not characterising his height.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you said comically as the two of you entered the small room.

You tried to see it through Bri’s eyes, observing the white sheets and mound of cushions, the Jimi Hendrix and Beatles posters, the rickety bookshelves you had put up above your bed one late, insomnia-driven night, taking in the sight of books and records and plants scattered atop the furnishings. The window let in a little light from the street, and you had to say that you were quite pleased with the atmospheric cosiness that your multitude of fairy lights provided the room with. Of course, that was your side of the room. Heather’s side was a mess of posters and trinkets and concert tickets.

His eyes flitted about the place, taking in his surroundings, and a small smile graced his lips as he spotted the guitar on your bed.

“Very chic,” he said of the room.

“My side or Heather’s?”

“Yours. Freddie would call it cosy. I think I’d get lost over there,” he nodded at Heather’s side.

“Ha, cosy seems to be Freddie’s favourite word.”

“Mm, no, I think it’d be darling,” Bri drawled, and you stiffened. For one startling heartbeat, you had thought he was calling you darling.

You recovered quickly upon realising your mistake, though perhaps not as quickly as you might have liked, because Brian spoke again.

“So,” he said, “derivatives first, or guitar first?”

You rested your hands on your hips. “Think it’ll have to be derivations. We should prioritise you passing Carmichael’s tests.”

“I think really our priority is making you the next Jimi Hendrix,” Brian argued.

You shook your head. “Put down the guitar, Brimi.”

His narrowed eyes challenged you. “You know why people call me that?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a combination of my name and Jimi’s. You saying that... that is definitely a sign that we should leave off the calculus for later.”

You shook your head again. “You’ll just get carried away.”

“With calculus or the guitar?”

“Very funny. Sit down.” You pushed him toward the desk that sat between the two diverse sides of the room.

“As you wish.” He fluttered his eyelashes at you over the brim of his glasses, and alongside his eyes, your insides fluttered too.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Oh, but it must be impossible,” Brian groaned, running his hands through his hair and staring down the exercise book in frustration.

It had been an hour and a half since you’d begun, and you’d made it through what felt like a thousand rules and definitions, and seven rather complex derivations, but this eighth problem had taken up the majority of the last thirty minutes. You’d started out by doing a problem for Bri, then going through one with him, then letting him do a few and only prompting him when he chewed his lip or the end of his pencil. But now, you figured, you had better let him do one completely on his own. The only trouble was, he kept forgetting the same rule, so every time he rubbed his pretty, looping scroll from the paper and began anew, he was no further enlightened when he reached the same point as before.

“We can’t possibly be expected to understand something so complicated, can we?” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “I’m absolutely hopeless.”

You were seated beside him on a stool, and you leaned your elbows on the desk next to the exercise book.

“It’s just the one rule, Brian,” you said. “It’s not impossible and you’re not hopeless, and this whole self-deprecating thing isn’t really you.” In fact, he seemed rather out-of-sorts this evening, impatient and finicky where he was normally quite the opposite. Something was bothering him.

He smiled at you blearily, “Oh but it is. I’ve just tried to spare you of it.”

“Really?” you folded your arms. “Should I not have befriended you?”

He wrinkled his nose. “No, you shouldn’t have. Now you’re stuck with this self-deprecating scientist.”

“Astrophysicist,” you reminded him of his own convictions concerning the technicality. “And who’s to say I won’t run screaming out of here any moment now?”

His eyes focused on something behind you. You followed his gaze and saw your guitar.

“I think we both know that you won’t.” Then he slammed the exercise book shut with a thunk. “Hendrix time.”

You swivelled on your stool and leant over to pick up your guitar, a second-hand Fender Strat in an ombre of orange and black. Dismay tightened your jaw as you eyed the snapped string.

Brian had opened his guitar case and taken out the beautiful red guitar that had resided between the velvet. He’d taken off his glasses and placed them on your desk, and he now sat strumming softly with a coin on the strings, a cord already running from the body of his guitar to your amp on the floor.

He glanced up. “Ready for your first lesson?” His smile was friendly, but fucking hell it was intimidating to be sitting across from someone so experienced while you yourself floundered at changing a string. And speaking of strings…

“I, uh, I have a broken string,” you couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know how to fit the new one.”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot,” he said brightly, reassuringly. “Well, that’s a good thing to learn too. Do you have a replacement string?”

You nodded, holding up the little packet that contained six replacement strings you had bought a few days ago. At least you’d managed to get as far as buying them.

“Did you snap the high E?” Brian continued, seemingly oblivious to your embarrassment at not knowing how to change a string.

You nodded, unpacking the strings. Brian set down his guitar.

“I did that during a concert once, and just bloody launched myself toward some poor stagehand, in a sort of wild panic,” he chuckled at the memory. “Had to play a Gibson for the rest of the concert. Not the same sound, really.”

His banter was comforting; you felt at ease when he spoke in that level, melodious voice of his.

“This might be easier if you sit next to me,” he said.

Understanding his meaning, you left the stool and sat down on your bed. The bed dipped beside you as he sat down. He held out his hands, you passed him your guitar, and he positioned it so that it lay across his lap with the headstock pointed toward you.

“Since your strings don’t look too worn, we’ll just change the one.” He took the string winder that you also grasped and loosened the tuning peg of the high E. “So just remove the string from the bridge,” he slipped the string out from the far end of the guitar, “and then unwind it from the tuning peg.” He then went through a series of uncomplicated motions, aligning the tuning peg properly and attaching the replacement string accordingly.

“There,” he said, not two minutes later. “Easy.” His smile was easy too, though his eyes were strangely dim on this occasion. You wondered how he could smile so easily when he’d been gone for a week without telling anyone where he’d gone to, and presently neglected to explain where he’d been.

“Easy for you to say, pro-guitarist,” you teased.

“Ah, I wouldn’t say pro,” he eased the restored guitar back into your grip.

“I would.”

“Flattery won’t help you when you’re so mean about my derivative abilities,” he sniffed.

“You can retaliate by telling me how awful I am at guitar.”

“Somehow,” Brian took his guitar back into his lap, “I don’t think that’s true.”

You snorted. “Watch and learn.”

“I thought that was your job, now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Where do we start?”

“Well,” Brian ran a hand through his curls, “play me what you can play.”

You had just the song. It wasn’t really meant for guitar, but it hadn’t been a hard one to transcribe from its original piano format.

“Alright, then.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Brian shifted so as to give you room to play, and you took a breath.

You began strumming.

“I was dreaming of the past,” you sang softly, “and my heart was beating fast…”

You chanced a look up at Bri, and his expression was not what you had expected— he was slack-jawed and wide-eyed. You couldn’t fathom why he was looking at you this way; you’d barely played anything yet, so he couldn’t have been flummoxed at how bad you were, or even at how good you were. His expression nearly threw you off of your chords entirely.

Shaking your head for your hair to fall across your eyes and shelter you from the burn of his gaze, you continued to play.

You began to sing more loudly as you reached the chorus, because despite your reservations about playing for anyone, this song, this ballad, had to be done justice.

When the song finished, you tucked your hair behind your ears again.

Brian was sitting completely still, his hands clasped in his lap over his guitar.

You smirked. “Terrible, was I?”

“When did you learn to play that?” he didn’t bother to answer your question, simply stared at you with warm golden eyes.

“Over the weekend. It’s from one of Freddie’s records.”

“Yes, I know. That’s John Lennon,” said Brian.

“I can’t have been all bad, then, seeing as you recognised it.”

He shook his head adamantly, “It’s just— that’s the record I picked.”

“What are the chances—” you began, but Brian cut you off.

“No, you don’t understand. That’s my favourite John Lennon song.”

Oh.

Well, shit. You’d just ruined one of his favourite songs for him. You grimaced, leaning your arms on the body of your guitar.

“I’m sorry, this is awkward,” you trained your eyes on the window, though it was now far too dark to see beyond the glass. You pretended to see something, anyhow. Anything to not have to look at Bri and his expressive face and its delicate features and how his mouth twisted in obvious disappointment as he tried to figure out how to tell you that you were the hopeless one, you were the lost cause, you were the one not worth saving, you—

His fingers skimmed your knee, featherlight but nonetheless eliciting response from your skin, goosebumps along your leg, a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes flew to his.

“That was beautiful,” he said earnestly.

You were flummoxed. You were enraptured by the way his body seemed to lean toward yours, toward you. If you had been standing, your legs would have felt weak.

“I honestly don’t know where to start,” said Bri, drawing back, and the tension you had felt before dissipated. “You’re definitely more knowledgeable than you give yourself credit for. And you have a lovely voice,” he smiled warmly. That weak-legged feeling returned to you as suddenly as it had gone away.

“So what now, then, pro-guitarist?” you dared yourself to say. He chuckled, tossing his curls.

“Do you like David Bowie?” he said then.

“Are short-period comets superior to long-period comets?” you grinned.

“A stellar response.”

“Oh ha ha,” you rolled your eyes.

“Do you know ‘The Width of a Circle’?” You nodded and Bri continued, “Well, that’s what you’re about to learn how to play.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Dammit, Bri, why did I agree to this?” Your fingers ached from stretching up and down the fretboard of your guitar.

Brian laughed, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Because I’m so persuasive,” he winked.

Your cheeks coloured. “I mean, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” scoffed Brian. “I spent school years writing painful argumentative essay upon painful argumentative essay, and you say that you suppose?”

“Pfft, you’ll have to try harder to get me than that,” you replied, and the way he tilted his head at you made you wonder if he was considering the ambiguity of your words. “That’s not what I meant,” you said quickly.

“Oh, I know what you meant,” said Bri, but with a twinkle in his eye. Your flush deepened. You lifted your chin defiantly before bending over your guitar again.

“How the hell do you get your pointer on the first fret of the first string and your pinky on the fourth of the same?!”

Brian laughed. “You need to stretch your fingers more. They’re not flexible enough yet.”

“Just one more thing I’m not yet good at.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn to be.”

“Oh, what?” you let your guitar strap hold the instrument for you, crossing your arms. “Your magnificence didn’t happen overnight?” you mocked.

He held up his hands. “Your words, not mine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why does it feel like we’ve had this conversation before?”

Brian sighed, “Because we have. Sometime in the past hour.”

“And before that, too,” you grumbled, irritated by your own incompetence.

“Here, crossing your arms won’t help. Stand up.” Brian stood and you followed him reluctantly. “There’s an exercise that’ll help. Straighten your back, and now place your first finger on the eighth fret of the first string.” You obeyed, and he nodded. He began to go through the movements on his own guitar. “Okay, now without moving that finger, put your middle finger on the next fret, and your ring finger on the next, and then your pinky. Now move the first finger down a string and let the others follow, one by one.”

Bri had already gone through the exercise and repeated it faster and faster again down the strings, humming the notes as he played them, unperturbed by the world around him.

But you hadn’t even gotten your pinky to fret the first string. The stretch was too far; your hand simply twitched and you could hardly bend your pinky into the correct, curved shape.

You huffed loudly, melodramatically, and Brian looked up in surprise.

“My,” he said, “I never took you for a drama queen, but I see now why you’re such good friends Freddie and Roger and John.”

“Nice of you to exclude yourself from that back-handed compliment,” you responded dryly.

Bri said nothing, only slung his guitar over his curly crown and laid it on your bed.

His eyes ran over you, and for a moment you felt utterly exposed. What was he looking at, what had he seen?

“You need to straighten up, and then relax.”

You said tiredly, “Those two things are complete opposites, Brian.” It must have been around eleven o’clock now, and your shoulders were starting to ache with the weight of a long day and your distorted sleep schedule.

“No, Y/N,” he went on, tone calm and unpatronising. His patience was seemingly infinite. “Straighten your posture, relax your hand. Relax your wrist.”

You made a valiant attempt, but your hand spasmed again.

Immediately, you glared at Bri, warning him not to laugh— you felt pathetic enough as it was.

But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he embodied that serenity you sometimes found in him, the one that existed in the corners of the universe that did not pale beside the stars, but instead thrived in their light.

“Here,” he said again, though softer this time. He took a couple of tentative steps toward you, eyes locked upon yours, and then walked behind you.

You didn’t have time to question what he was doing, and barely enough to startle when his right hand curved over yours, and the fingers of his left curved around your wrist.

You could barely think as he moved closer still, with his chin hovering above your shoulder and his soft breath on your ear. His thigh brushed against yours, and you felt hyper aware that only velvet and suede was between skin and warmth.

