#he was drunk during another voice line and said 'eh it's fine i missed it i know you did something good' and like

[spark-circuit]

recorded some Netzach announcer lines real quick before going to sleep. Netzie buddy i completely understand and agree that everything's really shitty every second but like........ team morale is dipping fast.

[teawaffles]

The Adventures of John: Chapter 4, Part 2

TW // Mention of abuse

Also, a note for language.

Without even an opportunity for Laura to resist, Sherlock pulled his hand out — and revealed a gorgeous necklace. It wasn’t as if John could remember that necklace itself, but from its elegant sparkle, he judged that it’d been one of the items from their flat.

The despair on Laura’s face only deepened. Beside her, the detective spoke.

“This was stolen from my flat. Since the jewellery was in such a mess, you probably thought it wouldn’t look amiss if just one piece went missing — but that was naive of you,” he said. “Because I have a full grasp of everything that was put there.”

When Laura arrived at their flat, Sherlock had made a show of being indifferent to her request, while making sure that she had taken one of the stolen goods.

To have fully comprehended that chaos — John marvelled at the strength of Sherlock’s memory. During the conversation in the flat, he had persisted in looking out the window, away from Laura: that must’ve been to create a deliberate opening, and test if the girl would help herself to the pile.

Laura had stolen a piece of jewellery from their apartment. Moreover, she’d made up the request to find Dolly. Inevitably, from the two points above, it followed that her goal from the start had been to steal the jewellery. Hence, it formed definite proof that she was one of the thieves’ accomplices.

Confronted by that irreversible reality, Laura was stunned. As for the man, his eyes went bloodshot from anger.

“Y-You’ve gotta be kidding me, you good-for-nothing……. I told you to do it without exposing us—”

Hearing that, Sherlock piped up in a cool voice.

“Shall I take that as a confession? Though, there is still the argument that this kid Laura here is just another one of you vagrants, and you guys have nothing to do with the ring of thieves.”

The man spat on the ground.

“Hmph, I’ve no interest flogging that argument anymore. ——Let’s settle this the fast way.”

Saying that, he drew a small revolver from his pocket, and levelled it at Sherlock. Following suit, a few men among the group also whipped out knives and guns. The remaining crowd cried out softly in fear.

“If we dispatch the both of you right here, the truth’ll remain buried, eh?”

At that unsettling line, his armed accomplices also broke into twisted smiles.

But despite being held at gunpoint, Sherlock seemed particularly unmoved. He observed their actions, and narrated his own view.

“From the looks of it, you lot are the ringleaders, while the rest seem to have been threatened into compliance.”

“Yeah: with just a little bit of a beating, they’ll do anything we ask,” the man smirked.

But Sherlock was calm as he replied.

“From that, I gather not all of you are friends. And seeing how you resort to violence to settle things right away: you’re probably a hoodlum accustomed to crime, aren’t ya?”

“Hoodlum? You’re not wrong, but call us a group of clever thieves if you can. After all, I’ve skilfully manipulated these scum and carried out some brilliant thefts.”

Drunk on his own accomplishments, the man threw a glance at Laura. She hadn’t budged from where she stood; protecting her head, she cowered on the ground in sheer terror. From that, one could easily imagine what maltreatment she and the others had suffered at the hands of these thugs.

His heart filled with rage, John glared at the man.

“That means you forced them to commit crimes, didn’t you?”

“Call it making effective use of them, Doctor Watson,” he drawled. “These people all live on a pittance of a daily income. No one would care if they’re gone. I’ve given them a rather fine job until now, but this time, she just had to screw up. ——As I thought, brats are useless after all!”

“……I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He shouted at Laura, and she repeated that apology over and over as she sobbed.

“You……”

“John, you’re right to be angry, but please calm down.”

At the unforgivable sight before him, the detective’s assistant had balled his hands into fists, but Sherlock persuaded him to keep his cool.

“Ah…… Sorry to get back to the topic, but let me give you some clarity on this case.”

“Huh?”

As before, Sherlock’s demeanour lacked any sort of tension, and his opponent frowned. But the detective paid no heed to that as he continued.

“To sum up the story thus far: the bunch of louts brandishing their weapons here are the ringleaders behind the thefts, and the other vagrants and street merchants were forcibly…… ‘used’, if I were to borrow your words?”

“Yeah, that’s right. You could say that they’re all expendables to be exploited as I please. To have so skilfully manipulated them — I bet my abilities rival those of that rumoured ‘Lord of Crime’ or something.”

“……Well.”

At that name, Sherlock’s eye twitched. But he showed no further reaction than that as he replied.

“In other words, to you guys, their names and faces aren’t even worth remembering?”

“That’s an odd way to put it, but exactly. They’re all disposable — do you really think I can remember all of them? ……That said, how long are you gonna keep prattling on like that? I don’t know if you’re just trying to buy time, but it’s time for you to die.”

Running out of patience, the man broke off their conversation, and moved to pull the trigger: fully intending to shoot the detective and his assistant.

However, Sherlock’s smile remained bold as ever.

“——That’s it then. I’ve gotten your word.”

That instant, John couldn’t believe his eyes.

Among the crowd of vagrants, the ones who were shrouded in hoods — separate from the ringleaders — were now aiming guns at the criminals.

“……Huh?”

“——Don’t move.”

One of the mysterious figures commanded sternly, keeping his gun trained on the lead criminal. Stunned by this sudden development, the man complied; and with his other hand, the figure slowly drew back his hood.

“……Inspector Lestrade?”

Out of sheer astonishment, John murmured the person's name.

The man in the hood, was Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Facing the lead criminal, he spoke in a determined voice.

“From the conversation earlier, it’s clear that you have threatened the poor and coerced them into crime. I’ll hear the details at the station. Don’t even think about resisting.”

Then, the other figures removed their hoods and revealed their faces. One after the other, they confiscated the weapons from the stunned hoodlums. Though they weren’t wearing uniforms, from their practised actions, it was clear that they were police officers.

“W-What the devil is going on……?”

Tonight had been a night of many surprises for this detective. John was yet unable to wrap his head around the situation, and once again, he asked himself a question he’d thought about countless times today.

“Everything’s exactly as you’ve witnessed, John. When I identified this place, I contacted Lestrade at the same time, then got the officers to disguise themselves as tramps and hide among the crowd.”

“But why?”

“If I’d just called in the Yard as usual, we wouldn’t have been able to identify the ringleaders among this large a crowd.”

Sherlock stated that conclusion in brief, then began to explain.

“As I thought about the thieves’ actions, I judged that there was probably a mastermind separate from the ones committing the actual crimes, who was controlling them from behind the scenes. Hence, there was a need to identify this mastermind; but even if the Yard were to round up the entire group of vagrants, like what that ruffian told me earlier, they could just say that they had no relation to the ring of thieves — and that would be the end of it. Moreover, it still wasn’t clear who the ringleaders were, and the ring members who were being threatened would’ve likely been warned not to blab. So, in order to smoke out the ringleaders and elicit a confession, I added a bit of an act.”

Then, the detective looked at Lestrade, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

“——Well, about the disguises: I’d thought about where the police squad could hide themselves, and decided it would be better for them to mingle with the crowd, so they wouldn’t have to sneak about all weirdly.”

“W-Wha— What a stupid……”

Upon hearing the truth, the man’s earlier triumphant attitude had devolved into a disgraceful, incredulous one. This time, Sherlock laughed out loud.

“Sure, you can make people follow you, but you’ll also have to keep tabs on them properly. In the first place, when this location was discovered, didn’t it occur to you that I would call in the Yard? You can pretend to be a mastermind, but with your lack of foresight, even the Lord of Crime would laugh.”

“S……Shite.”

“Oi, watch what you say from here on. It’ll be used as evidence against you in court.”

Lestrade warned the man as he clapped him in irons; accepting his defeat, he hung his head bitterly. For a villain who’d exploited people in poverty, and boasted of rivalling the Lord of Crime: it was a downright dreadful ending.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

“I’ll always be in your debt, Holmes. And the same goes for you, Dr Watson.”

As he watched the arrested criminals being taken away, Lestrade thanked the detective duo.

However, in contrast to the inspector’s earnest attitude, Sherlock put a hand over his mouth as he tried to suppress his laughter.

“Lestrade. Sorry for saying this when you’re being so serious, but…… you looked surprisingly good as a tramp.”

“H-Hey! That’s rude, Sherlock!”

“By Jove, Sherlock……”

John chided the detective, and Lestrade let out an astonished sigh.

“……Anyway, I’m grateful for your help in resolving this case.”

“Yeah, let me know when you have another interesting mystery next time.”

After that simple exchange, the inspector left to join the other police officers.

Then, Laura — the central figure from today — and an old woman from among the vagrants walked over to them.

“——U-Um, Dr Watson.”

The girl stood right before John. She bit her lip, and sank into a deep bow.

“I’m so sorry for tricking you!”

Laura blurted that out in a loud voice. Then, the old woman also bowed solemnly.

Met with their sincere apologies, John spoke up in a kind voice.

“It’s alright. You had no choice — all of you were being threatened.”

“B-But…… I……”

“Don’t worry about it. In any case, won’t it be tough for you all from here on?”

With a start, Laura realised what he meant, and dropped her gaze. Though they had been coerced into thievery, it was still a fact that they had broken the law. Hence, in order to furnish the details to the Yard, all of them would be taken in for questioning.

The atmosphere turned slightly gloomy, and Sherlock piped up.

“You don’t have to be so serious about it, y’know. Seeing as all of you had been forced into those crimes, the Yard’ll treat you more leniently.”

“Y-You’re right.”

John knew that Sherlock was deliberately being optimistic, in an effort not to worry them both. Hence, though it was a little awkward, John agreed with him.

