#give half-arsed replies in exchange

[my-castles-crumbling]

coffee shop au - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 429

“Fuck,” Sirius murmured, grabbing a rag to wipe at the coffee slowly seeping down the counter towards the very angry-looking customer. 

“Is it possible to be slightly competent at making a drink?” the old man seethed. “Have you seen a coffee before? Ever used a coffee machine?”

Normally Sirius would have come up with a decent comeback. Found a way to make the old man falter while still maintaining a perfect customer-service smile. But today had been hard and he was still new to this. He’d had to take the job to make ends meet after running away, after all, and his ego was still slightly bruised that he’d gone from paying twenty euro for a coffee to making half of that per hour to pour them.

“Apologies,” he mumbled, not meeting the old man’s eyes. “Give me a moment to-”

But before he could finish, the customer behind the angry man in line cleared his throat. “If I were you,” he said, addressing the old man, “I would mind my business about being competent. Unless it’s the new style to wear your shirt inside-out.”

The old man, turning a bright red, looked down to see that, indeed, the hem of his shirt was facing outward. “It’s none of your fucking b-” he started in toward the other customer, looking livid. 

“It is when you’re acting like an arse. Go fix your shirt, you look ridiculous,” the customer replied, rolling his eyes.

Furious, the old man stormed off, not even bothering to wait for his coffee.

Sirius, who had watched the whole exchange with rapt fascination, now had a clear view of the next customer. And he almost dropped the empty cup he was holding.

This customer was not old, nor was he angry-looking. He was Sirius’s age, and had brown eyes and wavy hair and tan skin that drew Sirius’s gaze in so many directions he had trouble deciding where to look. He reminded himself that staring with an open mouth was rude, but he was sorely tempted, because his savior was jarringly handsome, and suddenly his shitty day was looking a whole lot better.

“I- thank you,” Sirius muttered, trying to focus. “Erm…rough day.”

But the customer just smiled. “No problem. Nobody should be treated like that, yeah?”

Sirius could only nod. “What…what can I get for you?”

The customer smiled. “Medium iced coffee, cream and sugar.”

Trying to get back into the swing of things, Sirius turned, beginning to fill the cup.

“With your number on that cup, please.”

Crash.

Fuck. He dropped the cup again.

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Sup bitches

i have 0 ideas and 0 motivation so hopefully writing this will help

In other news I have my first softball game on monday so yay I'll lyk how it goes, our team is pretty good so I'm confident we'll do well but you never know 🤷‍♀️

I can't remember if I've written something like this before but if I have here it is again (and yes I'll write something including the girls soon I promise)

So yeah enjoy

James had easily snuck into the slytherin common room even though he didn't necessarily need to sneak in because Regulus has given him the password, but he enjoyed the thrill of sneaking around unseen.

He crept up into the familiar dorm room that belonged to Regulus and his mates but stopped when he heard raised voices.

"..eah I tried banging shit around! No it didn't work!" He heard Barty yelling at presumably Evan.

James grinned, immediately recognizing what situation they were yelling about. He slipped the invisibility cloak off and jogged up the stairs, knocking twice before entering.

"What do you want- oh, hey James." Evan waved from the bathroom, a toothbrush stuck in his mouth.

"Hey Evan, Barty." James nodded. They hadn't meant for Barty and Evan to know about his and Regulus' relationship but had inevitably gotten caught and confessed.

Even though they hadn't planned for the two to know, it benefitted them alot with the two trouble makers knowing. One they were excellent at keeping secrets (especially from Sirius), two they could tell James the password if he needed it or be a distraction so he could slip in through the door.

Three it made James job of getting in and not waking the other two a whole lot easier because if someone was coming in at 12 am they knew it was James going over to Regulus' bed, probably to fuck.

"Is he still not awake?" James motioned to the lump that was Regulus, laying in his bed.

"Yes." Both Evan and Barty said, James snickered.

"Have you tried-"

"Before you ask anything, yes. We've tried everything." Barty sighed. "We've tried banging, we've tried threats, we've tried litterly dragging his arse out of bed but he just crawled back in." Evan nodded in the background.

"He knows he's gonna be late, right?" James smirked when the other two nodded again.

"If he doesn't I'm gonna kill him." Barty snarled.

"How could he not? We've practically screamed it at him for the past half an hour." Evan grumbled.

James thought for a moment. A story about Regulus that Sirius had told him a while ago popped into his head.

"Don't worry about him, I got it." James answered them after a minute or two of silence. The other two exchanged incredulous looks before shrugging.

"Alright mate, it's your funeral." Barty patted him on the shoulder. "Good luck." They chuckled before walking out, not wanting to be late to class themselves. It was already too late for breakfast which Regulus wasn't going to be pleased about. James swore Regulus was deadly before he'd had his coffee.

"Rise and shine, love." James said in a sing-song voice. "You're gonna be late for class if you don't get up now." The only reply he got was some grumbles from Regulus but no movement whatsoever.

James crawled into his bed, cuddling on top of him which was kind of defeating the purpose of getting him out of bed but James couldn't not take the offer to snuggle with him. Cuddly Regulus was a rare sight to see.

"If I ask nicely will you get up?" James practically pleaded. Regulus shook his head no, his messy hair fluffing up even more as he did. "Alright, you asked for this."

James moved his hands to squeeze Regulus' sides, a sharp squeal forcing its way out of his sleepy boyfriend. Reggie's hands immediately flew down to grab James' wrists and pull them away from his torso. Regulus squirmed away from James but didnt get far since James was laying on top of him.

"Do I hear some giggles?" James teased once he heard Regulus give in and let out some muffled giggles. He switched his tactic, not swirling fingers into his sides and belly which seemed to be getting more laughter and squirms out of him.

"Jahahames, st-stohop!" Regulus squeaked. James gasped in mock surprise.

"He's alive! Honestly, I thought I was just tickling a dead body for a second there."

"Just sto- James tHE RIBS ARE OFF LIMITS!" Regulus laughed into his pillow, his feet now kicking behind James as well. He pinched up and down Regulus' ribs, a sweet spot on James as well.

"Will you get up and out of bed if I stop?" James murmured into Regulus' ear as teasingly as he could.

"Yehehes!" He instantly stopped, rolling off of Regulus and standing up.

"I'm glad you said yes," James said as he watched grumpy Regulus look for his uniform, each piece of it scattered around the room, "because you've got ten minutes to get ready and be in transfiguration." He grinned at Regulus' shocked look before walking out with a wave.

"See you there!" He laughed.

Hope you liked

[richmond-rex]

I am not particularly well-versed with the War of the Roses BUT with regards to Richard III, there is one fundamental aspect of him that I wish was better understood in terms of context. One, any claim that Richard III was viewed during his life as chivalrous, dutiful, idealistic etc need to be interpreted as per the world he lived in - a medieval world where war, conquest and bloody victories were seen as romantic and the ideal form of kingship. Notions which were slowly ending, but which still evoked nostalgia by many - which Richard III seemed to have shared. His views/actions towards France, Scotland, and Brittany during his own brief kingship, speak volumes. He was not viewed as a romantic the way we might consider one today, but more like a proud, self-controlled, ambitious person with an overt piety who was eager to prove his merit in war and with a more aggressive foreign policy towards historic enemies, the way chivalry was viewed then. I think this view explains quite a bit about his actions before and after his reign, and also provides an obvious explanation for the supposed "contrast" between the admirable way people spoke about him VS his own deeply flawed morality. And on the same vein, it seems something almost opposite happens with his brother Edward IV, who is repeatedly referred to as a "warrior king", although I will admit this does make sense considering the fact that he won his crown through battle not once but twice. But regardless, this was the man who valued "comfort and joy", who married for love/lust, whose affability was viewed as charming but also rather strange/unique (the letter from the ambassador commenting on how he won funds by sweet-talking locals attests to that), whose wilder and looser lifestyle was viewed with exasperation by his contemporaries, and who seemed far more inclined towards peace than war, something Charles the Bold and Richard III both seemed frustrated by. Edward IV seems more like a courtly king, and frankly, this personality is something I wish was explored more, particularly since there's a very obvious sign of increasing disillusionment (and subsequent ruthlessness) as his years on the crown went by.

Hello! Anon, are you referring to the last anon's use of the word 'romantic'? Because I don't think they were referring to the way Richard was seen in his own time but were instead talking about a frankly bizarre modern insistence that he was some grand champion of social justice ('social justice' is precisely the term I've seen used). But yeah, I agree it's important to place him in his context. A. J. Pollard made a nice analysis of his personality vis-à-vis the expectations of his time: fortitude (chivalry), magnanimity, prudence and justice in his biography of this king.

In many ways Richard III lived up to contemporary ideals of virtue. Outwardly he was chivalrous, generous, just and pious. As Mancini observed, or was informed, in 1483: ‘The good reputation of his private life and public activities powerfully attracted the esteem of strangers’.

He was also very quick at advertising his own virtues whilst calling out other people's vices: ‘our principal intent and fervent desire,’ he informed his bishops in 1484, ‘is to see virtue and cleanness of living to be advanced, increased and multiplied and vices and all other things repugnant to virtue, provoking the high indignation and fearful displeasure of God, to be repressed and annulled’. Edward IV's reputation suffered from his brother’s smearing campaign, but it's true that other contemporaries also commented on Edward IV's comfort-seeking attitude. The cleverest propagandists build their accounts on scraps of truth, after all.

It's equally true that despite Richard III's efforts to project the image of a strict and righteous ruler, contemporaries also remarked on his pleasure-seeking lifestyle. In September 1483, Thomas Langton commented in the postscript of a letter that so far had been congratulatory, that ‘sensual pleasure holds sway to an increasing extent’ during Richard's northern progress. The Croyland continuator noted that in 1484, ‘the fact ought not to be concealed that during the feast of the Nativity, far too much attention was given to dancing and gaiety’. 

The same man that was so martial he said ‘I wish that my kingdom lay upon the confines of Turkey; with my own people alone and without the help of other princes I should like to drive away not only the Turks, but all my foes’ accepted a bribe for peace after King Louis XI ‘gave him some very fine presents, including plate and well-equipped horses’ (Commynes). As Pollard commented, Richard too had his price.

In a word, people are complex. What I mean to say is that perhaps Richard III and Edward IV weren’t so different as we believe (or even as Richard III would have liked his contemporaries to believe). Indeed, we know of almost as many illegitimate children sired by Edward IV (3) as by Richard III (2). In the same vein, I appreciate that you’re pointing out that Edward was more complex than his warrior king myth or his hedonist reputation usually allow him.

His change of attitude after Clarence’s execution was noted even by his admirers (such as the continuator of the Croyland Chronicle). At the same time that people are complex, their personalities also change over time. It’s safe to speculate that he had tired of the war by the time he recovered his crown. The same Edward IV that accepted peace with France in 1475 was not the same Edward IV that was seeking war with France in the mid-1460s. In the end, I also wish he got the more nuanced treatment his character demands. 

Sorry if I didn’t get what you were trying to say, but this is what came to mind after reading your comment. 🌹x

[rogue-durin-16]

UNSURPRISING

Summary: There were a few moments during Fred's friendship with Y/n's in which they were a bit too close to kissing. Then, there was that one time they did.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Genre: fluff

Tags:

Fred Weasley: @whiskeyn-rain @lumos-solemn @meph1stophelian

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality

Warnings: language maybe, murder

A/N: this one was not scheduled for tonight but I wanted to cheer @meph1stophelian up because she deserves it, so enjoy your dose of Fred fluff <3

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

"Okay, Y/n," Ginny grabbed a pastry from the platter which we had stolen from the kitchen and that now laid on a small coffee table in the middle of the Room of Requirement. "truth or dare?"

"Dare."

"I dare you to... Wait." She thought about it for a second before leaning on Luna to ask her something. "I dare you to kiss Fred."

"Uh-uh." Fred, who had just moved to the higher table where the drinks had been laid, was quick to respond, "Not happening." shortly after followed by me.

"I'm not doing that."

"You can't skip a dare!" Ron exclaimed outraged.

"I can if I'm over eight years old." I replied, leaning back on the couch with my arms crossed.

"What she said." Fred agreed, raising his glass at me before drinking.

"Since when do you two back out of a dare?" Ginny questioned with a frown.

"Since this girl here" he motioned at me "started dating Pucey."

"What?" Harry asked in shock. "Pucey? Pucey as in Adrian Pucey?"

"Yeah?" I replied.

"You and Pucey?" Hermione raised her brows and gave Ginny a confused look. "I don't quite see it."

"Oi, what's there to see? I'm the only one who has to see it, don't you think?" I responded, slightly annoyed. "And why is no one talking about this bloke's love life?" I pointed at Fred who now stood behind me. "He's dating that Hufflepuff girl too!"

He tsked his tongue. "Not anymore."

"That's... unsurprising." George commented.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Fred questioned suspicious, kicking my leg for me to move aside so he could sit.

His twin snorted. "You know what's supposed to mean." He took a sip from his drink before nodding at Ginny. "C'mon Gin, change the dare— for Pucey's sake." George scanned us both with analyzing eyes before adding, "we don't want Y/n to end up ditching his boyfriend for this twit, now do we?"

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

"YEEEEH" I was already down on the arena, clapping, when Fred landed with a wide cocky grin on his face, his breathing ragged due to the match's intense last few minutes.

I had rushed down the moment the snitch was caught to be the first one to congratulate him, so I was quite breathless too.

"Did you see me up there? Saving the bloody match!" He exclaimed, tossing his broom and bat on the ground in order to catch me when I threw myself to him.

"You were brilliant oh my gosh!" I let out a surprised laugh. The match seemed pretty much lost until Fred's performance came into play. "Oi, don't let it go to your head!" I was quick to add, pulling away from his embrace.

"Y/n Y/l/n just said I'm brilliant," He stated, the grin not leaving his face. "it's definitely going to my head."

I groaned, letting my forehead fall against his chest. His heart was beating fast, but I blamed it on the adrenaline of the match.

But what was I supposed to blame on the way my own heartbeat picked up when his hand found the small of my back and casually pulled me a tad closer?

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

"Oi," I slid open the door's compartment and scanned it briefly before saying, "everything's full, do you mind—"

"Not at all." Fred rapidly answered, sitting up slightly but quickly returning to his laid back position after I had taken a seat by his side.

I had a brief exchange of words with George and Lee before silence fell upon us; it was quite unsual, yet understandable due to the exhaustion we had been put under during the last semester.

It was because of it that Lee fell asleep, shortly after followed by George. I took the chance to grab my book to avoid giving in to the sleep, though my reading was soon disturbed by Fred's foot tapping over the upholstery of the seat.

"What?" I questioned quietly, my brow quirked at him while my eyes peeked over the book.

"What are you reading?"

"Advanced Potion-Making— what do you want?"

"Rude." I rolled my eyes, making a smirk dance on his lips. He seemed to weigh what he was about to say. "I got you something for Christmas."

"Wait— you what?" He got up, ignoring my shock, and, stretching his hands to reach his bag, he pulled out a small package. "I— you—"

"Speechless, I see." He pointed out amused, handing me the package before plopping back down, his gaze trained on me. "C'mon, open it." His teeth trapped his lower lip in anticipation, and I felt how my blood started to pump violently through my veins before I unwrapped the present. "A little birdy told me you liked... What's it called? Chokers?" I could only nod, speechless at the delicate choker in my lap. "I mean, my hand would have been just as good but you can wear this one in public too."

My face flared up at his words and astonishment was replaced by the usual need to fuck that little bastard up. "I hate you."

"I'm kidding, love." He chuckled, tugging on his sleeves and nodding at the jewelry. "You like it?"

The softness in his gaze made my anger go away as I took another look at the choker. "I love it, but you didn't have to." I scrunched my nose. "it looks very—"

"If you say expensive I'll shove it up your arse so watch your tongue." He warned me, half jokingly and half serious.

"What a way of ruining a sweet gesture." I pointed out, feigning a pout.

"Don't worry, I'll make it sweet again, you'll see—" he pushed himself away from the wall and scooted closer to me, tending his palm. "Give it to me." I obeyed and shifted my position so I would have my back to him. His fingers moved my hair away before his hands carefully placed the strap of velvet around my throat and clasped it. "There." He whispered, putting my hair back in place.

I turned around again without any clue of what to tell him. "I-I'd have gotten you something—"

"Y/n, it's a gift, not a trade." He gave me a warm smile, one that anyone rarely got to see, and my face heated up once more. His eyes seemed to flicker to my lips just for an instant, but he soon averted them from me to check on our peers. "Don't tell them, I won't hear the end of it."

I too peeked at them before leaning in and placing a soft kiss on Fred's cheek. "Merry Christmas, Fred."

The little smile grew into a wide side grin while he casted his face down, fixing it on his hands. "Merry Christmas, Y/n."

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

I was out after curfew, yes, but I wasn't doing anything bad, just visiting my friends in their common room; I only had to be careful and no one would notice me.

Or so I thought.

To my luck, while I was tiptoeing through one of the halls, none other than Fred Weasley bumped into me.

"Shit!" We both took a moment to observe one another. "Alright, sorry in advance." He apologised, taking a peek at the path he had taken before grabbing my hand and pulling me with him.

I didn't hesitate on running with me; I knew he had brought trouble directly to me, and if I didn't follow, I would get detention and, with Umbridge in control, I had to avoid that at all costs.

"Wait wait— Here!" He tapped what I assumed was a camouflaged door and pulled me inside before it could open completely.

We both reached for the door at the same time, shutting it as fast and quiet as possible and stepping back right in time to hear what I assumed was a part of Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad.

Fred was so close that I could feel his heavy breath tickling my neck while we stumbled back into the pitch black darkness of the narrow passage.

"Well, that was close." I commented, trying to keep my pants at bay; it was the only sound heard —our pants.

His hands left my biceps to presumably fall limply on his sides, but he didn't step back to put some space between us. I couldn't see anything, but I still turned around and instantly knew his eyes were trying to find mines, just like my fingertips attempted to intertwin with his.

It was a bad idea, but no one had to know; the lack of light in the secret passage would prevent anyone to witness it, even us.

No one would see it, I thought, trailing my fingers up his arm until I reached his cheek.

His own hand made its way to my waist, giving it a squeeze and pulling me to him.

I pushed him away as soon as we heard Filch's cat miaowing at the hidden door, followed by the erratic running of the caretaker.

Fred grunted in frustration. "C'mon!" He rushed me, taking my hand once more and running down the ginnel.

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

We were running breathless, hands held, casting spells left and right.

'Don't stop moving' Arthur had said when the part of the castle we were defending fell into the Dementors' claws.

One of the Carrow apparated a few feet ahead of us, sending a Cruciatus in our direction even before we came to a halt in our running.

Fred raised his wand, quick as lightning, shielding us from the curse, and I didn't miss a beat before hexing the death eater, hitting her right in the chest.

Fred spun around to guard my back from another death eater that stood behind us while I, seeing that the Carrow sister attempted to get up, casted another stunning spell at her, only that this time it hit her shield.

Both Fred and I duelled the two Voldemort's acolytes until we managed to take them out almost simultaneously, yet in very different ways.

"STUPEFY!" Fred yelled out loud to enhance the spell's effect.

I did the same, knowing I needed that extra push to take Carrow out only that my spell was way more harmful. "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Fred turned around, still gripping my hand, to see the death eater's corpse on the floor. "Fuck!" He exclaimed.

"Was that a good 'fuck' or a bad 'fuck'?" I inquired, adrenaline pumping through my veins when I turned to meet the redhead's eyes, sparkling with excitement.

"Definitely a good 'fuck'." We both let out a laugh as if I hadn't just murdered someone. "Kiss me." He demanded; fortunately, I was thinking that same thing, so my lips crashed against his in a rough kiss right after he had finished the sentence.

We both tried to pour into the kiss as much sentiment as possible to let the other know how much we had craved to do that for the last three years. Our hands and arms were wrapped around each other, pulling our bodies as close as possible in the now empty corridor as if the world was about to end; it most likely was.

"Being realistic," I began speaking against his lips, once he had pulled away only enough for us to breathe. "we might be dead by tomorrow," if the situation was a bit different, we would probably be crying, but our little victory had made euphoria flood our hearts. "so know that—"

"I love you too." He finished with a nod.

I nodded back, pecking his lips before untangling by limbs from his and pulling him with me in order to resume our jog away.

[penguintransporter]

Walker (John Stones imagine) Part III

Okay, this is definitely turning into a story, rather than imagine, but I am so enjoying writing this, but I think since the chapters are much shorter, it’ll need two more chapters to complete it. This one is dedicated to everyone who has read and liked the previous chapters, but especially @rosie7703 hope you enjoy this one as well. Read, enjoy, like, comment, reblog, whatever you feel like doing. Love you all!

Part I | Part II

Rosie’s phone vibrated in the back pocket of her dark, denim jeans, and when she reached out for it to check it, she couldn’t help but smile like a fool at the name that was written on the screen. 

Have a safe trip, Rosie.

Sheepishly, she sucked in her bottom lip between her teeth, feeling her heartbeat accelerate - fingers hovering over the reply button. When she gave him the phone number the night before, and told him to text her, she never thought he would actually do it, but he did - the very same night, giving her the reason to stay awake more than she had planned too.

Rosie kept smiling to herself as she thought about her answer, but as she was about to type it, the doors of her brother’s room opened with a small squeak, making her lock the phone and put it away. 

“What drugs did you take this morning?” her brother asked, walking through the narrow doorway and into the kitchen, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and a wrinkled t-shirt with the emblem of his favourite football club, embroidered on the left side of his chest. Both items that he was wearing were way too small for him and his lanky figure - trousers barely reaching his ankles. “Having you smile like that so early in the morning is unsettling.”

Rosie grinned, looking over her shoulder at her younger sibling as she filled the old kettle with tap water, suddenly feeling sad for him. He was slumped over in a single barstool, and with his messy hair and tired face-expression, he looked as if a boulder ran him over. Twice.

“Obviously, not the same as you,” she answered, knowing perfectly that she was about to hit the right nerve. 