“You just,” he murmured, “relax. Easy wrist.” His fingers ran along the line of your pulse and you inhaled sharply. “Just slightly… softer.” His words became a breathless whisper as he nudged your fingers along the fretboard, guiding your other hand to pick the strings.

He hummed the beginning of the riff he’d been teaching you, leading you through playing it.

It felt effortless to play when his curls pressed against the side of your face, when his fingers wrapped around yours. But breathing was another matter— you could not do it at all. Your lower lip between your teeth, you leaned into his tender touch, feeling the warmth of his chest seep into your back.

His hands stopped moving and where they enveloped yours, your skin tingled. He released a shaky sigh that hovered in the air like smoke above your tensed shoulders.

“Y/N,” he hummed your name beneath the course of a sigh, and his hands tightened around yours.

It was then that the phone rang.

Brian’s hands slipped from your skin in an instant, and he stepped away, lowering his head as though ashamed, his pretty angles hidden away behind his mass of hair.

Who the hell calls at eleven o’clock at night, anyway?!

You discarded your guitar at the foot of your bed, then traipsed into the hallway and picked up the phone, leaning against the doorframe to your room. “Hello?”

“Y/N!” cried a giggly voice over music with heavy bass. “It’s Kate. Katie. Katie-Kate.”

You covered your eyes with one hand. “I… I thought you were here, at home, asleep?”

“Naaaaah, I got peckish and nipped out for a bit.”

“Peckish?”

You glanced over at Brian, who seemed for the life of him to be holding back a smile. You rolled your eyes in the direction of the phone and his lips curved properly before he fluttered his eyelashes and looked away.

“Mmmm, maybe a tad thirsty too.” Her voice had been sing-songy before, but now it turned serious. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I don’t do this, normally, but could you possibly come pick me up? I mean, I’m taking the tube back, obviously, but I’m not here with anybody and you know it’s not the best idea to go walking alone at night in our lovely city when you’re slightly—” and here she hiccuped, “—tipsy.”

Your resolve softened. Kate really wasn’t normally like this, and in her place, you would have been terrified to make your way home, your senses dulled by alcohol and a night spent out on the town.

“Of course, Katie. I’ll be right… right where?”

“The little pub on the Southwark side of Tower Bridge.”

“Ah, okay,” you said, knowing the place she met. “I’ll be there in twenty. Stay inside, okay?”

“Okay, thank you Y/N.” She hung up without another word.

You turned to Brian who glanced up at you, almost frightenedly. No, not frightenedly, but startled, like you’d disturbed his thoughts. You’d have to ask him about those later. Many mysteries of the past week remained unsolved, and he was a major player in all of them.

You smiled as brightly as you could manage at this late hour. “Fancy some hot chips?”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

The tube ride from Camden to Tower Bridge was mostly silent, at least on the parts of you and Brian. The noise which did exist was generated by late partygoers, heading home from a rave in the city, or leaving a party on one side of London to attend a party on the other side of London.

Hanging onto a pole to stabilise yourself as the train shot through the network of tunnels that made up the London Underground, you looked up at Brian, who stood across from you, fingers wrapped around a handle hanging from the ceiling.

He smiled when his gaze fell on yours, and reached out an arm to tug the end of your scarf— his scarf.

You rolled your eyes in response, then tapped your shoe to the tip of his clog, silently mocking his fashion choices.

He wrinkled his nose at you. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You wanted to.” He mussed his hair sleepily, and you felt a shard of guilt pierce your side. It was late, and you’d dragged him along on an adventure he hadn’t asked for.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you said, your voice softened by the same tiredness that Brian embodied in his movements. “I just thought that it was silly to go off alone so late when the very reason I was leaving the house was to make sure someone else didn’t go off alone.”

“I wouldn’t have let you go alone anyway,” he told you, and warmth spread in your chest.

“Thank you,” you said again.

He simply inclined his head in that regal way of his.

The tube soon reached Tower Bridge station, and the two of you disembarked. The walk from the station to the pub was short, and it took even less time to find Kate; she was waiting in a chair by the door.

“Y/N, thank goodness!” she leapt up, before sinking her volume to a whisper. “There’s a creep who’s been watching me for the past half hour and I’ve been struggling to shake ‘im off.”

You clenched your jaw. Why could people not just fuck off and keep to themselves? It was pretty obvious to you when you weren’t wanted around, so why could creepy men not take a hint?

“I’m sorry, Katie,” you frowned, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

She nodded, then stopped when she saw Brian standing behind you.

“Oh, Kate, this is Brian, Brian this is Kate. He’s a friend,” you said to Kate.

“Hello,” Brian extended his hand to Kate and she shook it.

“So you’re the person who gets Y/N out of bed in the morning,” Kate said.

“I’m— sorry?” Brian balked, colour rising in his cheeks.

“She’s drunk,” you dismissed Kate’s words with a shake of your head, ignoring the clench beneath your ribcage at Brian’s blush.

“Tipsy!” she cried, as though this proved her point rather than disproved it. “Y/N hates mornings—”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Brian answered with a slight laugh.

“Yes, well, not if you’re waking up beside someone you love, no,” Kate babbled, “and lately, Y/N’s been okay in the mornings, so I’d like to thank you.”

Realisation dawned.

“Oh no—” you began as Brian said “We’re not—”

You glanced at Bri, hoping he’d finish his sentence so you didn’t have to. This was awkward enough already.

But he didn’t. He just stared at you, and something in the way he stood made you think he was holding his breath.

Your eyes couldn’t leave his. “We’re not together,” you said, slowly.

Kate made a face in your peripheral vision, pushing open the door and stepping outside. You followed her.

“Shame,” she sighed. “Thought you looked good together.”

You could feel Bri’s eyes on you as you left the pub.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

You’d gotten Kate home without too much trouble, aside from the fact that she was wearing stilettos and was rather unsteady on her feet.

Now you leaned against your bedroom doorway, staring at nothing as Brian packed away his guitar.

He snapped his guitar case closed. “Hang on,” he said.

“Hm?”

“I thought you promised there would be hot chips.”

You smiled. “You look tired, Brian.”

“I think now’s a good time to confess I’m an insomniac.”

You let out a laugh.

“Honestly, I am,” he professed, then regarded you with folded arms. “And you did promise food.”

Truthfully, you didn’t feel like you could sleep right now, even though your shoulders thrummed with a dull pain and you knew it would be ill-advised to stay up any later than you already had.

But it was a few minutes past midnight, and the late night felt magical as the streets dimmed and the world shuffled off to sleep, while you still held the power of consciousness in your hands. It thrilled you. Midnight always had.

“And where do you expect we’ll find hot chips at this hour?” you crossed your arms too.

Brian grinned, then looped his arm through yours. “I know a place.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“How come you know my area better than I do?” you said, stealing a chip from the cardboard carton Brian now carried.

The two of you were walking through Camden Market along the canal. Bare lightbulbs that were strung up along fences lit the path in little galaxies, and trees hung low over the water, as though they had once been men and women who had lost their loves to the river.

Brian shrugged. “Roger’s sort of quite fascinated by a lot of different subcultures, and all of London’s seem to coexist in Camden Lock, so he and Freddie and John and I come here often. Rog says it inspires him. And who would we be to deny him his muse?”

“Huh,” you said. “I thought cars were his muse.”

“Right?!” Brian agreed. “He never stops talking about them. Even in his sleep.”

“Maybe he should write a song about them.”

Brian nodded thoughtfully as he munched on chips.

“What about you?” you asked. “What’s your inspiration? There must be something behind that ‘White Queen’ song of yours.”

Brian suddenly choked. Reflexively, you hit his back in alarm.

He coughed, “Sorry. Too many chips at once, I think,” he muttered sheepishly.

You handed him the bottle of water you’d bought, and he thanked you.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Well, isn’t it obvious?”

You blinked at him.

“Stars,” he said. “I’m in love with the stars, remember?”

You nodded, quoting, “The white queen walks and the night grows pale, stars of lovingness in her hair. Makes sense.”

But Brian had a strange look on his face. “Yeah,” he responded slowly. “I suppose it does.”

“For the chap who has his bedroom ceiling covered in plastic glow-in-the-dark stars, it does make sense,” you nudged his shoulder.

“I should never have let you be on gathering duty instead of bird duty,” he shook his head. “The endless teasing.” Then his eyes widened. “You didn’t touch my guitar, did you?”

“Speaking of endless teasing,” you said, “you have quite the attachment to that guitar. Kind of like Rog and his cars, really. What’s her name, the Red—”

“The Red Special.”

“And you two are exclusive, or..?”

“We’ve always been a pair.”

“Yes, but you have a Fender and that acoustic as well. I mean, doesn’t she get jealous when you—”

“My dad and I made her.”

You almost spat out the chip you’d just snagged. “You… you made her? Like, from scratch?”

Brian nodded, and you stopped walking. He nodded like it was nothing that he and his father had crafted the prized instrument, the one which Bri had used to compose so many songs for Queen. Like it was something average, not worthy of praise but simply something done over the weekend with a couple of hours to spare. Nothing impressive.

“From an old mantlepiece, pieces from my bike, buttons, bits of a table… Took forever,” he chuckled, a fondness softening his eyes in the glow of lamplight. “Worth it, though.”

Your lips had fallen open, and when Brian saw this, he laughed. “Alright, Y/N? Earth to Y/N?” He shook the carton of chips in front of you, trying to glean a reaction. “Houston, we’ve had a problem.”

You shook your head slowly. “I just… That’s amazing, I can’t fathom how much work that must have taken, and from everyday bits and pieces…”

“You see why I love her?”

“Now I’m wondering why we tease you in the first place. That’s bloody impressive, Brian.”

“Thank you,” he said humbly. He draped his arm around yours as you began walking again.

You liked walking with Brian. Despite the fact that his legs were ridiculously long and that his steps matched his legs, he was lithe and his gait had a swaying quality to it, as though he permanently wandered around with his eyes up to the stars and was swept away in a dream. His side was soft and always flush against your own, and his warmth became yours and rushed through your veins as surely as your blood when he leaned closer or spoke more softly. Your thoughts strayed frequently when he walked with you this way, but never far from him— only to stars and the universe and things that were already his.

You remembered the full moon that had risen in the sky a few nights ago, remembered how you’d wondered if he’d seen it too. The idea of staring up at the same heavens as the rest of the world was a favourite musing of yours because it gave you the feeling of not being alone in the world; everyone and everything was bound together by the stars.

But maybe Bri hadn’t seen the moon last Tuesday. Maybe he’d been too busy, with whatever it was he had been doing. You had to admit, it hurt a little that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you where he had disappeared off to.

“Brian,” you murmured.

“Mm?” Now, of all times, he had his head in the stars. You wanted to take his face in your hands and make him look at you, let your resolve be swallowed by amber-flecked irises and barely pouted lips, to forget what your skin felt like and to replace it with the memory of his. You almost did. Almost.

“Where have you been?”

“As a spaceman, I went travelling.”

“Brian.”

“I was visiting my aunt.”

“You were visiting your aunt. And you couldn’t have called?” You took hold of his hand, and his eyes flicked to you.

“She was dying,” he said bluntly.

Any relief you might have felt previously now disappeared as abruptly as light does in a solar eclipse. The light seemed to be eclipsed from Brian, too.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, heart heavy in your chest. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Well, how else would you have found out?” he muttered grimly.

“You could have told me.”

He ignored your question. Then he pulled his hand from your grasp. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea,” he said.

Tendrils of cold wrapped around your heart as he let you go and his expression became closed off. How dearly you wished you’d never asked your stupid question and instead had let him explain in his own time.

“I’ll just collect my guitar, if that’s alright.” No emotion coloured his words in any way, and in being neither positive nor negative, his demeanour was unsettling.

“Yes, yes that’s fine,” you responded.

You and Brian walked back to your place in silence, and the space between you was heavy. A feeling of dizziness clouded your mind, rattling your thoughts with tremors like earthquakes.

As Bri stepped out into the early morning, an urgency gripped you. Everything hung in the balance, and it fell to you to tip the scales. Equilibrium would not be good enough for you, not today, not ever. You’d said that you’d be damned if you let one of your best friends suffer in silence, and Brian was no exception. In fact, he was the rule.

“Brian,” you spoke his name in a sigh, a breath that ran along your skin in sparks and a name that tingled on your lips. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to pry.”

He didn’t move and said even less. The moon lit his sharp angles and the round ringlets of his hair and held her breath alongside you.

Then, mercifully, he nodded. “I know.”

But he left you with only those words, and without another glance at you.

The clouds obscured the stars and the light left as he disappeared into the night.