Perhaps the matter wasn’t as simple as Sherlock had described, but the events from now on would be out of their hands entirely. Hoping that Lestrade would speak well in their defence, John changed the topic somewhat forcibly.

“……By the way, is this lady a relative of yours?”

Hearing that, Laura brightened up, and introduced the old woman.

“Yes, she’s my grandmother; we’ve been making a living together selling food.”

“Truly, please accept my sincere apologies for what happened.”

Hearing the old woman’s husky voice, John finally understood the awkward exchange he had witnessed between them at the park. Seeing as they were family, it was only natural for Laura to be more relaxed around her; moreover, the old woman’s faltering tone had surely been due to her guilt at deceiving him.

John nodded in understanding. Then, Laura took out a small pouch.

“That and this…… Here’s the full amount we’ve taken from you, Dr Watson. Please accept it.”

“Ah, I see. I’d forgotten all about the money. Thank you.”

John was about to reach for the pouch, when all of a sudden, a thought struck him — and he stopped.

“……Um, is something the matter?”

Seeing him freeze up, Laura tilted her head. Then, John withdrew his hand, and instead held up the bag full of items he’d bought from the street merchants.

“‘Taken’? What’re you saying? I bought these of my own accord. I can’t see any issues with them, so I’ve no intention of getting a refund.”

“……Eh?”

“Isn’t that right? I negotiated properly with the merchants in the parks, and bought these items as a customer. There was no trickery at all.”

John asserted that proudly, and beside him, he heard Sherlock chuckle.

Of course, what John said was by no means a show of bravado that he hadn’t been tricked. Laura had been moved by his kindness throughout the day; in an instant, she sensed the emotions imbued in his words. But even so, she knitted her brows, looking troubled.

“Still, I really should return this to you.”

She then offered him the pouch again, but John gently pushed it away.

“Laura, in all honesty, the walnuts your grandmother sold me were delicious. For products that good, it’s only right that I pay a fair price for them.”

His smile was full of warmth as he continued.

“If I happen to see your stall again, I’ll be sure to buy from you.”

“Dr Watson……”

This time, Laura did not press the matter.

She held the pouch as if it were a treasure, and her face brimmed with smiles.

“——Alright. When we see each other again, I’ll be sure to prepare lots of walnuts for you.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to that.”

Then, John bade goodbye to Laura and her grandmother; and with his “loot” in hand, he left the scene with Sherlock.

[mrs-geuse]

Jealousy - Hank Anderson x Reader

Re-posting because Tumblr didn’t let it show up in the tags...

Anonymous requested:  “Can you please write some jealous!hank x reader? Or some Hank x pregnant!reader fluff?”

(I tried to keep this as gender neutral as I could, sorry if there are mistakes!)

Warnings: Language, alcohol use.

Hank Anderson should not be one to judge about public intoxication – and he was not judging. He was worried. This was so not like you.

Connor had been the one you called and that stung. He tried his best to swallow down that jealousy, he really did, but he was so hopeful to come in and play the hero for you. There was something about you that just made him want to play protector, but he knew you’d hate that.

Yet you still called Connor when you got drunk tonight and it was obviously not a call to Hank. Whatever the Hell that meant. What you and Connor had was a friendship and he needed to let that go.

“Hank, they’re at Crazy Matt’s,” Connor’s voice interrupted him as he grabbed his keys from his desk, shouldered on his coat.

“Glad they answered for you,” was Hank’s only response.

“That didn’t happen. Location services are still on their phone. I…noticed from the social media post that was made.”

“Great detective work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go get my ass handed to me by your bff.”

Connor had a date tonight and Hank couldn’t help but wonder if your outburst was due to that little fact. Naturally, Hank’s only date was with a bottle when he got home so Connor called in a favor. Of course, he was glad to do it – the three of you were pretty inseparable after you’d met.

So here he was speeding toward Crazy Matt’s to pick you up. Too fuckin’ bad, you didn’t want company. Pain in the ass…

In the small parking lot, he noticed your car wasn’t there and he was instantly cussing because – damn it – if you dipped to another bar, he was going to have to chase you around this city all fuckin’ night.

He slammed the car door harder than necessary and stormed his way toward the entrance. Crazy Matt’s was a pretty seedy place and he hated that you went there. Apparently, you knew the owner or some shit.

Eyes scanning around the bar, he grumbled to himself.

“Can I get ya somethin’?” the dark-haired man behind the counter greeted him.

Hank ignored his interest in what was on tap. “Do you know Y/N?”

The idiot let his expression change, yet responded, “Who wants to know?”

“Look, it’s been a long night, and I’m a friend,” the term stung something in him and the thought he’d like to drown in alcohol. “I just need to know they’re okay.”

He nodded. “Saw them go out back a few minutes ago. Left their drink so I’m sure they’ll be back.”

Hank tapped the bar, nodding in thanks as he glanced at what you’d been drinking.

There was a lot to be said about Hank, but he was not a patient man. A few seconds and he was back outside, glancing down the side alley.

What, had you gone to hook up with somebody? Fuckin’ a…

The sight shocked him.

“Y/N!?” he jogged over because it was all he could muster.

You stopped momentarily, looking breathless and disheveled and…damn it, alluring. But his eyes were instantly on your bleeding knees.

“What the fuck happened?” he almost pulled out his gun just in case something was amiss.

You waved him off, patting him on the shoulder and he stilled at the touch. “Guess I’m not great at running while inebriated,” you answered simply.

“And you were running because…?” during his question, you held his shoulder, balancing so you can pull off your shoe and get the gravel out.

He wanted to wrap his arms around you but instead he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Some jackass stole my wallet,” you waved it in front of you, clearly having gotten it back. You weren’t too flustered but the blood was dripping down your knees and it kinda stung.

You stumbled a little when getting the shoe back on and he was forced to hold you upright, your shirt having slid up just the slightest and his thumb pressed against your bare skin. Hank inhaled sharply, moving his finger as soon as he noticed.

“I’m taking you home,” he responded gruffly.

“Fuck off,” you pushed your hand against his chest but it did nothing to move the big man. “I’m not going home.”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N, you’re bleedin’ all over the place. I’m leaving and you’re coming with me.”

“No,” you pulled from his grasp, stumbled a little, still feeling your drinks. He caught you and his grip was surprisingly soft considering his voice was gruff.  “Hank,” you muttered, grabbing onto his jacket and sliding your hands up to the collar. You watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed hard. “I’m going in to finish my drink.”

“The drink on the bar?” he managed to question. At that, you nodded. “Yeah, no you’re not.”

“Hank!” you were about to debate with him when he interrupted you.

“-Be pretty stupid ‘a you to leave a drink unoccupied for so long then down it. You know better than that.”

You smiled at that; glad he wasn’t arguing with you for once.

“Then buy me another one, Lieutenant. Let’s enjoy the night.”

Your tone of voice stirred something in Hank and he struggled to speak something coherent for a moment, his mind traveling to some impure thoughts.

“Yeah, sure.”

•••

Hank needed a drink, but didn’t expect to have one at a seedy bar tonight. He’d bought a bottle and was ready to tell everyone else to fuck off on this Friday night, but the change of plan wasn’t terrible.

The anxiety he felt at the moment was overwhelming. It wasn’t often that the two of you were alone, Connor playing a big part in the times you spent together and you both were very aware of that. But you’d become fast acquaintances and he’d grown to enjoy your company.

“Thought you were goin’ to clean up,” he nodded at you as you stayed right beside him at the bar.

“Eh, sure, I will. They got a deal goin’ on tonight,” you wriggled your eyebrows.

“Oh yeah?”

“Two shots for the price ‘a one.”

“Shots?” he repeated.

“Yeah. So…you’re my whiskey guy, aren’t ya?” you nodded at the bartender and ordered some.

“Christ…” he muttered, wiping a hand down his beard.

“Aw, come on, Hank, I know you’re always drinking alone. Live a little,” you gripped onto his jacket again, looking up at him with those eyes and, fuck, was he done for.

“Fine,” he grunted when the glasses come. You clinked the glass with him, smirked, then both slammed back two shots.

The burn was so welcomed right now, he needed something to rid his clouded mind.

“How about you get us another drink?” you sauntered off to the bathroom to wipe off your bloody legs.

And, fuck, what was he doing? He knew you and Connor would go out sometimes, knew the boy wonder didn’t drink with you and you’d sometimes make a comment that Hank should join. He avoided it. Because it was you. Because he knew what he would be like with alcohol around you and, damn it, he couldn’t let his guard down because he’d end up saying something stupid and chasing you off and the three of you would stop spending time together. Not to mention you’d end up doing just what you did tonight – calling Connor over him.

By the time he watched you wander back out of the bathroom, he was halfway done with his drink and had ordered another.

That Matt guy had stopped you and you were chatting with him, laughing at something he said. He knew you two knew each other, but how well and…well, how? Guy seemed kinda seedy, just like the bar.

Not to mention, he started touching you – hand on your shoulder, the two of you started walking toward the bar – and he slung his arm around your neck, kissed your temple, smiling the whole time.

You didn’t seem to mind, but that made Hank mind even more. What the Hell was he doing here? He’d told Connor he would come pick you up, not sit here and watch you find someone to hook up with.

Only you found the table he’d grabbed for you, came back with another round of shots.

“On the house, apparently,” you shrugged. He took one. “Oh, no, you get both. Any more, I’ll be on the floor.”

Hank could handle his booze pretty well, sure. Only he hadn’t really eaten today and the speed that the two of you were drinking…he was buzzed already.

“I need food,” you voiced, reading his mind. “Split a burger and fries with me?”

Hank swallowed back the last shot. “Sure, yeah.” You grabbed a waitress, ordered something. He felt a little loose, a little less anxious. “So, Connor’s date tonight…”

You smiled. “Oh, yeah, how do you think that’s gonna go?”