“You’re annoying, you know that?” he muttered, lifting his head for a second from where it rested on the kitchen counter, “and I think, your happiness makes me sick to my stomach. Can you go back to being your boring self?”

Rosie only rolled her eyes at her brother’s childish behaviour before placing the kettle on the already warm hob - droplets of water sliding down and onto the stove and turning into the steam instantly. 

“It’s hardly my happiness that makes you sick to your stomach,” she spoke calmly, “it’s the amount of alcohol and God knows what that you’ve consumed in the past week,” Rosie added with a grin, opening the cupboard to pick a mug from the empty shelf. How her brother survived with three mugs and two plates was beyond the mystery to her. “Cuppa?”

Her brother didn’t look up, but managed to raise his hand a little before flipping her off, and Rosie couldn’t help but laugh. 

“What I need is something that will fix my head?” he muttered quietly, shaking his head before wincing - a small profanity leaving his mouth. 

“I’ve got Ibuprofen,” Rosie offered. 

“Nah,” he responded, sliding down from the stool before walking to the refrigerator - the white front of it covered in way too many red stickers, matching to the emblem on his t-shirt. 

Rosie shrugged as she proceeded to pour the boiling water over her teabag, watching her brother from the corner of her eye as he took out a bag with, what looked like, frozen dumplings before putting it on top of his head - wincing a little as he did so. She tried to contain her laughter inside her throat as she looked back at her tea, pressing her lips together. 

“Hey,” she started, trying to subtly change the topic, “I need to ask you something.” Her brother ignored her as he made his way towards the sitting room, and Rosie sighed, unsure how to formulate her question without sounding too eager. “Do you know any lads named John?”

Her brother looked at her from where he was half-sitting, half-laying on the sofa with Walker sitting next to him - the dog’s head resting in her brother’s lap. 

“Here? In Barnsley?” he asked as Rosie made her way towards him, stepping over her weekender bag that rested on the floor, along with her trainers and a tote-bag with some snacks for her trip home to Manchester. Rosie nodded, humming softly, while trying to contain her giddiness. “I know a few, why?”

“Any of them have tattoos?” she asked, sitting down before setting her cup of tea on a random brochure from the local sushi place. 

“John Sutcliffe has a panda bear on his arse, but you know him. Why?”

Rosie made a small grimace, remembering who exactly John Sutcliffe was and why she remembered him in the first place. Their first encounter ended up with him stealing a pair of knickers from Rosie’s bedroom and taking it to the school with him to brag about sleeping with his mate’s older sister.

“Ah,” she murmured, trying to pretend that she wasn’t bothered by the information that her brother gave her. “I just met a lad the other day in the park,” she started again, “his face was oddly familiar and I was wondering if I’ve met him before. I thought it was maybe one of your mates.”

Her brother gave her a small, disinterested shrug, and Rosie sighed, reaching out to stroke Walker’s furry back as she took a small sip of her tea.

“It’s none that I know. The Johns that I know, two of them live in London, and the other two visit the park only at night, to drink with the bums.”

“I assume Sutcliffe is one of them,” Rosie murmured, making her brother throttle as he turned on TV. 

Rosie leaned back into the sofa, taking her phone out of her pocket and looking at the screen - the stream of messages they exchanged last night greeting her. With a slide of her finger, she scrolled through them - a small smile appearing on her lips as she stopped at the particular text that made her heart skip a beat. 

I really want to see you again.

“Speaking of lads named John,” her brother’s voice caught her attention, stopping her train of thoughts, and she curiously looked at him, waiting for him to continue. “There’s John Stones, and he’s originally from around here, a bit older than me. But, he might as well not be from around here,” he said as he placed his feet on the coffee table in front of them. “Don’t like him.”

“And he lives in Barnsley now?” she asked, eager to hear the answer - anticipation eating her on the inside. Her brother grinned at her, adjusting the bag of frozen dumplings that he still held on top of his head. “What?” Rosie inquired, almost defensively. 

Her younger sibling kept his smirk on as he pointed at the TV screen with the hand in which he still held the TV remote. “You are so useless,” he muttered, “how do you even live in Manchester? It’s just bloody amazing…” he trailed off, and Rosie huffed slightly in annoyance, causing her brother to chuckle. “No, he doesn’t live in Barnsley, Rosie,” her brother drawled out, “because he’s a bloody Citizen. Liked him much better when he was at Everton.”

With a confusion etched across her face, Rosie slowly moved her gaze from her brother’s amused face and at the TV - the phone she held in her hands instantly dropping into her lap as her eyes met with the familiar blue ones.

He looked tired, but content as he stood in front of a Sky Sports backdrop, wearing a light blue jacket - his hair as sweaty as on the day when she first met him. With a small smile, John was nodding at the journalist who was asking him something, but despite the volume being high, she couldn’t hear a word because her heartbeat was drumming loudly inside her ears. 

She kept her eyes focused on the man on the screen, and when he laughed at whatever they were talking about, Rosie’s heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach.

*

Hope  you like it. Tagging quickly @avenirdelight because she asked me to do so. If you want to be tagged as well, let me know.

[clandonnachaidh]

Light Across The Seas That Sever (Ch6)

AO3

“Mind ye’ve got that meeting this afternoon?” Ian reminded him for the thousandth time as they all sat at the breakfast table and Jamie fought the urge not to roll his eyes, already mildly annoyed at the fact that his bowl of porridge wasn’t quite right. He should’ve made it himself without backing down when Jenny had insisted on doing it for him, that way it would’ve been thick enough to plaster a wall with, just how he liked it. But his sister would never surrender the spurtle, working it through the oats and milk until they became creamy and setting a large bowl of sugar on the table, much to Jamie’s distaste. Thick enough to clart a wall and with enough salt to make your eyes water, that was exactly how he’d had it since he was a bairn, their mother taking hers in the same way. Only Jenny and their father had preferred that their breakfast be covered in sugar and the sweetness of the Scottish strawberries that grew wild on Lallybroch estate.

“Aye, I ken fine well enough,” Jamie grunted without turning his eyes towards Ian who was trying to encourage a spoonful into Wee Ian’s mouth. “Whit was the name of the estate again?”

“’Tis the only estate in Tomich but did I no’ tell ye? He’s changed the meeting to the golf club.”

It had been his idea to begin with but now Jamie was uncertain about how their drunken plan was taking shape. After one too many whiskies of a night, he and Ian had been sprawled in front of the fire as they chastised the blend that they were imbibing, arrogantly announcing that the two of them could do much better. Jamie hadn’t thought anything of it as he’d stumbled to his bed and let sleep take him but a few days later he found himself mending a fence post in the back field as Ian continued his musing about Broch Mordha putting its stamp on the world as a new destination for a premier whisky distillery and the two of them, its innovative creators.

Jamie grunted as he rose to his feet and deposited his bowl into the deep sink, letting the tap run to soak the dish and refusing to turn his body to take in the picture perfect family scene that was sat at the kitchen table.

“Mr Dunsany—“

“He’s a Lord, is he no’?”

“Is there a reason yer being a particularly crabbit arse this morning, brother?” Jenny’s voice was dripping with irritation, not wanting her nice family breakfast to be ruined by the interminable grey cloud that had been brewing over Jamie’s head for the past few weeks.

“Jen, leave him be.”

“I will not. He’s been a moanin’ greetin’ face since he came back from that bloody reunion and ’tis hell time he snapped out of it,” she said a little louder to ensure that Jamie heard the emphasis that she placed on the insult as it flew from her mouth.

This caused him to turn on his heel and level his sister with a careful eye.

“I’m sorry, Janet, but sometimes I think ye forget that there is a world outside of Lallybroch. Life can be a damn sight more complicated than poppin’ out weans and tending tae chickens, ye ken.”

If her temper didn’t hit the roof, her eyebrows certainly made a good go of it. Silently, her fingers curled tightly around the spoon, stilling herself against the pull of Wee Ian’s chubby little hand that was fisted in the material of her shirt, demanding attention.

“I ken that fine well, James. But ye canna jus’ come home every time ye see her and sulk like a wee bairn that doesna get what he wants. Grow up a wee bit, aye?”

At the end of her parting shot, Jamie felt the anger licking at the sides of his throat. The rage that he’d been directing towards himself was now begging to be let loose on someone else, someone that would bite back and Christ, Jenny would do just that. It had been this way since he’d come home, the frustration melting into a sullenness that had punctured the idyllic bubble that the family lived in at Lallybroch. In his worst thoughts, he resented both his sister and his best friend and the happiness that they shared. Jamie loved them to their bones, of course he did, but after leaving Oxford with yet another memory of how he’d let Claire slip through his fingers, the last thing he wanted to see was the very evident love between Jenny and Ian and their three children.

And so he found himself, in a suit that was a bit tight across his shoulders but he’d purchased anyway in a department store on the Inverness High Street, shaking hands with Lord William Dunsany in the bar of a golf club that he’d never seen fit to frequent himself. Jamie tried his hardest not to let the glances from the club members get to him as they walked around the lounge with an understated belonging the he’d never feel himself. He made sure that he gave a strong handshake, looking the shorter man straight in the eye and made the informed decision to swap from his usual Scots to his best Received Pronunciation, assuming that Lord Dunsany was one of those people who claimed to be a ’Scotchman’ but was as English as they come with the age old story of inheriting Scottish land as a birthright. Jamie had realised, however, that the man certainly knew his whisky and would make a not-half-bad business partner with himself and Ian if he managed to convince him to part with some cash.

Jamie was fuzzy on the details of how’d they’d come to the agreement but two hours and four whiskies later, he found himself once more shaking hands with Dunsany. The Lord would foot the seed money in exchange for a fairly sizeable but not unfair amount of the business and as a personal favour, Jamie would escort his eldest daughter around Edinburgh the following evening.

“She’s up here with me to get away from some nonsense that’s gone on at home but she’s been cooped up in her hotel for days while her mother tries to organise a townhouse for her. I just want her to get out and see the city. Who better to show her around than a native?”

Late next afternoon, his slight hangover thankfully having subsided after a coffee and a square sausage roll, Jamie stepped off of the train and onto the platform of Waverley Station in the heart of Edinburgh.

The tang of the breweries immediately filled his nostrils and he breathed deeply as the ever present sound of bagpipes floated down from the upper level of the street. While Lallybroch where was his heart lived, and he loved the humour and familiarity of Glasgow, Edinburgh held a special place in his heart. He never got tired of grabbing a coffee and walking the length of George Street in the sun, the castle bursting into view if he turned his eyes to the east.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he made his way towards the hotel that Dunsany had insisted on to putting him up in, the same one as his daughter just to make things simple. Although Jamie had spent many a morning diving into the spectacular breakfasts put on at one of his favourite places in Edinburgh, The Huxley, he had never imagined staying at The Caledonian that loomed over the small establishment just metres from its door.

Jamie didn’t quite know what to do as the doorman who was wearing a bloody top hat opened the door to the hotel for him so he settled on giving the man a polite smile, resisting an absurd urge to give him some type of formal bow. He had been in nice hotels before but nothing like this with its polished marble floor and a huge vases of fresh cut flowers on most surfaces that he could see.

“Mr Fraser, we have you in the Robert Louis Stevenson Suite for two nights. Here is your room key and it also includes the number for the Concierge, should you have any need. We have a table booked in the Peacock Alley bar for you and Miss Dunsany at 6pm this evening and I would be happy to make any dinner reservations you would like to make, within or outwith the hotel. Michael can get the rest of your bags from the car,” a neat blonde woman smiled at him from the reception desk as she inclined her head to the bellboy hovering at a polite distance over Jamie’s right shoulder.

“It’s nae bother, lass, I’ve only got the one bag,” Jamie muttered with a hint of embarrassment as he pulled the bag from the floor and swiped the keycards from the desk, smiling back at her. “Thank ye.”

When he stepped through the door that bore the name of one of Scotland’s most beloved authors, his growing Imposter Syndrome ramped up a few notches. Crossing the floor towards the window, Jamie was greeted by a beautiful view of the castle as it loomed over the city. He didn’t quite know how to act, having never been in such a large and clearly expensive hotel room. In fact, it wasn’t even a room, the woman at the desk had called it a suite.

Flicking through the TV channels for a little while, settling on the new show about Billy Connolly’s upbringing in Scotland, his fingers lazily scratched at the bare patch of skin just above his belt buckle. Something about being in a different city and having some time to himself made him feel lighter than he had in weeks and he gave himself permission to laugh at a particularly lewd joke that spilled from The Big Yin’s mouth on the TV.

Jamie’s phone, lying face up on the mattress beside his left shoulder, startled him as it gave a firm buzz. Sitting up, he opened the latest message from Geneva, telling him that she wanted to go out for dinner somewhere nice tonight. He was under no illusion as to the fact that when someone like Geneva Dunsany used the words ‘somewhere nice’, she was actually saying ‘somewhere expensive’. But thankfully, Jamie knew just the place and sent her a reply saying that he had it in hand before phoning down to the reception and having the helpful woman book a table at a restaurant he knew would be impressive enough but not so posh that he would feel out of his depth by eating there.

Although they’d messaged back and forth that afternoon, he hadn’t bothered to enlarge the tiny picture next to her name at the top of the screen. Toying with his phone, Jamie resolved that he had to know what the lass looked like, not wanting to have to shuffle embarrassingly around the bar trying to figure out who he was there to meet.

Her picture brought to its full size, he looked at her for the first time and tried was pleasantly surprised. She was clearly beautiful. Dark hair that flowed in loose waves over bare shoulders, her skin a beautiful olive brown from a summer tanning on a beach somewhere. She was looking at the camera dead on with a surety that came from a privileged upbringing, her face painted perfectly and a twist of the lips that couldn’t really be called a smile, as if she didn’t want to be seen to be having fun. She looked like every posh girl that Jamie had met in his life, every girl at university who would air kiss their friends on both cheeks while their manicured hands clutched at bags that cost more than his first car.

Suppressing a groan at the thought of spending a weekend with a person who no doubt came from an entirely separate world than the one he’d grown up in, Jamie divested himself of his socks as he plodded, bare feet on plush carpet, through to the bathroom to take a shower and clean himself up ahead of his evening.

Later, he sat at the bar, his fingers playing with the patterns on the cut crystal glass that housed his double whisky, he felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder.

“James Fraser?”

His stomach dropped into the floor.

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind at what hearing his name fall from the lips of an Englishwoman would do to him. He felt an absurd wave of revulsion swipe through him in an instant and he took a quick drink before turning on his stool to face her, swallowing the bile that had risen up in his throat.

“Och, lass, nobody really calls me James. Ye can call me Mac. ’Tis another one of my family names,” he tried to sound light and not as if the sounds of his name leaving her lips felt like the flesh on his back had been ripped open to the bone.

There was a reluctance in her eyes and he immediately knew that she was uncomfortable so he did his best to send her his most charming smile, gesturing for her to sit and then signalling to the bartender.

“What would ye like tae drink?”

“Martini, if you would, extra dry, extra dirty,” she ordered confidently as the bartender nodded and turned to begin preparing it for her.

With her chin in the air, she asked, “So, my father said you were a business associate?”

“Aye, I suppose I am now. My brother-in-law and myself wish to start our own whisky company. Your father has kindly offered to help.”

“My father isn’t generally in the habit of helping out of kindness.”

“Aye, well, hopefully he trusts that we ken what we’re doing. Or that we’ll figure it out at the very least,” Jamie tried to joke but she gave him nothing. There was something cold in her demeanour that he hoped he wouldn’t have to fight against for the whole evening.

After watching the martini disappear down Geneva’s throat in record time, he offered her an arm as they left the hotel and were hit by the cool air of Edinburgh in the evening. As soon as Jamie took the first step towards Princes Street, Geneva halted.

“We’re walking?”

“’Tis no’ far, only ten minutes or so. We have time before our reservation,” he replied, gently tugging on the arm that she’d looped through his so that she would begin to walk with him. Her feet stayed firmly planted on the concrete.

“These are £500 shoes, I’m not walking anywhere.”

“Lass, Edinburgh is a city tae get lost in. If we get a taxi we’ll just be looking at the sides of buses and traffic lights. Yer father asked me tae show ye the city,” letting her arm slip from his, Jamie took a step forward and gestured towards the castle, atmospherically lit from beneath now that the sun had gone down. He turned back to her with a kind smile and held out his hand. “Let me, aye?”

Reluctantly, she acquiesced and let him lead her away from the hotel. Jamie’s skin tingled at the contact and he realised that he hadn’t touched a woman apart from Jenny since the university reunion with Claire. He flexed his fingers experimentally and felt something swell in the pit of his stomach when Geneva tightened her grip in response.

The two of them made small talk as they walked through Princes Street gardens and up towards the restaurant, Geneva seeming happy enough with the venue that he’d chosen. He’d heard good things about The Witchery before and as they sat down at a table covered in a pristine white cloth, surrounded by painted dark wood on the walls and ceilings, he noticed how pretty Geneva looked in the candlelight. Only a fool would try to argue that she wasn’t beautiful. But there was a coldness to her that hadn’t warmed yet and so he kept on being as charming as he could, hoping that another glass of wine might bring down the steely demeanour that she seemed to hold on to for dear life.

Oxford had been full of girls like Geneva Dunsany. Wealthy, privileged and confident. After four years of university, Jamie had perfected the art of tuning out their inane conversation about which exotic place they’d spent their summer, who’s guestlist they’d been placed on for the weekend and what they were planning on wearing. So he knew how to respond to her constant stream of speech, nodding and agreeing in the right places and sending dazzling smiles across the table when he felt like rolling his eyes. Though somehow, he found that he didn’t actually dislike Geneva Dunsany. Something in her eyes, or maybe it was the way she chose her words, showed Jamie that the poor little rich girl personality was an act. Underneath the mask, she felt the same way that he did—unfathomably sad.

Something inside of him felt sorry for her, recognising the pain that he knew all too well in another. And while he didn’t particularly care for the woman, Jamie decided to be kind to her. He leaned closer across the table and started to respond to her stories with anecdotes of his own. With the help of another two martinis, she began to blossom in his company and the two shared a relatively pleasant evening together.

When they reached the hotel elevator, Jamie had nothing on his mind other than stripping off his constricting shirt and sleeping off the whisky cloud that was hanging somewhere around his temples.

“What’s on the agenda now, then?” Geneva asked as they stood side by side.

“Shower then bed, I think.”

“Sounds good to me,” she all but whispered, Jamie’s head twisting to see the dark look of seduction that was painted on her face. “Mind if I join you?”

He didn’t say no.

It was shocking how easily he slipped into the worst version of himself. There had been a few nights in the past where he’d spent too much time and money in the pub in Broch Mordha and woken up the morning with some woman curled around him at whatever bed and breakfast they’d invited him back to. He only ever slept with women who were in the area for the moment, never anyone who he’d run into again. It was always when he was half gone with drink, his body acting solely on blind need that he succumbed to his baser instincts.

The doors of the elevator opened and Geneva walked in purposefully, turning to look at him with an alluring smile. Jamie walked in beside her and pressed the number for her floor.

They found pleasure in each other’s bodies but it was skin deep at best. A simple matter of scratching an itch that they both clearly had and had resolved to using the other to sate that particular need. There were no delicate touches or gazes held for any real length of time. Jamie set himself to work, making sure that she got hers before followed suit. It was perfunctory. Pleasant. And when they both uttered their subdued sounds of fulfilment, Geneva immediately rolled away from him, shielding herself once more.

“Do ye want me to go?” Jamie’s voice broke through the dark silence of the room.

Her response was barely a whisper, “Please.”

He dressed quickly, roughly, and scrambled around in the dark for his phone that had fallen from his pocket. Geneva was lying as still as a statue but Jamie could hear the odd sniff from her and realised that she had begun to cry. After dithering between his options, his inherent gentlemanliness won out.

“Is there anything I can do?”

There was no response for a few seconds and he took that as his answer, beginning to move towards the door of the room when a single word stopped his hand from turning the doorknob.

“Stay.”

Keeping his eye on her as though she was a frightened animal that might bolt at any provocation, he slowly began to undress. When she moved over slightly to give him room to get under the covers, he did just that and felt a strange sense of kinship as she wrapped her body around his. Jamie held her, stroking her hair until she fell asleep in his arms. The sound of her gentle breathing was the only thing filling the room until his phone suddenly pinged with a notification.

Facebook Congratulate Claire Beauchamp on their engagement!

Before he could stop himself, he opened the app and looked at the posed photograph of the two of them, her left ring finger showing off an almost comically large diamond ring.

After telling our friends and family, we are so happy to announce that we are engaged! We thank everyone so far for their kind words and well wishes. From the future Mr and Mrs Frank Randall.

Every muscle on his body was thrumming with energy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what the energy was made from. Rage? Fear? Utter desolation? Whatever it was, it was coiling its way around his ribs, holding him in stasis and holding him hostage as he experienced it.

He wasn’t even considered a friend anymore, seeing as he hadn’t been given the privilege of a private message, having to find out through fucking Facebook. She had clearly changed in her time in Boston, the Claire he knew would never have given up her name and become Mrs Frank Randall. Randall-Beauchamp at the very least, for Christs sake.

Tasting the rare metallic nature of blood in his mouth, Jamie realised that he was biting the inside of his cheek. He felt the need to get up and do something, anything to expel the energy that was going to burst out of him if he didn’t channel it into something. But he was stilled by the feel of Geneva’s naked body against his and a rush of guilt tried to swallow him whole.

How dare he question Claire’s life, assume to know her situation all the while he was in bed with another woman. Reminding himself for the hundredth time that Claire had made her choice and it wasn’t him, he swallowed his pride and went to send her a message, even though he knew it wasn’t a smart idea.

He shouldn’t have had that final whisky.

Jamie: Just seen the news. Congratulations to you and yours.

A blatant lie but what was he supposed to say?

To his surprise, her reply was almost immediate.

Claire: Thank you!

Short and to the point. Two words that would shut down any further conversation, a feigned attempt at excitement and gratitude that he prided himself on being able to see through.