You covered your face with your hands.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: there you are, my cheeky mid-week update! hope it’s not a disappointing one. love to you all <3

taglist: @melting-obelisks @hgmercury39 @stardust-killer-queen @topsecretdeacon

Masterpost / Part 5 / Part 7

#tina's writing #starstruck #brian may #brian may x reader #brian may x y/n #brian may x you #queen #freddie mercury #roger taylor #john deacon #queen fanfiction #1975 #1970s #fic

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florenc-ia · 4 years ago

Text

These are my last reads, took me some time but oh well. Enjoy

Give Me Truths 110k

Louis is a psychology student with a tattoo count as high as his genius IQ. Harry is in a (sort-of) relationship with a homophobic man and hates himself a little more every day. Things fall apart and Louis puts him back together.

Or, the one in which Louis falls in love with a fragile boy and tells him every beautiful truth in the world, as long as it makes him happy.

chances under the purple sunrise 28k

“You’ve been taking my shoes?” Louis asked, scoffing. “I paid a lot for them!”

“How unfortunate for you.” Harry smiled bitterly. He peeked over Louis, eyeing the hook that still had the worm.

The red box was open right next to him. Harry saw that inside, it had a couple of transparent containers that were filled with worms, too. He eyed Louis skeptically before nodding. “Right. I’ll give you your, er…. little boats back if you let me have the tub of worms.”

A groan crawled out from Louis, his head falling back and his eyes landing up at the clear sky. “I need those.”

“They’re food for myself and others, not to be used as bait.”

Or the one where Harry is a merman, prince of the Atlantic Ocean, whose curiosity and healthy envy takes over him and he steals Louis' shoes every time he fishes.

Absolutely amazing it’s so beautiful and cute I loooooved it

Oh Glory 21k

Tomlinson looks Liam over, tilting his head. “Are you a swimmer as well?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, a little cautiously. Harry wonders if it’s Tomlinson’s fame or the unimpressed eyebrow that’s making Liam wary. “Distance, I’m doing the 1500m. Harry here’s a sprinter.”

“Ah,” says Tomlinson, turning his glinting eyes back to Harry. “So you’re not an endurance man.” A beat passes, and his grin grows, wide and filthy. "Shame."

Harry Styles is Team Great Britain's newest swimmer, and has spent his whole life training for this moment, a chance at the gold medal in the Rio 2016 Olympics. All his training, hard work, and dedication to no distractions is tested when he's assigned to the same Rio apartment as Louis Tomlinson, British gymnast and Harry's childhood crush.

Torn On The Platform 27k

AU where harry and louis are strangers but they always get the same train to work in the morning and one day harry falls asleep on louis’ shoulder. louis wants to be annoyed because harry just broke a least seven rules of tube conduct but he looks so soft and peaceful that he just lets him sleep and wakes him ever so carefully when it’s his stop. it happens again and again until it becomes a regular thing where louis will let harry snooze and then gently nudge him awake, hand him the cup of coffee he took from him so it wouldn’t slip and spill everywhere and send him off with a “have fun at work, love” and after the tenth time harry isn’t even embarrassed anymore.

In a sky full of stars, be my Northern lights 13k

It's one of those nights there's nothing on the telly that Louis absently scrolls through Tinder. After swiping left on a bunch of profiles he comes face to face with a picture that stops him in his tracks. The picture is..almost sweet. It’s a boy with brown curly hair, wearing a very low cut yellow blouse, paired with a black jacket. He’s got a smile on his face and his tongue sticking out, but it’s not in any way lewd or suggestive. He just looks like he’s having a good time, and something about the innocence of it has him swiping right rather than left.

He’s barely checked the other pictures on the boy's profile before Tinder confirms that he’s got a match. The shots are so different from the pictures Louis is used to on Tinder - half naked boys who are smoldering at the camera - that he can’t help but smile.

It quickly turns into a frown when he opens up the message he’s just received.

Harry: Hello!

Harry: Thank you for swiping right

Harry: I have a proposition for you

baby we could be enough (I’ll make this feel like home) 52k

“Did you clean the table?” Harry asks Louis once Rose is done speaking, now occupied with trying to see if she can reach over and touch Harry’s hair from where she’s sat. At Louis’ nod, Harry frowns. “You didn’t have to do that. You’re my guests here, I could’ve dealt with it later.”

Louis just smiles easily, though, adjusting Rose on his lap so that she’s facing Harry better. She manages to tug on a loose wave of hair, and she makes a noise of triumph that both Louis and Harry smile at.

“I don’t mind,” Louis murmurs to Harry, even though he’s looking at Rose. “This one here seemed very excited to talk to you.”

And, okay. Harry can’t help but think of how domestic this feels, all of a sudden.

[harry is a photographer who's trying to find his place. louis is a single father with a smile that feels like home.]

That’s How I Know 19k

Louis Tomlinson has just landed his dream job, coaching soccer at Augustus University. When he moves into a new house near campus, he meets his very fit new neighbor, English professor Harry Styles. Although their first meeting leads to an instant mutual dislike, the more Harry gets to know Louis, the more he likes what he sees.

Or the one where Harry’s African grey parrot spills his dirty secrets to his very hot neighbor.

Never Too Late 18k

Harry’s confused for a moment before it hits him: the little boy is signing. Harry squats down to get to the boy’s level again and mirrors the same action.

“Dad?” He inquires. Harry learned basic sign language after having met a fan who was deaf. He made it his mission to learn signing so that he’d be able to communicate with other fellow hearing impaired fans.

The little boy smiles brightly, his tears now long gone. He goes on to extend both hands, palms up as if he’s asking where? Followed by the previous sign which means Dad. Harry smiles to himself at the amazing little guy standing in front of him.

He stands up taking the boy’s hand, “Let’s go find your dad,” he tells him making the motion with his hand.

Just having come out of the closet and recovering from vocal surgery, famous recording artist Harry Styles needs to get away from LA to work on new music needing to prove to his label that his career isn't over. Little does he know that his life is about to change forever when he runs into an old friend at the city he's decided to escape to.

Truth Be Told (I Never Was Yours) 76k

Harry watches Louis as he scrunches up his nose and bites the end of a pen in concentration. He’s been working on seating arrangements for the past hour and getting more frustrated by the minute. Louis huffs out a breath and glances down at Harry with a soft smile on his lips before he returns to the task at hand. It’s easy, right then, for Harry to let himself believe that they’re planning a seating chart for their own wedding and bickering over who is going to sit where from a list of their own family members. He can let himself daydream about a white picket fence and a dog that they could have within the next year.

It’s like a cold slap in the face when Harry looks to the top of the page to see “Aiden and Louis Grimshaw” at the head table, and Harry has to mentally remind himself for the thousandth time that Louis is not his. Never was, really. He’s just the wedding planner that’s been in love with Louis since he was sixteen.

(or the one where Louis and Harry have a complicated past, Louis is getting married to someone that’s not Harry, and the universe has decided to have a laugh and make Harry the wedding planner.)

Even Angels Have Their Demons 53k

Louis is appointed the role of Guardian Angel, and his first mission is a boy named Zayn Malik. Unfortunately, it seems that a certain Demon has gotten to him first.

Or... an Angel/Demon AU where Angel Louis hates Demon Harry, but somewhere along the way that stops being so true.

Three French Hems 20k

In which Louis is a designer at Burberry and Harry spends December wearing Lanvin… and Lanvin… and Lanvin.

In Dreams 23k

AU. When Harry moves to a new city, his new flat come with a number of sweet, anonymous gifts and surprises that brighten his days. Could it be a friendly ghost? Another friendly presence in his new building is his tattooed neighbor, Louis, who seems determined to put a smile back on his face.

Say It Somehow 129k

Louis Tomlinson may be one of the most respected actors on the West End, but he's terrible at knowing how to act around Harry Styles.

The story of two people who find each other at just the right time, featuring first dates, sleepovers, heartbreak, lots of sex, baked goods, overpriced bedsheets, and musical theatre references galore.

A Darker Shade of Love 750k

Louis is a 30 year old multi-billionaire with a very dark past. He is violent and is a sadist with a taste for pain.

Harry Styles is a 19 year old student who sets out to London after being kicked out by his homophobic father to follow his dreams. He wants to go to the best University to study but he needs a lot of money so he starts to work as a part time stripper at a gay club to support his studies and his life.

The club he works at, Garland's, is part owned by Louis Tomlinson. When they meet, its life changing for the both of them.

Ok so this one has very sensitive content. It’s very well written but if you can understand this is all fiction then you’re good. Be careful reading it if you think you might get triggered

A Sea Without Water, A Compass Without Direction 84k

”Tell me, Louis,” Captain Styles said, leaning forward a little. ”D’you think I’m an idiot?”

”I—what?” Louis asked, surprised by the blunt question. He had expected something different, something along the lines of how he learned music, or how he ended up as a prisoner on the other ship.

”Do you think I’m an idiot?” The captain repeated, putting emphasis on each word as though Louis couldn’t understand him otherwise.

”Of course not,” Louis said, shaking his head. He’d be a fool for thinking such a thing, and an even bigger fool for saying it out loud. ”Captain.”

Captain Styles nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. ”Then why did you lie to me?”

”L-Lie?”

”Out on the deck. You lied to me,” he said. He held up his hand, three fingers up.

”Three lies total. I hate liars.”

Waiting for the tides to meet 59k

Louis lets out a deep breath, thinking about Harry’s soulmate. Thinking about how Harry’s soulmate is probably as beautiful as Harry, some person that Louis cannot compare to, and how the universe has chosen them to be Harry’s. Fuck the universe. “Fuck you,” he calls out to the universe. He’s aware of how crazy he sounds.

Maybe he is crazy, with how he’s falling for Harry. And fuck that, too.

Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.

Featuring a lovely cup of OT5, a road trip down the coast, and a scene where Harry eats a whole head of lettuce. Don't ask why.

#larry stylinson #larry #larryfanfic #fanfiction #fic recommendation #fanfic #reading

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invisibleanonymousmonsters · 5 years ago

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Non-Sequential [Ch. 14]

Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader

One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.

Word Count: 2,600

A/N: Hey. Remember when I said I was on a break. LMFAO. I guess when inspiration hits, it hits.

Chapter 13

Everything hurt. Her body. Her mind. Her heart.

Even the distant, muddled beeping was giving her a migraine.

Why couldn’t it just end?

Y/N was done fighting. She was in too much pain. She just wanted it all to be over. Surely Steve would forgive her. Surely he’d understand. She wasn’t strong like him. She wished she were, but that wasn’t her reality.

“You coming back to the living, kid?” A voice muttered.

Why did they sound like they were underwater?

Y/N urged her eyes to open and even that hurt. The white room was blinding – even with all the lights dimmed or turned off.

After a minute of wincing and blinking, her eyes finally managed to adjust to the room.

She looked over to see Tony sitting in a chair next to her bed.

“Where – Where am I?” Y/N asked, trying to look around the room for clues. It felt familiar but also new at the same time.

“You’re in the medical wing of the compound,” he answered promptly.

She relaxed at that.

“You showed up in the middle of Heathrow Airport a couple of days ago. Caused quite a scene actually. Soon as I got word, I flew you back here.”

What really happened was Tony had a fit at the Royal London Hospital. They tried to tell him that he couldn’t take Y/N. That an investigation needed to be made for the mysterious, naked girl who showed up out of nowhere, in one of the biggest airports in the world. The words ‘terrorist’ and ‘national security’ had even been thrown around. But Tony wasn’t having it. When he saw how beat up Y/N was… he couldn’t trust just any doctors to help her.

It didn’t help that the Avengers had been disbanded just days before. That his entire life and family had just been broken. He couldn’t lose any more people. So Tony caused a scene and regretted none of it.

Y/N eyed Tony then, finally taking him in. That was when she saw the bruises and cuts on his face. He’d been in a fight, that was obvious.

Her exhausted and recovering mind slowly processed everything.

“Tony,” Y/N said slowly and carefully, “where is Steve?”

Tony covered his mouth and his eyes looked heartbroken as they watched her. But he didn’t say anything

“Tony,” she repeated more firmly. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” he finally answered.

“What’s happened? What did I miss?” Now she had a million questions.

“Battle lines were drawn and sides were chosen…” Tony hesitated. “And Cap…Well, Cap didn’t pick me.”

Y/N was breathing heavily as she realized what he meant.

“The Accords,” she muttered.

“I always knew that war buddy of his meant a lot to him. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt when he chose him over me.” He shook his head.

“Can’t you find him, Tony?” Her voice shook as tears began to form. “Please, I…I need him. Please, Tony.”