He’d meant to cast that line, hook you in, pick your brain, but you gave him no indication of discomfort.

“You first.”

You sipped your drink. “I think it’s good he’s getting out there. Proud of him for acting on his feelings, yanno?”

Hank nodded at that, contemplative. “You have anything to do with him finding the courage to ask them out?” That would tell him…

You smiled shyly. “Perhaps. Why, Lieutenant, did you miss your opportunity?”

Hank chuckled at that. “Fuck no. Plastic prick…” he trailed off. “So, what’s got you all fucked up tonight?” he blurted and then, “shit, I’m sorry. That, uh, that voicemail to Connor…”

You were surprised by that, though you knew he was blunt. “No, it’s fine. I…just long week. Stupid shit at work, tired of biting my tongue when people wrong me. Just…felt like I needed a night to be in my feelings.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m just really fucking dull, aren’t I?”

“Hank…why…” you looked concerned for a second. “why do you say that?”

Maybe it was the shots talking or the kindness you showed him, but he admitted, “Thought you…maybe had feelings for the kid.”

“What!?” you almost spit out your drink. “Hank, he…he’s like a brother to me, that’s pretty fucked.” You laughed and he was glad he hadn’t pissed you off, seen your fire. He knew it was there.

“Ah, I’m fucked so don’t act too surprised.” He downed the rest of his drink.

“Cheers to that,” you clinked your glass with his and drank.

“You come here often?”

“What is that, some shitty pickup line?” you laughed and he noticed your eyes flash to his mouth.

“Well, no, just…curious. What’s up with the owner?” he couldn’t help but ask.

You leveled your gaze with his. “Hank,” you started to which he hummed, acted casual. “I’m sensing a pattern here. You worried? Competition?”

“Wh-what?”

You winked at him. “You got nothin’ to worry about, old man. We just gotta leave before…” you glanced at the bar, expression changing.

“Before…?” his slightly-more-than-buzzed mind was slow to the take, that and the flirtatious air about the conversation was giving him some ideas, stirrings in his gut…

“It’s Friday, isn’t it?” you mumbled with a sigh. “They…uh…do this thing…” you started looking under the table and Hank was slow to the take, pressing his arm over his lap as your eyes scanned down there.

“What the fuck?” he felt his cheeks heating up. “Y/N?” Seconds later, you pulled a pink sticker out from under the table. “What the fuck?” he repeated.

“Oh, God…”

A voice came over the loud speaker by the karaoke setup, announcing, “You know what time it is, folks. If I could please have everyone look under their tables for a sticker…” the announcer gave the crowd a second and people around them followed instructions. “Here at Crazy Matt’s every Friday at 8 we do a nice little ice breaker. Hold your stickers high if you’re one of the five lucky tables.”

Y/N sat perfectly still and Hank felt a sense of dread but also…some excitement. You kept looking a little lusty toward him. A waitress was coming by each sticker table and dropping off some salt and limes and vodka…

Oh, shit…

“Don’t be shy, Y/N,” a voice called. Matt, the owner, walked over. “Soon as I saw your friend here sit down, I knew it was gonna be a show…come on, partake. Live a little. On the house.”

“Y/N?” Hank asked tentatively. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Body shots,” Matt answered instantly. “Every Friday at 8, we treat our guests – if they sit at the right table. Little ice breaker, some free shots, good company…” he eyed Y/N. “I’ll gladly take your place if you’re…”

“No,” Hank found himself answering instantly, to your surprise. The thought of him licking salt off your body, drinking a shot off your skin…Hank had enough of this jealousy bullshit but he was not going to sit idly by.

Matt raised his hands up, nodded, walked away as the waitress dropped the supplies off.

“Hank, you don’t have to…”

“Nah,” he waved it off. “I…why the fuck not? Live a little, right?” he quoted that asshole, was for sure pretty far gone to be agreeing to this, his heart pounding harshly in his chest.

The announcer talked them through the steps as the waitresses cleared off the tables. When was the last fuckin’ time he’d done somethin’ like this?

You looked tentative as the waitress took your hand, helping you up on the table. Hank looked at you, gazed at your body as you laid back, tried to keep his mind focused on something else and not how you looked sprawled out in front of him. The alcohol let his mind wander. And then your hand halted the waitress and Hank’s mind cleared.

“Y/N?” he asked.

“Hank, you are not drinking a shot out of my bellybutton,” you laughed, glancing around at the other customers doing just that. He didn’t know how to respond so he just stood there looking stupid, feeling stupid for agreeing to this if you were just gonna back out. Fuck, he put himself out there just for you to turn his ass down… You grabbed the salt shaker and looked up at him. “Well? How do you think that salt’s gonna stick, Lieutenant?”

It took him a second to register, but he nodded, grabbing the shot glass the waitress brought over. Slowly, he watched you lift your shirt, saw the exposed skin, almost groaned. You handed him the salt shaker and watched with eager eyes as he dipped his head down toward you. The sensation of his facial hair registered first and then his soft lips pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your abdomen. You inhaled sharply at the sensation, biting your lower lip.

Your fingers almost forgot to fumble for the plate of limes, but you managed to as soon as he started sprinkling the salt on you and then his mouth was back to lick it off your skin. You moaned against the lime in your mouth, unable to hold back.

Hank smirked a little, stood up, took the shot. As he swallowed, he leaned down to get the lime, his mouth lingering over yours before biting into the thing, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Annnd switch!” came the announcer’s voice before Hank was even done.

He pulled back quickly, stood straight, pulled the lime from his mouth, then helped you back off the table.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“My turn,” you chuckled, stepping close to him, pressed your hands to his belly.

“I am not showin’ my shit in here,” he stopped the trail of your hands toward the hem of his shirt.

You shrugged. “Suit yourself,” and instead moved your hands to his collar, pulling it down slightly.

Before Hank knew it, he felt your lips on his neck, tracing your tongue over the sensitive skin, nipping a bit.

“Fuck…” he mumbled, completely aroused at that point.

You sprinkled the salt on the spot then inched up to put your mouth back, flat tongue lapping it up. It ended before he wanted it to and his half-lidded gaze watched as you slammed back the shot.

Fuck.

He grabbed the lime, put it in his mouth, felt like a complete idiot. When he turned back to you, he felt your hands grip on the back of his head, dipped to meet your lips, stopped himself from grinding his body against yours at this close proximity.

Your lips were on his, no shame, no ghosting like he’d done, full-on around the lime, kiss…

You bit the fruit, pulled it from his mouth, tossed it on the plate at the table, then pulled him back in for another kiss.

Hank felt like the floodgates had opened. Fuck, had he thought about what it would be like to kiss you…

His fingers gripped at your hips, pulled you into him, mistakenly let you feel his erection.

“Hank…” you pulled back from the kiss, traced your hands down his torso.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Your order,” came a voice and, go figure, it was that Matt guy holding their burger and fries. “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?”

And there it was, perfect timing for you to pull away from him, slap him, call him a pervert for getting so worked up over this…

“Can we get that to go?” you asked Matt and Hank couldn’t help but stare dumbfounded.

“Uh…yeah…I…yeah,” Matt scurried off.

“Too much?” you asked, gnawing at your lower lip.

Hank felt like his jaw was on the floor still. “I mean, this…you…”

“I’m done being in my feelings, Hank, so I’ll be very forward: I want you. This ends one of two ways tonight and both of them I need to leave.”

Hank felt bold for once tonight. “What are the options?” his voice was deeper, laced with flirtation, arousal. He stepped closer to you to hide his erection in case someone was looking.

“Either I go home alone, cold shower, play with myself to get you off my mind…or you take me home, we eat this together, and see where the night takes us.”

Hank never thought he’d leave half-empty drinks at a bar but on this occasion, he gladly raced out with you in tow: dinner in a to-go box, whiskey half-drunk next to the tip on the table.

So maybe you weren’t lying – you weren’t into Connor after all…

[dracusfyre]

Missed this when you first posted it, so, belated but: #12 from the 50 kisses list? any pairing is fine

The prompt from the prompt list was “ Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss,” and I went with winteriron (surprise!). Setting is CA:TFA meets Iron Man Noir. :D  (Also on AO3) As a warning the set up took 3k words, which probably explains why I am constitutionally incapable of writing PWPs.

----

Bucky watched Steve leave with the lady in red – Agent Carter, Steve had called her – and felt the sour taste of jealousy on his tongue. Turning away, he downed the rest of his glass of cheap rotgut whiskey and gestured for the bartender to give him another. He hated that Carter hadn’t given him so much as a glance, and he hated that Steve had followed her without question, leaving him alone here at the bar, and he hated himself for caring about either; he should be happy for his friend, shouldn’t he, be happy that he was big and strong, America’s golden boy, a lady’s man, able to jump tall buildings in a single bound. A hero. “From zero to hero,” all the newspapers were saying. Meanwhile Bucky was what? Steve’s buddy, his pal, his childhood friend. Not Sergeant Barnes, a rank he’d earned through being the best goddamn sharpshooter in boot camp and being the most well-respected corporal in his unit when their last sergeant got blown to hell. Meanwhile Steve’s a captain, since presumably “Private America” or “Lieutenant America” didn’t have the same ring to it.

“Fuck,” Bucky said, grinding his palms into his eyes. This was what he was talking about. When had he become so bitter? He felt full of broken edges inside, jagged and vicious; maybe they’d pumped him full of poison there on that table, and that’s why Bucky felt like vitriol would come spilling out of him at any moment. He wished there was someone to fight right now, wished for the roar of artillery to drown out these thoughts and a bayonet in his hands so he could have some place for these feelings to go instead of building up inside him like a head of steam. His hands fell away from his eyes and he picked up the whiskey again, draining half of the glass in one go and hissing at the burn.