He knew that he would have been one of many to send the same sentiment that day but he had kidded himself that his text would receive a more personalised response. Maybe all she thought of him was a copy and paste response as she planted her phone down screen first on the sofa before climbing into the arms of her future husband.

In an attempt to hold the tears at bay, Jamie curled an arm around Geneva’s prone body, bringing up his hands to his arm and pressing his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.

[imagine-loki]

Can you Keep A Secret

TITLE: Can you keep it a secret?  CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 3 of 4

AUTHOR: ValarieRavenhearst2 ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine working with Loki in some way but you keep your distance because you have a massive crush on him and you tend to always embarrass yourself. Alas you find yourself in need of his help as you need his magic and he’s the only one for the job.

  All the incubators in the lab make it feel like a sauna today, with so many new species needing direct heat, we’ve had to give them their own room. All my specimens look healthy and well after yesterdays’ sampling and I record their status on my iPad. After working by myself for half an hour I make the easy decision to take my jumper off before I start to sweat. As I start to wiggle out of it by easing it over my head, my shirt begins to rise with it and I make that awkward wiggle to try and magically make my shirt fall down without putting my arms back down. Whilst in the midst of my struggle I can hear the keypad being used to unlock the lab door and instinctively I throw myself to my knees to hide as my shirt has risen over my bra. Instant regret. I quickly correct myself on the ground as I hear Dr Banner and another botanist talking idly. The side of my abdomen stings viciously in warning as the material of my shirt goes back over it. I quickly flip it up again to inspect a small scratch now etched over my ribs, ending just under my bra. I hiss quietly in annoyance at my own stupidity as I stand calmly to inspect what I could have scratched myself on.   Dr Banner greets me in surprise, obviously questioning what I am doing on the ground.

“Good morning.” I give them both a greeting smile, “I just dropped my jumper.” I wave it at them as proof and they go back to their conversation whilst I look at the plant specimens in front of me. This odd, black looking orchidaceous plant looks awfully ominous with its long bristly thorns of an olive green hue. It must have been the culprit as none of its neighbours have any type of protruding bristles. With a slight panic spiking in my veins I try to examine it’s ID card but it’s information is mostly blank as it hasn’t begun rigours testing yet. Shit! What if it’s poisonous. Surely it would be in a covered incubator if it was known to be poisonous and over in lab 2 with the others.  I try not to act concerned as I question if the other two know anything about it and the other botanist, Swanson? I think. Says that the whole table is due for testing today by his team. I just nod in acknowledgment and calmly exit the lab. I mean, I feel okay, right? I don’t feel faint and or woozy.  I canter off to the bathroom after throwing my jumper over my chair; I quickly raise my shirt again in the mirror to get a better look. It’s not that bad … I suppose. The thin red slice is only about six centimetres long and it doesn’t look like there’s anything caught in the wound. Honestly, what an idiot. I can’t believe I was so reckless. If bloody Branson found out he’d have my head and he’d carry on for eternity how right he was about me. Oh the ridicule! He’d have me on desk duty till he dies. No one can know! I’m breaking every safety protocol we have but if I am to die from it so be it. I’d rather die quietly than admit my fault to that grumpy old git. After a quick rendezvous with the first-aid box I should be fine. I’ll just have to spy on the other team later to see if they come with anything concerning on the evil looking sucker. Ugh! I can’t believe I just did that.   As I exit the bathroom mumbling curses at myself, adjusting my skin tight black turtleneck, a wisp of black enters my peripheral and I know that the god of mischief has returned to the floor. His eyes find me as I cross the open bullpen to my desk and I let go of the hem of my shirt and make an effort to make the concern vanish from my face. Draped in a navy Asgardian attire, he is what my high school best friend would call a snack. I briefly notice accents of gold and olive lining the leather but I am quick to advert my eyes and look busy. I suppose he would be a nice distraction from the sting in my side but I needn’t the extra embarrassment on top of my slightly spiked anxiety. I can hear Branson’s old decrepit voice engaging with that sultry sirens call as they wander by my desk but I make myself continue typing on my computer as if my life depends on it. As soon as he’s passed me I can smell his cologne lingering to tease me. Do Asgardians even wear cologne or is that just him? I shake my head, determined not to let my thoughts distract me.   As I continue to work at my desk for the day, every time I stretch and move around I check on the other team working in the lab and notice that pointy little sucker is still out in the open so my panic levels have been low and every time I go to the bathroom I check my side; gently peeling off the large non stick plaster to inspect the fading mark. The redness has reduced so much that I have to strain myself to notice the mark.   I steal glances with the God of Mischief throughout the day as he wanders from station to station. I smile politely whenever our eyes meet and always breakaway first to continue working, which I notice earns me a sly grin after the fifth time. See, I knew that tricky bugger was up to something. I just know he purposefully loves to get under my skin. But I am not giving him the satisfaction of watching me blush today. Two can play at that game. Danny surprises me at lunch by bringing me a latte and childish teasing. He sits on the edge of my desk and immediately notices Loki working in the adjacent Lab in clear view of my desk. Trying to be noticeably subtle he continuously taps my shoulder whilst cooing in excitement like a giddy school girl. I shush him and punch him hard in the leg whilst acting like his antics haven’t phased me. I’ve been doing an amazing job of ignoring his presence all morning, he is not going to trick me into actively swooning now.

“Oh he looking.” Danny murmurs whilst turning his head away, tapping my shoulder again.

“Shut up!” I mutter back as I briefly glare at him in warning before retuning my attention to my computer screen.

“Girl he’s definitely checking you out.” He rearranges himself as he opts for standing behind me and leaning over me like he’s studying what I’m doing.

“I’m going to kill you.” I swivel in my chair so that I’m facing away from the Lab. “You’re such a trouble maker.” I hiss and jokingly shove him so not to make a big scene. “Don’t you have work of your own to do?” I question as I make an excuse to walk out of sight by taking my drink bottle to fill it up. Danny follows, chuckling evilly to himself.

“Yeah but this is more fun.” I threaten to throw water on him. “But seriously, he’s definitely watching you.” I could feel it! But I ain’t playing into Danny’s game.

“Yeah right,” I scoff as I begin back to my desk with Danny in tow, “what for? A good laugh if I stumble?” I take my seat but swivel so I’m facing Danny and away from Loki.

“Well no ‘cause I don’t think he’s ever laughed when you’ve embarrassed yourself.” Danny leans against the empty desk adjacent to mine and I gasp at him with forced hurtfulness.

“Are you saying I’m not funny?” I question mockingly and his face grimaces fiercely as he shrugs in agreement.

“Well, either he’s attracted to you or just pities you.” He deduces with his great sleuthing skills. “Which would you prefer?” I scowl so hard at him that he might burst into flames yet his shiteating grin is till carved into his face. I don’t answer, not diving into this ridiculous conversation (not to mention unsafe when he’s so close). With a steady, yet annoyed breath, I exhale loudly before turning back to my computer and turn my concentration up to a hundred and ten percent to block out Loki’s alluring figure in my peripherals.

“I have work to do and if you’ve only come to tease me you can piss off.” I purse my lips together in my best passive resting bitch face before flipping him off. Honestly what an arse – breaking basic friend 101 rules. Don’t joke about the crush in front of the crush.

“So touchy today.” He laughs and kisses me on the cheek before stepping around my desk before I can clock him one. “I’ll see you later.” He teases before leaving and I can feel myself being watched and it is so tempting to look to where that burning urge is coming from but I just know if I make eye contact I’ll blush several noticeable shades. I’ll remain strong, purely out of spite.   I finish all my paper work earlier than expected and manage to send off all my reports just has mid afternoon rolls around. Spite is a good focuser. As I’m scanning through my emails to see if I need to reply to any I get a page from Clint to say that he’s on his way up to check out his new arrow heads. I beam excitedly in remembrance, jumping up from my desk and heading over to Lab 2, where I had been storing them in the cool room at the back of the lab. I had been experimenting and developing  new knockout gasses and combustibles and I thought adapting them to Clint’s arrow heads would be a more challenging task then the standard grenades. Thus far the little project has been a success, they just haven’t had any field time yet.   I notice Loki watching me through his lashes as I swipe into the lab and punch in the code. We’ve already exchanged pleasantries for the day so there’s no need for me to make any form of acknowledgment as I enter. As I enter through the double doors he straightens himself, most likely in expectance that I had entered to speak with him since it’s only he and another botanist in the Lab. But I just walk straight through without a glance which gives me such a surge of power, knowing how  much confusion I was causing him even though his poker face is exceptional. After punching in the security code on the fridge I gently pull out the draw with the arrow tips and remove the tray, taking it with me. I have to make eye contact on my way back since focusing straight ahead would be too obvious and the key is subtlety here if I want to be one up on his intimidating behaviour. My lips curve pleasantly at him but I don’t say anything as I head back to the door. Clint is already at my desk and is glancing around for me. He waves happily when he sees me and opens the door for me so I don’t have to.

“Hey,” he smiles at me and I pass him the tray, “you sure these work?” He questions mockingly.

“Have I ever failed you before?” I coyly quirk my brows in rebuke.

“Want to test them with me?” He nods his head at the door for me to follow him and I do with a skip in my step. I did archery as a child but I got nothing on him. I take my time to relish in the fact that Loki hasn’t taken his eyes off me as I exit through the corridor and I even dare a cheeky, subtly seductive glance over my shoulder just to make sure. Oh it feels good to be bad .. no wonder he loves it.

[jaskierswolf]

Geraksier fucking against the wall in the stables at Kaer Morhen? 👀 (from @geraskier-trashh)

@dani-dandelino my love! Please accept some smutty delight this Saturday evening.

Geraskier - 1.2k

CW: 18+, Semi-public sex, butt plug, top Jaskier/bottom geralt.

_______

It had been a long day and blissful day in the vineyards surrounding Corvo Bianco. Jaskier had insisted that Geralt take the day off from contracts and witchering to spend the day with him, just the two of them and Roach. Jaskier had considered bringing Pegasus out with him but they weren’t going far and Roach could carry them both for the short distance. There was just something romantic about being pressed up against your lover as you round through the beautiful meadows of Toussaint. Jaskier hadn’t imagined he’d ever settle down but the Duchy made it easy. It was vibrant, colourful, full of wine, everything a bard could need.

And Geralt was there.

Everything he could need.

After a lazy day of eating the finest food and wine that they could acquire on short notice, exchanging kisses, and generally just basking in each other’s company, Jaskier was… well he was horny. It had all been incredibly romantic and now he had another itch to scratch. The ride back on Roach hadn’t helped, his cock growing hard as he jostled against Geralt’s ass.

He was waiting impatiently now as Geralt saw to Roach. Despite the fact they paid for a stablehand, Geralt always insisted on getting her settled himself, and it was fucking frustrating. Jaskier knew his witcher could smell his arousal, and yet Geralt was taking his time, as he always did. His voice a low rumble as he spoke to his darling mare, and gods, his voice just did things to Jaskier. It always had, but it was worse now that he knew exactly what sorts of things that voice could whisper in his ear during sex.

He bit his lip, his hand wandering down to palm his cock through his trousers. He just needed something to take the edge off.

It didn’t take the edge off.

Instead, it fanned the flames, and he moaned softly, trying to stay quiet. Geralt might be taking care of Roach but that didn’t mean they were alone. He knew the stablehand was probably nearby.

And because he was Jaskier, that only served to heighten his arousal. He wondered how far they could get before someone caught them. He quickly unlaced his trousers and shoved his hand down his small clothes, sighing as he took himself in hand.

“What are you doing?” Geralt ask, the brush hovering just above Roach’s back. The witcher quirked an eyebrow at him but Jaskier could see the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

Jaskier winked at him, biting his lips and moaning louder than strictly necessary, but he so enjoyed putting on a show. He heard Geralt’s breath hitch in his throat, a tell tale sign of his witcher’s growing arousal. Jaskier moaned again, his eyes rolling back in his head. In all honesty, it didn’t feel that good, but he liked having Geralt’s attention on him. It felt good, better than sex even. He’d give up sex completely if it meant he could keep Geralt.

Luckily for him, he didn’t have to.

Geralt growled and pulled Jaskier in for a kiss. He pulled his hands from his trousers and gripped his witcher’s arse, fingers digging into the leather of his unfairly tight trousers.

“You’re a menace,” Geralt murmured against his lips.

“I’m your menace,” Jaskier agreed, nipping at Geralt’s lip and kissing along his jaw.

“Hmm.”

“It’s your fault for looking so divine, my darling. Those trousers make your arse looked utterly sinful,” Jaskier slapped Geralt arse as if to prove his point, kissing Geralt’s neck as he did.

Geralt smirked, cupping Jaskier’s face between his hands and brushing his lips along his jaw. “Thought you’d say that,” he whispered in Jaskier’s ear, nibbling at his earlobe and making Jaskier shiver. “So, I prepared a surprise for you, love.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and he moaned loudly, attacking Geralt’s lips with his own, pushing them both towards the wall of the stables as he desperately tugged at the laces of Geralt’s trousers. Geralt grunted as his back hit the wall and Jaskier finally managed to pull the witcher’s trousers down, revealing the toned thigh muscles hidden underneath. Jaskier bit his lip, debating whether to suck Geralt off, but he was ever so curious about his surprise. He groped his lover’s arse, fingers slipping between Geralt’s cheeks until….

“Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have,” he purred into the kiss, catching Geralt’s lip between his teeth as he pulled away. His fingers teased the familiar plug, causing Geralt’s breath to hitch. “Did you have this in all afternoon?”

Geralt nodded. Jaskier just raised an eyebrow at his witcher, one hand stroking the length of Geralt’s cock lazily, a featherlight touch that he knew drove his lover mad. “Yes,” Geralt finally hissed out.

“Oh, ho, ho, sweetheart, you should have told me, I could have had so much fun with this,” Jaskier whined as he mourned the opportunity of fucking his boyfriend in the fields around the estate.

Instead, he settled for lifting Geralt up, supporting the witcher’s legs as they wrapped around his waist, and then he worked the plug out carefully. Geralt grunted as it came free and oil dripped over Jaskier’s finger.

“Oh fuck you’re so hot,” Jaskier whispered, staring at his now slick hand. Geralt didn’t reply, he just ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, pulling his head back and their lips met in a desperate kiss. Jaskier moaned into the kiss as he coated his cock with the excess oil, and they both gasped as he finally pushed inside Geralt. “Oh fuck, Geralt!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, his head rolling back and hitting the wall behind them.

Every thrust was sweet torture, Geralt’s arse hot and tight around his cock. The wall behind them creaked but neither of them paid it any mind, too lost in the feeling of each other. Geralt cursed loudly as Jaskier finally managed to hit his prostate, and he grinned as he continued to pound into the witcher, fuelled by the thrill of having Geralt trapped under him, a fearsome monster slayer lifted up by a humble bard, a delicate flower.

“Fuck, Jask…” Geralt panted against his lips, “I need”

“Touch yourself for me, love,” Jaskier gasped, his movements becoming erratic as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer, but he wanted Geralt to cum whilst he was still inside him. Maybe they could even put that pretty plug back in once they were done. The thought made Jaskier moan, and he mouthed at Geralt’s neck, not breaking the skin but gods it was close.

Geralt shifted underneath him so he could touch his cock in between their bodies. Jaskier’s legs were beginning to shake and he was barely holding on, his orgasm threatening to pull him under with every movement. “That’s it, darling, you’re doing so good for me. Can you cum for me, love?” he half moaned in Geralt’s ear, struggling to get the words out but it was enough. Geralt groaned, his whole body shuddering as Jaskier managed two final thrusts before spilling into his witcher. It took all his strength not to collapse to the floor on the spot, but he’d been walking along side Geralt and Roach for decades. He had the muscles to prove it.

“So good for me,” he babbled, pressing kisses into Geralt’s neck as they caught their breath.

[weelittleweasley]

Amortentia | Draco x Reader

Prompt: After having a large crush on Draco for two years, you decide to move on for your own sake. But what happens when you are in potions class and what you smell is not that of your current boyfriend, but of an old flame?

Warnings: angst, a lil fluff at the end

Requests status: Open and ready for some requests

A/N: New fandom, same old writer hehe. I thought I’d come back after a long hiatus and write a little something. Quarantine/the pandemic has me back in my teenage self. In this, we go through year 4 to year 6, so GoF to HBP :)

The bellows of the professor at the front of the classroom fall into muffled murmurs as you go in and out of daydreams, fiddling with the quill in your writing hand. As you draw nonsense pictures in the margins in your notebook, you fantasize scenarios in your head of the boy you’ve had your eye on since the beginning of year four at Hogwarts. In your head, it all made sense. The two of you were pure blood Slytherins, competitive and ballsy, ready to fight at a moment’s notice. That’s what you adored so much about the blonde boy. He may have his moments, but he always seemed to be ready for whatever. 

The corners of your mouth twirl upwards into a smile as you think about being able to wear his jumper, smelling his cologne on the collar. You think about his hands on your hip bones, squeezing them lightly as he peppers small, soft kisses on your neck and collarbones. Yearning to lace your fingers with his as he dips down his head to place a tender kiss to your l-

“Miss (Y/L/N), do you have anything to add?” Professor Moody snaps you from your daydream as you sit straight up, feet planted on the foot, picking your quill up back in writing position. You clear your throat and shake your head back and forth. “If you have nothing to add, I’d recommend you quit daydreaming and focus on what is going on at the front of the classroom.”

You breathe out a small, “Yessir,” before returning your attention back to your work. Small giggles are let out across the classroom, relishing in your embarrassment. Heat rises to your cheeks and you try to make yourself smaller by sinking into your chair a little and ducking your head downward. Peering up through your eyelashes, you try to sneak a look a Draco who is seated only two tables ahead and to the left of you. As you do so, you see that he was looking at you the whole time, him chuckling with Blaise Zabini before returning their focus to the blackboard. Embarrassment washes over you yet again, caught in the act of looking at the boy you fancied. 

Within the hour, Moody dismisses class and you gather your things swiftly, trying to leave class without Moody stopping you to ask why your mind was elsewhere today. As you fling your satchel across your body and tuck your notebook under your arm, you scurry out the door only to be stopped by Blaise. 

“Would you move it, Zabini? I have to get to astronomy,” you push Blaises large chest with your hand, before booking it in the opposite direction. You can’t escape him, or so it seems, because he walks beside you now down the corridor to your next class. “Are you obsessed with me or something? What’s your deal?”

Blaise laughs, “I didn’t know that you get so distracted during class, doodling and dreaming, (Y/N). What’s more interesting than a class with Moody?” He nudges his shoulder into you, making you stumble a little bit as you walk.

Now getting really annoyed since he brought up what happened in class, you stop in your tracks and hit him with your notebook. “Leave. Me. Alone. You. Arse,” you speak in between slaps and Blaise just laughs as you swat him. Before you can walk away from him, he quickly snatches your notebook from your hands and your eyes grow wide. If he flipped through the pages just right, he could see all of your Draco doodles. “Hey, give that back! That’s private!”

You jump for your notebook, but with no avail since Blaise was significantly taller than you. He carelessly flips through pages, “Now what does Miss (Y/L/N) write about in class? Taking diligent notes?” With one final shove, your notebook falls onto the ground, wide open to the page where you have written Draco Malfoy in script in the margins of your notebook, so much so that it creates a border around your note in the center of the page. Blaise lets out a deep chuckle, “Ho-ho! That’s where little Miss (Y/L/N)’s thoughts have been! The Slytherin Prince!” 

Before Blaise can torment you anymore, you grab your notebook off the floor and slam it shut. Your heart is racing, Blaise is in Draco’s inner circle and if Blaise knew about your crush, that meant Draco was bound to find out. Your anxiety swells and your chest tightens. Your grip becomes iron on your notebook now, unwilling to surrender it if someone dares to snatch it away from you again. You look up at Blaise and if you look up any longer at the shit-eating grin he has on his face, you’ll start crying. As if this day could not get any worse. Blaise immediately recognizes your facial expression as a girl who has just been hurt and he instantly retaliates, regretting what he just did. “I told you that was private,” you manage to speak out before walking away briskly.

The sound of quickened footsteps follow you and Blaise voice says, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just thought we were having fun, that’s all!” he attempts to rationalize. You ignore his feeble attempt at an apology. “I won’t tell Malfoy. It’ll just inflate his ego,” he attempts to humor you.

“I would hope not. That would be the most human thing to do,” you spit at him. “Just leave me alone, okay? I think you’ve done enough damage for today.”

“(Y/N)!” Blaise calls out before you turn around to enter your next class. “Please. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean it.”

You look at him and by the look on his face, you can tell he means it, which is surprising. You sigh, “I believe you. Just...don’t do it again. And please, don’t tell...” you don’t want to say his name in fear if you say it, he’ll come right around the corner. “...him.”

Blaise offers you a warm smile. “Your secret is safe with me.” You let go of your held breath, some tension releasing from your shoulders. “Can I just ask? What is the fascination of him? Is it his hair?” he asks, making you laugh lightly. There were many reasons you liked Draco; his personality, his smile, his drive, the cool blue gray color of his eyes, the way his nose scrunched up when he laughed. There was so much to like. Blaise notices your pregnant pause and smiles, “Never mind me asking. I have a feeling it will take too long to get your response.”

“Goodbye, Zabini,” you trail off, trying to slip into your class before he stops you yet again.

“Wait! Um,” Blaise stutters. “So, the Yule Ball is coming up soon. And I know maybe you were hoping to get asked by a certain...someone else,” he winks as you roll your eyes, “but I was wondering if you wanted to go with me?” he delivers the last part confidently, like he was giving you a sales pitch. 

You quickly thought about it. Although the chances of Draco asking you were slim to none, you still were holding out that maybe he noticed you and wanted to take you to the Yule Ball. But the proposition with Blaise sounded like fun. Blaise knew how to have a good time and you rather go with another Slytherin than with some half-blood from another house. And as selfish as it was to say, you would probably be invited to get ready with the other Slytherin girls like Pansy which meant more time to see Draco. Offering him a sweet smile you reply, “I’d like that. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to go to class, Zabini.”