Tony squirmed in his seat, already knowing he couldn’t give her what she wanted, what she needed, what she was begging for.

“He walks into this building and they won’t let him leave.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a criminal now, Y/N. He refused to sign, broke the law, and then busted our – his friends – out of the most secure prison in the world.”

Tears were sliding down her cheeks now.

“He’s left me. Now he’s left you.” Tony added bitterly.

Y/N wanted to say he was wrong. But Tony’s anguish was taking over her as well.

“Who’s still here?” She whispered.

But really what she was asking was, ‘Who sided with Steve?’

Tony shrugged and crossed his arms, pretending like he didn’t hate the answer to her question.

“Vision. Rhodey.”

Y/N tried not to gape at him. That was it? That’s all that was left of them?

Tony then leaned forward, balancing his forearms on his knees. “Wanna tell me what happened to you, kid? Who did this to you?”

Y/N didn’t like the sudden attention being shifted onto her. She turned away from him and leaned back into her bed, refusing to meet his gaze now.

“You’re not gonna tell me?” Tony challenged.

She didn’t speak.

“Do you want me to list all the injuries on your patient chart? The docs said you’re lucky to be alive. You were a breath away from death when they found you at the airport.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair as he rubbed his face. “I’m not gonna let that go.”

But Y/N couldn’t talk about it. It was all in the past, literally. There was nothing anyone could do to make it better. It happened and there was no justice that could be served. That was the thing about the past, it just kept haunting you and you could never go back to fight it off.

Y/N didn’t want to talk about the torture. She didn’t even want to think about it.

She just wanted it to go away.

“Y/N…” He tried to urge.

“Please, just leave me alone,” she snapped before he could say anything more.

Tony eyed her with concern. But she didn’t see because she refused to look at him. So he did what she asked and he left her alone.

————————

“She is your…?” This time, T’Challa wanted to know her rightful title.

Steve squinted at the question because no word felt right to him. Y/N was more than his girlfriend. Lover felt cheesy. The idea of soulmate felt right, but that word felt hokey and too misused to be correct.

“She’s my…everything.” Steve finally muttered hesitantly.

Steve had left Wakanda to rescue his friends from the Raft. During that time, T’Challa had become king, defended his throne, and drove his country out of a civil war.

Steve had returned when T’Challa informed him of Bucky’s recovery, all thanks to his little sister Shuri.

Steve had expected it to take months to cure Bucky’s brainwashing. But Shuri managed to do it in a week. “I would’ve fixed your white boy within days if it hadn’t been for Killmonger,” Shuri had told Steve with exasperation.

T’Challa nodded slowly. “I see.”

He watched the captain closely. T’Challa was wise and observant. He could tell how broken Steve was, how hard he was trying to keep his emotions down.

Knowing that Y/N was hurt was destroying Steve.

“You cannot go to her?” T’Challa asked carefully.

“They’ll get to me before I get to her. What good would I do her in jail?”

T’Challa nodded slowly and then cleared his throat. “So, we bring her here.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “What?”

“We will retrieve her and bring her to Wakanda.”

“Your Highness, you’ve done more than enough for me. I can’t ask that of you.”

“You did not ask, Captain. I am offering.” He gave him a small smirk. “Wakanda has revealed itself to the world because I want to help those who need it.” Then his face dropped slightly. “She will not receive better medical care anywhere else.”

“She’s…enhanced.” He finally confessed.

“How so?”

Steve rubbed his face. “She travels through time. But she can’t control it. She thinks it’s like a disease. It controls her instead of her controlling it.”

T’Challa doesn’t seemed phases by it. “Perhaps we can help her.”

Steve sighed. “You will be breaking into the Avenger’s compound.”

“Or I will be welcomed,” T’Challa offered with the tilt of his head.

But when he watched Steve’s reaction, there wasn’t the level of excitement or relief he was expecting.

“What is it?” He asked.

Steve shook his head. “I can’t stay here with her. My team…they’re being forced on the run because of me. I can’t just abandon them. The world still needs saving. With or without the Avengers, I can’t sit back and watch bad things happen.”

T’Challa understood his reasoning. He reached forward and gripped Steve’s shoulder. “Then Wakanda will watch over her while you do what you must.”

“T’Challa… I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

The king smiled. “Captain Rogers, not ever good deed is a debt that needs to be repaid.”

——————

Y/N had been in a complete haze for over a week now. They put her on strong pain killers. So strong that she was barely coherent. But she didn’t care. She was glad something finally made the pain stop.

Except now she knew something was off. She wasn’t groggy anymore. She was fully alert. It just felt like she’d woken up from a very, very long nap.

But she quickly realized she wasn’t at the compound anymore.

“By now, you’d think your western medicine would’ve figured out a way to make painkillers without all the drowsiness.”

Y/N stared at her wide-eyed. A part of her wanted to panic. She wasn’t in a familiar place anymore. This woman – no – this teenage girl was a stranger.

Y/N’s eyes started looking around the room, trying to find something she could use as a weapon. Instead, she realized she was in a place that felt like it was straight out of a sci-fi movie. And that was saying something with all the time she spent around Tony Stark. The tech looked both foreign and ahead of anything she’d seen at the Avengers’ compound.

“Who the hell are you?” She finally asked in a monotone voice, as her eyes still took in the room.

“Oh! Right!” The girl had stopped tapping away on a holographic screen and practically bounced to Y/N’s bedside.

“I am Shuri. You’re in Wakanda.”

Y/N blinked rapidly. “What? Wa-Wakanda?”

Shuri smirked confidently. “Not what you imagined, right?”

“H-How did I even get here?”

Shuri winced a little at the question. “We may have… Well, we stole you.”

The Wakandan princess then proceeded to explain everything that happened while Y/N had been in the past and recovering. She went into much greater than detail than Tony had, giving a third party perspective instead of being so close to it.

“So…” Y/N began, after remaining quiet and listening for half an hour or so, “Steve had you bring me here. But he’s not actually here.”

She didn’t bother hiding her bitterness or irritation. And despite Shuri not knowing her well, she heard it loud and clear.

The princess dipped her head and held a somber look. “It is very clear that he loves you very much. I know he wishes for nothing more than to be here. But he had to help your friends.”

Y/N clenched her jaw. It was obvious that Shuri’s words did nothing to dissipate her anger.

Shuri decided it was best to change the subject. “Would you mind telling me how you sustained these injuries?”

“Yes, I would mind,” Y/N snapped back.

Shuri seemed to have anticipated such a reaction and just nodded slowly.

“Well, I am fully confident that, with Wakandan medicine, we will have you fully recovered in the next couple of weeks.”

Y/N blinked at her. A couple of weeks? The doctors at the compound were throwing months around when they discussed her long recovery.

“I’ll have someone bring you food soon. You must be starving!” Despite Y/N’s foul mood, Shuri didn’t let it hinder her own optimism and upbeat attitude.

Then Y/N caught a glance of a few guards standing just outside her room.

“Are those for you or for me?” Y/N asked.

“You, of course.” Shuri giggled.

Y/N eyed her. “Am I in some sort of danger here?”

“Of course not. However, my brother promised Captain Rogers that he’d protect you. And my brother is a man of his word.”

—————

The sun was nearing the horizon as Shuri approached the hut.

It was never hard to find Bucky. He didn’t venture very far from him his home. He took care of his farm and his animals, never even considered going into the city or visiting his new friends in the palace. They always had to come to him.

It was clear that Bucky liked the isolation.

No matter how many times Shuri promised she’d completely cured him of his brainwashing, it was evident that Bucky still didn’t quite trust himself.

She knew he sensed her coming. Once an assassin, always an assassin.

He continued working, pretending he wasn’t aware of a visitor the moment she was 50 yards away - even with her being obscured by a forest of trees and bushes.

Shuri leaned against the fence that kept in all the goats. Bucky was feeding them.

“What brings you all the way out here?” He asked without taking his eyes off his task.

“She’s awake.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers. “How is she?”

“Physically? She will make a full recovery.” Then she frowned a bit. “If we left her in America, who knows what they would have butchered.”

Bucky looked at her with sadness. “And beyond physically?”

Shuri played with the chipped wood of the fence. “I do not know. We can help her with that, as well. But she has to want it.”

Bucky nodded slowly and looked around. “Why’d you come all the way down here to tell me? You could’ve easily sent me a message.”

Shuri’s brow furrowed. “I do not know what happened to her. She will not say. According to her chart, she was the same with the medical team at the Avengers’ compound.” Then she sighed. “But I have a feeling you might be able to help her better than any Wakandan medicine or doctor ever could.”

Bucky put his hands on his hips and looked at the ground. “I don’t think I agree with that.”

Shuri wasn’t completely surprised by his indifference. “You knew her once, did you not? Not like Steve, I understand. But you are not a complete stranger to her. I thought, at one point in time, you had even considered her a friend.”

“I’m not that man anymore. That was a different time.”

Shuri became very serious then. “Bucky, do you…” she breathed, “do you know what happened to her?”

He winced. Like him trying to think about it had given him a flash migraine.

“I might,” Bucky admitted. But it was obvious he was very unsure of himself.

“Then why are you so sure that you cannot help her?” Shuri argued.

“Because I haven’t learned how to deal with it either.”

Shuri’s heart broke at how anguished her new friend appeared. She knew not to push it any harder.

“Goodnight, Bucky. I know you enjoy your space out here, but I could always use some company in the lab.”

“Goodnight, Shuri.” He answered back with utter politeness.

As the princess started to make her way back to the palace, Okoye was waiting for her at the top of the hill just beyond Bucky’s hut.

“You sure he is the right choice for helping the girl?” Okoye asked, tone a little cold. Her even gaze stayed on Bucky in the distance. “He is a broken man, as well. He struggles helping himself. What can he do for her?”

Shuri sighed and turned back for one last glance at Bucky.

“It’s not just about what he can do for her. It’s about what they can do for one another.”

Okoye gave a solemn nod. “And the Captain… does he know of this plan?”

“It is his lover and his best friend. I do not see why he would ever disagree with it.”

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

Chapter 15

I feel like ya gotta tell me how ya feel after I just surprised you with this chapter. (Honestly, it probably surprised me just as much lol.)

#non-sequential #non-sequential series #non-sequential chapter 14 #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers reader insert #marvel reader insert #steve rogers x you #captain america x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes reader insert #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fic #steve rogers series #marvel fanfic #pre-serum!steve rogers #pre-serum!steve rogers x reader #pre-serum steve rogers x reader

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congadrug29 · 4 years ago

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zwiezraczek · 5 years ago

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The Perks of being Roger's Girl... [Chapter 3]

SUMMARY: Anna is Brian’s friend, his childhood best friend. They were separated for a long time, but when Smile performs at the Royal Albert Hall, Anna is here, invited by Brian. There, she meets Roger, the dentist drummer, a loverboy.

CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3: Paying Off - CHAPTER 4

Freddie's birthday, a lucky day leading to February in 1974...

WORDS: 5.1k

Holding a package against her side, Anna walked on the pavement, looking for the house Freddie lived in with his parents. This neighborhood seemed pretty nice, the detached-houses painted with pastel colors made everything look warmer, cozier, friendlier and safer. The leaves slowly burnt into an orange color, falling slowly on the ground: autumn came in pretty quickly this year, just a few days after August. Anna looked up, the address she had matched with the number she found: she hoped that somebody would already be there, at least Mary, because, she had to admit it, she never felt at ease with new people. Especially parents, her friend's parents. Anna felt at ease with Brian's parents, only because they became her parent's friends, but otherwise Anna was the quiet friend when her friend's parents were around.

She rang the door, and a lovely woman with a warm smile opened, greeting her and inviting her to come in. As soon as Freddie saw her, he went to the lobby to embrace her, before she could even give him the gift she had for him – a shawl, she really had a thing for shawls lately – which she thought would fit Freddie perfectly. At the very end of the table, Freddie's father was sitting, majestic, and impressive, not a single emotion on his face, which seemed pretty scary at first, but Anna could work up with that. John already sat there, chatting with Freddie's sister, Kashemira, a cup of tea in his hand. Mary and her deaf dad were also there. “Presenting the step-family,” Anna joked when Freddie told her about inviting him. And Roger, sitting next to John, trying to talk with Kashemira and John, unsuccessfully. And when he saw her, he smiled, and waved, shyly, before showing her the place next to him. Anna couldn't refuse, and another place was empty, she could save it for Brian. Whom arrived late, scolded by Freddie himself, because of his parent's car being extremely moody lately.