“Hope you’re drinking the cheap stuff if you’re going to chug it,” a voice said from beside him. Bucky jerked, because he hadn’t even noticed that someone had sat down and that’s a good way to get killed, isn’t it? Even here in jolly old London, jolly old safe London, home of Agent Carter, far from the guns and bombs and needles and lasers-

“Hey,” the voice said again, “are you with me?”

Bucky pulled his gaze from his whiskey and dragged it to the man next to him. The man was watching him with bright blue eyes that were sharp but not unkind; he had a hard time meeting those eyes, so he looked back down at the bar instead. “Whaddaya want?” Bucky asked gruffly.

“Good question,” the man said thoughtfully. Out of the corner of his eye Bucky saw him scratch his chin. “World peace comes to mind right now,” he said, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “A good old American hamburger is on the list,” boy could Bucky sympathize with that, “but for right now, I was mostly really curious why you look like your dog died when everyone else is just celebrating the fact that they’re alive.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Bucky said, still staring at the bar. The truth was tumbling out of his mouth and Bucky couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to. It was fucked up, he knew that, but Bucky had used up all of his ability to pretend everything was ok on Steve. “I guess I don’t have anything to celebrate.” He punctuated that with another swallow of whiskey and wished he’d start getting drunk already.

“You leave someone on the battlefield?” the man asked after a moment, and the understanding in his voice – not the cloying sympathy he’d heard from others, nothing so soft as an I’m sorry but rather a me too, it’s fucking awful isn’t it – made Bucky’s throat feel thick.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Me.”

The man was quiet for a few moments, long enough that Bucky was sure that the man would just get up leave, and that was good, that was fine, Bucky didn’t want company, he just wanted to be left here to drown himself in peace. It’s not like he was lonely, there were dozens of people in this bar, right? He didn’t need Steve, he didn’t need Dum-Dum or Gabe or any of them, and he certainly didn’t need this random fucking stranger-

“Hey, what do you call a soldier who can read and write?”

Bucky stared at him blankly. “What?” he asked as the man just looked at him expectantly.

“What do you call a soldier who can read and write?” the man repeated.

Bucky blinked at him, but apparently the man was serious. “I don’t know, what?”

“Sir, yes sir!” The man said.  “Where does General Marshall keep his armies?”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky asked, but the man just shrugged. “Ok, where?”

“In his sleevies. What’s long and hard and full of seamen?” the man asked next.

“God,” Bucky groaned with a disbelieving laugh, less because the terrible jokes were funny and more because of the self-satisfied look on the man’s face when he said them.  “Why the hell are you telling me these terrible jokes? I just came from the front lines, haven’t I suffered enough?”

“Because you’re a soldier,” the man said with a grin, reaching out to flick the rank on Bucky’s collar. “If I told you good jokes, I’d have to explain them.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky said, but he couldn’t help the grin cracking his face.

“That’s more like it,” the man said. “Here, let me buy you a drink. A real drink,” he added, grimacing at the smell of the cheap whiskey in Bucky’s glass.

“Who are you?” Bucky asked after the bartender poured them both something top shelf, at least, as top shelf as it got during war time. “Because if you’re about to tell me you’re with the USO, you might want to rethink your career.”

“How dare you,” the man said cheerfully. “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

“At you, maybe.”

“I’m Tony,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Bucky,” he said, shaking it. Bucky got a good look at the man this time, realizing just now that he tall and leanly built, dressed less like a man who had gone out for a night on the town and more like someone who had just taken a break from working with his hands and planned to go back to it soon. A mechanic, maybe, or a builder, judging from the nicks and callouses on his hands.

“So are you in London on leave?” Tony asked, sipping on his drink, turning in his seat so he was facing Bucky. “Or are you on your way home?”

Wasn’t that the question? He should be going home, if he had an ounce of brains. “Leave,” Bucky said. He glanced at where the Dum-dum and the others were all still drinking together on the far side of the bar. “And I’ll probably be heading out pretty soon, I guess.” Steve was sure ready to get back into the fight, and why wouldn’t he be? He’d never been one to back down from a fight, even if Bucky had been the one to get the bruised knuckles and bloody noses. He wondered if Steve would be so excited the first time he saw what a German howitzer could do to a human body.

“You got plans before you go?”

Bucky shrugged. “Get drunk and pour myself into bed sometime before morning reveille, I suppose. Why?”

“Well,” Tony said slowly, looking down at his glass and fidgeting with it. “I know you’re wearing a uniform, but I was wondering if you might be active duty.”

Bucky went hot, then cold, with fear at the question, and glanced around to see if anyone had heard. “Are you crazy?” he hissed.

“Aren’t we all? There’s a war on out there, and I’d rather get busy living before I get busy dying,” Tony said. “If you aren’t interested, just say so.”

Bucky studied Tony consideringly. “How did you know I wouldn’t punch you in the face just for asking?”

Tony snorted. “I saw how you looked at your friend as he walked out with that beautiful dame. If you’re going to pretend to be something you’re not – or rather, pretend to not be something that you are – you’re going to need a better poker face.”

Bucky took a sip of his drink and turned the offer over in his head, suddenly aware that he hadn’t had anyone touch him, really touch him, in months. His eyes caught on Tony’s hands again and he couldn’t help imagining how they might feel on him. “What did you have in mind?” he said in a low voice.

“I didn’t think I’d get this far, honestly,” Tony said with a rueful smile. “I was out here on a wing and a prayer. But, uh, I got a room at a hotel?”

Bucky looked down at his uniform. Disheveled though it was, it was distinctive and recognizable. “You can’t smuggle me into a hotel, Tony.”

“Right. I have a workshop,” Tony ventured. “It’s not much, but it’s not far.”

“Okay.” Bucky nodded, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants. “Let’s, um…”

“Finish our drinks first?” Tony suggested.

“Sure.” Bucky took a swallow of his drink, now drinking for courage rather than to forget. “Do you do this a lot?”

“No, not with, uh,” Tony gestured at Bucky and Bucky nodded with understanding.  “But…” Tony took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Once I’m done with the – this project I’m working on, I’m going back to France. Southern France. So I came out for a drink because my workshop was too quiet, then I saw you, and I thought, he doesn’t seem like he should be alone right now, and when I talked to you, I realized that I don’t want to be alone right now, so…yeah.”

“Oh.” Bucky looked at Tony with new eyes, and saw the tiredness around the eyes, the slightly grim cast to his mouth. If Tony was working in southern France, he was probably with the Resistance, and if there was a more shit job than infantry that was definitely one of them. “Carpe diem, eh?” he asked, and tapped his glass against Tony’s.

“I want to carpe something, alright,” Tony said with a smirk.

“You Americans only want one thing,” Bucky complained, lifting his nose in the air and turning his face away. “You should be ashamed.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, doll,” Tony crooned. “I just want to show you a good time, I promise.” Tony risked a hand on Bucky’s leg, just above the knee, and squeezed, fingers rubbing along the inner seam of Bucky’s pants before he withdrew. Bucky almost choked on his whiskey as he inhaled sharply at the touch, heat suddenly thrumming in his veins. There was a glint in Tony’s eye as if he knew exactly the effect he’d had and was looking forward to doing more of it.

Then his face changed as he glanced up and leaned away from Bucky. “You gentlemen doing alright?” The bartender asked, and they both nodded.

“I’ll go ahead and pay my tab,” Tony said, and passed over way too much money for their bill. “Keep the change,” he said, and the bartender disappeared again.

But the reminder that they weren’t actually alone had been like cold water to the face, and suddenly Bucky was ready to leave. “You wanna get out of here?” he asked. He looked at how much alcohol was left and drank it all, coughing a little at the burn.

“Sure,” Tony said, taking one last swallow of his own before pushing it aside. Bucky stood and hesitated, remembering that the others were sitting by the front door and he’d have to pass them to get out of the bar. Tony touched his arm and jerked his head towards the back of the bar. Night had fallen while they were inside, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust; citywide blackout conditions meant that they only had the moonlight to see by, which was a week or so away from being full. “This way,” Tony said, and the hand on his arm slid down until Tony was curling his fingers around Bucky's palm.

The simple touch of another hand in his own made the words get stuck in Bucky’s throat, so he just held on, gripping maybe a little too tightly while Tony led him through the narrow streets and back alleys of London town. Tony stopped as their narrow alley emptied out into a larger street, moonlight gilding the pavement silver. He backed them up a bit, then herded Bucky into a dark corner away from the busier street.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky whispered, wondering if Tony had seen something on the street, like police or other Army officers or something. Instead, Tony just crowded him against the wall, arms coming up to bracket Bucky’s shoulders.

“Can I kiss you?” Tony whispered.

Bucky nodded, then realized it was probably too dark for Tony to see him, so instead he fisted his hands into Tony’s shirt and pulled him closer, sliding his hands up Tony’s chest to frame his face so he could slant his mouth across Tony’s. Tony made a soft hum, deep in his throat, and leaned in until Bucky could feel him from chest to knee. The stone wall was cold against his back, but Tony was so warm, so solid; Bucky suddenly wanted that weight on top of him, pressing him into a mattress. Tony’s mouth was hungry, and Bucky reveled in it; he could taste whiskey on Tony’s tongue and chased it with his own. Tony’s hands were fumbling at his jacket, then at his shirt underneath, trying to find skin. Bucky let go of Tony long enough to help him, trying to pull his shirt out from where he had tucked it into his pants because suddenly he wanted Tony’s hands on him more than he’d wanted anything, ever; this was glorious, it was heady, it was exactly the forgetting that he had been wanting. Then Tony was finally touching him, hands almost hot, the roughness of his callouses as he stroked along Bucky’s ribs making him feel like a plucked string. Relief swelled in him as fire crawled in his veins, making him feel lighter and more alive than he had in months. Tony slipped a thigh between Bucky’s legs and Bucky almost sobbed at the pressure against his aching hardness, especially when he realized that Tony was hard too.