Blaise smiles and lightly blushes, but turns away, hoping you would not catch it. But you did before you slipped into your astronomy class before the professor started.

Soon enough, the Yule Ball rolled around and like you had previously thought, you found yourself in Pansy’s room, getting ready for the ball. You lightly tugged the rollers out of Pansy’s hair, helping her finish getting ready as she rambles on and on to Daphne Greengrass about their magical creatures class. A small smile tugs on your lips as you remain bystander to the conversation, enjoying the ridiculousness of the conversation. Your thoughts are disturbed when Pansy says, “Oh, wow, (Y/N). When you said you could do hair, you meant it!” She shakes her head side to side, causing her loose curls to shimmy across her shoulders. You had to admit she looked beautiful. 

You shrug, “Don’t mention it. Could you zip up the back of my dress?” You turn around, feeling the zipper close, the dress fitting around your figure tighter. When you turn around, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. Iridescent green fabric clung to your body fabulously, a deep v plunging down to your chest, your dècolletage shimmering in the light. It was a stunning dress; your mom had sent it over from London. It was her dress when she went to the Yule Ball at your age. 

“You look radiant,” Daphne tells you, placing her hands on your shoulders. “Blaise is going to be drooling.” Pansy and Daphne giggle, hoping you would join in. But you just offer them a small smile in return, secretly wishing there was another boy who would be gawking over how radiant you looked. “Something wrong?” Daphne asks.

Pansy looks at your face, “Do you not wanna go to the ball anymore?”

“No!” you exclaim. “I do! I do want to go!” You calm down both the girls as they dramatically sigh. “I just did not picture myself going to the ball with Blaise,” you confess. 

The girls exchange confused expressions before looking back at you. “What do you mean? Do you not fancy Blaise?” Pansy asks.

“No! I like Blaise! He’s a charming boy, don’t get me wrong. And he’s very handsome.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Pansy asks. 

He’s not Draco, you think to yourself. But instead of that you say, “I just fancy someone else.” That was probably too much information to give to the girls, you know they would take and spread some sort of rumor, but you give them the benefit of the doubt. “This does not leave this room,” you say sternly. You extend both of your pinky fingers to Daphne and Pansy, making them pinky promise and kiss their thumbs: your ritual for making promises. 

“So...” Daphne starts. “Can we know who you do fancy then?”

Your anxiety peaks again. If you even murmured that you liked Draco, Pansy would probably loose her mind. Pansy basically called dibs on Draco when you stepped foot at Hogwarts. In all seriousness, Pansy has fancied Draco longer than you, so it just seemed inconsiderate and rude to tell her that you had feelings for the same platinum haired boy. “You’ll find out later. Besides, we should get going now,” you change the subject.

You make your way down the stairs and the winding halls of Hogwarts before arriving at a tall staircase leading to the Ball’s entrance. Your arms are linked with both Daphne and Pansy’s as you descend the staircase. Your eyes roam the floor, looking for a certain blonde haired Slytherin and you almost immediately find him. And to your surprise, his eyes have found you. Your pair of eyes burns into his, creating a tunnel vision. The orchestra that plays in the other room becomes white noise and everyone else seems to disappear. It is just you and him now. He look absolutely dashing. His suit fits him excellently and his hair is perfectly swept back. His eyes are open in wonder as he watches you descent the staircase, looking absolutely regal. This moment feels like forever and you never wanted it to end. But it sadly does when you both realize you haven’t looked at either of your actual dates to the ball. Your eyes drift away from his blue ones and they meet Blaise’s brown ones instead. He is smiling big at you which makes you laugh. When you make it down the stairs, he meets you at the bottom and grabs your hand like an absolute gentleman. “You are unearthly, (Y/L/N),” he whispers before kissing the back of your hand. 

Smiling at the compliment, you thank him. “You are not too bad yourself, Zabini.” He did look great. His suit was tailored perfectly to his tall, muscular figure and his shoes were shined so bright that you could practically see your reflection in them. 

“Shall we head in there?” he asks, offering his arm to you to hold. You smile and take his arm. But not before taking one look at Draco. He kisses Pansy’s hand gently, but as he does this, his gaze is on you the whole time and only breaks when he comes back up to look at Pansy and give her a smile.

This was going to be a long night. 

Since that night, your relationship with Blaise grew. You went from friends, to something more than friends, to boyfriend and girlfriend. You didn’t expect to end up dating Zabini after the Yule Ball, but you decided that maybe pursing something with him was more realistic than chasing after Draco. He obviously had a thing for Pansy and Pansy for him and who were you to ruin that? So you let yourself use Blaise as a distraction or someone else to focus on rather than pining over Draco. However, it did drive you mad when you would all be in Slytherin common room and you sat on the floor next to Blaise and Pansy would sit on Draco’s lap when there was plenty of room on the couch. You also did not feel bad when Blaise would make fun on Pansy having an obvious crush on him. You would hide your laugh as Blaise pulled you closer to him. 

That being said, as you got closer with Blaise, you got closer with his friends. Which meant having to face Draco and swallow your feelings. You always felt like such a poser when you were with Blaise. You knew it was wrong to date someone who genuinely liked you and you liked someone else. But you just crossed your fingers and hoped that your feelings for Malfoy would melt away and your feelings for Blaise would grow. Of course, with your luck, nothing happened. Your feelings for Draco were just solidified if anything. He was cheeky and smart mouthed, which you just loved. He kept you on your toes. Blaise wasn’t like that; he was predictable. Draco would make jokes that only you two would hear and you would laugh until your ribs shook. Blaise has never done that. But it wasn’t right to compare Blaise to Draco; it was an unfair competition. 

Regardless, you stayed with Blaise. Too afraid to break up with him and too afraid to tell Draco how you felt, you stayed in a relationship where you lied not only to yourself but to another person every day. A good person at that. Blaise was a great guy and every day you held his hand, shared a kiss, cuddled up together, you felt guilty. You were hurting him more and more with everyday. And you were hurting yourself by being in this relationship for so long. But you stayed. 

Back in a classroom, this time Slughorn’s potions class, you stood next to Pansy waiting for the class to begin. You looked across the room to see your boyfriend toss you a wink as you lightly smiled. “I love you,” he mouthed as you sighed. 

You did love Blaise. So much. But not in the way he wanted. And yet, here you were, mouthing an “I love you too” back to him, causing him to smile wide. You turn to Pansy, “So what are we supposed to be doing today? If it’s boring, I’m going to use the washroom.” Using the washroom was always code for going back to your room. 

Pansy giggled, “Today’s class should be good. I heard Slughorn has Amortentia today.” Your heart sank. Amortentia: the most powerful love potion in the world. People say that it smells different for everyone according to what they are most attracted to. “Your should be easy. Smells just like Zabini I bet,” she nudges your side as you offer a convincing smile and girlish giggle. “I’m sure I know what mine smells of...” she trails off before looking over to Draco who was too involved talking to Zabini to notice her gaze. 

Slughorn starts class, reciting off lists of potions to which Granger completes his every question without fail. You roll your eyes, “Some people are just such show offs,” you whisper to Pansy, making her laugh. You join her, causing Draco to look your way, more interested in what you were laughing at rather than the lesson Slughorn was giving. You look away from Draco and focus back on the lesson, hoping it would distract you from those familiar gray eyes. 

Hermoine talks more about Amortentia before prompting Slughorn to ask your classmates to come up at random and speak what they smell. Granger goes first and describes a horrific combination of mowed grass and spearmint toothpaste. Others go after and then Blaise volunteers to go next. “Mr. Zabini, please, go head,” Slughorn says before Blaise steps up to the small caldron and take a whiff.

“I smell...morning rain...vanilla...and jasmine,” he smiles as he finishes his sentence, looking right at you. Your heart sinks. Blaise had smelt your perfume and everyone in the class knew it. Those who were friends with him laughed as Pansy let out an ooooh. You told her to shut up with a jab to the side as she continued to tease you. 

“Miss (Y/L/N), you’ve been awfully quiet this class. How about you come up and smell?” Slughorn proposes.

You freeze. Absolutely not. There was no way you were going to get up there and smell the Amortentia. You knew exactly what you were going to smell and you were not prepared to tell the class and your boyfriend that what you were smelling was Draco Malfoy. 

“I’m fine, actually.”

“That was less of a question and more of a demand, Miss (Y/L/N),” Slughorn rephrases, earning a few laughs from Gryffindors to which you shoot them a dirty look, causing them to stop. “Well?”

You look at Slughorn and gulp. He offers you a gentle smile and you can’t deny the man any further. You sigh and slowly walk up to the caldron. You are a foot away and already the scent slaps you in the face. It almost makes you cough from how strong it is. Right next to the pot, you look down at the bubbling liquid with pink fumes evaporating from it. Closing your eyes and iInhaling deeply, you get chills. The scent makes you forget where you are. What time it is. Who is watching. It’s euphoric. It’s perfect. It’s him. The smell of musky cologne, leather polish, and green apples dance around your nose and your stomach erupts with butterflies. 

“What do you smell?” Slughorn asks, snapping you out of your daydream.

“I’m sorry?” you ask.

“What do you smell?” he repeats. 

Suddenly, you remember that you have to tell the class what you are smelling. Or who you are smelling. Once you said what you smelled, everyone would know who you were talking about. Pansy would know. Blaise would know. Draco would know. You try to think. What in the world does Blaise smell like? Can you lie about this stuff? For Merlin’s sake, what does Blaise smell like?! “Um...” you try to concoct your way out of this situation. You try to think of what your boyfriend smells like, but the scent of Malfoy is clogging every single sense. 

“Say it then,” Slughorn urges you.

“Cologne, leather polish, and green apples,” you blurt, confessing what you were most afraid of to the class. You slowly open your eyes and see the smile that was once on Blaise face quickly fall. His eyes pang with hurt and pain and your heart drops into your stomach. You wanna run over to him and tell him how sorry you were and how much you loved him, but this thing with the Slytherin prince was unshakeable. Too hurt to look at Blaise anymore, you glance at Pansy, who is just enraged. Her ears are bright red, eye locked onto you, unwavering. Her eyes dig into your soul and you can hear her saying in your head, “You’re bloody joking, right?” You don’t dare look at Draco, but in the periphery you see him just staring at you, lips parted, breathing softly, eyes burning into the back of your head. 

Slughorn notices the tension and attempts to diffuse the situation. “Alright, everyone take your seats,” he dismisses. You walk quickly to Pansy who swiftly moves away to you and toward Blaise who sits with Draco, taking up a whole table with no room for you like usual. Instead, you find yourself sitting with random Ravenclaws for the rest of class, unable to think straight about what just happened. The look on Blaise’s face was enough to have you in tears and the look of betrayal on Pansy’s face drove you mad. You spent the whole class thinking, what have I done? 

As soon as class is dismissed, you watch Blaise’s movements, wanting to catch him or Pansy after class. Pansy leaps off her chair and to the door and you quickly follow suit. “Pansy!” you call after her. “Pans, please! Please can we talk about this? Please do not shut me out!”

“Why not?” she yells back. “You lied to me! You could have told me how you felt! You knew how i felt and yet you still lied to me!” 

“I know, but I thought what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you. But I just ended up hurting you anyway and I am sorry, Pansy. I am so sorry,” you attempt to reconcile with your best friend as she fumes. 

Pansy shakes her head. “I just need space. Away from you. Can you at least respect that?” she sarcastically says. “There’s someone else you owe a bigger apology to,” she tells you before trotting away down the hall back to the Slytherin common room. 

You turn around and there stands Blaise, stoic and tall. His eyes are soft and full of so much pain. You could cry. You start to cry. “Blaise,” you croak out. “I didn't mean to hurt you. Please know that is the last thing I wanted to do. When you asked me to the Yule Ball, I thought that it would be a good way to get over Draco, but I-I don’t know what happened? Nothing happened, I guess. I value you and your friendship so much. Blaise, I love you, I’m so sorry. I thought not tell you how I really, truly felt would protect you.”

Blaise sighs, “(Y/N), I know you didn’t mean to. For Merlin’s sake, I’m not a git. I knew you still liked Malfoy.” Your eyes widen. Huh? Before you could ask every single question that flurried into your brain, Blaise stops you and says, “From that moment in the hallway during year four until now, I knew. I thought that the longer I stayed with you, I could convince you that I could love you more than he could. But I don’t think that’s true...(Y/N), I love you. What either of us did was not right and I think we just need space from each other right now.”

You shake your head. You couldn’t lose Pansy and Blaise. That would be too much. “No, I can’t lose you, Blaise. I need you,” you beg, holding onto his forearms. 

“It isn’t for forever, darling. Just for a little. I think we both a need a little space from each other right now,” he holds your face in one of his hands and you lean into his touch, soothing you almost instantly like it has done so many times before. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” You nod, him wiping away your tears before replacing it with a gentle kiss on the apple of your cheek. “Besides, I think you have to talk to someone else,” he whispers in your ear, before walking away, revealing Draco standing behind him.

Your breath hitches in your throat. His eyes burn into yours just like that night at the Yule Ball. A small smile on his lips dances as a last tear strolls down your cheek. He takes a few steps towards you and you instinctively take a few steps back. Draco looks a little hurt that you moved away from him so quickly. You gulp, not knowing what to say, what to do. Who would in a situation like this? Lightly sniffling, you wipe away your tears with the sleeve of your robe, not breaking eye contact with him. Draco opens up his mouth to say something, but then chooses not to. He closes his mouth, pressing his lips into a line, thinking of what to say. You watch him think, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he finds the right words to say. 

“Uh,” he starts. “How lo-”

“Year four,” you answer, knowing exactly what he was going to say.

He lightly laughs at how prepared you were to answer him. He nods. “I thought,” he lightly speaks, looking at you with a small smile. He is trying so hard to get you to open up to him. Or even crack a small smile at him. But that seemed really impossible right now. The two people who you cared about more than anything just told you they needed time away from you. You felt like an awful person. Although you should be in Draco’s arm right now, stroking his hair, kissing his lips, telling him how happy you were, you were standing four feet away from him, a shaking mess, tears still flowing from your eyes. “Here,” he reaches into his pocket and offers you a handkerchief. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, accepting his token, blotting your eyes with the green silky cloth. You blow your nose into it, loudly. You look at him, watching his reaction, wondering if you should return a snotty handkerchief. “I...I can wash it for you.”

He chuckles, “Don’t worry about it. Keep it if you need it.” You smile and tug it away in your bag. Silence falls over you two again. “Can I stand next to you?” he asks permission, knowing how fragile you are right now. You nod and he slowly makes his way towards you, stopping about three inches away from you. Your breath hitches in your throat when you look up and see the proximity of your faces from each other. “May I hold you hand?” he asks, you shaking your head yes slowly. With that, he grabs your left hand in his large hand, pressing yours flat against his before intertwining the fingers. It makes you smile softly which makes his heart flutter at your excitement. Draco so desperately wants to hug you, squeeze you, kiss you. But he knows he needs tread lightly. “I wanted to take you to the Yule Ball,” he confesses as he looks at your hands intertwined.

Your head shoots up and your eyebrows furrow. “You did?” you ask, not believing him. He shakes his head yes. You pause. This made no sense. “Then why didn’t you ask me?” you ask.

Draco sighs. “I didn’t know you well. Zabini said he wanted to ask you. I stepped back.” So much has happened today you cannot wrap your brain around what has just been said. “But now...I know you better. And now that you and Zabini are no longer...” he trails off, looking up at you with those chilling blue eyes that make your knees weak and heart putty. 

You want to scream yes. Wrap your arms around him. Kiss him. Hard. Breath in his scent that has haunted you for nights on end. Finally, he was yours. You were his. But that would not be right. It wouldn’t be fair to Blaise. Or Pansy. Or you. Or Draco. You needed time. “Draco...” you say, breathily.

“Yes?” he asks, eyes so bright and shimmering with so much hope and longing. Merlin’s beard, he wanted to kiss your tear stained cheeks and hold you close, bodies becoming one. “Is something wrong?” he asks, worry creeping into his words, his free hand that isn’t holding your hand, cups your cheek. “Please tell me. I don’t want to wait any longer. I can’t wait any longer.” 

His words make your heart break, knowing that you needed to wait longer. Just a little bit longer. “Draco...” you repeat, the tears welling back up in your eyes, slowly dripping own your cheek, but Draco is quick to wipe them away. “I...” you start, but your voice fails you. 

“Take your time,” he breathes. Oh, how he was so right. 

“I need time,” you repeat after him. 

“Yes, take your time. Breathe,” he says, thinking that what you are saying is applying to just now. 

“No, Draco,” you tell him, reaching up to his wrist, pushing his hand away from your face. “I need time. To process this. Blaise, Pansy...us...I need time.”

His eyes fall and the once happy expression on his face is fading fast. But he knows that you were right. It would be too fast. Too much for the both of you. You both needed time to think, recover, and come back to each other.

“And I will wait for you,” he reassures you, both of his hands cupping your small ones. “If I waited this long already, I can wait a little while longer.”

It’s like he knew exactly what to say. His words make you smile softly and you feel just a little bit better. Your smile makes me him smile. So you just stand there, your hand in his two large ones, smiling at each other. He places a tender kiss on your knuckles and then another to your forehead. His actions make your heart flutter, knowing that if this is what a relationship with Draco was like right now, you were in for a treat. You whisper a weak thank you and he shakes his head, laughing that you would thank him for something like this.

“Now go get some rest, darling,” he presses his forehead against yours and you flutter your eyes closed, loving the feeling of him being so close to you. It felt so good to finally have him next to you. You pull away, give him a gentle smile, and start to walk back to the Slytherin common room. 

Draco watches you walk away, down the hall. In his head, he thought to himself, I can wait a little longer. Because you are worth waiting for.  

[lastbluetardis]

Sacred New Beginnings (1/?)

Summary: James Noble thought he traded away his chance at love and a happy-ever-after when he signed a contract with a record label that turned him into an international celebrity. But a chance meeting in a dive bar may prove him wrong.

Ten x Rose AU, @doctorroseprompts

This Chapter: Teen, ~5500 words

Note: Er... surprise? This idea has been in my head for months but my brain took it and ran with it this weekend. I plotted the whole thing and am gonna try to update every weekend. I don’t anticipate this being more than like... 7-10 chapter? I’d love to keep it under 5 chapters but that might be trimming things down too much for my liking. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this little story!

AO3

Flashing lights and shrieks of his name greet James the moment the back door to his armored car is opened. His head of security ducks out first and James can only see a mass of feet and legs but it’s more than enough to let him know it’s a heavier than usual crowd. Not surprising, considering the news of his latest break-up just dropped while he’d been flying back from a visit to America.

He slides out of the car, helped by hands that pull him as much as guide him through the throng. He ignores the shouts of his name—telling him to look left or right or up or down or every combination therein—and the barrage of questions and jokes that aren’t funny.

Was it you or him that ended it?

Three weeks, is that a new personal record?

Another notch in the bedpost, eh James?

Got another beau lined up yet?

If you’re looking for candidates, what do we have to do to get our names in the running?

“Ignore them,” he mutters to himself, too quietly for anyone except his security team to hear.

In answer, one of them gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they reach his front door. Someone has already unlocked it for him and the darkness within is a blessing he’s all too willing to be shoved into. The cacophony muffles once the door shuts, and finally he’s alone, a rarity for him. If it’s not his security, it’s personal assistants and writers and producers and photographers and the paparazzi.

Or his lover of the month, as the papers have taken to calling his partners.

But nope, his home is empty and quiet and bloody freezing. A shiver ripples up his spine as he treads to the thermostat controller. Summer finally released its hold on London, and the muggy heat has been replaced with a damp chill that burrows down into his bones.

Several button-presses later, James hears the familiar clank of the radiator and he can smell the heating kick on. It’ll take a while for his house to warm up, so James keeps his peacoat on for the time being as he putters around his home, checking the fridge and the cabinets. As always, they’re well-stocked. He hasn’t had to do anything as mundane as grocery shopping in the five years since his YouTube channel full of acoustic covers of popular songs went viral and landed him a lucrative deal with a prestigious record label. Only in his wildest dreams had he expected to find fame and fortune in the hobby he loved so much—for it to have actually happened still took him by surprise, as though any minute he’d be told “it was fun while it lasted, but it’s time for you to leave wonderland now.”

Shaking his head of those thoughts, he goes to the antique dining table that can easily seat ten people, which is great for holidays or in-home meetings, but just plain depressing every other day of the year. A stack of mail has piled up, and he spends the next five minutes attempting to sort it before giving up and telling himself he’ll look at it in the morning, once he’s not quite as groggy—transatlantic flights always take it out of him.

Instead, he rootles around his fridge until he comes up with the necessary items to make himself a ham and cheese sandwich. With the prospect of food in front of him, James realizes he is starving. He shoves a whole slice of ham in his mouth while he assembles his pitiful meal, heaping on lettuce and sliced tomatoes as though that’s enough to negate the pile processed protein and greasy chips he layers in for crunch.

It’s tastier than any sandwich as a right to be, and he nearly makes himself a second one before catches sight of his phone screen and the slew of incoming notifications. His work is never finished, is it?

There are several texts from his publicist, Donna, welcoming him home and congratulating him on not making an arse of himself just by trying to walk up the front drive of his home. (To be fair, he felt entitled to channel his inner crotchety old man and tell reporters to get off his damn lawn if they encroached on his personal property.)

“Though some photos are surfacing of your trip to New York… Anything you need me to get ahead of?”

He rubs his fingers into his eyes, knowing she’s probably referring to his last night out in the city, where he went bar hopping until the wee hours of the morning to try to forget the text his subsequently-ex-boyfriend had sent him.

Thanks for everything, but I need to focus on my career. Cheers mate.

The career that James had kickstarted for him by introducing his rising actor boyfriend to several of his friends in the film industry, because James had been so damn desperate for affection that he’d once again let the wool get pulled in front of his eyes.