After a lovely dinner, and the opening of the presents, Freddie's mother brought the birthday cake, as Anna chatted carelessly with Brian about the bloody car needing to be repaired but he still couldn't afford it, neither did his parents. He was thinking about buying a car for himself, to which information Roger replied with great enthusiasm, offering his help with the choice – with taste and budget, he said.

“I am so glad to see that Farrokh made such amazing friends, and has such a delightful girlfriend,” Freddie's mother said after putting the cake in front of the birthday boy, and looking fondly at him then at them.

“Farrokh,” Mary repeated, as everybody looked curiously at Freddie whose face expressed panic. He looked at his mother, reproaching her what she had just said.

“Did Farrokh not tell you he was born in Zanzibar,” his mother continued, without even paying attention to her son's eyes. Brian frowned, and shook his head before looking at Freddie, intensely.

“I used to know a girl who was Zanzibari,” Roger commented proudly, probably, as he looked at Anna and she smiled back at him.

“Such an international man,” she commented sarcastically.

“I thought Freddie was born in London,” John said, interrupting the two's little conversation, among others.

“Oh yes, he was... At the age of eighteen,” Kash commented, with a smirk on her face, looking directly at Freddie.

“Shut up,” he quickly snapped, a cue which nobody paid attention to.

“Our family is Indian Parsee,” their mother continued, as she went to look for their family album.

“Mom, please don't,” he almost begged her – he begged her.

“We want to see,” Mary insisted, encouraging their mother, with Anna's approval, nodding vigorously.

“Let's have a look at these then, the ladies want it,” she concluded, delighted, as she put the album in front of Mary.

“We need to see those,” Brian commented, before Freddie's father began to explain the Parsee history, absorbing Brian and John mostly.

“Look at this,” Mary said, showing Anna the picture of Freddie from across the table. She took a better look at it, a young and slender Freddie with boxing gloves on his hands. His teeth clearly prominent on his pretty face, and an unsure look. Nothing that Freddie was at that moment. Especially not unsure.

“He was quite a good boxer,” their mother proudly affirmed. Roger, when Freddie got up to the living room – seeking for sanctuary from the shame his mother was putting him in, sitting on the piano chair, and beginning to hit delicately the keys – took place next to Kashemira, leaving Anna alone, but not for long: John soon took place next to her.

“He had to be,” Kashemira jokingly said, “his opponents were trying to punch his teeth in!”

“Fair enough, good target,” Roger almost cooed into Kashmira's ear. Anna rolled her eyes, being apparently the only one to notice this little game of his in the middle of the whole agitation.

Agitation leading Freddie to sit by the piano, moving his fingers without any purpose on the keys, and humming something, “I come from London town”. Anna looked back, distracted from the chatter all around her to look at Freddie, singing a happy birthday to himself, catching her smile as she mouthed “beautiful” and he bowed. What an amazing human being, Anna thought before Brian's hand met her shoulder to catch her attention again. Even the ringing phone that Kashemira gave to Freddie right after didn't draw her attention to what was happening in the living room – almost silence, something unusual for Freddie being in presence of an instrument near him.

“So Freddie told me you're a sort of scientist,” their mother told Brian, with the album between his hands, handing it to Anna now as he looked her in the eyes, smiling. Anna grabbed what he gave her, and showed it to John, who quickly glanced over the pictures.

“Astrophysics actually,” Brian corrected.

“He is very good at it,” Anna added, and Brian just waved it off, shyly.

“And he's a dentist,” John intervened, pointing Roger, sitting next to Kashemira, his hand lazily resting on her backrest.

“I was never a dentist,” he emphasized. “Never.”

“He's a dentist,” John and Anna replied in unison, before laughing as they saw Roger's displeased face.

“I personally wouldn't let him touch my teeth,” Brian admitted, “did you know that on the last exam he told his teacher that he doesn't know the meaning of a word in Greek because 'we're not studying Greek here, we're dentists!',” Brian imitated Roger's offended and annoyed voice, and the real Roger could just roll his eyes before turning towards Kashemira.

“Kash, what are you doing later,” he carelessly asked, recovering pretty quickly from what was previously said about him.

“Homework,” she confusingly replied.

“No, she won't let you examine her teeth, Roger,” Anna said, before anybody could draw their attention to what Roger was actually doing. “Don't you see, her teeth are perfectly white and beautiful even from there?”

“I just wanted to check if,” Roger began before being interrupted by John.

“He needs to wear his glasses,” John's word snapped right in front of Roger, displeased at least.

“John, by the bloody gods....”

“I have an announcement,” Freddie solemnly said, cutting short the beginning of a heated discussion about Roger's sight. “One of the A&R men from EMI got our demo, and gave it to John Reid. You know, the one looking after Elton John,” Anna and Mary's eyes met, glistening in anticipation already. “Mr. Reid wants to meet us, Queen, and who knows, even manage us.”

“Oh shut up,” was the only reaction coming from John's lips as he leaned back on his chair, putting his face into his hands.

“You're joking,” Roger said, and immediately after looked at Anna who smiled at him, her head resting on Brian's shoulder.

“He said he wants to see us tomorrow, midday, in the pub next to the Thames,” Freddie added, putting his hand around Mary's neck, and smiling.

After the desert, the rain.

~~~~

Anna and Mary stood next to the props, arms crossed. The boys were looking absolutely marvelous, the makeup team and the stylist outdid themselves, truly. Brian looked like a majestic black butterfly as he held the unplugged Red Special in his hands, the sleeves of his shirt creating the most beautiful curtain under his arms as the collar was richly decorated with shiny pearls, Zandra Rhodes he said to her as they dressed him up. Freddie's look was truly outrageous, the sparkling glove added a magical touch to all of this as he held the microphone with his black painted nails, taping on it nervously now. The black leather jacket John wore made him look uncomfortable during the whole embarrassing moment, but he said nothing, nodding slightly as the atmosphere heated up quickly. But Anna's gaze was mostly drawn towards Roger and the silver choker he wore. His hair was nonchalantly falling on his shoulders, giving him an absolutely angelic look despite wearing only black. He looked almost too pretty to be a man, and Anna would lie if she wasn't jealous about the look he had right now. But, on the other hand, she didn't envy the situation the boys were put in, making this angelic face look like the face of a demon.

“This is shit,” Roger exclaimed, hitting the plastic drums with an energy he seemed to never have before, fueled by pure rage and anger.

And he was the first one to find the whole situation pretty hilarious as the staff members told them that they had to perform on tape, no real playing, It annoyed him but he knew that the drums had a sound when properly hit and hoped – God knows he hoped – that the drums he would be given would be decent ones. Everything was fun and entertaining until he saw the prop, the drum kit, this plastic toy and began to boil from the inside with the greatest rage anybody saw coming from Roger – which John found absolutely terrifying, as he told Anna.

“Are you joking,” Roger aggressively asked the poor staff member as his angelic eyes full of rage looked at him. “Put three pans and four plates and give me two chopsticks and it'll be less embarrassing, mate! A fucking children drum kit? Do you know how much I could screw your bloody teeth if I wanted to?” He was almost throwing hands with this poor staff member who followed the orders he was given.

“Roger,” Anna started before being interrupted by the director of the performance, coming near them.

“The blond man should calm down. Nobody will know the difference,” he stated.

“We will know the bloody difference,” Brian added, trying to step out a bit to not let Roger's anger explode.

“You want me to lip sync,” Freddie said with a threatening tone, as their manager stepped between the two of them.

“You'll do what I want: this is the BBC!” he concluded, turning back and going to settle everything.

“Sir, they'll be fine Sir,” their manager said, following him quickly before turning around to address the boys, “you'll be great guys!”

“This is the BBC,” Brian mocked when the two men were far enough. “Killjoy.”

“Even more than that,” Anna said. “So disappointed in Top Of The Pops...”

“Disgusted,” he even completed, scratching a few strings of the Red Special.

“I'm relieved,” John finally said, bringing the whole attention to him and especially Roger's. “Perfect performance.”

“Yeah, on your bass and not on some plastic shit they got second hand from a thrift shop, mate,” Roger complained, sour and dissatisfied.

“Darlings,” Freddie said just before Roger could burst into another wave of complaints, “we shouldn't be upset now. They want lip sync? Queen shall provide,” he explained as he bowed, his microphone in hand and all confused looks on him – but Mary's.

“Fred, I'm afraid,” Brian confessed.

“Me too,” John added as Anna just looked at him, nodding.

“Do as you please, darlings. I don't care anymore. We should have fun, play along, do whatever we want to because nobody will know the difference,” he added with a smirk before he took Mary by the hand to the center of the stage to show her something.

“Weird,” Anna commented, “but in a good kind of way.”

“I don't fucking care anymore,” Roger said, a strange feeling crossing his face, a perfect mix of anger and sarcasm, “no effort for my drum kit? Fine. No effort in this bloody last minute performance of Seven Seas of Rhye. Simple.”

And as Anna looked scared at Brian, a bell rang to notify the extras to leave the stage because the performance was soon to be started. Quickly, Anna found herself near Mary, in the crowd of young people ready to dance to the tune of Queen's song. As they heard the first notes of the piano blasting from the speakers, and Brian beginning to play, they looked at each one of the boys, faking the whole performance. From time to time they cast them a look, smiling eyes as they were playing with this ridiculous situation.

What Anna found extraordinary was Roger's attitude during the whole show. They gave him poor instruments? Fine, he would give a poor performance then. His drumsticks were barely brushing against the drum kit, as he put no effort into his movements making him look sluggish, even distant. His face seemed much more relaxed than usual, and his half-closed eyes showed his annoyance to anybody who knew him a bit. His lips were hardly pressed against the microphone as he had “to hit” some of his falsettos, his eyes avoiding the cameras around him. The only smile he gave was to Freddie, when the lead singer turned back to face him during a short moment. And another one, when he caught Anna's gaze on him. And then, a girl elbowed Anna, interrupting this strange moment between the two of them, telling her that she had a very talented brother; Anna could only chuckle and thank her warmly before looking at Mary, as if the girl had told her the greatest joke on Earth.

As they finished the first recording, they got a small pause. Anna and Mary went up the stage, thrilled about what had just happened in front of their eyes, everything looking so fake to all who knew Queen, even if Freddie was putting on a great show.

“So,” Roger said, his drumsticks in his hands as he stood next to Brian when the girls arrived.

“Compliments or truth,” Anna asked, and Brian could only sigh as he listened to the two of them.

“How was my faking it?”

“Absolutely terrible, I loved it,” she admitted with a wide grin, and then she looked up at Brian. “He was so terrible, if I were the leader I would fire him.”

“Already tried,” Brian admitted with a small smile, “even if there is no leader here. But he told me that if he's out and becomes a dentist he will hunt me until he gets all my teeth.”

“Scary Tooth Fairy.”

“Effective,” Roger corrected. “Next take I should only brush the pans and plates, a new artistic choice, because I guess my beauty already radiates enough.”

“Big show off,” Freddie said coming their way with John. “You barely smiled during the whole performance, just when Brian mouthed “We look ridiculous”,” he pointed out. “John laughed at that one too!”

“John, you looked as if a demon sucked your soul out of your body at one point,” Anna said as Mary nodded enthusiastically before giggling a bit.

“A demon sucked my soul out of my body years ago, this is why I can stand these three here,” John admitted sarcastically, knowing perfectly that Anna would catch the joke.

“Always a pleasure to hear, John,” Roger remarked.

“My pleasure, don't worry Roger.”

“Boys,” a voice apostrophed them, “two more takes and you're free!” The director himself came near them, with a satisfied expression. “You were all fantastic, nobody saw that it was on tape. Nobody.”

“We are extremely happy then,” Freddie answered, making a happy gesture towards him. “Marvelous.”

“Yeah, marvelous,” Roger repeated, as he stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“See young man? This drum kit isn't as bad at all,” the director commented as Roger boiled from the inside, putting on a fake smile before bursting, hoping he wouldn't burst.

“Exactly what my brother was telling him,” Anna interrupted as the director quickly looked at her. She put her hand on Brian's shoulder, confidently. “Roger really out stood himself during this performance!”

“You are Mrs. May,” the director happily remarked as Brian made big eyes towards Anna. Her only reply was a look, worth a million words – play along or somebody will punch the guy and I bet on Roger, ten bucks.

“Yes, of course, my little sister, a poetess to be,” Brian said, uncomfortable with the whole situation. “Smart, looks like me, intelligent and very... Imaginative.”

“A great gift in the family I guess,” the director complimented as Anna fluttered her eyelashes with a sheepish smile.

“Absolutely, it runs in the family,” Brian sighed and was saved by the bell announcing the next take and the man left the group. “You'll owe me one you two,” Brian said, looking at Anna and Roger.

“But don't you live and lie for your sister,” Freddie asked, a cheeky smile on his face as Brian just came back to his spot, defeated. Freddie winked and followed him.

“Thanks,” Roger whispered, looking at Anna who only smiled.