He didn’t realize he was crying until Tony pulled away and Bucky could taste salt on his lips. “Bucky?” Tony said softly. “Are you ok?”

And to his dismay Bucky felt a sob burst out of him, all of the anger and bitterness and joy and loss and fear overflowing like a levee had broken. He felt arms wrapping around him and he buried his face in Tony’s neck and cried into his rough linen shirt. Tony didn’t say anything, didn’t try to comfort him or tell him well-meaning lies like it’ll be ok and you’ll be alright, he just held him close until the sobs trailed away into a stuffy nose and a headache.

Bucky finally straightened, feeling his face burning in the dark. “Christ, I’m so-“ Bucky started, but Tony stopped him with a kiss.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Tony said, digging into his pocket and handing Bucky a handkerchief. Tony’s hands came up to cradle Bucky’s elbows and he rested his head against Bucky’s forehead. “All of that has to go somewhere or it will eat you up inside. I’m glad that I could be here for you when you needed it.”

Bucky grimaced but he had to admit he felt better, like a flood had washed him clean inside. Except, of course, for the embarrassment of having cried on someone he was just about to get off with.  “Do you still wanna…?”

“Do you?” Tony asked. They were still cradled in the soft darkness of the night, and Tony’s breath was a puff of warmth on Bucky’s lips; he could smell the whiskey on his breath and the faint threat of Tony’s cologne and what might be grease. There was the faintest murmur of conversation from pedestrians on the big street nearby, but it felt like they were in their own little world here, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to be able to disappear into that as long as possible. So he nodded, knowing that Tony could feel it. “Then I do, too.”

The next morning came all too soon; Bucky sighed with resignation when he saw the clock and realized he’d have to leave now to sneak back to his barracks before morning formation.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” Tony offered, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Bucky’s face. They had ended up on a cot that Tony kept in his workshop, which was better than the floor but meant that they had pretty much had to be on top of one another all night in order to fit.

“No, if I get caught then it’s just breaking curfew, getting caught with someone else would just raise more questions.” Bucky kissed Tony’s forehead, the only place he could reach, then started to slide out from under him and get dressed.

“By the way,” Tony said, rolling over onto his back to watch Bucky pull his clothes on, “my full name is Tony Stark.”

“You mean, like the character from the book?” Bucky said skeptically. “Come on. You don’t gotta give me a fake name, here.”

“It’s not fake,” Tony protested. “I am the character from the book.”

“You mean he was named after you?”

“No that’s –�� Tony sat up with a huff, looking outraged. “The books are about me.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky said as he tucked his shirt into his pants. “That stuff can’t possibly be true, with Atlantis and magic masks and hidden temples and shit.”

“It is. If we had more time I’d show you,” Tony insisted. “And it’s not magic, just science we haven’t figured out yet.”

Bucky thought about blue beams of light that made people disappear as if they’d never existed, and a man who could rip his face off to show just a bloody skull underneath. “I guess,” he conceded. “So you’re a celebrity, eh? Wait until I tell absolutely nobody that I slept with a celebrity,” he said wryly, then did a double take as a thought occurred to him. “Wait, they sent you, a celebrity, into Vichy France?”

Tony winced. “That’s why I don’t tell people my real name,” he said. “It’s not like people can recognize me from the cheesy cover art of those books. I was just telling you so that…you know, in case, after the war – if there is an after – maybe you could look me up.”

“Oh.” Bucky sat down on the edge of the cot and cupped Tony’s cheek in one hand, running a thumb over his cheekbone. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

[espoirmerveilleux]

You’d think I would’ve learned by now

I’m going to be good. Sensible. Post this and then put the laptop away, the phone on the charger for the night and go watch football and not worry. So she says. And if you believe that I’ve got a lovely piece of oceanfront property in South Dakota, but it comes at a price.

Anyroad, I haven’t exactly got an update yet, but I’ve got a lot, and a big chunk of it from today alone. I’m happy with it, by and large. So I’m being foolish once again and sharing the newest bit (which I don’t think I’ll edit much in the end).

Right. So eventually this will be a part of the next chapter of Look After You. Which is taking on a life of it’s own and I’m kind of just along for the ride.

If you’re interested, you can read more below the cut.

He is gasping. “Isobel. Fuck, baby.” Like he’s every bit as much in disbelief as she. 

“Yes,” she agrees softly, finding her voice. It’s husky now; she’s given it quite a workout. She laughs at that, at the realisation that it’s just like it is when he’s there beside her, and she feels so good now, like everything is right with the universe. “Oh, my darling man, I love you!”

“And I love you. And whatever that was …” His voice is full and gravelly; she can hear sleep closing in on him. She loves him in these moments; there’s a bald sort of intimacy that comes after sex and just before sleep and she’d be hard pressed to quantify it, except to say that it’s pure. There’s a stillness of heart and a clear certainty that this is right; they are right. They are for each other. 

“We’ll have to do that again,” she tells him, “only I can’t figure how, seeing as you belong to me for good come Friday.”

“Oi,” he rumbles, “you’re wrong you know.” He allows it to sit there between them, and she could swear he can see her ire rising because he comes back with, “I’ve been yours for years now. You just needed to come to it in your own time,” at just the right juncture. 

She chuckles, hums her agreement. “I suppose you could always ring me when you’re out mowing the lawn. Start things going on the phone and then finish inside. Best of both worlds.”

“That turns you on, does it: axle grease on my shirt and bits of grass in my hair?” The grin he wears is audible and her heart does a funny little hiccup. 

She is caught on the back foot by the effervescent joy he radiates through the telephone line; she makes him happy. It’s still such a novel thought, and a part of her hopes that the wonderment will linger indefinitely. 

“As a matter of fact, yes, it does rather. As does finishing. With you inside …” She laughs in oversensitised agreement when he moans softly. “Better watch out or you’ll get me going again!”

“If that’s what you want, I'm happy to oblige, but I reckon I need a good few hours of sleep before a repeat performance.” He is slurring words now, clearly hitting a wall, and she wonders whether he’ll clean up first or simply collapse where he lies. 

“I’m so glad we played tonight, love. I took a big risk—“

“Tell me you weren’t thinking I’d be cross—“

“No; not cross, exactly, just … Look, we’re still new enough at this; there wasn’t a precedent. I suppose I thought perhaps you’d find me overly eager, or … I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter now because it went well and—“

“Isobel?” he interrupts. “Beauty, I say this … in the kindest way I know how … Do shut up.”

“I— Okay— I don’t—“ Whatever she thought he might say, that wasn’t it. 

“That was the single most erotic experience of my entire life. Don’t you dare go and try to qualify what you did. It was every fantasy I’ve ever had, all rolled into one, and you’d best be ready when I get home on Friday because, this quickly, I need you again. Alright?”

“What a hardship. However shall I bear it?”

“Are you ready, sweetheart? Because get ready—“ he tells her, but a yawn overtakes him, swallowing up the last few words. 

She laughs, full of joy and free of inhibition. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Major.”

“Oh, I’ll make a believer of ye.” He yawns again. “But now I’m for bed, and ye’d best be as well.”

She can see him stretched out amongst the covers, all loose-limbed and still bare, looking good enough to eat and warm and wonderful to lie with. The weight of distance rushes in, settles heavy on her heart. “I am, I— I will, soon. Just going to put the lad out, make sure we’re locked up. The trouble is, your pillow doesn’t hold me, or wake me up with a coffee and a kiss. Or wake me for other reasons entirely.”

“What can I do for you? Ring you in the morning?” He is so sincere; she can see the look in his eyes that accompanies his words. 

She swallows hard round the lump in her throat. “Only if it fits into your schedule. You know I’m alright. I’ll be fine.”

“Quite right; I do know. But you don’t sound convinced.”

“No, no; I’ll be brilliant. Elsie’s here and as soon as the tradesmen go we’ve plans to go shopping.  And I’ll cook something splendid in our brand new kitchen, and we’ll get squiffy together and it’ll be great fun. Alright?”

“There’s my girl,” he agrees. 

“ … But you’ll be on my mind the entire time, and I’ll be wondering what you’re doing whilst I’m getting breakfast, and trying on things I intend to buy for your enjoyment, and getting drunk and stupid.”

“That’s exactly as it’s meant to be, then. You know I’ll be waking up, wondering why you’re not there, soft and warm beside me, all sexy, sleepy eyes. And there’ll be a cold shower that’ll just succeed at taking the edge off, and after I’m through bitching about traffic and substandard coffee I’ll miss you beside me in theatre. Those looks you give that reassure me I’m still on my game; even the ones that say I’m making a hash of it and I’d best step aside. And when it’s all over and you’re not there to work the kinks out of my shoulders, or to lie on the couch with your head on my chest whilst the rugby’s on. You think it’s just you feeling out of sorts but it’s not, love. I’m only half myself when you’re not around.”

She’s silent for a moment, long enough that he calls her name. “Oh, hell, Richard. I hadn’t cried since early morning, and now that’s right out. I don’t deserve you, wonderful man.”

“That son of yours would beg to differ.”

He is referring, of course, to the conversation he had with Matthew in the pub as he was psyching himself up to propose to Isobel. The one during which Matthew told Richard that his mother was as happy with him in her life as she’d been with Matthew’s father. He’d also asserted that, between Isobel’s hand-wringing over whether he’d ever get round to asking, and Richard’s doubting that she’d ever accept him, they absolutely deserved one another. 

“Best not challenge him on that score then, eh? Right you are.” A conversational pause, and then, “You’re shattered, darling. I hear it in your voice. You’re a love to keep chatting to me, but I shan’t keep you any longer.”