And so James had reached out to mates who lived in New York and they’d all gone out and acted half their age and had a wonderful time once James forgot about why he’d gone out in the first place.

But none of that now. Nope. No sir.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he replies. “Let me know if you catch wind of anything.”

Despite the fact that he only just got home and he’s jetlagged and still feeling the effects of his night out in New York, James can’t stay in his house right now. It’s so quiet that his brain is creating its own white noise. He can’t stand being in his head on a good day, and today is not a good day.

He grabs his keys and wallet and makes for the back of the house. His property is landlocked with the back gardens of other houses; the paps have learned the hard way that James is dead serious about protecting his neighbors’ privacy and will not hesitate to phone the police to arrest and sue anyone caught trespassing on private property to snag a photo of him. James hosts dinner for his neighbors several times a year and buys them gifts any chance he can to show his appreciation for their patience and tolerance.

In the dead of night, he slips out into his back garden, the crisp October air burning his lungs in the best way as he ducks his way through the neighborhood, his feet taking him far away from the crowd of reporters that are still stationed in front of his own home. Hopefully they’ll all have dispersed by the time he gets back. Perhaps he should have turned on music or a movie or something, made them think he was settled in for a lazy night in.

He wanders aimlessly for a while, enjoying this taste of freedom and trying to remember the days when he could leave out the front door of his flat without any fanfare.

It’s dark, and thick clouds obscure whichever moon phase they’re in, but the street lamps glow yellow on the damp pavement, lighting his way forward. A crisp autumn breeze ruffles his hair and the leaves, sending them tumbling around him and skittering across the residential street that’s so much quieter than the bustle of New York. It’s good to be home, though.

He arrives at a bus stop and catches one headed into the city proper. It’s no secret that James lives in London, and therefore the general population has gotten used to glimpsing him on the tube or walking on the street or frequenting pubs. He knows people snap quick photos of him, and he’s always happy to stop and pose for a selfie with respectful fans, but mostly he’s left alone when he’s out by himself like this.

Nevertheless, he hears the excited undertones of people trying to inconspicuously point him out to their oblivious friends. He keeps his head down, mindlessly opening and closing apps on his phone for something to do as he pretends he doesn’t notice them. He won’t be on the bus much longer anyway.

Several people get off the bus with him, including a group of teenage girls who are whispering heatedly among themselves. It’s almost funny, watching them debate amongst themselves before one of them approaches him.

She’s red-faced but determined as she blurts, “Can we get a photo?”

“Sure thing,” he says good-naturedly, inclining his head for them to come closer. “Need me to take it?” He holds out a lanky arm and flops it around a bit. “Got a longer reach than any of you.”

He’s certain one of the girls is about to start crying with joy as they all nestle into his side and hand him a new-model iPhone. Damn, it’s fancier than his own. When he was their age, he had an old flip phone that lost reception if he breathed on it wrong. It was a tank though—he’d dropped that thing hundreds of times, and nary a scratch.

“Do me a favor,” he says, handing the phone back to its owner, “and don’t ping our location if you post to social media, yeah? I appreciate it.”

“You’re my favorite person ever,” one of the girls squeaks.

His face splits into a grin and he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Is that so?”

The girls spend the next five minutes chatting with him about music and how they’ve been following him ever since his YouTube days. He listens and chimes in every now and then when they ask him a direct question, but he prefers being passive in exchanges like this, content to hear peoples’ stories. It makes him feel normal, if only for a little while.

Finally, they take their leave, and James turns in the opposite direction even though the destination he had in mind is down the street the girls had just taken. But he’s been burned far too many times by encounters with seemingly innocent fans, only for them to begin following him around and showing up outside his house to talk to him again. He makes a point of not drawing out public encounters with his fans.

He wanders down a street he’s vaguely familiar with, figuring he can backtrack in a couple blocks. The night is too beautiful for him to be upset about needing to take a detour.

Everything looks different in the dark, the glow of neon signs bathing everything in hues of greens and blues and pinks and yellows. Shops and restaurants are mostly shut up for the night, their windows dark or blinds drawn. Dingey motels with pay-by-the-hour rates are in full swing, as are the pubs that have a revolving door of people in varying states of intoxication.

Deep bass that he can feel all the way in his chest catches his attention, and he gets turned around a few times, but he eventually finds the establishment: Bad Wolf Brews. At first, he doesn’t think it’s open, and that he must be mistaken about where the music is coming from, but the heavy front oak door opens, and he realizes the glass on the door is tempered so that the interior lights don’t shine through. The music is clear and heavy and vibrating in his bones. He doesn’t think twice before catching the door before it closes and slipping inside.

The air is humid and smells of sweat and stale beer. Bodies are writhing and gyrating to the rhythm blasting through invisible speakers. The acoustics are phenomenal; none of the layers are lost and the sound quality is nearly as good as if he were listening to the record at home on his own stereo system.

The lights are low, and he’s sure he trips into a few people in the minute it takes for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but finally, he’s at the bar. There are three open stools, and he claims one between a blonde woman and a red-haired man as he wonders what the hell this dive bar serves. He can see beer taps, but he’s more of a cocktail guy. He must look as lost as he feels, because the bartender hands him a menu that looks like it was hand-written and then photo-copied. It jives with the overall vibe of the pub.

The bartender checks in with him a minute later. James opens a tab and orders a sidecar sans sugar, and is pleasantly surprised by the quality. Not to make assumptions, but he’d figured an establishment such as this would have cheap liquor. If the alcohol in his drink is cheap, it’s well masked.

When he’s drained the last drop and about to signal for another, a hand rests on his shoulder. “Can I buy your next round?”

James looks up into the face of a stranger. It’s a woman with striking green eyes and a disheveled pixie cut. Judging by her crimson cheeks and glazed eyes, she’s three sheets to the wind. There’s buzzed, then there’s drunk, and then there’s plastered. He prefers not to let himself get to that last category, and by extension, he doesn’t really like to associate much with people who won’t remember the night come morning.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” he says with his most charming grin. “G’night.”

He has no idea if the woman knows who he is, but the way she shrugs and saunters to the gentleman sitting beside James, he doubts it.

He gets clumsily propositioned a few more times and always politely declines with a smile. So far, nobody here seems to recognize him and he is going to ride out this anonymity for as long as it’ll last. It has been too long since he’s been able to sit in a pub and drink quietly. Well, quietly, insofar as crazed fans or paparazzi aren’t harassing him—the music is loud enough that he’s sure to have ringing in his ears for a few hours once he gets home.

But he’s not really in any rush to get home, and so he orders his fourth cocktail before making his way to the loo. Alcohol goes right through him, and it’s nearly gotten him in trouble on tour a time or two.

There’s no line, but the loo is crowded, and he tries to ignore the double-takes as he stands in front of a urinal to take care of business. If he wakes up tomorrow morning to find that someone snapped a photo of him having a piss, he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

Bladder tended to, James keeps his head ducked and shoulders his way back into the bar. His stool is unoccupied, and when he steps forward, he realizes why. A purse sits on it, seemingly reserving the seat but he can’t figure out for whom. He’s about to take the cocktail the bartender hands him and stand against the shadowed wall when someone picks up the purse.

It’s his blonde-haired stool mate. She flashes him a broad grin that lights up her entire face and squeezes something deep in his stomach.

“Saved your seat for ya,” she says with the ease and confidence of someone who’s known him his whole life.

“Thanks,” he manages through a suddenly dry mouth.

Feeling like an idiot for standing and gaping, he slips into his seat and downs half his new sidecar in one go. It’s as though the ice has been broken now, and she turns to him, her elbow on the counter and her cheek propped on her fist.

“Pretty sure you could outdrink a fish, mate,” she drawls, smiling again in that easy way that does too many strange things to his insides. “You’ve been knockin’ ‘em back for over an hour now.”

Has it really been that long? James checks his watch, and yup, it’s half past ten. The paps should be gone from his house by now, but he feels no draw to leave this place. The alcohol has left him pleasantly tipsy and warm, but he’s more drunk on the fantasy that he’s just a normal bloke having a nice night out in a newly-discovered dive bar.

“Fish don’t really drink though, do they? They absorb water through their gills via osmosis,” he replies, and he wants to bite his tongue off because what the fuck was that??

This woman, whatever her name is, doesn’t seem to mind his answer though, because her face scrunches in a giggle. His body is hot and throbbing with more than drink now, and he wants to hear that sound again but his brain has stopped working.

“Is that so different from you absorbin’ alcohol through your bloodstream?” she muses, finishing off whatever is in her short tumbler.

“Can I buy your next round?” he blurts rather than responding to her question, which he’s almost certain was rhetorical.

Her smile melts into something softer, something private and a little shy. “If you’d like.”

“I do.” He flags down the bartender and glances at his new companion expectantly.

“Gin and tonic,” she says. She thanks the bartender, then James when she takes her first sip. “I’m Rose, by the way.”

“James,” he says, feeling stupid because his face is plastered all over London, which likes to boast that it’s the home of international celeb James Noble. But wouldn’t he seem more of an arse if he just assumed this gorgeous woman knew who he was?

Nevertheless, his stomach sinks a bit when she snorts into her drink and says, “I thought it was you.”

“Yup, it’s me,” he forces, his voice flat. He hides his frown with his glass, knocking back the rest of his sidecar like it’s a shot. The room sways slightly with the violent motion of his head, and maybe he’s slightly drunker than he’d thought.

If Rose catches on to his sudden sour mood, she doesn’t mention it. “What brings you here to Bad Wolf?”

He shrugs and blows out a noisy breath. “I dunno. Went for a walk, ended up here.”

“Those are the best sort of adventures.” She hums wistfully. “Sometimes you find what you didn’t know you needed when you let yourself get lost.”

That observation is far too astute for his current state of mind, so instead he says, “Would you like to dance with me?”

Her eyes flicker across his face for a brief moment before she says, “Okay.”

He hops down from his stool, but Rose hesitates, clutching her purse and coat awkwardly. The bartender helpfully tells her to keep them on her stool, and he’ll keep an eye on it. Rose flashes him a grin that James would rather she flash at him, but he realizes that is utterly absurd, so he simply rests his coat on top of her things to better hide them from view. He then holds out his hand for her. Her palm is soft and warm against his as he leads her to the crowded dance floor.

They find space towards the back of the pub, hidden in the shadows of a hallway that states it’s closed off to patrons. And of course, of fucking course, right when he rests his hands on her hips to find the rhythm of the song, a new one comes on, and his own voice belts from the speakers.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. He loves his music—he made it, after all—but he can’t help but feel pretentious and more than a little silly to dance to it like this.

Rose, however, grins and says, “Oh, come on, this is one of my favorites.”

She catches his hands where he’d loosened them at her waist and forces him to grab hold of her. She’s wearing high-waisted trousers and a top that leaves a sliver of her belly exposed. His thumb grazes the skin of her bare side, and it’s enough to send tingles through his body. Rose, meanwhile, slings her arms around his shoulders and begins to rock her hips from side to side in sync with the bass, embellishing the motions until she looks absolutely ridiculous but so, so beautiful.

He can’t help but grin and laugh, and he mirrors her movements until they’re both dancing like idiots to his music.

“This is how my baby brother dances,” she explains, bouncing up and down while twisting her hips. “We have regular dance parties together.”

“How old’s your brother?” he asks.

“Just turned four.”

He blinks, and blood rushes from his face. “And… and how old are you?”

“A perfectly legal twenty-four,” she drawls, reaching up to flick his nose. “You can start breathing again.”

Thank fuck.

“That’s quite the age gap.”

“My mum got remarried when I was nineteen,” Rose says with a shrug. “She and my stepdad didn’t waste much time.”

“Clearly,” he mutters under his breath.

“It does feel a bit like they’ve started over,” Rose confesses with a too-stiff shrug. “New family, new life, and I’m the interloper.

There is no way this vivacious woman in front of him could ever be considered an interloper, but before he can tell her that, she continues, “Mum does her best to assure me otherwise, but still. It’s hard to watch all the things Mum and Dad are able to do for Tony—that’s my brother, Tony—when Mum struggled so much as a single mum with me.”

“Your dad’s not in the picture?”

A sad smile pinches her face, and he regrets asking.

“No, I never knew him. He died when I was a baby.”

“I… I’m so sorry.” Well, he’s totally buggered this all up, hasn’t he? He wracks his brain on how to salvage the easy banter they’d had at the bar, but draws a blank.

Rose seems to realize they’ve lost the mood, but she breaks out into a lazy grin and says, “Since you seemed so opposed to dancing to your own music, it’ll please you to know a new song’s on. C’mon, show me your moves.”

He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so he follows her lead, watching her dance her heart out until her cheeks are pink and her hair is damp with sweat. He’s sure he doesn’t look much better, since he can feel the perspiration beading down his back and beneath his arms, but he can’t bring himself to care. Tonight has been the most fun he’s had in a very long time. Clubbing in New York had been a lark, but he’s been swarmed by his American fans half the night, and had been busy drowning his latest heartbreak to fully enjoy it. But here, now, with Rose, it’s like he’s any other bloke in a pub, chatting up a pretty girl he wants to get to know.

Their bodies are wrapped around each other with the ease and grace of partners who have known each other for years, and he forgets that he has known Rose for all of a few hours. He never wants this night to end. He wants to cling to this fairytale and pretend that the clock isn’t about to strike the proverbial midnight.

But time marches on as always. The clock really does strike midnight, and the bartender begins to clear people out of his establishment. James is as exhausted as he is exhilarated, no longer drunk on booze but rather the company of Rose and the magic they made together by simply dancing the night away.

They head back to the bar to retrieve their coats and her purse, and to close out their tabs. James slides his credit card to the bartender and asks him to charge everyone’s tab to his card. If the bartender is surprised, he hides it well. A few minutes later, James is signing off on the receipt of purchase of several thousand pounds-worth of alcohol. His personal assistant is sure to be confused as hell when she wakes up to see the charge. He fires off a quick warning text to her so she doesn’t open up a fraudulent charge claim.

James salutes the bartender, knowing he’ll come back to this pub as often as he can until he’s found out and this place once again becomes somewhere that’s overrun with his fans.

The night is refreshingly cold when he and Rose emerge into it, a nice change after the stifling, sweaty heat of the bar. However, she hunches her shoulders against the chill, prompting him to wrap his arm around her waist and tug her into his side, all too eager to lend her some of his body heat.

“Can I walk you somewhere?” he asks, glancing around the street that is now full of the drunken patrons who’d been in the pub with them. They all disperse in different directions, stumbling home or to a different bar that is still open. “Or wait with you ‘til you catch a cab?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, pulling up her phone to order a ride. She taps on the screen for a few quiet moments then says, “Done. Should be here in a few minutes.”

They descend into a slightly awkward silence that James wants to break, but he can’t think of anything clever to say. So he says nothing, and finally headlights wash over them, momentarily blinding them before a taxi pulls up.

“D’you wanna share?” she asks, opening the door to the back seat.

Is she as reluctant to leave him as he is to leave her? Or is she being polite and eco-friendly by ride sharing? Nevertheless, he nods and slides into the back seat beside her.

There is something incredibly intimate about sitting with Rose in the dark interior of the taxi, and he feels like he’s fifteen and wondering how to hold his date’s hand after a cheap night out at the cinemas. He fists his hands together, knotting his fingers until his knuckles pop.

The driver goes to the address Rose provides first, and all too soon they’ve arrived.

“I’ll cover the fare,” he says when she makes to hand over some bank notes to the diver. “It’d be my pleasure.”

She hesitates, but nods, then opens the door to climb out of the car. His pulse quickens as he watches her walk away with nothing but a, “Goodnight.”

“Can you wait just a minute?” he asks the driver.

“Meter’s still runnin’,” he grunts.

“That’s fine.”

James scrambles out of the taxi. “Hey, Rose?”

She turns back to face him, frowning.

“I… er… I had a great time tonight,” he says lamely, but her frown relaxes into a smile. “It was fun. With you. I had fun.”

“Yeah, me too,” she answers.

He licks his lips; his mouth is bone dry and his pulse pounds in his ears, making his vision throb with each frenzied beat.

“Do you… do you maybe wanna do it again some time? Hang out together? I… I’d really like to see you again,” he says, cursing his clumsy, fumbling words.

She scrutinizes him for a long moment, her expression indecipherable. His stomach sinks. Maybe this was a one-off, a story for her to tell her mates.

You’ll never guess who I met at the pub last night. James Noble! He paid for all my drinks and we danced like idiots.

He stews in his misery of doubt, and just when he’s about to tell her to forget about it, she slowly nods.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

“Really?” he asks, a hopeful edge creeping into his voice.

She laughs. “Really.”

“Brilliant!” James fumbles in his pocket for his phone, and he thrusts it at her. “Give me your number? I’ll text you. Or call.”

He rocks back and forth on his toes and heels, waiting for her to finish up with his phone. He has a sudden, potent bolt of panic that she’s snooping through his private messages or photographs for something to use against him to make a quick profit, but before that panic can take root, she hands his mobile back to him. It’s open to a new texting conversation.

From: 🌹 Bad Wolf Girl 🌹

Now I’ve got your number too 😉

He beams at the name she’s given to herself in his contacts, then he pockets his phone.

“I’ll see you later,” he says.

“You better,” she replies with that knee-weakening smile he’s grown to love over the course of the night. “See ya.”

“Bye.”

He stands there like a moron until she’s safely inside, then he turns back to the taxi and climbs in. The deserted streets streak by as the driver takes him to his neighborhood. He never gives his address though; he always chooses a destination a few streets away, just in case.

James generously tips the driver and bids him goodnight before slipping into the night to his home. He was right: the paparazzi are gone. There is no fanfare as he slips his key into the lock and lets himself into his house. It’s warm and cozy, but still too quiet for his liking.

Between the plane ride and his night out, he feels greasy and disgusting, and indulges in a hot shower before bed. He washes Rose’s scent off of his body, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that’s as sweet as it is musky.

He’s groggy by the time he crawls into his giant, king-sized bed and burrows deep into his mounds of pillows and duvets. One of his ex-girlfriends once teased that he turns into the marshmallow man when he sleeps.

His sleep is deep and dreamless, and when he awakes with the sun the following morning, he feels more refreshed and invigorated than he ever remembers being. He’s got a full day of meetings with his songwriting team to brainstorm his next album, and he is ready.

But first, he checks his phone. There’s nothing from Rose, which makes him a little sad, but also nothing from his publicist, which is always a good sign. If ever she messages or calls him first thing in the morning, it always means there’s some sort of dumpster fire to put out. Usually a dumpster fire full of compromising photos of him.

He makes a point of not Googling himself, but he does occasionally check his social media pages for new posts about him, wanting to know when, where, and how his fans came across him in the wild. He easily finds the photo that he took with the group of teenage girls, and makes a point to like the original post and type a quick, “Nice to meet you all. Thanks for chatting with me last night - J” in the comments section. He snorts to himself as his comment blows up within seconds.

But other than some grainy photos of him riding the bus, he can’t find any other photos of himself. Nothing of him wandering the streets or drinking in the pub or even having a wee in the mens’ room. And best of all, there’s nothing of him and Rose. No photos of them dancing together or sharing a cab. If Rose has a social media account, it didn’t post any sneaky photos or bragging stories about dancing all night with James Noble.

He can’t quite believe it; he managed to have a fun night out drinking without it all being thrown back in his face the next morning. Within seconds, he’s grinning to himself and pulling up Rose’s contact information. It’s still in his phone, further proof that his night with her wasn’t some sort of jetlagged fever dream. She was real.

“Good morning. I hope you slept well. Thanks for last night.”

She responds almost instantly. Good morning to you too. I should be thanking you for paying my drink tab and taxi fare 😉 And for being an excellent dance partner.

“The pleasure was all mine, on all counts.” He sends that message, then types out a new one, “I’m gonna be in meetings all day (yes, I know it’s Sunday), so please don’t be discouraged if I don’t reply. But I’d really like to see you again. Want to do dinner or drinks or coffee or something?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, needing to make himself presentable for when his driver picks him up in an hour. Yet he can’t help but check his phone every three seconds, until finally there’s a message from Rose.

Yeah, I’d like that. I work ‘til five most nights, but I’m free after that. Or we can wait ‘til the weekend.

With spirits lighter than they’ve been in months, James steps out of his house with a broad, stupid grin that the ever-present crowd of paparazzi are all too happy to photograph.

[jimmys-zeppelin]

ghostin'

chapter fourteen

(table of contents)

(chapter thirteen)

june 16, 1976

you're somebody else

On Wednesday, Ellie decided to call Jimmy on one of her earlier nights coming home from the studio. That day was full of writing more songs and collaborating on mixing others with her producer.

As the line rang, she thought about what time it'd be for Jimmy. Hopefully it wasn't too late. A click, followed by a sound resembling the closing of a door were all Ellie could hear before a voice came through, "Hello?" Jimmy said.

"Hey, Jim it's me." Ellie replied sweetly.

She heard his smile through the phone, it sent butterflies through her stomach. "Eleanor, my love..." he said. He sounded a bit groggy, but not groggy from sleep per se, "How's it going?"

"Great. Still working on the album. Wish you were here to put some of your touches on things."

A soft chuckle came from the man, "If I was there right now, I'd be touching much more than your songs, my dear."

"Oh I can't wait until you can actually do it. I miss you."

"I miss you, too." Jimmy said, his voice going serious, "say, we didn't really get to talk about the whole...situation the last few times we've spoken."

"I don't want to take up too much of your time talking about it. We can just figure it out when you get here."

"Why are you putting this off?" Jimmy asked, concern rising in his voice. "You're the one who wanted this, dove. And now I agree. Why not talk about it?"

Ellie stammered, knowing he was right—no matter how high he sounded, "I know we're ready. And I want to do this with you, I just...want to leave it up to when the time comes."

"Ellie, you know that's not the way I do things."

"I don't want to hyper-plan things. It seems more fun if we're spontaneous."

Jimmy sighed into the phone, the huff coming out a bit garbled on her end, "at this rate, it's not a matter of us having fun, it's about getting to the end result."