~~~~

She giggled a long moment after they left the BBC studios, along with Mary. The two of them couldn't get enough of their fake performance, imitating them, Anna mostly making Roger's annoyed face as the whole team had a laugh, except for Roger who thought that her acting skills were very, very poor actually, not capturing the essence of his carelessness. She pretended to held the drumsticks, with only her fingertips, just like a posh princess and drummed in the air, making kissy faces, the ones Roger always did while he was concentrated.

It was time for celebration. But the team had to be complete, and it wasn't without Chrissie, Brian's girlfriend, and Veronica, John's, and both of them had to take their instruments back home. The ones who had nothing to carry with them – unless their poor hurt ego by some cheap imitations – decided to go to a pub, to get a drink before eating something when the others would come. Mary, Freddie, Roger and Anna parted ways with Brian and John near a nice pub where they would stay until the others would join them. The same pub Anna and Brian had eaten the last time they went to the market to see Roger and Freddie in their little shop. The pub was actually pretty nicely decorated, plants were climbing everywhere and the lighting was reddish as the sun came slowly down; people were already laughing inside, a few pints already taken, having a great time it seemed. The small group seated at a large table, saving some space for the four others yet to come.

Anna was sitting next to Roger, facing Mary, they both smiled at each other every time the boys were talking about the performance, again and again. Anna ordered a pint for herself, and so did the others. Loudly speaking, they were somehow ecstatic about what had happened to them – forgetting about the fake playing part – because, bloody hell, they were on the BBC, fake playing or not. And that, after months of doubts, sleepless nights and arguments. Something incredible. And as the others slowly arrived, the memories of what happened were surfacing again, just like new adventures to be told to Chrissie and Veronica mostly but not only. The whole situation made the two girls who weren't there laugh immensely; at some point, Anna mentioned the fact that Brian has a sister now as she looked at Chrissie and Brian rolled his eyes.

“I did it for the greater good,” she explained herself, a hand on her chest. “Roger was ready to throw hands with the manager of the BBC, which, in my opinion, wasn't as good as planned.”

“They guy deserved it,” Roger loudly said, rising his pint as he looked at Anna. “I killed the performance nonetheless.”

“You were playing like a slag, Roger,” Anna told him, her boldness coming from the second pint she drank in the evening, after eating some chicken pie. “Sluggishly,” she added as Roger's mouth went agape. He absolutely wasn't expecting that comment coming from her. Absolutely not. Nor were the others whose expressions were priceless now.

“Anna killed Roger and maybe not only Roger I'm afraid,” Brian remarked, not impressed by his friend's attitude at all, as Freddie started to laugh and clapped his hands.

“You better watch out for your sister's mouth,” Roger threatened, as he looked at Brian, “you should teach her manners, for fuck's sake,” he added as Anna gave him the most innocent smile ever. “And also, she's a liar so, you know, education went wrong somewhere.”

“Don't you talk like this about my sister, Roger,” Brian answered as Freddie hummed the tune of Liar during the whole exchange as Anna tried hard to not burst into laughter with Mary. “And you,” he said while pointing at Anna, “young lady, are not allowed to drink anymore.”

“No fun, thought An and Bri would the best siblings on Earth” she complained, pouting like a child which made the whole group smile.

“You'll thank me tomorrow.”

As they finished their dinner, already tipsy, they were heading to the club, in need of space to dance.

Anna was the first in line to leave her jacket in the cloakroom, all excited to be able to dance, freely. She loved dancing, it was absolutely her thing – obviously when she was bold enough to do it. Roger waited with her for a few minutes at the others were giving their coats away, her sparkling eyes were looking at him as she looked excited about what was about to come. He looked at this tall girl, getting as excited as a small child before Christmas just because she was having a great time with her friends. And once Mary and Freddie joined her, she became unstoppable.

She loved music, she loved how her body pulsed with it, she loved being free and careless. She shouted so many lyrics along with Freddie as they had their arms around each other's shoulder, lulling their heads. She danced with Mary, among other bodies, putting her arms on her shoulders, as if they were about to slow dance, moving in sync with the melodies; everything was so heated, it was so hot in here, people were looking at them under the flickering lights as a group of people, mostly the trio, was dancing, attracting all eyes on them. And Anna was radiating, her smile could give goosebumps, her laugh was so divine, and people – some of them especially – were noticing it.

She was able to see Brian, Chrissie, John – who after a few drinks started to tilt his head, and it was only a matter of time before he took his girlfriend to dance – and Veronica with the corner of her eye, but Roger was nowhere to be seen now. The last time she saw him, he was sitting next to a girl who played with the straw in her drink, giggling as Roger spoke to her. A typical Roger move, she saw him in action many times, classic. And she headed towards Brian, asking Chrissie if she could borrow her boyfriend, and her own brother, to dance a bit with him, a smiling Chrissie nodded as Brian dramatically bid her adieu. Anna had Brian's hands in hers, choppy movements were made, laughs exchanged and, as if they were in high school, they began to have great time together, dancing. And after a moment, Anna came closer to Brian's ear.

“Roger's rogering around, as always,” she commented, going through Brian's hair to say it into his ear.

“Typical Roger,” he admitted with a little smirk, “bonus points if he brings the girl back home. But won't happen tonight.”

“Ten bucks we don't see him and he's with the girl tonight,” Anna bet, looking confidently at Brian.

“Ten buck he gets back home alone, but maybe a bit relieved,” Brian told her as he offered her his hand to bet.

“I'm gonna be rich,” Anna chanted, teasing him as she danced away, joining Freddie and Mary, her arms carelessly moving in the air as Brian stood there, laughing before going back to sit next to his girlfriend.

Anna felt like suffocating after a few moments, it was so hot in here, and her being tipsy and thirsty wasn't helping it at all, she had to take another beer, screw Brian's lessons about not drinking too much, she was just happily tipsy, not blackout tipsy. Not yet. She had to grab a drink, right now. She looked at the bar, no Brian in sight, which was actually a very nice surprise – was he dancing? Making out with Chrissie? Who knew. – and this was Anna's opportunity to take another pint. Marvelous. She ordered a beer, drumming on the counter as the bartender was taking a pint and filling it, the drink foamed and almost fell out from the glass, but the bartender's talents were way too good to let it happen. He put the drink in front of her, and as she reached her pocket to pay the drink, a pale hand put the money in front of her. She fluttered her eyelashes, looking at the man next to her, paying her drink. She was ready to smile at him, thank him and tell him that that's not because he paid her a drink she would dance with him. Instead, she saw Roger's blue eyes looking at her, his smiling eyes.

“Drink's on me,” he said as the bartender took the money and slid away.

“Wow, Mr. Taylor's such a gentleman tonight,” she remarked, her hand on the glass. “Want some,” she offered before rising the pint to her lips.

“Enjoy your drink, I'll take a shot.”

“Oooh,” Anna gasped after drinking a sip of her beer, “didn't manage to catch that girl?”

“What?”

“I actually lost ten bucks because of you,” she admitted as she looked at him with a smile, “ was pretty sure you'd bring that girl home, but was wrong. My bad, respectable sir.”

“You're fucking shitfaced Anna,” he whispered as the bartender gave him a shot.

“Not yet,” she replied rising her finger before taking another sip, “but soon to be if I drink too much.” Her eyes were gleaming under the club's lights, reflecting purples, blues and reds as she looked at him for a longer moment.

“What?”

“Wanna dance with me, Mr. Taylor, pretty please,” she almost begged like a little child, as she was finishing her pint before standing next to him, waiting for an answer. She stretched her hand towards him. “Pretty please?”

“Yup, wanna dance with you,” he finally said and drank the shot before taking her hand.

With Roger's hand in hers, she managed to get through the dancing bodies to find a nice spot to dance with him, somewhere where they would have a little more space. She began to move, between the dancing bodies, locking her eyes on him as she mouthed the lyrics of the songs she heard. She was absolutely feeling it, she close her eyes as Roger was drawn to her. They began to dance together, slowly, her back against his chest now; she felt every breath he took, every movement he made. He had his hands around her waist, as he put his chin on her shoulder, slowly moving with her, in sync. None of them cared about how this looked, the music was good and the moment so perfect, nothing could ruin it. After a few beats, she decided to face him, putting her hands around his neck as he still had his hands on her waist, and she looked deeply into his blue eyes. Maybe for too long, she didn't know, but everything seemed to fade around them, the bodies blurred and only him. She was tipsy, slightly drunk, it was all because of the drinks she had, the last pint was maybe too much, she had to admit it.

And then, her eyes lighted up, Roger saw it before he could hear anything. She heard the first notes of Seven Seas of Rhye. She almost screamed, as Roger smiled fondly looking at her. She looked for the band, and she found them, standing next to the bar, all looking at them dancing and she caught Freddie's gaze with a large smile. And before Roger could tell anything, she grabbed his hand off her waist and took him through the crowd again, to join the dancing band.

And as their arrived, Freddie's voice blasted in the club. Anna took Chrissie by her hand, and began to dance with her, amused by the whole situation, as the girl shyly moved along with her. Freddie's arm around Mary's shoulder, he was singing the lyrics, trying to out-voice the speakers as Brian faked playing guitar, standing next to Roger who drummed in the air, with his fingers. John took a shy Veronica by the hand, and began to dance with her, as she giggled during the whole dance.

“I belong to you forever,” Roger sang, looking at Anna, she was stunning and careless as she danced with Chrissie, smiling.

“Forever, forever,” Brian continued as he elbowed Roger with a little smile.

Their first success, their first successful night, a great celebration. Maybe one of the greatest moment in their lives, especially for some of them.

#roger taylor #roger taylor x oc #ben hardy!roger taylor #brian may #freddie mercury #john deacon #queen band #queen #mary austin #ben hardy #gwilym lee #rami malek #joe mazzello #lucy boynton #borhap cast #bohemian rhapsody movie #queen fanfiction

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rachelanne2018writes · 4 years ago

Text

Vignettes of Love: The Turner Family; A Sick Day for Shelagh- Early Marriage, Winter 1959-60 (Part 2)

If you haven’t read Part 1 of this Particular Story it can be found on my here (Link to another Tumblr post!)

" Good Morning Shelagh." Patrick began kissing her gently on the lips.

" Good Morning, Patrick dearest." Shelagh returned before initiating a kiss of her own.

Suddenly, several hard, deep coughs rattled Shelagh's body and left her breathless for a few moments.

" Shelagh, are you feeling alright?" Patrick asked as he put his hand to her forehead." Shelagh, you're burning up!"

"Patrick, I feel a little under the weather, but you need your breakfast, Patrick."

"You're ill, Shelagh. You need to rest; I don't want you to get any worse."

"You're not exactly the best cook, dear," Shelagh countered before dissolving into another coughing fit.

"Tell you what Shelagh, if you promise you'll rest and allow me to listen to your chest, then I will allow you downstairs to make breakfast and lie on the settee."

"Alright, Patrick. Could I also have a glass of water?"

"Sure thing Shelagh, I'll be back in two ticks."

Patrick quickly made his way down the hall of the flat, retrieving his stethoscope and a glass of water as Shelagh had requested. Unfortunately, Patrick could still hear Shelagh coughing from the kitchen.

"Thank you, Patrick," Shelagh whispered before sipping her water slowly.

"Shelagh, I'm still worried about you."

"I know, once I've finished this water, I'll let you have a listen to my chest," Shelagh reassured him as she finished off her water.

"Alright, Breath in Shelagh. Out now, dearest, and In again, finally back out."

"What is the Doctor's opinion?" Shelagh sputtered before another coughing fit claimed her.

"Shelagh, I want you to stay home and rest today. I'm afraid it looks as though you may be developing a case of Pneumonia."

"Patrick, It's getting late, I should get breakfast started and get Timothy up.'

"I'll get Timothy up; you focus on getting breakfast ready, as you've reminded me- my cooking skills have yet to be improved."

Patrick could hear Shelagh coughing still as he entered Timothy's room, and she headed into the kitchen to make breakfast. It was apparent during breakfast that Shelagh was exhausted and feverish, and she could barely hold her head up and was slow to answer the questions he and Timothy asked as they conversed.

Once Timothy was off to school, Patrick decided that he needed to call in reinforcements to get Shelagh to rest and fight this illness. After quickly phoning the Maternity home to alert the nurses that he would be later than usual arriving for the morning surgery, Patrick made an unexpected phonecall to Nonnatus House.