“No, no; do stay on the line with me, please. I can’t feel you beside me, but you sound as if you’re right here. You haven’t got to say anything if you don’t want. Just listening to you breathe is lovely. Unless you think me exceedingly soppy, that is …”

“Hush, my love. There’s nothing I’d rather do. Now, are you comfortable? Not going to sleep on the wet spot, are you?”

He barks a laugh. “Nope. That’s what my t-shirt is for.”

“Ah. Very good.” She grins. “Alright, so we’ve just made love and you’re all … like you get—“

“Oh? And how’s that?”

“No more talking, pet. You’re all … lax and tousled. Sexy. Warm. Vulnerable. And you’re too sensitive, so you’ve turned on your side, facing away. But you fuss at me about wanting me close—“

“I do not fuss,” he objects. 

“I said, ‘hush.’ And you do so fuss, but luckily for you I find it endearing, so I press up against your back—“

“Still naked, I hope—“

“Oi. Whose story is this? I’m not the one has to be up for work in six hours. Now shall I continue, or what?”

“I’m a lovely man, remember. It’s what you said. And wonderful.” When she says nothing, he adds, “And I’m shutting up now.”

“Right. Yes, fine, I’m still naked, and I’m pressed up against your back, kissing the freckles on your shoulder blade. Running my fingers through your hair, across your forehead. Telling you all the things nobody else knows: that I love you, our life together. Who I am now that you’re with me, how you see the world.” She is rambling, but it’s just what she does when he’s there in her arms, both of them giddy with exhaustion. So she closes her eyes, breathing deep and becoming the story she’s telling. 

“I love the sound of your breath and the silk of your hair between my fingers, the way your heart beats through your back and into my chest. Like we’re one being. I love the way your brow smoothens out as you drop off to sleep, the way you breathe deeper, more freely. I love knowing that you trust me enough to let me hold you, your body and your heart, all the secrets you’ve shared with me. Just me. I’m so thankful that you’ve opened yourself up to me: your heart and your arms, your bed. Your life, present and future. I’m grateful to be where you are, darling man. I’ll always be yours. Your lover; your friend. Anything; everything that you need me to be.”

“I love you, Isobel,” she hears him breathe, barely conscious. 

“I know, husband mine. Sleep now. I’m with you. I am. And I love you so. With all I have and all that I am, I love you.”

[artificialqueens]

Elastic Heart Part 8/10 (Branjie) - Mia Ugly

A/N: Thanks so much to artificialmeggie for the read-over and feedback on this update!!  And thank you to everyone who’s been reading and commenting. Fanfic takes a village, and the AQ village is everything.

We’re getting close to the finish line, and I hope to have it all done and posted within the next week so that I can stop worrying about canon messing with me. Also, if you want to know the inspiration behind this title and lip sync, check out Brooke Lynn Hytes’ performance of “Elastic Heart” on youtube.  Dear God, do it now.

Brock has this thing about winning. 

It’s a mean thing.

An ugly thing.

And it’s worked for him, for countless pageants, for Miss Continental, for Drag Race (for most of Drag Race, anyway.) He knows it’s connected to anxiety and perfectionism and self-esteem and whatever, knows it’s got something to do with that gasping hole in his chest (below the breastbone, left of the third rib) the one that’s always hungry, the one that can never be full. 

It’s a - whole mood.

It’s why he hasn’t had any real relationships, just short breathless hookups that ended in ignored texts and missed calls.

It’s why the thing with Jose was such a consummate disaster. Because it messed up the plan, the strategic and well-designed flowchart that Brock had for his life and the direction it was going to take.  Jose was not part of that plan.  A crown was.

And Brock had chances to change it, to back out, to cut ties. He had so many chances and after the Snatch Game - he tried. Like an asshole, he tried.  It was safer for them to be separate; Brock wasn’t so confused then.  It was safer when Vanjie wasn’t looking at him with those slanted eyebrows and soft smile, it meant Brock could focus. Could feed that part of himself that told him he wasn’t good enough.  

Told him he wasn’t enough, period.

If they had been talking much at the time he would have told Vanessa: I can’t think when you’re near me and I’m not going to put us both in the bottom two and that look on your face makes me forget what I’m doing here.

But instead he said nothing.

He watches the latest episode at a club in Nashville and performs some Ariana for them when it’s over.  As he leaves the stage, he realizes that his knee is throbbing.  It’s an old dance injury that returns now and then (a ghost to keep him company.)  Brock tries to stay and mingle but the pain is making him pricklier than usual; around 1 am he leaves in full drag and catches a cab home. He changes into his usual t-shirt and sweats, and is taking off his paint in the bathroom (leg stretched out on the toilet, icepack on his knee).

Then the phone rings.

When he sees Jose’s name, he almost doesn’t answer it. 

He’s just not in a place to talk to him right now.  He’s too wound up, and he’s in pain, and he’s worried his heart might give out like his knee if he hears Jose’s voice. 

The phone rings. Rings.

Fuck you, heart, Brock thinks and picks up.

At first there’s silence on the other end.  Then a breath.  Then another.

“Hey mama.”  The sound of the other man’s voice is like a lighthouse. “Weren’t you s’posed to call me or somethin’? I thought we’re gonna plan all this shit, all our statements and - then I get the cold shoulder, what’s goin’ on?”

There’s something a bit more musical than usual about the way Jose’s talking. A rolling rhythm, a slight drag on his vowels.

“You’re drunk,” Brock says, and Jose laughs, a gorgeously painful sound. 

Of course he’s drunk. Why would he call Brock if he wasn’t?

“Nah, girl, just - well maybe.  Back from the club, celebratin’ that my ass still on the show. You know. Everyone’s been talking at me about you, thought I better hit you up.”

“What club?” Brock wipes off his lipstick, turns slowly back to his beige-coloured self. “Where are you?”

“I’m in…” Jose pauses too long. “Shit.  Where’m I? Chicago.  That’s right.  Bitch, I’m from Chicago. Where you at?”

“Home.” 

“Damn. You on the other side of the world.”

Brock snorts, peeling off his lashes.  “A seven hour drive is the other side of the world, eh?”

“Look at you, soundin’ all Canadian.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking aboot.”

Jose laughs again, and the tipsy affection in his voice makes Brock squeeze his eyes shut, as if that will somehow block out the sound.  He doesn’t want to hear it.  It makes him miss Jose like he’d miss a vital organ, his left arm, his tongue.

“So.  So. Why did I - oh yeah, we’re planning. Scheming.  Gonna rob a bank or something.”

“Girl, you are so wasted.” 

“I’d be your getaway driver. You know, Fast and the Furious style.”

“Maybe if the whole drag thing doesn’t work out.” Brock’s smiling stupidly to himself, and he catches that look in the mirror.  It’s the expression he’s only ever seen on the show - the ‘Vanjie smile’, small and hopeless.  Seeing it in real life is a bit terrifying. “You can be Vin Diesel.”

“Shut your lyin’ mouth, ho! If I’m anyone it’s the Rock.” 

“Fine, Jesus. Be the Rock, if that’s your deal-breaker.” Brock leaves the bathroom, only half finished but unable to stand in front of a mirror any longer.  He sits down on his sofa, leg propped out on the coffee table with the ice pack balanced on it.  He smells terrible, like sweat and hairspray.  Christ, he needs a shower. “So. Just a couple more episodes left, and then -”

“Then you burnt it down. Not something I’ma forget.” The laughter in Jose’s voice fades. “How you feelin’ about watching it all?”

“Not great.  I don’t know – how it’s going to look, how they’re going to make it look.” Brock was basically moving on auto-pilot after it was over. There are a lot of pieces missing. “What if I, like, blacked out and did that Celine Dion impression again?”

“I dunno if I’d call what you did an ‘impression.’”

“And the library is open.” Brock winces a bit at the memory, because the reads during that last episode were too affectionate.  He’d been trying to play it cool then, make it clear he was all about the show and not just some sucker for a gorgeous face. But watching the edits, it’s almost like he went too hard in the opposite direction.  No wonder they were both fucked up about it.

“Also bitch, I was there that night. I think I woulda remembered if you went full Celine. Had flashbacks and shit.”

“You might have repressed it. On account of the trauma.”

“Guess we’ll both be in for a surprise then.”

God, Brock hopes not. That whole lip sync against Vanessa still feels unreal.  Some parts are so clear they’re like photographs, and others are like kindergarten drawings.  He knows they’re meant to mean something, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what. 

“So what are you going to say? When it airs.  We’ve got, like, two episodes left.”

“Does it matter?”

It does matter, it matters to Brock so much almost can’t put words to it.  

“Yes.”

“I’ll say… ha, I’ll say I paid you off.  Like boxing and shit. I was betting on the winner and gave you all my meme money to throw it.” Jose’s tone is bright like he’s joking, but there’s something underneath his words that’s a bit sharper. Something that sets Brock’s teeth on edge. “Or maybe I’ll say you’re a damn fool who forgot how to dance.”

“Yeah, you could.”

“Or maybe I’ll say -” Jose suddenly stops talking. Brock hears him rummaging around, hears some sort of movement in the background.  And then there’s silence.

“Hey. You good?” Brock asks after the silence goes on too long.  

He’s only a little concerned that Jose may have passed out, when Jose breathes a quiet laugh in response.

“So good, boo, you got no idea. Just - livin’ my best life. You know, walkin’ backwards.” There’s something tragic in his tone, and then more movement. “Brock -” 

The way he says the name sounds urgent, but then it trails off into nothing. Brock waits for the rest of it.   Waits.  

“Yes?”

“What? Nah, I jus’ like sayin’ your name. Brock.  Brooke. I like ‘em both.” Jose makes an odd choked sound on the other end of the line. “What you doin’ now?”