"Oh." Ellie said, "I see." she paused, thinking of what to say next. Jimmy interrupted her thoughts, however.

"I'm sorry." he said.

"What do you have to be sorry for?"

"I've upset you...among other things."

"In more ways than one..." she whispered, mostly to herself. Whether he hadn't heard what she said or if he chose not to address it, he ignored the comment.

Saying something would only make matters worse, but neither of them wanted to hang up, knowing that if they did, neither would be happy with the outcome come of the phone call. Ellie hated to be constantly ragging on him and nagging him about his extracurricular activities in experimentation, but it was something she couldn't help but notice every time they spoke. He sounded more and more drained every time he picked up the phone, no sense of life within his thin frame.

"Erm," he started, "we've got a release date for the film. I got us both tickets for the premiere."

"I thought you said it wasn't finished."

"It's not. But I guess that's just how movie stuff works."

"You finish shooting your fantasy sequence yet?" Ellie asked, picking absently at a thread from the throw pillows strewn about the couches.

"Yeah, they re-cut the sequence of me climbing up so my butt didn't look as big."

"I told you it wasn't a bad thing, Jim. Give the ladies what they want." she attempted at a joke, only half chuckling at it herself. She was met with an exhale from Jimmy; only having found mild humor in the statement.

"Unless you want me to look like I have more of an arse than you do..."

"Your butt is cute. It's teeny." Ellie said, picturing the asset in her mind.

"You'd be the only one to think so, love. Anything new with you?"

"Songbird charted. It's going up the ranks." She said, her voice coming out more monotoned than she'd meant it to.

"You don't sound nearly as happy as you should be, that's amazing." Jimmy said, a bit of life returning to his demeanor.

"I wanted you to play on it. We just didn't have time and the label didn't want to wait."

"I know it's frustrating. But there will be other songs, I guarantee it."

"It would've meant so much if you got the chance to play. We only got piano backing on it, but I wanted acoustic guitar."

"But you can play guitar, too."

"I wanted you." Ellie said, a quiet sniffle coming through from her end of the phone. Her words masked what she truly wanted to say and he knew it.

"You know, I could take a week. Come visit. Re-record a bit for you and you can put it in with the song for when the record comes out."

"No, Jimmy. I don't want to take time out from your schedule. Plus, I'm only a bit emotional because of my period. It's fine, I promise." Ellie said, coming up with a quick lie so that he wouldn't go through with his proposal. She knew that if she gave him enough incentive, he'd show up in a heartbeat. It was endearing, if anything. She just didn't want to concern him. "Listen I'm getting a bit tired, I think I'm gonna head up to bed."

Jimmy stuttered a bit in response before he exhaled a defeated sigh, "Oh, okay. Well, I'll talk to you soon, then." He sounded slightly hurt under his generally calm tone. The guitarist thought he hid it well, but Ellie knew him to the point where even the lightest sigh could give away exactly how he was feeling.  However, she chose to ignore it, only leading her into her farewell.

"Goodnight, Jimmy." she said. The two exchanged goodnight's and I love you's before finally hanging up the phone. Taking in a deep breath, Ellie exhaled shakily as a rogue tear slipped down her cheek. She composed herself, however, and made her way to the kitchen to grab herself a drink. Or ten.

---

masterlist | playlist

Taglist: @diaryofafan17 @tophats-n-lespauls @witchesdust @jonesyjonesyjonesy @paginate54 @hejustsatisfiess @salixfragilis @princesspagey @reincarnated70sbaby @rebel-without-a-zeppelin @kyunisixx if you want to be added to the list lmk!

[katherinadeluca]

II- H O G W A R T S

*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。

The obnoxiously loud whistle of the train mixed with the bustling of the busy platform as a lone pair of polished black shoes, clicked soundlessly on steady red limestone, making their way through the extensive crowd.

"A professor? Of course you sway to this. You stupid wanker." The youngest Malfoy thought to himself, with an internal look of distaste(contrary to the straight face he held) as he glanced at the seemingly pathetic minors.

*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。

"GLORIA!" A dark haired boy called out, pushing through the crowd, desperate to see his two best friends.

"AIDEN!" She said, running into his arms. "I thought you were living with your mother in Majorca."

"Well, she had another project in Cairo but I'll be living with her next year." He shrugged.

Aiden Griffiths, a half-blood, wizard who transferred from Beaubatons in their third year, Gloria Lightwood, the raging Slytherin princess and Cassiopeia Lupin, well the daughter of the not one but two marauders- Long story short, caused by a prank gone wrong, a certain annoying cat being transfigured into a fish and a detention later the three opposites seemed to be well, inseparable.

"Did Majorca's beaches brainwash you or are you just ignoring me?" Cassy asked with a small smirk, extending her arms out for him. But instead of hugging her, Aiden swung her small body over his shoulder and walked to the train, neglecting her defective cries for help

"AIDEN ZACHARY GRIFFITHS! PUT ME DOWN!"

"Oh stop complaining belle. Like the view?" He teased, burying his face into the side of her hip to tickle her as he took the struggling girl to the train.

"Cough up." Gloria said, gesturing at Sirius to give her previously the discussed stakes.

"I am sensing some significate sexual tension between them. How have I not noticed this prior to the present." Sirius muttered, as they discreetly exchanged a bag of galleons

"I saw that." Remus says, smacking his husband upside the head, causing Gloria let out a small laugh.

"Darling, no smacking in public." He mocks, smirking up at the evidently taller Lupin.

"Shut it Pads" He whispers, rolling his eyes

"Well, I really must be going now. I have no intentions of walking all the way to Scotland or witnessing where ever it is that this is going." She announces with a smile and hugs the two goodbye.

"I expect to see you over Christmas break." Remus calls, waving at the brunette.

"You will Uncle Moony!"

*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,��*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。

"So tell us, where did young miss Lightwood find herself Saturday night?" Cassiopeia asked, snapping her book shut.

"Malfoy Manor, it seemed."

"Which one?"

"Draco Malfoy of course. Cass, as much as I find Narcissa Malfoy immensely attractive, she's married." Gloria chuckles.

"Yeah, but her husband's sorry arse is locked up in Azkaban." She snorted

"I'm lost." Aiden pipped in, gesturing to them that he was present also.

"Oh right, ever since Gloria turned 18 this August, she's been exploring further grounds. If you know what I mean." Cassiopeia explained.

"Aah... I see that now." He replied, casually laying down on the common room couch with his head in her lap as Cassiopeia instinctively racked her fingers through his curls.

"Did you lot know we have a new DADA and Potions professor, he didn't seem to be sitting at the Head Table but, let's face it; my sources are never wrong."

"Yes, yes we know what a well informed wizard you are." Gloria groaned, getting up from the floor and stretching a bit, walking up the stairs to Cassy's dorm.

"Night!" The two called.

"Night."

*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。*★,°*:.☆:*.°★* 。

EDIT(09-11-2021): Guess who's a slut for Wolfstar ✋😌

This chapter was more of just a filler really but I hope you liked it anyhow.

-Mischief Managed/*

[innocent-malfoy-slut]

Coward

Draco Malfoy x Gryffindor!reader

Word Count: 3,2k

Type: mid fluff and mid smut

Summary: you and Draco are in your fifth year and you are both appointed prefects of your own houses. One night you have to inspect the halls together and your rivalry soon shows up.

Characters: Draco Malfoy, Reader (y/n)

Warning(s): maybe some cursing

Author’s Note: I’ll probably write the second part, tell me what you think about it

You had been appointed prefect at the beginning of the year.

It was fresh in your mind the memory of that day of July when your letter from Hogwarts had been delivered to you and you discovered Principal Dumbledore had wanted you as prefect of your house. You cried and your parents, who had never attended Hogwarts, were just as happy as you were. On the train you sat together with the prefects of all the houses -well, the Slytherins were missing-, before meeting your friends in your usual carriage. You were having a great time; the year couldn’t have had started better.

Then you became aware that your fierce rival was prefect too.

Draco Malfoy walked with such an arrogance and disdain for all the students around him that you found it very difficult not to punch him in the face when you accidentally met him once got down from the train, “I didn’t know Mud-Bloods could become Prefects. This is so pathetic”, he scoffed at you while staring intensely at the pin on your black cloak, “My father will want me to leave the school after hearing this”.

“Maybe this is our lucky day”, you murmured -not so lowly- to your friends while the four of you turned your backs at Draco and his arse-kissers and started made your way to the carriages -which will have brought you up to the castle.

The night of your first shift patrolling the hallways of the seventh floor you found out that you were supposed to share your job with none other than Draco Malfoy himself.

That year it seemed like he had made his only purpose to insult you and his insults were becoming crueller as the days passed. You had never answered him, neither did you wanted to play his game and maybe risking of getting caught by one of your Professors arguing with Mr “My-Father-Will-Hear-About-This”.

Then one day he dared insulting your parents and at that moment you lost it.

You were walking down the hallways, almost running as you didn’t want to be late for Transfiguration with McGonagall. You saw the door of her classroom still open -sign that probably the lesson hadn’t started yet- so you hurried, but about six feet before the doorstep of the room three people blocked right in front of you.

You didn’t have to raise your gaze as you recognised the boy in the middle by his expensive, made-in-Italy, black shoes. You huffed and looked dead straight in his eyes, without caring of the other two at his sides.

“Look who’s here” Draco Malfoy smirked, giving you an amused look as he took out a jotter from the pocket of his cloak, “Dearest Y/N Y/L/N is late for her lesson. As a prefect I should you to the director of m-“

“Malfoy, have you forgotten I’m a prefect too?” you pinched your nose and took a deep breath, “This isn’t in your power so, if you move, I won’t be actually late for my Transfiguration lesson”.

Crabble and Goyle oohed and turned to look at him. Meanwhile the Slytherin Prince was staring at you at loss of words; in fact, that was the first time you ever spoke up to him. In the previous years you could barely hold his stares, let alone reply to his mean jokes. And you didn’t think you would have been able to do it, until it happened.

There you were, in front of Draco Malfoy -probably the person you hated the most-, raised chid, your back straight, and eyes fixed on his own.

“Tell me one thing”, he started with an inscrutable expression on his face, “do your parents recognise you when you go vising them at St. Mungo?” he stopped exchanging a smirk with his friends, who still hadn’t dropped their shocked faces, and then added: “Wait…do go visiting them, right?”

All of a sudden McGonagall’s lesson didn’t matter anymore, what you wanted to do was to remove that smirk from Draco’s face. It all happened within a couple of seconds; you quickly approached him, and your knuckles collided with his perfect nose.

You tried to avoid him the best you could or the following days, but on Saturday night the news of guarding the hallways with him got to your ear and you hated the idea of spending with him an entire hour.

However, that night, you got out of your dorm and crossed the silent Gryffindor common room, only to find yourself at eight o’clock before the Fat Lady painting. The lights were a bit softer than that afternoon, but it was still clearly visible in the hallways. Your turn would have begun in less than five minutes and you were supposed to meet up with Draco at the edge of the stairs.

When you reached the stairs, the platinum-headed boy was already there, back-resting against the cold marble.

“Weren’t you eager to see me tonight, Malfoy”, you pointed out succeeding in remaining serious. You didn’t glace towards him either; he didn’t reply to you immediately, but you were sure he would have made a joke about your looking later that night.

You kept walking before him, never turning to give him a look or to make sure he was still following your steps. In turn, you carefully inspected every room, assuring there was nobody inside them, and so nobody outside their dorms. Once you were done on the seventh floor, you both agreed on going downstairs and helping the two prefects from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

“We were supposed to inspect the dungeons, too. Can you inspect them?” the Hufflepuff boy kindly asked us, looking dead straight at your direction, without even acknowledging Malfoy’s presence next to you.

You nodded and without any further questions you left them and walked towards the stairs.

“Cowards”, it was nothing more than a whisper, but it came straight to you ears -since there wasn’t anyone else in the hallways. Draco saw you turning your head around and focused your attention on him, “What? That’s what they are”.

“They’re not better than you, Malfoy”, you said in a cynical tone, keeping your eyes on the end of the staircase. Once you took the last step, you suddenly came to a stop when you realised you didn’t know which way to go.

Draco watched as you turned your head towards him and with your eyes you asked him to take the lead, “Not much of a know-it-all are you now?” his typical smirk quickly found its way on his face, while he guided you towards the dungeons.

The situation seemed to be inverted by the time you were patrolling the hallways in the dungeons. You remained silent as you switched your head right and left, having a quick look here and there as you kept peace with Draco.

“You see, Slytherins do respect the rules, especially when we know with who we are dealing with”, the platinum-headed boy observed, not looking towards your direction as he spoke, “You, Gryffindor, instead, don’t know when to stop”, he said in a scornful tone.

“That’s why you’ve got sorted into Slytherin in the first place”, you whispered more to yourself than to anyone else, but, as it happened more than half an hour before, your partner heard you -since you were the only two in the hallways.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Draco halted his walking and turned his attention to you, still behind his back, “D’you think you’re better than me and why? Because you’re a fucking Gryffindor?” his tone had increasingly lowered in the last few minutes, up to the point that he was no longer whispering but he was full shouting at your direction.

Everybody at Hogwarts knew how moody Draco Malfoy could be sometimes. No news.

“You’re wrong Malfoy. I don’t think I’m better than you. I know I am better than you, even if I would have been sorted into Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff, maybe also Slytherin.”

“Oh, really?” he was now approaching you, step by step, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips curled in an arrogant smirk, “So, you know you are better than me”, he forced you to take a few steps back as he wasn’t showing signs of giving up on the topic, “How can you state that? When you got to know me so well?”

“Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin Prince, who’s also daddy’s boy. ‘My father will hear about this!’ Isn’t this your phrase?”  you perfectly replied his voice, mocking him. You laughed slightly as he kept you pushing in the hallways.

You were turning your back at the door of the Potions class, so you couldn’t imagine where Draco was knowingly taking you. You hit your thigh against a cold and hard object, which you recognise being a chair only after acknowledging your surroundings.

In a swift motion, Draco had you locked inside the classroom, “Now, we have all the time to talk about me...and you”, he put his wand back in the pocket of his trousers and sat down with legs astride on the nearest chair he had found.

There were a few seconds of silence between the two of you –during which you took a sea right in front of him, your right leg crossed over your left.

“What do you want me to ask you, Malfoy?”

“I am sure there are a lot of fantastic things that can come out of that pretty mouth of yours.”

You parted your lips, left without words after what he had said, because certainly he wasn’t referring to words. You could never think of finding yourself in such a situation with Draco Malfoy –one of the people you despised the most within the walls of Hogwarts.

“Be careful, Y/L/N, if you keep your mouth open, I will close it. One way or another”, he rested his chin on his crossed arms over the seatback. His grey eyes were fixed on you and followed each movement of yours, never really letting his guard down.

“Oh yeah, and how would you do that?” you perfectly knew where your question would have led you, but at that moment there was something inside your brain telling you to ask him that damn question.

“I have several ideas, though I can’t put into practise the half of those”, Draco said running a hand through his hair, and, after that gesture –which you found extremely seductive-, some platinum locks fell onto his forehead. By the time he went back staring at you, his signature smirk was again on his face.

“Dear Draco”, for the first time since you’d even known him, you called him by his name and, although the boy wasn’t showing it, he was amazed by the way you pronounced it, “You aren’t brave enough to put them into practise”, you challenged him. You took advantage of him being confused and quickly got up from your chair, “Now, excuse me, but I think I will head back to my dor-” you were giving him your back while you talked, so you couldn’t foresee him getting up and reaching out for your wrist.

Draco had you pinned against the door of the classroom within only one motion. Your back sticked completely at the hard, wooden-made door, and your breathing froze almost immediately. Each time you breathed, you inhaled Draco’s expensive cologne and his green-apple scent, right in your nostrils.

“Insult me one more time…” Draco left the sentence unfinished and his piercing grey eyes moved from your own eyes to your lips, meanwhile you kept your eyes on his face, “…and I will no longer respond of my own actions”.

You tried to keep it together, but his expression and his voice tone made it impossible for you to remain serious, so you broke into laughs and closed your eyes in the meantime, “S-sorry”, you tried to say in-between the giggles, “B-but I can’t take you seriously”, and you chuckled. Again.

Draco lowered his gaze on his shoes and let himself go to a snigger, which shook his entire body, “You really like troubles, don’t you, Y/N?”

“And you think you are trouble, don’t you?” you mocked him holding his gaze, as you ignored -not so well- the shivers which went down your spine as he pronounced your name, “I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell this to you, but you’re far away from being an outlaw, Draco Malfoy”, you didn’t have to add anything else, because you made it clear earlier why you didn’t think he was the first of the ‘criminals’.

There was a moment of silence, during which Draco considered on freeing you from his pressing grasp, yet there was a part of him that had wanted you pinned against a wall, at his mercy, for so long and it make it harder for him to just let you go.

Your pink lips -still parted- seemed so tempting and your hot breath crushing against his neck decided for him, and against the part of him which suggested him to behave as a man and release you. He stepped closer, now no more inches separating the two of you, and laid his fee hand on your waist.

Your breath stuck in your throat as you watched him fill up the remaining space between the two of you. His lips crushed against yours and his strong scent flooded your nostrils almost at the same time his hands went grabbing your thighs. You could no longer feel the floor under your feet, and only then you realised Draco had picked you up and he was now walking towards the other end of the classroom.

His kiss was harsher than when you’d started, it was rough and wet, and you spotted a hint of hunger in it. It wasn’t like anything you had experienced before. Draco Malfoy wasn’t like anyone you had met before.

You moaned into the kiss when he took you bottom lip between his teeth and dunked them into your flesh, even if without make you feel actual pain. Your fingers quickly found their way to the hair at the back of his neck and pulled them a little. Your lips separated only for seconds, just enough time to look into each other’s eyes and you heard him saying: “Now, I’m not that much of a trouble, am I?”

You huffed in response and rolled your eyes, before going back staring at him, “I’ve never said I don’t like troubles, have I?” you tilted your head to the left and smirked, “You aren’t that smart, Malfoy”.

“Quite the contrary, actually”, Draco moved his hands lower on your legs with a gentle touch which had you shiver and rested them on both your knees, before wrapping them under his fingers and pushing them around his waist. Now you were completely adhering to him; your most inner parts close to his -the closest they had ever been. “I perfectly acknowledge the way I make you feel”, he placed his lips on the base of your neck, after having unbuttoned the highest part of your blouse, “The things you feel, and where you feel them”, he whispered to your ear, his hot breath again against your cheeks made you let out a moan. He put a little distance between the two of you and smirked, “Look at your body, craving for me to play with it, hoping for me to pay even the slightest attention to it”, Draco’s ring brushed against your skin and he enjoyed you squirming your eyes as the cold hit you, “You cannot hide it from me, darling. You want me as much as I do want you”.

You opened your eyes wide as the words left his mouth, your body became tense, and all you did was just stand there in silence looking straight in front of you.

You couldn’t deny the fact he had stated the truth: you wanted him. Since you came back at Hogwarts in September, you found it hard not to focus on his platinum head, rather than his grey, piercing eyes, or his

pinkish, juicy-looking lips as they curled up in a grin or folded in a smirk. Therefore, it was impossible for you to tear your eyes away from the young Malfoy. And he harassed you not only during the day, but mostly at night when you dreamt of him doing things -a lot of beautiful, yet sinful things- to you. Though him being Slytherin and you being Gryffindor, undeniably there was something very attractive of him that made your stomach writhe whenever his eyes laid on you or, like in that moment, his hands were on your body.

What you could have never imagined was Draco reciprocate your feelings.

Could those be considered feelings as well?

“W-what?” you mumbled while his lips kept working on that particular spot on your shoulders, which happened to be your soft spot. You grabbed him by his arms and put a sizeable distance between you and him, “Draco, what did you just said?”

The platinum-haired boy tilted his head to the side, mocking your action of no longer than minutes ago, and said: ”You heard it right, love”, he grinned at you biting you bottom lip when he used that nickname for you, “I want you so badly”, he came back whispering next to your ear, “And I know you want me as well. Do you think I’ve never noticed your eyes on me, or how your cheek would become red every time I give you a quick look?” he left a trail of kisses on your jawline up to the collar of your skirt. He stared at your red-and-gold tie and wrapped it around his fingers, “I can stop”, he seemed to let it go as soon as he had taken it between his hands, but then he continued: “Or I can go on. For hours. But…only if you want”, his hands went for grabbing the furthest end of the desk you were currently sitting on, and he violently bumped your legs with his pelvis.

You weren’t wearing any tights to keep you warm, so you could feel his growing boner rubbing against your inner tight, and you moaned at that gesture, throwing your head backwards.

“Did the cat got your tongue, honey?” he moved one of his hands to your face and rubbed his thumb over your lower lip, kissing it shortly after, “Tell me; what do you want?”

“You, Draco. I want you”, you said out of breath and whimpering under his touch, craving for him to give you more of it. Draco was right: you wanted him very badly.

“And how do you want me?” he knew better than anyone else which buttons to press in order to tear answers away from you.

You swallowed with difficulty and stared into his grey eyes: “I want all of you, Draco. Please, fuck me”.

Tag List (still open):

@iam-fucking-batgirl

[headcanonsandmore]

Ronarry Headcanons: Developing futures

                     Read on FFN.                      Read on AO3. 

Summary:  In our final installment, Harry's feelings for Ron begin to change things between them. Leading to a school year that is already very complicated to begin with.

Tagging: @vivithefolle @overmelted @booigi-boi 

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

Harry Potter was asleep, his glasses askew against the window he had been leaning against.

He had been staring out the window, waiting for Dumbledore to turn up. However, in the summer heat, he had dozed off.

A couple of houses over, someone’s lawnmower got caught on a rock, and the resulting noise promptly woke Harry up.

Wiping the drool from his face, he checked the time. He still had a few minutes until Dumbledore said he’d be there. Harry had packed all his things together, ready for the off.

As often happened these days, Harry’s mind wandered to what Ron might be doing. Harry was due to stay at The Burrow that summer, after Dumbledore had collected him. With a bit of luck, Harry should be seeing his redheaded best mate within a few hours.  