"Nonnatus House, Sister Julienne speaking."

"Sister, It's Patrick Turner. I was wondering if you would mind coming by and helping Shelagh rest."

"Oh dear, is she ill, Dr. Turner?"

"I'm afraid so Sister, I believe she might be on the brink of Pneumonia, but she has a fever, cough, and nearly fell asleep at the breakfast table this morning."

"Haas Shelagh, let you listen to her chest?"

"Yes, she's breathing very shallow, and I would prefer that she not be left alone, but I would also not want to risk the health of the nurses, Sister Monica Joan, or the mothers at the Maternity Home unless necessary."

'I see Doctor; I shall be there soon."

'Thank you, Sister."

After quickly hanging up the telephone, Patrick went to find Shelagh to get her settled before Sister Julienne arrived. He found her trying to wash the breakfast dishes, but ultimately being interrupted by frequent coughing spells.

"Shelagh, let's get you settled. You need to rest, and I don't like the sound of those coughs."

Shelagh turned to Patrick with tears in exhaustion ridden eyes.

"Alright."

"How about the settee? You can catch a bit of sleep now, and then later on, when Timothy and I return home, you're right here, and we can both sit with you."

A coughing spell, followed by a vigorous affirmative nod, was Patrick's answer as he gently guided Shelagh to the bedroom to change out of the dress she had turned into before making breakfast.

"Here Shelagh, how about this," Patrick asked Shelagh as he appeared with the blue and white striped PJ shirt she had worn two years prior, the last time she slept on the settee.

"Okay," Shelagh answered weakly.

Once Shelagh was changed, Patrick helped her on the settee with a duvet and pillow before slipping into the kitchen and making fresh tea. Patrick hoped that a warm cup of tea, well sugared would help Shelagh's cough lessen and allow her to sleep for a bit.

"Shelagh, I've brought you a cup of tea. It's well sugared and steaming hot."

"Thank you, Patrick," Shelagh answered in a raw voice before a coughing spell claimed her.

Once Shelagh was finished, she and Patrick sat together in silence and sipped away at their cups of tea. The silence was friendly and almost a balm for the two weary souls it captured. Nearly fifteen minutes later, this sense of serenity broke with a pair of sharp knocks on the door of the flat.

"Hello, Sister, come on inside."

"Thank you, Doctor Turner."

"Shelagh's just in the sitting room, lying on the settee. I'll just say my goodbyes and be off to the surgery."

"Are you sure, Doctor Turner?"

"Yes, Sister, I'm afraid all I will do is cause Shelagh to overwork herself, at least with you Sister she might feel more inclined to rest so that she can fight this illness."

"I suppose you're right, Doctor Turner, I hope she will rest."

"Thank you, Sister. I suppose I should be going."

"I'll wait here if you'd like to say goodbye to Shelagh."

"Shelagh, I'm off to the surgery now, but I've asked someone to come and keep an eye on you for today," Patrick told Shelagh before gently kissing her forehead.

"Patrick, I'll be alright on my own, but if you insist." Shelagh weakly protested before succumbing to sleep.

"I'll take my leave; I'll be back later tonight. Thank you, Sister."

With that, Patrick headed off to his day of Surgery Appointments and rounds across Poplar. While he was off enduring the daily agony of living, Shelagh wasn't making any improvements. After sleeping most of the morning, Shelagh's coughing continued to worsen.

"Here, my dear Shelagh, a glass of water."

"Thank you, Sister," Shelagh answered as a coughing spell wound down, and she accepted the water.

"How are you feeling?" Sister Julienne asked as she put a hand to Shelagh's forehead.

"A small bit better, Sister."

"Shelagh, I'm just going to get the thermometer," Sister told her before retrieving her bag from the hall. "Open wide Shelagh, Oh dear. You've got a high fever."

"Sister, I'm so cold."

"Shelagh, I think it's time we call your husband home."

"Please, Sister, I'm fine. It's…" Shelagh's attempt to put her own heath off was interrupted by another coughing fit.

"Shelagh, you've hardly been recovered from triple treatment for two years. You really can't afford to get sick. How would Timothy feel if you ended up at The London and he couldn't visit?"

Shelagh coughed for a few minutes before finally giving in, "Okay, Sister."

"Doctor Turner's Surgery, receptionist speaking."

"Yes, this is Sister Julienne of Nonnatus House. Please let Doctor Turner that his wife needs him."

"I'm sorry, Sister, Doctor Turner is on a very tight schedule today."

"I'm afraid she needs him in a medical capacity; his wife is very ill."

"Oh, I see. I will pop into the Doctor's office and let him know."

Fortunately for Shelagh, Patrick made his appearance shortly after Sister Julienne's phone call. After nearly a fortnight of rest and Penicillin Shelagh began to feel better. Almost a month after Shelagh fell ill, Patrick deemed her officially ready to return to work. From that day on, both Shelagh and Patrick became incredibly mindful of Shelagh's health. On occasion, Shelagh would remain home if she wasn't feeling the best, especially during Influenza Season.

#shelagh turner #shelagh mannion #patrick turner #timothy turner #sister julienne #season 3 #call the midwife #call the midwife fanfic

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adore-holland · 5 years ago

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Under Renovation |T.H.| - Chapter 1

Pairing: Tom Holland x Celeb!Reader

Warning: Swearing? Angst.. Mentions of vomit

Word Count: 2162

Disclaimer!: This was written before we found out Tom has a girlfriend. Any similarities are purely coincidental.

A/N: Hope you enjoy! This was mostly just setup, trust me you’re gonna get some Tom stuff soon enough ;)

Teaser

Chapter 1:

The ceiling above you seems to move in new patterns every second. Dark circles and stripes race across the the white paint in the pitch black room. You can make out the sounds of loud music and laughing people out on the streets of London. It’s Friday night, and you’re laying at home, in your bed, following stupid patterns on your ceiling - What has your life come to?

With a groan, you run a sweaty hand down your face. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping for the weird patterns to go away. No luck - the insides of your eyelids take over for your ceiling. If you could just tune out, disappear for a little bit.. get some sleep. As if on queue, you let out a yawn.

It’s the seventh night in a row, that you haven’t been able to fall asleep until the early hours of the morning, and your body is suffering from it. Large dark bags under your eyes, slumped shoulders and an almost complete loss of appetite.

You desperately turn on your side, pulling a pillow over your head, hoping to just get some peace and quiet. You squeeze your eyes shut, welcoming sleep like an old friend. Except, sleep seems to be mad at you. Because the quiet only fills up with memories of cheerful laughs, and whispered “I love you”’s. Something in your stomach tightens at the sound of his voice. You always thought his voice was perfect. Smooth like honey, dripping in the love you thought he held for you.

In all honesty, you had never told him how much you adored his voice. Well, he knew you loved it - and that the sound of his voice was enough to calm you down when the world was too overwhelming. What he didn’t know though, was just in what ways you loved it.

No! No. You will not allow yourself to remember it… him. So you make a conscious decision to avoid any thought of the butterflies that went wild whenever he leaned in to whisper in your ear; or the way your heart would pick up speed for just a second whenever he said your name in whatever accent he felt like in that moment.

Fuck.

With whatever strength you have left in your exhausted body, you throw the pillow off of you, welcoming the loud sounds of London. You turn around to lay on your stomach, listening intently to the sounds of the partygoers, chasing away his voice. There’s a group, nearing your apartment complex down below. Your condo is high up, but the deep concentration allows you to hear snippets of the conversation.

“We should tell them…” The deep voice says with a concerned tone. You only hear the girl giggle as a reply. A conversation, so much like the ones you and Tom had so long ago. When you first got together, 3 years ago, you couldn’t figure out whether or not to announce to the world that you were a thing. Most nights discussing it were spent drunk, staring lovingly into each others eyes, forgetting the world, forgetting who there even was to tell. The two of you, together, were all that mattered in those moments.

Again! You want to scream out in frustration, but your throat is already sore from crying. You turn back around and quickly sit up. Your throat is tightening quickly, itching more and more every second. A silent yelp escapes you as you get up. Tears sting behind your eyes as you hurriedly make your way toward the bathroom. You make it to the toilet just in time, bile rises up your throat, and you throw up - pure stomach acid - you haven’t eaten enough lately to throw anything of substance up.

:)-(:

An incessant noise wakes you up. Your head is pounding, and as you slowly blink your eyes open you realise why your back hurts so much. You’re sat next to your toilet, leaning against the tile wall. Your legs are sleeping, folded in weird angles beneath you. You sigh deeply, leaning your head back against the wall and closing your eyes for a second. The noise returns and you realize it’s your phone ringing. Slowly untangling your sore limbs you fight to get up, and walk back into your bedroom. You take it one step at a time, the pounding in your head worsening with every sudden jolt up through your body.

“It’s y/n,” you mumble into your phone, rubbing your temple with the other hand, fruitlessly hoping to lessen the pain.

“Hey! Hi! You’re up.” It’s Matt, your agent. “You remember that movie you turned down a few weeks ago?” You barely get to reply before he continues. “Well, exciting news, they are coming back to you with the part. They truly believe you’re the perfect fit.”

“Matt… I don’t think I’m up for a movie right now.” You eyes glance to the side. You still need to remove the picture of you and Tom on your first christmas together from your nightstand. You squeeze your eyes shut, ignoring the pain it brings and the tears that well up.

“Honey.. I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, so I’m not gonna force you to say yes to anything. I’m just telling you that I believe this movie is a good idea for you. How about we go out for lunch a little later? Talk it over, you read some of the script and then you can decide?” There’s so much concern and care in his words, that you almost want to vomit at the sound. When did you become so fragile, that even Matt’s extreme tenderness brings you to tears?

You really don’t feel like lunch, but you know you need to get out of the house. And maybe having someone watching you eat will help you actually… eat something.

“Yeah. That sounds good.” Despite the complete lack of enthusiasm in your voice, Matt’s mood picks up all the same.

“Great! I’ll meet you at Louis’ Diner at 1 then?”

“No!” You startle yourself at your sudden outburst, but continue all the same. “Ehm… Sorry. Not Louis’ please. I’ll meet you at Little Bay.”

:)-(:

Despite your less than excellent mood, the weather cheers you up a bit. It’s warm; even for late spring. Yourself and Matt are sat outside, at a small table under a cute red parasol. Bees hum as they busy themselves with the flowers around you. It almost feels like the week you spent hiding in your apartment made you forget the peace people and life brings you.

“So… The movie is a musical about a dancer? I haven’t danced in ages.” 3 years to be exact. Your career picked up around the same time you started dating Tom, whose career also seemed to be on the up and up, and you just didn’t have time to continue dancing that intensively anymore. You loved it though - You danced before you could run, and your heart leaped at the excuse to get back to your roots.

“See, that’s where you’re perfect for the part! Because you CAN dance! But just like Lia Morrison in this story, something is stopping you. Due to a motorcycle accident with her fiancé, she broke her left leg and hip.” Matt smiles at you, bald head shining in the sunlight. His grey top clings to his muscular torso, and his dark arms work furiously in large movements, as if whatever signs he’s making with his hands will help you understand what he’s saying. You feel a small smile tug at your lips at the sight of him. Your heart jumps slightly at the feeling of a smile after so long.. until you remember the last time your heart jumped like that.. the last time you smiled.

“Yeah, I got that part. But it’s a love story?” The summary he gave wasn’t very useful, still you feel dumb asking questions you know he already gave you the answers to. But as much as you hate to admit it, the movie is starting to intrigue you. You had been quick to deny the part the last time Matt brought it to you. Two reasons especially made you turn it down.

1: Shooting starts in Los Angeles a few days before Tom gets off from shooting, so you wouldn’t get to spend any time with him.

2: You didn’t feel like doing a sex scene when you knew you would be attending the premiere, and watching it with Tom.

-Neither of those reasons are really a problem anymore.

“Yes! It is. So, the fiancé doesn’t get hurt. But he breaks up with Lia because she lets her injury consume her. She basically loses the will to fight for what she loves. She suddenly doesn’t wanna recover so she can dance again. She basically ends up catching herself ruining her own life, and then falls in love with her physical therapist.”

Something about the character, Lia, draws you in. You get the position she finds herself in, the devastation of losing something you thought you never could - brown eyes flash through your mind, a wide smile, hurried kisses. No.

You let out a small sigh, running a hand through your lose hair, searching Matt’s face for… something. “You really think I can do this?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course you can.” His smile is almost as wide as his face, and he blinks rapidly.