“Taking off my face. I was working tonight.”

“You get those dollar bills, mama?”

“Of course I did.”

“You got anyone there with you?”  

There’s an intensity in the question that makes Brock hesitate.  

“Anyone as fine as me?” Jose continues, and Brock’s mouth goes a bit dry.  

“No.” He swallows. “Um. Do you?”

“Fuck no. Who’d that be? Ain’t no one -” Jose cuts himself off, and Brock feels something rising inside him, a wave of wanting that started at the first rasp of Jose’s voice on the line.  “That damn lip sync of yours is still all over my pages.”

“Yeah?” ” Brock doesn’t know where this conversation is going, but something feels - too intense.  Too desperate. His heart beats against his chest a bit too hard.

Jose whistles. “Been playing it on repeat just to look at Yvie’s ass.”

“Bitch.” Brock grins, even though he’s starting to feel all blurry around the edges. “I knew it.”

“But damn, girl, you were fine as hell. I remember thinkin’ - watching you dance -”

Heat rises to Brock’s face.  Jose is drunk, there’s no way he would be saying any of this otherwise.

“- like how the fuck did she somehow - how did she end up -”

There is a feeling like electricity running over Brock’s skin and under it.  Through his bones, his veins. He can’t say anything in reply.

“ - with me? Like I get to to look at her, and fucking - kiss her -”

“Jose -”

“Wish I could see you now.  Miss your stupid face, your fucking hands.  I miss your mouth -”

“Jesus,” Brock gasps.  This is not how he thought this was going to go. “I miss you too.”

“Don’t - you don’t gotta talk none, just let me okay? Just let me.” Jose’s breathing is heavy, and there’s another sound like rustling fabric. “Gotta take my shirt off.”

“Jesus,” Brock says again, sweat breaking out over his neck, his chest.  This can’t actually be happening.  He hasn’t had anything but water and energy drinks tonight, he’s not - prepared. He’s entirely too sober.  He’s going to do something stupid, say something -

“You think about me?” Jose continues, voice rough. “You want me?”

What could it hurt to be honest? For fucking once, Brock. “Fuck yes. All the -”

“I think about you, about riding you.  Bet you would fuck like you dance, hey? So damn pretty.  Are you touching yourself?”

Brock wants to but he isn’t, doesn’t know the rules here. He’s hard in his sweatpants, and his free hand has started to travel down his abdomen, trace the fine hairs below his bellybutton.

“I am,” Jose gasps, “Brock, baby - please -”

“Oh my god.” Brock closes his eyes, imagining Jose on some shitty hotel bed, shirt off, pants undone. It’s like he’s there, right in front of him, almost close enough to touch. Brock can smell his sweat, smell his cologne, wants to drag his tongue up the crease between his hip and his thigh. His hand slips beneath his waistband and he - his body wants this, but the rest of him feels -

“Get off for me, baby,” Jose’s voice breaks. “I wanna hear what you sound like, wanna hear you -”

Brock strokes himself, feeling a bit like he’s having an out-of-body experience. He’s never done this before - sent the odd pic, but never - nothing like this. His body feels overheated, every inch of his skin is sensitive. Goosebumps are rising all over his shoulders, and his cock is so wet, like he’s already there, seconds away.  He can only hear Jose’s rasping breaths on the other line, a rhythm that’s rising. Brock wishes he could see him. Touch him.  

“If you were here - fuck,” Jose moans into the phone, “I’d let you do anything you wanted, let you -”

Brock’s hand is speeding up, his hips making tiny thrusting movements into his fist.  He drops his head back against the couch, lets Jose’s voice wrap him up in rough silk.

“ - touch me all over.  Those big hands of yours, I been thinking about them. Want your fingers in my mouth.”

“Jose -”

“I wish you were touchin’ me right now, wish it was your hand. I’m so close just - oh fuck, fuck I’m -”

Brock recognizes the sounds that follow. Recognizes them from that one night in the hotel room during Drag Race, his mouth between Jose’s legs, his hands everywhere and lit up from the inside like all his bones were matches. 

He can see Jose’s back arching from behind his closed eyes and it’s too sweet, too much. Brock’s voice breaks as a strangled, foreign sound forces its way out of his chest. He can still taste Jose in his mouth, and the memory brings everything to a crescendo.  Suddenly Brock is coming in his hand, and he doesn’t know how it happened so fast but it’s been so long and Jose’s voice and his laugh and oh Christ, oh my God, oh - 

He trembles as he strokes himself through it, breathing like he’s just run a marathon. There is silence on the other line and Brock drops his head, doesn’t move. 

He tries to catch his breath, sticky and uncomfortable and boneless with longing. His knee throbs and he realizes that at some point the ice pack slid onto the floor. 

This was not what he envisioned when he thought about his first time getting off with Jose. (But what had he envisioned? Rose petals and champagne? Had there been an ending anywhere in sight or was it just about the show and the rest of the timeline was blank? Had he thought about it, or had it just been a fucking dream?)

Brock’s almost afraid to say anything, break the silence.  What does this mean for them - anything at all?  After everything that’s happened, is there a reason to think this matters? Or is it just something that Jose does on the daily when he’s buzzed and lonely?

“Jose?”

There is no answer.  Brock can hear slow breathing, just barely, on the other line. 

“Have you fallen the fuck asleep?” he says, a bit louder. Nothing.

Unbelievable. Brock would laugh if he wasn’t afraid he’d start crying. He says Jose’s name a couple more times, only to get mumbling in response (and a frankly adorable snore but don’t let anyone know he said that.) 

Jesus Christ.  He feels like an idiot. He feels - feels - 

(“Now the real reason I keep kissing you,” Brooke’s heart is beating like a kickdrum in her chest, be cool, be cool for once, “is to get you to shut the fuck up.”

Vanessa’s smile in response is something to write songs about. It’s shy and proud and embarrassed and everything that always seems to smack Brooke in the face, knock her to the ground. 

“I’ll take that.” Vanjie tilts her head and Brooke forgets all the reasons that she wanted to slow things down, forgets how to count money and block out her eyebrows, forgets the name of her first grade teacher and the smell of her hometown. Forgets why she’s even in this competition, and that - that’s a huge fucking problem.)

“Night, boo,” Brock says to the universe, before he hangs up. He finishes taking off his face, and gets in the shower, and tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about the water running over his skin the way he wishes Jose’s fingers would. Tries not to remember anything about tonight, lets his mind go blank and blissful. Lets his body take over, go through the motions of drying itself off, and dressing itself up, and swooning into bed.

The text he’s expecting comes the next morning (well, morning for drag queens so around noon.)

“Sorry bout last night i was white girl wasted”

“Brock im so so sorry shit im stupid”

“next time i call you late don’t answer :(”

Brock doesn’t text back. 

* * *

And the music plays.

“Oh why can I not conquer love?”

Brooke moves the way she’s born to, feeling each beat of the song in the bones of her hips.  She’s a fucking performer, this is what she does. She tries to focus on making eye contact with Ru, with Michelle, tries to command the stage and dare them not to want her. She glances over to see Vanjie more than matching her, hitting each beat of the music with a punch. 

Brooke looks away before she can get distracted, crossing the stage and posing where the lights hit her just right. She spins, she stretches, she waits for the moment to make her move.

“And I might have thought you’d be the one..”

Brooke glances over at Vanjie again. Girl has dropped to her knees and is crawling across the floor, back arched like a cat. Her skin shines, perpetually glittery, and Brooke can remember the taste of her tongue, the sweet pressure of her mouth.

And then Vanessa rises to her knees, tilts her head toward the stage lights. Brooke’s about to look away (FOCUS) but before she can - 

- she sees a tear runs down Vanessa’s face. 

Just one.  

Black with mascara. Delicate as a line of calligraphy. 

Brooke snaps her head forward.  She doesn’t - she can’t - she won’t think about that right now, she’s not hear to think about that. She’s a drag queen and this is a fucking competition and she came here to win it.

She listens to the music, and it swells, it swells.  Sia’s voice crescendoes and Brooke takes a breath, prepares to slide into the splits and then -

(Once upon a time, in a small Canadian town, there was a boy who wanted to be a dancer.  

He was late to start but he worked harder than the other students, practiced longer.  This boy had a dance teacher, and even though he worked harder and practiced longer, his teacher did not like him. She only saw his flaws, and saw them often.  She was constantly finding something to criticize - the height of his jumps, the strength of his arms.  And though the years passed and the boy learned to dance and dance well, his teacher did not change. She was never satisfied.

When the boy left the small Canadian town at last, at long last, he asked his teacher why.  She waited for a moment before she replied. 

“You dance with your head. Your head is in control of your performance. Technically you have the skills, but a truly great dancer must listen to their body.  Listen to their heart.”

The boy left the small Canadian town, and kept dancing.  And he listened to his head, and he built walls made of brick and stone, and he never looked back.)

Brooke takes a breath, prepares to slide into the splits and then -

She doesn’t move.

NO 

It’s not even a decision, it’s just a moment and the moment is gone. And it’s - fine, Brooke’s a dancer, she can turn it the fuck out, it’s not too late. She can - she’ll just - Brooke spins into the music, prepares to fall flat into a death drop in time with the beat and then.  

And then she doesn’t.

NO NO 

Her body is not moving.  Her movements are stopping (there was a tear on Vanessa’s face, it was black like ink.) 

DON’T DON’T YOU’RE THROWING IT WHAT THE FUCK ARE 

Brooke can’t get enough air, sees fireworks across her vision. It’s not too late, she just has to - move, she has to -

But she doesn’t. She slowly comes to a stop on stage. Why isn’t she moving? What is happening? She can’t even look at the judges, can’t meet their eyes. She clenches her hands into fists, the possibility of winning this moving farther and farther, waves carrying it beyond her reach. 