That last thought gave Harry a funny feeling in his stomach that he had long since stopped ignoring.

Yes, as if his life wasn’t complicated enough as it was, Harry had fallen for his best friend. The redheaded, funny, loyal boy who had been there for Harry ever since the first day at Hogwarts.

Needless to say, things had gotten rather confused in Harry’s head. On the one hand, he loved being around Ron, but -on the other hand- every moment around Ron gave him a strange sense of sadness. Because he doubted Ron would ever see him in the same way.

After all, Ron probably fancied Hermione. This has been evident since second year, but it had become noticeably obvious in the past couple of years. It was actually surprising that Hermione and Ron hadn’t gotten together yet, considering how obvious Hermione’s feelings for Ron were.

‘Ah, how lovely to see you again, Petunia…’

Dumbledore’s voice carried up the stairs. Harry leapt out of his room, and scrambled down the stairs.

‘I trust Harry informed you of my visit?’

Petunia Dursley glared up the stairs at Harry.

‘I take it that Harry did not inform you,’ Dumbledore continued, his beard twitching with suppressed mirth. ‘But no matter; let us assume you have invited me warmly into your home.’

Dumbledore breezed past Petunia and Vernon into the sitting room. Harry let out a groan, and followed.

This was going to be fun.

~~~~~

 Well, it could have been worse. Harry didn’t think much of apparation, to be honest, and Horace Slughorn was a bit… odd.

But Harry was now at the Burrow. His heart leapt as he stared up at the familiar building; Ron was in there, and Mrs Weasley, who cooked better than anyone Harry knew.

He would have preferred not hearing about what Mr and Mrs Weasley got up to in private, but the soup was good. And it was nice to see Tonks again, even if it was very briefly. Why did she look so sad, though?

Harry woke up the next morning to Ron tapping him lightly on the side of the head. There were worse ways to wake up.

‘Mate! We didn’t think you’d be here for another few days!’

Harry smiled, as the redhead grinned down at him. Ron’s arms were covered in the scars he had gotten from the brains at the ministry. They worked their way up his skin, like dark-red tendrils. Over the summer, they had become a lot less harsh to look at, and Harry had to admit that Ron looked pretty bad-arse. Especially considering that he had got the scars whilst pushing Harry out of harm’s way.

He didn’t have much time to reflect on this, though, because Fleur had appeared, carrying a large tray of breakfast food. Ron’s face went strangely lopsided, as if he was trying not to stare.

‘It ‘as been so long, ‘Harry!’ Fleur exclaimed, putting the tray down on Harry’s lap.

‘Nice to see you too, Fleur,’ Harry said, feeling slightly awkward that she was seeing him in his pyjamas. ‘Congratulations to you and Bill, by the way!’

‘You are too kind!’ Fleur smiled, cheerily, the ring on her finger glinting in the morning sun. ‘Although it is a shame ‘e is not ‘ere. ‘E works ‘imself too ‘ard!’

‘I was bringing Harry’s food up to him,’ Mrs Weasley said, poking her head through the door.

‘It is no problem,’ Fleur replied, still smiling. ‘Nice to see you again, ‘Arry!’

Fleur and Mrs Weasley left the room, and the door closed shut behind them.

Ron began to shake his head, as if trying to get water out of his ears.

‘You okay, mate?’

‘Yeah,’ Ron mumbled, his ears turning pink. ‘It’s just a bit difficult when she appears out of nowhere like that. I know she doesn’t mean to do it, but still…’

‘It’s pathetic!’

Hermione stormed away, and stood nearby the window. Ron looked embarrassed and more than a little hurt.

‘Don’t worry about it, mate,’ Harry said. ‘Most blokes get affected by Fleur’s powers; I’m sure she understands that you can’t help it.’

Ron smiled.

A little while later, everyone was sat in the kitchen. Hermione had accidentally gotten punched by a telescope designed by the twins, and was now sporting a large black mark around one of her eyes. Harry had to admit that she looked funny, but Ron was helping Mrs Weasley try to fix it, so he kept his mouth shut.

‘You’re sure no owls have arrived this morning, Mrs Weasley?’ Hermione fretted.

‘Yes, dear, I’m sure,’ Mrs Weasley said, patiently. ‘Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll all do brilliantly.’

When Hermione saw the owls appear on the horizon through the open kitchen window, she shrieked, and grabbed both Harry and Ron painfully around the elbows. Harry pulled away, rubbing his arm, but Ron didn’t move.

Harry squashed the irritation that briefly bubbled in his stomach, and focused on opening his letter. He had received an ‘Outstanding’ in Defence Against The Dark Arts, as well as Charms. His ‘Dreadful’ in History Of Magic was understandable, given that he’d collapsed half way through the examination, and he had also received a ‘Poor’ in Divination. But he had passed everything else!

‘Swap?’ Ron asked, softly.

Harry nodded, and they exchanged letters.

Harry stared at Ron’s results; he had gotten an ‘O’ in both Charms and Transfiguration, no doubt due to his breaking of Gamps Law during his practical exam.

He had also passed History of Magic, and even Divination.

‘Awww, mate,’ Ron said, sympathetically, as he looked at Harry’s results. ‘Nevermind about Divination and History of Magic, eh.’

‘Well, I did fall asleep in the exam,’ Harry chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about that; congrats, Ron!’

Ron’s ears went slightly pink as he grinned. However, he then noticed Hermione standing quietly by herself.

‘Hermione? How did you do?’ Ginny asked, tentatively.

‘I- not bad.’

‘Oh, give it here,’ Ron said, rolling his eyes as he grabbed Hermione’s letter. ‘Yep; thought so. Nine ‘Outstanding’s and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Defence Against The Dark Arts.’ He grinned knowingly at Hermione. ‘Don’t tell me you’re disappointed?’

Hermione giggled, as she grinned up at Ron.

Harry turned away, once again feeling the bubbling of irritation in his stomach and hating himself for it. Just because he fancied Ron, that didn’t mean he had exclusive rights to the redhead. Even if he did get angry whenever he saw Hermione grinning at Ron like that.

~~~~~~~~~~

 A few days later, the book lists arrived, and Harry discovered that he had been made Quidditch Captain.

‘Hey, you can now use our Prefects bathroom!’ Ron exclaimed, happily.

Harry felt his cheeks burn, as his mind rapidly constructed an image of sharing a bath with Ron.

Hermione noticed this, and glowered.

~~~~~~~~

 Diagon Alley was an event as always. The twins shop was amazing, but Harry was most surprised about the behaviour of Draco Malfoy. After he, Ron and Hermione had snuck away under the cloak and done some sleuthing, Harry came to a conclusion.

‘He’s replaced his father as a death eater.’

Ron and Hermione shared doubtful looks.

‘Harry, that’s ridiculous, he’s sixteen-’

‘That’s exactly why he’s done it; Malfoy still goes to Hogwarts, after all. Voldemort must be hatching some sort of plan.’

‘I dunno, mate,’ Ron said, gently. ‘It does seem a little extreme. Remember when we thought he was the heir of Slytherin?’

‘That was different,’ Harry went on, stubbornly. ‘He’s actually got death eater pals now.’

For the next few weeks, Harry dwelled on this. What plans was Voldemort concocting this year, and what part did Malfoy have to play? Neither Ron and Hermione seemed to believe him, but Harry could half-understand their doubts. After all, they had thought Malfoy was in league with dark forces many times in the past, and he never had been.

~~~~~

 1st September swung round, and -before Harry knew it- Ron and Hermione had gone off to the prefect carriage. Ginny had also disappeared off to find Dean Thomas, but Neville had appeared shortly afterwards. Glad to find a friendly face, Harry followed Neville through the train, and found Luna sat in an otherwise-empty compartment.

Harry sat down, feeling a bit miserable without Ron.

‘Are we going to continue the DA this year?’

‘No point now, is there? Since we got rid of Umbridge.’

‘Oh, no!’ Neville said. ‘I loved going to the meetings! I learned loads from you!’

‘Yes, me too,’ Luna added. ‘I loved the meetings; it was like having friends.’

‘We are your friends, Luna,’ Harry said, earnestly.

‘That’s a very nice thing to say!’ The blonde Ravenclaw chirped.

‘Hi, Harry.’

It was Cho Chang.

‘Oh, hi.’

‘Do you mind if I sit in her with you three?’

Harry shook his head, and Cho sat down next to him.

‘Er, this is Neville and Luna.’

‘Yes, I remember you two from the DA. Are we still having meetings this year?’

Harry was just about to reply that they probably weren’t, when the door of the carriage opened again, and a scared-looking third year poked their head in.

Both Neville and Harry made their way to Slughorn’s compartment; the place was packed with various people, including Ginny, who looked confused as to why she was there.

Glad of a friendly face, Harry and Neville sat down next to her.

‘Harry, m’boy!’ Slughorn exclaimed, cheerfully. ‘Thank you for coming along!’

As Slughorn introduced his various other guests, Harry had a dawning realisation that virtually everyone in the carriage had famous relatives or had something promising about them.

Cormac McLaggen, a Gryffindor seventh-year with a rather entitled attitude, started leering at Ginny. But -before Ginny could display her famous bat bogey hex again- an announcement echoed through the train, stating that they would be arriving at Hogsmeade Station shortly.

~~~~~

 Looking back on it, hiding in Malfoy’s compartment under the invisibility cloak was a bad idea. Especially after the Slytherin had cast a full-body-lock curse on him, and then -to add insult to injury- stamped down on his nose.

Tonks mercifully managed to rescue Harry before the train had got very far, and she walked with him back to Hogwarts.

After getting a bunch of snide comments from Snape, Harry entered the Great Hall, and sat down beside Ron and Hermione. Both of them were clearly worried, especially about Harry’s broken nose, although Harry couldn’t help noticing how relieved Ron looked as Harry had appeared next to him.

~~~~~~~

 During the first Potions lesson with Slughorn (yes, that had been a shock; Harry was still angry at Dumbledore for giving Snape the Defence position), Harry had gotten the distinct impression that Slughorn had been ignoring Ron.

This was then confirmed when the new Potions master bumped into them in the entrance hall the next day. Slughorn was organising a party for his “favourites”, and had given invitations to Harry and Hermione. Paying Ron as much attention as he would to a cockroach cluster, Slughorn ambled off.

‘Do you think we’ll know anyone else at this party?’ Hermione wondered aloud.

‘Don’t worry. I expect Ginny will have been invited too,’ Ron said, sounding hurt.

Harry found himself wanting to scream. How on earth could he possibly explain that he wouldn’t go a single party if it meant he couldn’t hang out with Ron?

To add to this turbulent atmosphere, Hermione was now getting progressively more irritated with Harry’s prowess in Potions class thanks to the Half-Blood Prince’s book. She spent most lessons glaring angrily at the book as if it had personally wronged her.

Eventually, he got so sick of her griping that he asked Ron if they could do an unofficial Quidditch practice that evening. Ron cheered up quite a bit, although Hermione did not look amused.

Deciding that Ron’s need to feel included was more important than Hermione’s need to be top of every class, Harry ignored her.

~~~~~~

 After one especially difficult Quidditch session (during which Ron had accidentally thrown the Quaffle into one of the chasers mouths), Harry and Ron found themselves the last to leave the changing rooms.

‘Merlin, I wish I wasn’t so bad at this,’ Ron muttered, miserably.

‘Don’t be daft; you’re the king, remember?’ Harry said, patting Ron on the shoulder. ‘It’s just nerves; you’ll be fine after the first match!’

Ron gazed down at Harry through his eyelashes.

‘You really think so?’

‘Course! You’re a brilliant player!’

Harry kept this relentlessly supportive tone up throughout their walk back to the castle and, by the time they drew near to Gryffindor Tower, Ron looked in a much better mood.

Unfortunately, their usual shortcut was not empty; Ginny and Dean were snogging in the passageway. After Dean made a hasty exit, Ginny and Ron had started arguing.

‘Hermione snogged Krum!’ Ginny yelled, angrily. ‘It’s only you who seems to think it’s disgusting, and that’s because you have about as much experience as a twelve year old!’

Ron stared at her.

‘Yeah, I guess I do,’ he said, quietly, before leaving.

‘What the hell, Ginny?’ Harry exclaimed, as he hurried after Ron. ‘You know what’s he like about Hermione; why did you have to go and tell him… oh, forget it…’

Harry hurried off to Gryffindor Tower, running full pelt. He knew Ginny hadn’t meant to be so harsh; she had simply said it during a moment of anger. Hopefully, she and Ron would make things up within the next few days, but Harry still felt put-out by it. He knew he had no leg to stand on when it came to dealing with emotions, after all. But that didn’t make him any less worried.

Upon reaching the boys dormitory, Harry discovered that the curtains on Ron’s four poster were drawn.

‘Ron?’

There was a non-committal grunt.

Harry pulled back the curtains. Ron was sat up in bed, his legs pulled up to his torso. His blue eyes were slightly bloodshot.

‘You okay?’

Ron shrugged.

‘Dunno. I mean… I knew Krum was always into Hermione, but I never thought they’d ever… she just said they were penpals…’

‘I guess she thought you wouldn’t want to know. I mean, kissing probably isn’t that big a deal. Although I wouldn’t know, since I’ve never kissed anyone.’

Ron looked at Harry, his blue eyes sad.

Without thinking, Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips to Ron’s. He felt the redhead startle slightly, but he did not break away. Slowly, Ron relaxed and, much to Harry’s astonishment, began to kiss him back.

Harry wished he could stay in that moment forever.

~~~~~~

 Nothing much changed. Harry had half-hoped that maybe things would, but he understood that things were changing enough as it was.

And it was definitely comforting, to know that he could kiss Ron without worrying about further ramifications.

Hermione was understandably shocked, and -although she would never admit it- upset. Harry did feel somewhat guilty, but they had both made it clear to her that they were not a couple. Simply that it was a comfort thing. Ron never found it easy to discuss this with Hermione, and Harry heard the continuing nagging in his head about why that was.

Hermione did seem somewhat colder to Ron in the following weeks. Ron was understandably rather upset by this, but Harry guessed why Hermione was acting this way. It was possible she saw that Ron was only attracted to men, a situation which Harry himself did not immediately agree with. For the simple reason that he had seen the looks Ron gave Hermione when he thought she wasn’t looking; the little soft glances and quiet stares that removed any doubt as to Ron being purely gay.

~~~~~~~

 ‘Harry, m’lad!’ Slughorn said, breaking Harry out of his concentration. ‘I’ve got a little Christmas party coming up, and I’ve cleared it with McGonagall and Hooch.’

Harry smiled uneasily. He had deliberately re-scheduling Quidditch practices whenever Slughorn had a party, so that Ron didn’t feel excluded.

‘The Quidditch season doesn’t reconvene after Christmas, so I expect you -and a partner, if you like- at the party! Bit of festive cheer is what you need! let me guess? Lovesickness?’

Harry felt himself blush, and avoided looking at Ron. Slughorn didn’t notice, and instead grinned.

‘It’s Christmas Eve at nine pm sharp! Hope you enjoy yourself!’

Later that evening, Harry was getting on with his Charms homework when…

‘So… Slughorn’s party, eh?’

Ron had sat down next to him. Harry felt his face burn again.

‘E-er, yeah. Might go along; don’t really have an excuse not to.’

‘W-well…’ Ron stammered, his ears turning red. ‘I… I could come along… I mean, if you want me to? That way we can have a laugh about it.’

‘Y-yeah, that… that’d be great,’ Harry grinned, nervously. ‘You sure you want to?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Great.’

~~~~~~~~

 Any worries that Harry might have had promptly disappeared just before they left for the party. Ron looked very handsome in the robes the twins had bought him the previous year.

‘Wow,’ Harry breathed.

‘Do… Do I look okay?’ Ron asked, nervously.

‘I think you look brilliant, mate.’

Ron’s ears turned pink.

‘Thanks. Shall… shall we get going, then?’

Harry nodded, and the two of them left for the party. Slughorn’s office had been magically expanded to several times its usual size.

‘Is Hermione here yet, you reckon?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘She said she wasn’t coming tonight.’

‘Oh,’ Ron said, looking a bit disappointed. Harry tried not to think too hard about that.

The two of them swept onto the dancefloor, and swayed to the music playing. Harry’s heart beat happily at the feeling of Ron’s hand on his waist, and his enveloping Ron scent.

Harry had to sneak off at one point, so he could overhear what Malfoy and Snape were talking about, but his thoughts were taken off that serious worry when he returned to Ron. The two of them had another dance.

As they arrived back at the boys’ dorm, Ron turned to Harry.

‘I had a really great time, mate.’

Without warning, Ron leaned down and kissed Harry on the lips. Nothing intense, but sweet and chaste. Harry’s stomach flipped over. They stayed like that for a while, but Harry wished it would never end.

As he lay in bed, his mind still full of the kiss they had just shared, Harry continued to wonder about things. He and Ron weren’t dating, but things between them certainly weren’t platonic. What… what was this between them?

~~~~~~

This confusion would be resolved somewhat, as Harry found himself staring down at an unconscious Ron in Slughorn’s office, having just narrowly saved Ron from poison.

He clutched at the front of Ron’s pyjamas, feeling his eyes fog with tears. He had come so close to losing Ron again. And this time it had been caused by the love potion-infused chocolate that had been given to Harry by Romilda Vane months ago.

This had been his fault.

Harry didn’t speak much for the rest of the day. He had stood outside the hospital wing with Ginny and Luna, until Hermione -who looked as scared as Harry- had arrived a little while later. Ginny and Luna had discussed the various possibilities of how the poison had ended up in Slughorn’s office.

Harry and Hermione said nothing. Both of them seemed unable to speak, and simply stared intensely at the huge oak doors of the hospital wing.

Several hours later, Madam Pomfrey opened the doors.

‘Mr Weasley is resting,’ she said, before any of them could speak. ‘You may all sit nearby him for a while. I have sent an owl to Arthur and Molly, and they should be on their way here soon.’

The four students hurried into the ward, over to the only occupied bed.

Ron was asleep, his chest rising and sinking softly under the covers.

Harry let out a deep sigh of relief, and -next to him- Hermione did too.

About twenty minutes later (although time seem to have stopped working normally in Harry’s head), Molly and Arthur burst into the room.

Molly immediately burst into tears, and pressed a motherly kiss to Ron’s cheek. Arthur put his arms around Ginny, hugging his daughter and patting her head.

Molly then turned to Harry, who flinched. But the Weasley matriarch pulled him into a tight hug.

‘Thank you,’ Molly sobbed. ‘You’ve saved Ginny, you’ve saved Arthur, now you’ve saved Ron…’

‘Half our family do seem to owe you their lives, now that I think about it.’ Arthur said, quietly. ‘Madam Pomfrey says that, if you hadn’t been there…’

Harry didn’t speak, not trusting himself to keep from crying.

‘Speaking of which,’ Ginny said, ‘It’s all very odd, isn’t it. It was a poisoned bottle that Ron drank from; if whoever planted it was after Dumbledore, they didn’t know Slughorn very well.’

‘That makes it worse, doesn’t it.’

Hermione had spoken. Her quivery voice sounded like Harry felt, and he remembered that he wasn’t the only person in the room who couldn’t bare a world without Ron.

‘Y-yeah,’ Harry said. ‘This person -whoever they are- doesn’t care who they hurt.’

Hermione nodded.

There was a mumbling noise from the bed. They all looked round.

‘A-ree,’ mumbled Ron, still very much asleep. ‘Er-my-nee…’

They all stared at Ron for a while, but he continued to mumble incomprehensibly in his sleep, before going silent.

Interesting, Harry thought, and his heart began to hope.

~~~~~~

 Harry had gotten the memory from Slughorn. Despite having had no sleep that night, he was feeling surprisingly cheerful.

‘Well, it wasn’t a good night for everyone,’ Hermione continued, matter-of-factly. ‘Ginny broke up with Dean.’

Harry looked down the table; Dean was sat, looking rather miserable, with Seamus.

‘Any reason why?’

‘Oh, something silly,’ Hermione responded. ‘Apparently, he wouldn’t let her climb through the portrait hole by herself.’

‘Ah.’

A shrewd look came over Hermione’s face.

‘Harry, you didn’t cause this, did you?’

‘Not intentionally!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘It was when I was going to get the memory off Slughorn; I must have accidentally nudged against Ginny when I was leaving the common room.’

‘Do you think that was the effect of the Felix?’

Harry shrugged.  

‘Ginny not turning up to breakfast, I take it?’

‘No,’ said Luna, who happened to be passing. ‘She said she’d rather sit down by the lake; I’m taking her some toast now.’

Harry and Ron shared a knowing look as Luna left the hall.

‘Well, that explains some things, doesn’t it…’

‘What?’ Hermione asked, looking confused.

‘You know…Ginny and Luna…’

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘You mean… the two of them… together? Gosh, I never even noticed.’

‘Brightest witch of her age, ladies and gentlemen,’ Harry cheeked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, as Ron laughed fondly.

~~~~~~~

 Harry had missed the final Quidditch match of the season. He had been stuck in detention with Snape, after using a spell he had read in the Half Blood Prince’s book on Malfoy. Well, Malfoy had been trying to use Crucio on Harry at the time, but Harry had never meant to cause such harm.

Upon finishing his detention (the first of many, according to Snape), he had dashed back to Gryffindor Tower, where he hurriedly told the password, hoping for some hint as to the result of the match.

‘You’ll see.’ The Fat Lady said, her expression frustratingly neutral.

The portrait creaked open, and a cacophony of noise erupted through the hole. Scrambling through, Harry discovered the entirety of Gryffindor House in rampant and joyous celebration.

‘We won, Harry; we won!’ Ron declared, brandishing the Quidditch Cup above his head.

Ron’s eyes were wide with happiness, and he ran towards Harry. He threw his arms around the shorter boy, lifting Harry off his feet.

And, without planning it, without considering that fifty people were watching them, Harry kissed him.

There was a very pregnant silence. Harry and Ron -both blushing furiously- broke apart.

Fifty pairs of eyes watched them. Suddenly, there was a wolf-whistle from the back of the room, and an outbreak of nervous giggling.

Ginny was beaming happily, hand-in-hand with Luna, while Dean and Seamus were giving Harry the thumbs up.

Hermione was stood a little way away, and her mouth had fallen open.

‘H-Hermione?’ Ron stammered.

The bushy-haired witch walked over, grabbed Ron by the front of his robes, and promptly pressed her lips to his.

The common room –as one- goggled, as Ron and Hermione did little aside from press closer together.

Then-

‘Oy!’ Harry said, and his two friends broke apart, blushing furiously.

Luna let out a giggle.