Old trick Matt. Instead of the usual laugh he used to lure out of you with said trick, you only huff out a small breath of air, and his smile drops immediately. His big hands find yours on the table. He holds your hands softly in his, slowly, tenderly rubbing his thumbs over the back of your hands. The feeling is comforting, familiar, and it makes your eyes sting with tears.

“Y/n.. I know what this part is asking of you is.. a lot. If you really can’t do it, no one will force you too.” His honey golden eyes hold so much care in them, that you feel your stomach coil at the sight. If only someone else were giving you that look. “But this pain.. it won’t last forever. The earth keeps rotating, and I just wanna make sure that you turn with it. This movie.. I know it brings back certain - memories -, but it isn’t about him. It feels like it is, I get that. But it’s about Lia getting more bent than ever before, but never breaking - And it’s about you, y/n, it’s about you, and the strength you and Lia share.”

Your head is spinning, everything he’s saying hits you like a stack of bricks. Not broken, but bent - but different all the same. You never subscribed to the idea of pulling your act together; the very idea would mean that you were responsible for spilling everywhere. You’re not. That doesn’t mean it isn’t still messy, or that it doesn’t drain you to clean up after someone else; even if the mess you.

Daniel and yours conversation pop up in your head. Strength comes from tearing the muscles, letting them heal, over and over again. This role.. this movie, you already know it’s gonna tear you apart, but you need it to.

“Yeah,” you manage to croak out your answer, and Matt squeezes your suddenly freezing hands, “Yeah, I wanna do it.” The tears in your eyes disappear as you say it. You draw in a deep breath, filling your lungs, and your head clears as a result. You can do this, it’s not a matter of convincing yourself. You can do this, not doubt about it. Tom Holland took a lot from you, but he won’t take everything.

“Great, I’ll contact them right away then.” He squeezes your hands one last time before standing up, phone in hand, and walking a few steps away to call the casting director. To pass the time you pick up your own phone, scrolling through your twitter feed. Your notifications are insane, more than a thousand mentions. Your brows furrow as you start scrolling through some of them. You don’t read most of them.. Tom is tagged too, and you don’t feel like seeing your fans shipping you.

You scroll mindlessly through them, until you come across one with a photo attached. Clicking it, you almost drop your phone. Tom is very visibly on a date with someone. His hand is in her back pocket as they walk close together. They’re looking at each other, eyes shining, smiles bright.. Her blond hair glistens in the sunlight, and he looks so happy - smile showing off the creases around his mouth you always poked to make him smile when he was sad. You don’t recognize her, and in a way you’re glad because of it.

A week. He broke up with you a week ago. You finally know why.

#Tom Holland x reader #Tom Holland imagine #Tom Holland Fanfic #tom holland x you #fanfiction #Under Renovation #Tom Holland Angst

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dlwritings · 6 years ago

Text

It Wasn’t Supposed to Snow | Tom Holland

masterlist found here

pairing - Tom x reader word count - 2,044 warnings - A/N - I really wanted to have a good Christmas, I really did. Instead, I spent about 5 hours with family I don’t fit in with, thinking about the fact that I got a letter from my school yesterday kicking me out of the program I’m in because I have a GPA 0.02 under the requirement, and that I told myself that if it snowed today I would tell the guy I liked that I liked him. It snowed. I didn’t tell him. This is how it would’ve happened in my dreams if I did. In other words, my day has been absolute shit and I’d love to sleep and not wake up for a while.

summary - You would never say that your life was cliche, but when London gets a statistically improbable white Christmas, you feel like you’re living out a Hallmark movie.

The following four statements were true:

It hadn’t snowed in London all month.

There was a zero percent chance of a white Christmas.

Tom Holland, your childhood best friend, would be spending Christmas in Kingston.

You were absolutely, irrevocably in love with him.

So while laying in bed, two days before Christmas, you made a promise to yourself. If it snowed on Christmas day, you would call Tom and tell him you loved him. You felt very comfortable in your chances. All the meteorologists had been saying for weeks that it would be a green Christmas. Even if it did snow -which it wouldn’t- the most you could do would be call Tom as you weren’t going to travel 45 minutes just for him to laugh in your face.

You would’ve been content never telling him, but after watching Love Actually and crying when Mark told Juliet he loved her (despite the fact that you’d seen the movie a million times before), you kind of figured that deep in your subconscious, you needed to confess. Your friends had been telling you to do so for ages. That, even if he didn’t like you back, you’d at least be able to get it off your chest and move on. It had taken you over two years of being madly in love with him to realize that they were right. Someday you’d need to tell him, otherwise the feelings would eat you alive.

On Christmas Eve, you woke up to a light dusting of snow on the ground. You sat up in bed, blinked harshly, and looked out the window to see the snow coating the grass in your yard. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mumbled to yourself. Immediately, your brain started coming up with conditions. The snow on Christmas morning couldn’t just be on the ground. You’d have to actually physically see it snowing. And it couldn’t be the gross snow that looked more like rain. It’d have to be the fluffy, white, pure snow -the kind that only happened in the really cliche moments during a Hallmark film. Because that was what your life had come to: a wannabe Hallmark film.

On Christmas Day, you woke up to the same light dusting of snow. You smiled to yourself. No snow falling from the sky? No love confession. A Christmas success.

You went over to your grandparents’ house that day with the rest of your family. You didn’t exactly love your family, so you were only really half aware of everything happening around you. It wasn’t until one of your particularly loud aunts shouted, “Look at the snow!” that you sat up and started paying attention.

Snow. Beautiful, white, picture-perfect snow. Your mouth was ajar in shock. You hardly even realized that you had stepped outside until the flakes started landing on your eyelashes. You took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “(Y/N), what are you doing?” you heard your mom call. You turned around to see her standing in the doorway with her arms crossed at her chest. “Come inside! It’s time for presents.”

“Sorry,” you called back. You jogged up to the front door and shook the snow off the top of your head. As you took your shoes off, your mind continued to wander. You didn’t really have to tell him. It’s not like you made a deal with a real person who would hold you accountable. All you did was say it to yourself one night late in your room. There was no need to follow through on this promise.

And yet, you knew you had to.

The whole ride back to your apartment was stressful. Your mind was overflowing with stressful thoughts. What the fuck were you supposed to say? Hey Tom! Merry Christmas! How’s your day been? Your family good? Have I told you before that I’m in love with you? Nope. Not gonna happen. Not the way to do it.

You were getting a headache.

On the upside, it was Christmas. The chance of Tom actually answering his phone was slim. He would be far too busy with family. He probably didn’t even have his phone on him. Tom prioritized family over everything. That made it better. All you’d have to do would be leave a message. The message could be stupid and it’d be fine. You wouldn’t have to face hearing what he had to say back because he’d probably just never speak to you again. Yes. This was good.

Before you could give yourself a chance to reconsider, you reached in your pocket and pulled out your phone. You clicked Tom’s contact name and pressed the phone to your cheek. You could feel your hands shaking and you kept taking heavy breaths to stabilize yourself. Your palms were clammy and your head was pounding. You decided to pace the room because you were too antsy to sit in one place.

“Hey, this is Tom! Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message and I’ll ring you back when I can!”

You took a deep breath, waited for the beep, and left your voicemail.

“Hey, Tom. Uh, Merry Christmas! I know it’s weird that I’m calling today and, well I kind of figured you wouldn’t pick up so that’s fine. I really just wanted to leave a message anyway. You don’t have to worry about calling me back or anything. I just want to say what I’ve got to say and then… well I haven’t really figured out what’ll happen after that. God, okay I should probably hurry up because I don’t know if the machine’s gonna cut me off. I don’t usually leave people messages so I don’t know… sorry okay, ahh okay. Did you know it hasn’t snowed in London all month? The people on the news have been saying for weeks that we were going to have a green Christmas. Like, they were 100% certain of it. And then, well I woke up this morning and there was snow on the ground and, and when I visited my grandparents it started actually snowing. Like, it was soft, white snowflakes just coming down. And, okay so basically, ah fuck okay. What happened was I was so certain it wouldn’t snow that I told myself that if it did, I would call you and tell you I love you. So, so I guess that’s what I’m doing. Something out of a stupid Hallmark Christmas film, I guess. I didn’t actually think stuff like this happened in real life, but here we are. So. Yeah. I guess that’s all. You don’t, please don’t call me back. We don’t have to talk about this. I hope you don’t hate me or anything because I still really want to be your friend. You’re my best friend. If this is going to make things weird then we’re just going to pretend I didn’t send this and we’re gonna move on. Okay. Yeah. Merry Christmas, I guess. Okay. Yep. Bye.”

You hung up your phone and threw it on your bed before covering your mouth with your hands. Reality hit you and you shouted, “What the fuck did I just do?”

You quickly grabbed your phone again and shut it off. As long as you pretended this didn’t happen, it didn’t happen. You’d keep your phone off for the rest of the night, cuddle under a blanket with hot chocolate and Christmas films, and pretend like you didn’t just make the worst mistake of your life.

You started with Arthur Christmas. It was one of your favorite Christmas films. Cute, simple, sweet, wholesome, funny. Everything you needed to keep your mind from imploding. Once it was over, you hopped up from the couch, went over to your DVDs, and put The Santa Clause in the player. You hadn’t even sat back down when the doorbell rang. You furrowed your eyebrows. Surely it wasn’t Christmas carolers. It was always Christmas carolers on TV, but you had never actually gotten any before. The doorbell rang again so you called, “Coming!” and jogged over to the door. You knew you looked silly (you were wearing a snowman print onesie and your hair was up in a bun) but whoever it was was just going to have to deal with it.

You did not expect “whoever it was” to be Tom.

Your jaw dropped a bit when you saw it was him, but you tried to quickly recover. “Hey,” you said slowly. You folded your arms across your chest and stepped back slightly. “Uh, what’re you doing here? Thought you were with family in Kingston?”

“I am,” he said. “Er, well, I was.” He scratched the back of his head. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” you said quickly, stepping aside to let him in. He smiled and did so, taking off his jacket and shoes before heading into the kitchen. “Do you want any hot chocolate or tea or anything?”

“I’m okay,” he said. You could feel your breath catching in your lungs.

He knew. He heard the messages. He knew. So why was he here?

“I, I got your message,” Tom said softly. You closed your eyes and hung your head. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, but Tom was still standing in the doorway to the room.

“I’m, yeah, I’m sorry?” you said. You didn’t know what else to say. Fuck. This is exactly what you had wanted to avoid.

“Don’t, why’re you sorry?” he asked.

“Tom, look, I shouldn’t have said anything,” you said. “And I shouldn’t have said it over the phone, let alone a voicemail message. This is weird. I put us both in a weird place and now you’re here which I didn’t expect you to come and be here, like, I kind of assumed you’d send me to voicemail and then maybe listen to it and then pretend-”

Tom cut you off with a kiss.

He had taken a few steps closer to you whilst you were rambling and you hadn’t even noticed, too wrapped up in your own worrying thoughts. But when he kissed you, he had taken one massive step towards you and grabbed your face in his hands. The kiss was soft and hesitant. When you didn’t kiss him back, he pulled away from you. He kept his forehead pressed to yours. You looked each other in the eyes for a moment, both of you breathing very heavily. You were the one who grabbed the back of his head and pulled him in for another kiss. You kept your hands around his neck while he laid his on your hips. He stood so that his legs were on either side of yours and his hands squeezed your hips tightly, holding you impossibly close to him.

When you both pulled away again, you couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh. “What just happened?” you whispered. You closed your eyes and hung your head, only looking back up at him when he put his finger under your chin and made you.

“I love you, too,” he said. He laughed, “Fuck, I love you. I always have loved you. When I listened to your voicemail, I left my family right away.”

“Really?” you laughed.

“Straight away,” he laughed back. “Everyone was so confused but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I just kept saying I gotta go. I gotta go. So I left.” He paused and furrowed his eyebrows for a minute. “Should probably ring them and tell them I’m okay.” You laughed and leaned your forehead against his again.

“Can’t believe you really love me,” you said quietly. “I guess, I guess I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“I probably should’ve said something too,” he laughed. “I’m just as at fault as you are. But.” He paused and smiled. “None of that really matters now, does it?”

“Nope,” you said simply. “Doesn’t matter at all. I am sorry I ruined your family Christmas, though.”

“Ah, don’t be,” he said with a grin. “I’ll tell them later. They won’t mind. Probably be thrilled actually. And anyway, fuck ‘em. This is the best bloody Christmas present ever. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #marvel #this is the worst christmas of my life and out of it I have written this average imagine #here we are

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