~~~~~~~~

A little while later, Harry and Ron were nervously stood in their dormitory.

‘Harry?’

‘Y-yeah?’

‘A-are we… you know…’

There was a very long pause, as Harry’s mind swam with emotions.

‘I… I…’

‘Because… I…’

‘W-what?’ Harry stammered.

‘It’s just… and with Hermione…’

Harry felt his stomach turn to ice. Ron seemed to realise what he had just said, and hurriedly continued

‘But with you as well… I… I’m so confused…’

Oh.

That wasn’t so bad.

‘Ron… do you… you know… like me?’

Ron looked at Harry, his ears pink.

‘Y-yeah. I do. Not just as a friend, either.’

‘I… I feel the same way about you.’

Ron smiled, before kissing Harry softly. Which Harry was enjoying more and more with every time it happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 Unfortunately, things got progressively worse from that point onwards.

Dumbledore was dead. There was a war to be fought, and Harry had never felt more alone in his life.

Ron was helping Hermione out of her chair, the bushy-haired witch crying into his shoulder as he did so.

When they reached him, Hermione pulled away from Ron, looking guiltily at Harry. But Harry felt no jealousy.

Ron reached out, and pulled Harry into a hug.

As the carriages arrived at the castle, Harry looked up at Hogwarts Castle, wondering if he’d ever see it again.

‘What are you going to do, Harry?’

‘Well, I’m going to go back to the Dursleys. Just one last time; I think it’s what Dumbledore would have wanted.’

‘And after that?’

‘I’m gonna track down the remaining Horcruxes. But –before that- I think I need to visit Godric’s Hollow. That’s where it all started. And if I meet Snape along the way; so much the worse for him.’

‘Fair enough,’ Ron said. ‘But you’re still coming round to the Burrow this summer.’

‘Why?’

‘Bill and Fleur’s wedding, of course!’

Harry grinned. The fact that something so wonderfully ordinary as a wedding could still happen was wonderful.

‘C’mon, mates; time to get moving.’

Ron put his arms around Harry and Hermione’s shoulders, and the three of them walked down the path towards the carriages.

Maybe, just maybe, things would be okay. Harry leaned into Ron’s side, and the redhead hugged him tighter with his arm, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head.

Things might not be alright now, but they would be. He had Ron. And that was good enough. More than good enough.

The End

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading through to the end, everyone! Hope you liked this concluding chapter! 

I know I originally said I was going to continue throughout all the books, but I honesty don't think I could have kept Harry and Ron apart for another year without it seeming artificial. I was worried I would end up getting bored of writing this series, and not giving it the proper treatment it deserves. Hence why we are ending this story here instead of extending it into 'Deathly Hallows' territory.

Thank you all so much for the amazing comments you've given throughout the publication of this series, and it means so much to me that people are enjoying my retelling of the series in this AU! :)

[scienceoftheidiot]

In my move, I’m also moving all my drabbles, prompt answers and short stories with my OCs. Here’s an old one.

In case you don’t want to click on the link, the short story itself is right here under the cut.

No prompt for this one, I just wanted to write about friends being friends. Fluff time :)

Desden sat on his sofa with a contented sigh. He’d just come back from various errands after work, and was looking forward to a nice, relaxed evening. He was considering opening a bottle of fresh beer when his phone started ringing.

He’d swapped the automated voice for music for his closest friends and family, and Master of Puppets started playing instead – Farid. He had chosen his song himself – a privilege granted only to… well, only to him.

“Yeah? “Hey! You home?” Farid sounded very excited, which was surprising, coming from him. “Yeah. “Brilliant. Come down here, bro. I have something to show you!” This made Desden curious – but he wouldn’t admit it. Farid was usually a very laid back man, rarely prone to gushing. In fact, it was Desden who was known to be the most effusive of the two. Yet this sounded like Farid was very eager to share something.

Down would mean the basement, as Farid spent most of the time he had free from work or his children in there, repairing old toys or various appliances for the whole neighbourhood. This part of the basement was a common room for the people who lived in the building, but he had somehow made it his den, and people respected it, since he was doing all the reparations for free.

“Since when do you call me bro?” Desden frowned with a chuckle. “Since I hear it’s cool. “You spend too much time with children, you know that? “Maybe. Are you coming or do I have to come fetch you? “I just got home,” Desden whined. “Come ooooon! I really want to show you!”

Farid, his friend Farid, the one who was always so calm and contained… who was that? He sounded like his daughters. Desden smiled. But it was too funny not to play with it a little more. “Well, send me a pic. “That’s horrendously funny. One day I’ll do it and you’ll feel sorry for yourself. “I don’t do this, others do it for me quite well.    “Are you coming? Please? Desden had an exaggerated sigh, cut by a brief chuckle at his friend’s tone. “Yeah, alright. Coming. “Good.” Farid hung up.

Desden groaned. He decided he didn’t need Kalinka to get down a few set of stairs, and left her in the flat. He still took his foldaway cane, more by reflex than anything else, put it in his jeans back pocket, locked the door and got down.

The door to the basement was immediately to the left at the bottom of the stairs, and he pushed it, welcomed by a sharp “STOP!” from Farid.

“What?” Desden just stood there, in the half opened door. “There’s a toy just there. One of the girls left it, I didn’t notice. Here,” Farid handed him a light object, “Hold it for me, please. Curiously feeling the object, Desden discovered a small plastic horse, its mane and tail irremediably tangled in a coarse mess. “And now? “Just stay there, let me push a few things away. Where’s your dog? “I told you I just came home. Couldn’t be arsed. I don’t need her just to go to the basement.

“Fair enough”, Farid let out between two grunts. “Here we go !” There was a broad smile in Farid’s voice.

“Can I come in now, then? “Yeah.” Farid losely rubbed his hands to get rid of dust, and walked up to his friend to pat his shoulder as a greeting. He then stayed close, guiding him without much contact needed, in this small place. It was something that had become natural between the two. And there wasn’t much to guide him towards – the thing he wanted to show him was just there, he just had to extend his arm. “How much of a mess can this place be, that you’re all over me like that? “It’s not that messy. “Yeah, sure.” Desden let the last word drag. Laurence probably never set a foot in that place, lest she had a heart attack. “So,” Desden asked, fiddling with the toy horse in his hands, “Where’s your awesome thing? “Gimme back that horse before you break it. It’s not ready yet.” Farid talked, fast, excitation palpable in his voice yet again. He took the toy from Desden’s hands. “We won’t be able to use it until I fix it for good, but once it is, I think we’ll have a blast. “What the hell is this?

“Feel for yourself, it’s on your left. Arm’s lenght.”

Farid watched as Desden extended his arm, a quizzical frown on his face, and as he found the thing. “This? “Yup. “I have no idea what that would be, and I’m afraid, now.” Desden let out with a laugh. “You’re just no fun. “Okay, okay, I’ll look better, wait.”

Desden had touched a metallic thing, like a horizontal pipe. He moved his hands along it, towards the left, and realized he was also following thin cables, that lead to… “Handlebars.” Desden sighed. “That’s a bike. You want me to bike? “Look better. “What, is it a self driving bike?” He muttered, puzzled. What about a bike would be interesting for him? Not much. But he trusted Farid, who was definitely not the kind to make bad jokes at his expense, so he dutifully continued, and turned to the right.

He moved quicker now and felt the seat, and then… another set of handlebars. The bike then continued to another seat.

“Oh, shit!” He let his hands fall to his sides and took a step away, a smile on his face. He knew what this was, but wouldn’t have expected it. Not after all this time.

“Told you it was cool! “You just bought a fucking tandem!” Desden couldn’t help but grin. In fact, he felt like jumping around. “When was the last time we talked about this? Years ago?” Desden now was as excited as Farid. He moved a lot while talking, and when one of his hands accidentally bumped into Farid’s shoulder, he quickly pulled him into a short hug. “This is bloody fantastic.” Farid laughed, giving into the hug and patting his friend’s shoulder again. “I can’t wait to try it. How come you found one? “Well, I’ve been looking for a cheap one for years… you’re not exactly helping, being that tall.” Farid gave a mock tap on Desden’s head. “Oddly enough most of the ones I found were… “women” sized. “Women” in brackets. Small ones. “Yeah, I got that. Not that it meant it was pink or else. “Would it bother you? “If it was? Nah, your daughters would love it. In fact we should paint it pink. “Sold. I can do a quick paint job – it’s a pretty ugly, fading blue for now. I need to change the tyres, the brakes… but it cost me ten euros, so…” Desden clapped his hands. “I don’t know what to say. This is great. Except, you know it’s been nearly ten years I haven’t been on a bike, right? “Well, we’ll finally be able to test that thing that says you never forget it, I guess. “And balance wise…” Desden walked to the bike again, placing his hand on the seat, thinking. Farid clicked his tongue, then replied:    “We should try, don’t you think? And if it doesn’t work, once it’s repaired I’ll be able to sell it for a lot more than ten euros. I don’t think it’s a bad investment, do you? “Nah, I’m just… I hope it works, is all. “It will, I’m sure. We need to find a place where we’ll be left alone to train, that’s it. I’ll look around, see if I can find something. “I’ll buy a good helmet, too.” Desden ran one of his hands through his hair, stopping and resting a short moment at the back of his head.“Maybe I’ll get two. My present for you in exchange. “Not too fond of head traumas, are you? “Eeeeh, strangely, not. I know, I’m full of surprises.” They both had a short laugh. Then Desden turned away from the bike.

“Thank you. It’s really a great idea, and I can’t wait to try.” Desden nodded to himself, then added: “You’re alone tonight? “At least until the girls come back, so probably until dinner. “Good. Come have a beer, my bro .”

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “Plot Twist” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Embroiled in the aftermath of two very messy break-ups, Crowley and Aziraphale are preparing to film their first love scene together. But how do you pretend to be in love when your love life is falling apart?

It probably doesn't hurt to be in love with your co-star. (2318 words)

Notes: So I made the chauffeur young Shadwell, but patterned after young Michael McKean, who I was desperately in love with back in the day XD Human au, ineffable wives, mention of past Aziraphale/Gabriel, mostly just fluff

Read on AO3.

“Ooo, I get a limo this time. Fancy, fancy,” Crowley mumbles, not nearly as impressed as she’s pretending to be. She’d much rather drive herself in her own Bentley and in her own sweet arse time. But she needs to keep up appearances. 

There are always two eyes and a camera lens on her at any given moment.

Even though it’s the literal buttcrack of dawn, she’s not alone. There are about thirty asshats, armed with cameras, camped out on her doorstep, climbing over each other to snap a candid of her for the gossip sites. A photo of her emerging from her rented townhouse fresh-faced and ready for another day on set will fetch an easy hundred pounds.

But if she looks like she rolled out of bed, drank a bottle of whiskey for breakfast, then fell down a flight of stairs, landing face-first onto a mountain of cocaine? Those pictures would fetch considerably more.

That’s what she gets for going through a horrendous break-up while having the nerve to be rich and famous.

She thought that when the production moved filming away from London and out to California, the buzz surrounding her personal affairs would die down. On the contrary. It seemed to get worse, in part because the states don’t have the same paparazzi laws the UK does.

She can’t sit down to take a proper shit without seeing a flash pop off.

Despite how she feels about her life at the moment, she went for class over crass. She shies away from hard drugs, and she can't justify looking less than her best, especially in public. 

She refuses to let anyone see her sweat.

“Antonia! Antonia! Over here!” the pariahs beckon, some of them whistling for her attention like she’s a dog. “Antonia! Hey, Crowley!”

Crowley.

That’s the one that gets to her - burrows into the roots of her teeth and makes her head pulsate with rage. It keeps her feet moving when she might have stopped to exchange a polite hello, given out an autograph. And the sick thing is these vultures probably realize that. 

That’s why they keep doing it. 

Who talks to people like that? When did it become acceptable to bellow out someone’s last name as a means of getting their attention? Is it too much to ask for them to shove a ‘Mrs.’ in front of it? Have these glorified stalkers forgotten that, if it weren’t for her and stars like her, the only jobs they could get would be snapping photos of families at Legoland for minimum wage?

Ugh. 

Too much thinking too early in the morning.

She could write an entire essay on how much she loathes pap culture, but today, she can’t be bothered caring.

She’s filming one of the most anticipated scenes of her whole career on one of the worst days of her life. 

That’s the hurdle she needs to focus on.

She slaps on a smile and waves, sliding her glasses down her nose only far enough so they can’t see how red her eyes have gotten from crying.

“Oh, ‘ello, loves! I didn’t see you all here! So nice of you to greet me at 5:30 on this fine winter morning! Oh, careful there. You spilled your coffee. And I think you just kicked that poor lad in the face. You wanna give him a hand up there? He’s bleedin’ all over the pavement.”

Crowley greets her guests this way every morning, killing them with kindness, as subtle an eff you as she can come up with when her brain cells have yet to kick in for the day.

Coffee. She needs coffee. About a gallon-and-a-half of it.

And a shot of bourbon might be nice.

Crowley glides through the crowd, an angelfish among sharks, and comes out unscathed.

A man with brown hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes, wearing a fitted, black uniform tailored to within an inch of its life, opens the car door for her as she approaches.

"Good morning, Mrs. Crowley."

“Good morning, Mr. Shadwell. It's nice to see you.” Crowley slides into the car, thankful when the chauffeur shuts the door. She sinks into the leather seat and tosses her sunglasses aside. “God!" she moans, burying her face in her hands. "I don't want to do this! I want to stay home, eat ice cream, and drink tremendous amounts of alcohol! I definitely don’t want to be snogging anyone today!”

Aziraphale, who had been waiting patiently with a small box of assorted cookies and wearing a sympathetic smile, frowns. “Wow. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley's head snaps up, her face splotchy, and red enough to rival her hair in seconds. “Aziraphale! I am so sorry! I didn’t know you were …! That’s not what I meant!" She takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. "It's not you, angel. I swear it isn’t. I just don’t feel particularly romantic today.”

“It’s all right. I know what you mean. I feel the same way.”

Crowley squares Aziraphale with a stern look. “Wow. Thank you.”

Aziraphale ducks her eyes, her cheeks turning pink as she offers Crowley a cookie from the box. She wonders if Aziraphale made them herself. She often does bake to pass the time. So much so that she's become quite good at it.

Life hasn’t been treating her too kindly, either.

The cookies are delicate little things, intricately frosted in red, green, and white, decorated as bells and angels and snowflakes in honor of Christmas. 

Because it’s Christmas. 

Crowley is having the worst day of her life a week before Christmas.

Sigh.

There is usually champagne, no matter what vehicle the studio sends to pick them up. She wonders where it’s gone, searching about for it. Crowley and Aziraphale rarely avail themselves to it, preferring to wait till after the shooting day is done to have a nightcap.

But today, it feels like a necessity.

Leave it to the studio to not provide them a bottle of bubbly on the one day Crowley longs to drown in it.

“I didn’t know Shadwell was picking you up first,” Crowley says, starting small talk to ease the tension. Crowley and Aziraphale don’t usually have trouble making small talk.

Today is an exception.

“Well ...” Aziraphale clears embarrassment from her throat “... I was just … you know … a few blocks down the way.”

Crowley sits up further, leans forward with interest. “So you did it. You left him. You left Gabriel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies quietly. “I couldn’t stay. Not after …” She stops and sniffles, turning her head to hide eyes that must be as red as Crowley’s. Crowley doesn’t know.

She only ever notices how incredible they are.

Crowley rests a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “I know.” 

“Yeah,” Aziraphale says with a slightly bitter laugh. “So does the whole world. In fact, the photogs knew I was leaving before I knew. You should have seen it. I could barely get past them.”

Crowley pulls a box of tissues out of the side panel and offers her co-star one. “They’re bottom feeders. The lot of them. Try to ignore them.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I know,” Crowley repeats, feeling exceptionally useless. She’s in the exact same boat, but her heart hurts more for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale doesn’t deserve what she's going through. She doesn’t deserve such a public break-up.

She doesn’t deserve having her name drug all over social media by an emotionally manipulative bastard who thinks he's God's gift.

Crowley gazes out the window at the sky above. The forecast said it would be clear and sunny today, but it’s cloudy and grey. It matches Crowley's mood. Everything is cloudy and grey.

Well, maybe not everything.

The cookie she's eating isn’t. It’s sweet and crisp and melts in her mouth. It puts a smile on her face.

That helps.

Aziraphale helps, too.

Even gloomy, melancholy Aziraphale helps.

Just being in Aziraphale's presence helps.

“Living in the public eye isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, though it sounds as much like a statement to herself as a question for Crowley.

“Not on days like today. But that’s the trade-off for being a star, I suppose.” 

“Would you ever give it up?” Aziraphale asks, taking a nibble of her Madeleine.

“I can’t say I would. You?”

“Nnnn ... no."

"There isn't anything else you wanted to do?" Crowley asks, latching on to her hesitation. "Not even when you were younger?"

"Well ..." Aziraphale bobs her head back and forth. "To be honest, I have always wanted to own my own bookshop. Or perhaps work in a library. But that's only if acting didn't work out. Acting has given me so many opportunities I could never have dreamed of. And all the great people I've met? I mean, this is what? The fifth film we’ve starred in together?”

“It is." 

Aziraphale chuckles. "Some of them have been real winners."

"I know! The roles you get offered when you're just starting out are criminal! Let’s see, we’ve been rogue enemy agents from different factions …”

“High school frenemies …”

“Alien co-conspirators …”

“Jealous rivals …”

“And now … lovers.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says bashfully. “And today …”

Crowley smiles. “We get together for the first time.”

Hearing Crowley say it makes Aziraphale’s heart race, her pulse thrumming so fast it disappears.

The day Aziraphale found out she’d gotten the role of Crowley’s love interest and not the ‘jealous ex’ (the role her agent originally pitched for her since they play adversaries so well) was a dream come true. The studio felt the two of them could take their insane sexual tension (the studio's words, not Aziraphale's, although she doesn't disagree) and use it to fuel the plot of their latest 'friends-to-lovers' rom-com.

Aziraphale has always wanted to be a leading lady. Deep down, she prayed that her first time, she'd play opposite Crowley. Now that it has finally happened, the role of her dreams comes with the greatest perk in the universe - an intimate moment with Antonia.

In front of about three dozen crew members, but still. 

It's Aziraphale's chance to indulge her crush, which she plans to savor since it may not come around again. 

Not in the way Aziraphale wants.

As friendly as Crowley is to her, as flirty as she can be, Aziraphale doesn't know for sure whether Crowley shares her feelings.

“If you don't mind my asking, when did she tell you?” Aziraphale asks.

“She didn’t." Crowley snorts humorlessly. "I woke up, and she was gone. I thought she had left for work. She had a table reading at six that morning, so I wasn’t immediately suspicious. Not until I started noticing important things were missing - clothes, toiletries, her contact lenses, her laptop …” 

"Did she tell you why she was leaving?"

Crowley chews her lower lip at the question she'd known was coming ... the answer she's debating whether or not to give. "Eventually." She glances up at Aziraphale, flashes a sly grin, and decides to go for broke. “She left because she thought I was falling in love with my co-star.”

"Really?" And just like that, Aziraphale dies, her heart shrinking into nothing and blowing away on the wind. "W-which one?" she asks, solely for conversation's sake.

This time, when Crowley snorts, clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying crumbs all over the interior of the limo, it's genuine. "You, you gumball!"

"Oh. Oh!" Aziraphale’s expression of shock is so endearing, Crowley can’t look at it too long. There's a glow about her. It's like staring into the sun. “That's ... that’s funny. Gabriel broke up with me for the same reason. Because of ... you. At least, that's the excuse he gave on Twitter ... and Instagram ... and Facebook.” Aziraphale's glow dims as she talks about her ex. Their relationship, and separation, weren’t as civil as Crowley’s. In reality, trouble had been brewing behind the scenes for a while. 

She’s glad they finally went their separate ways, but it stings just the same, finding out that someone you once loved, who you thought loved you back, just wanted someone to push around. To control.

"That is funny. Not funny ha-ha. Just ... funny. Who would have thunk?" Crowley goes back to her cookie, taking small bites while keeping an eye on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale glances out the window as the limo slows, approaching the gates to the studio lot. Crowley doesn't follow Aziraphale's gaze.

She doesn't need to. 

She knows what Aziraphale sees by the way her face falls.

Aziraphale had hoped they could slip in quietly, but there's already a mob three feet deep waiting for them. The photographers and fans won't be able to see a thing through the car's windows. The tint on them is darker than dark. Still, the whole lot will be on high alert with them here. 

Inevitably, a handful will slip in. 

They may even find their way on set.

Aziraphale doesn't have the energy to deal with that.

Not today.

“How are we going to get through it?" Aziraphale asks. "Filming this scene? The timing is ... uncanny, to say the least.”

“Think of it this way …” Crowley slides across to Aziraphale’s side, sits as close as they're both comfortable with. Crooking a finger beneath her chin, Crowley draws Aziraphale's attention away from the gathering crowd and over to her eyes instead “… we get to spend the entire afternoon making each other feel better. That's how we're going to get through this. Agreed?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lower, flicker to Crowley's lips unintentionally. When they travel back up, she notices Crowley's eyes do the same. She swallows hard. At this distance from Crowley, from her mouth, Aziraphale only has the wherewithal to say one word. She makes it count. "Agreed."