“You won’t see me fall apart.”

And then all of sudden, Vanjie realizes what’s going on.  Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke sees Vanjie stiffen. It’s like a stutter in her heartbeat, and Brooke can’t help but turn to look at her. She sees Vanessa’s wide, dark eyes, sees her give a horrified little shake of her head, ‘no’.  

Vanjie doesn’t stop dancing, though, and Brooke stands in one place, staring at her, trying to breathe. Vanessa finishes the song with her signature twisty death drop, arching off the floor with her hand out-stretched (“That’s a star, right?”) as Sia half-whispers half-sings the last line.

“I’ve got an elastic heart.”

When it ends, Brooke is shaking.  

Her hands are trembling so much she has to hold them behind her back so nobody notices and calls for a medic. There are applause from the judges but Vanessa is not smiling.  A smudged tear-track still lingers on her cheek.  

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WHAT DID YOU

“Vanessa Vanjie Mateo,” Ru says, not even taking a moment to think it over. “Shantay you stay.”

Brooke hears cheering from Silky and A’Keria, and she nods.  The sounds seem to be coming from somewhere far away, another room.

Vanjie releases a shaky breath, whispers, “Thank you so much” (barely audible, voice breaking) and then is suddenly crossing the stage and in Brooke’s arms. Brooke can’t speak, can’t understand what’s happening, can only hold Vanessa like the world is ending, breathe in the smell of her skin like it might be the last time she gets to. 

She doesn’t know what to say.  She doesn’t know how to let her go.

“Brooke -” Vanjie is shaking like a leaf, pulse racing.

“You -” Brooke searches for words but they scatter like ashes. So she says the only thing she can remember.  “- you want a ring or some shit?” 

Vanjie pulls back, eyes flooding with tears. 

“Brooke Lynn Hytes.” Ru’s voice makes them split apart and the absence of Vanjie in her arms is like a broken bone. 

Brooke tries to get it together. Tries to remember who she was before this whole mess started.  She’s Brooke Lynn Hytes, she was Miss fucking Continental, damn it, she had a plan -

She doesn’t remember how she gets offstage. Ru says something in parting, and she smiles and plays the grateful queen, and as she passes the girls Yvie grabs her, hisses “What the fuck did you -” but it’s all like moving underwater. Somehow Brooke’s back in the werkroom.  Somehow Brooke’s staring shell-shocked into the camera, holding the statuette in her hand.

“Brooke,” a producer keeps repeating, “Brooke, do you need a minute? Are you ready? Brooke, are you okay? Can someone get her some water?”

She blinks, stupidly. 

“I’m - in love with him,” she says to herself.

As soon as she says it, it’s like a bomb going off.  There’s a ringing in her ears, and her mouth tastes like honey and thorns. How can this be possible? The werkroom looks the same, Brooke’s hands and arms are the same shape, but that doesn’t make sense. The whole world should be a different colour if Brooke is in love. There should be fish swimming through the walls. 

Everything should be changed in the wake of this earthquake.

“Oh my god.” Brooke looks at the camera with wide, horrified eyes. “I love him.”

That’s when she remembers she’s on television.

[fourthingsandawizard]

Firewhisky

Dan is fast asleep at Hogwarts when he gets a 2am call from a Firewhisky-fueled Phil in the club

Rating: Gen

Words: 1752

Relationship: Dan Howell & Phil Lester; friendship; phan if you squint

Tags: wizard au; Hogwarts au; Youtuber Dan; Youtuber Phil; muggleborn Dan; pureblood Phil; Hufflepuff Dan; Hogwarts grad Phil

Read on ao3

a/n: Written for @phandomficfests​ 2019 Bingo to fill the prompts birthday, drug/alcohol use, and writer’s choice (which I made magic au)

**This oneshot takes place in the Dan and Phil Hogwarts/Modern Day Wizards AU established in my chaptered fic Galaxies and Greenhouses, which should probably be read before reading this fic, but isn't absolutely necessary.

(If you don't want to read the chaptered fic first, main takeaway info needed for this fic: yes, Dan is a Hufflepuff in my au, fight me; also, Phil and PJ worked together to make a wizard smartphone equivalent out of a magic mirror, aka SmartMirror, that bypasses the Hogwarts ban on Muggle tech)

Dan groaned as his eyes slowly blinked open. He breathed sharply through his nose and stretched his long limbs across all four corners of his bed, resulting in a satisfying pop in one of his joints.

As he let his eyes begin to drift shut again, he noticed that he wasn’t hearing his housemates bustling around the room and starting their days while he, as usual, slept the morning away with his bed curtains drawn tight. Curious, he reached over and parted the heavy yellow drapes, only to be met with moonlight streaming into the dormitory and the soft snores of the other seventh year Hufflepuff boys.

Dan let the curtains fall together again and collapsed back against his pillow, wondering what could have possibly woken him up in the middle of the night, when suddenly he received his answer: a faint buzzing was coming from somewhere underneath his duvet.

Fumbling through his bed sheets in the darkness, Dan’s fingers finally closed around his SmartMirror. Bringing it closer to his face, he was nearly blinded by the screen, which displayed the unflattering closeup that Dan had set as Phil’s contact photo, along with the time and date: nearly two in the morning on the 30th of January.

Dan somehow managed to groggily accept the call, bringing the device up to his ear. “‘lo?”

“DAN!”

Dan jerked away from the sudden onslaught of sound, both from Phil’s unexpectedly loud greeting and the cacophony of background noises and music behind him.

“DAN? DAN, ARE YOU STILL THERE?” Wincing, Dan brought the SmartMirror closer again. “Yeah, Phil, I’m here,” he half whispered, “but why the hell are you calling this late?”

“DAN, IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! TELL ME HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAN! I THINK IT’S THE LAW!”

Dan rolled his eyes, chuckling fondly. “Yeah, yeah, happy birthday, dork.”

“WHAT?”

“Happy birthday!”

“DAN? ARE YOU THERE?”

“I SAID HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Merlin’s sake!” Dan finally had to almost yell for Phil to hear over the pounding music behind him.

“Oi! Howell!”

Dan’s bed curtains were suddenly ripped open, revealing a bed-headed and irritated housemate.

“Some of us are trying to sleep here, yeah? Slughorn has that nasty N.E.W.T. practice exam for us tomorrow, remember?”

Dan felt the tell-tale rosy patch on his cheek flush red and was thankful for the darkness of the dormitory. “Er, sorry, I’ll just…” He jerked his head towards the door, grabbing his wand and slipping out of bed.

Once he was safely in the quiet of the empty common room, he brought the phone back up to his ear, settling into one of the plush yellow armchairs facing the dwindling fire in the hearth.

“Phil? You still there?”

“Why, hello there, Daniel. Fancy meeting you here at this late hour, eh?”

Dan frowned at the familiar Northern voice, although it wasn’t the one he had been expecting.

“Chris? Where’s Phil?”

“Ah, well, our no-longer young Mr. Philip is currently finishing off what I believe is his third birthday Firewhisky shot of the evening and asked me to hold his phone,” Chris answered with a mischievous laugh. “So… How’s Hogwarts?”

“Three Firewhiskies? Shit, Chris, where the hell are you guys?”

“Lighten up, Daniel! Don’t get your wand in a knot, he’s fine. PJ and I just took him out for his birthday to that new magic club in London, Smoke and Mirrors. Perfect Prefect Lester is actually letting loose for once, it’s kind of wild—”

Chris was suddenly cut off and Dan heard nothing but the thumping bass of the music and the sound of someone fumbling with the SmartMirror, accidentally mashing several buttons.

“DAN! I’M BACK! CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

Dan winced at Phil’s unexpectedly loud return, leaning away from his phone slightly. “Trust me, bub, hearing you is not an issue right now.”

“WHAT? DAN, HANG ON A SEC, I’M GOING OUTSIDE SO I CAN HEAR YOU BETTER!” Phil shouted into the receiver. “PJ, I’LL BE RIGHT BACK!”

Dan idly flicked his wand against his knee, shooting out small sparks and reigniting the fire in front of him as he half listened to the sound of Phil making his way through the crowded club, mumbling apologizes to seemingly everyone he passed.

As he heard the door swing shut behind Phil, the music that had been blasting only moments before completely vanished; presumably there was some kind of noise dampening spell around the club to avoid suspicious Muggles.

“Okay, that’s better,” Phil said, finally at a semi normal volume.

“Yeah, much better,” Dan agreed, pulling both of his long legs up into the chair to get more comfortable. “Aren’t you freezing standing outside, though?” Dan glanced out the window where he could see a thin layer of snow blanketing the castle grounds. Phil may have been further south than Dan at the moment, but it was still January, even in London.

“Nah, I’m practically immune to cold, I’m so Northern,” Phil replied, and Dan could hear the smile in his voice. “Besides, I reckon I’ve probably had about half a bottle of Firewhisky tonight, I’m basically a dragon at this point.”

“Phil!”

At Dan’s scandalized exclamation, Phil let out a loud shriek, which came off much more pterodactyl than dragon, before dissolving into giggles on the other end of the line.

“You okay, there, bud?”

“Dan?”

“Yes, Phil?”

“I think I might be a little drunk,” Phil stage whispered into the phone, leaving Dan rolling his eyes fondly.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” he replied, making Phil snicker in return. “It sounds like you’re having a pretty good birthday, though.”

Phil hummed in response, and Dan could easily imagine the shrug that would have accompanied it. “‘s alright, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It’d be a lot better if you were here.”

Dan felt himself deflate a bit. He pulled his legs to his chest and hooked his chin over his knee.

“You remember my seventeenth when we snuck up to the Astronomy Tower,” Phil continued, filling Dan’s silence, “and we pretty much ate our weight in Honeydukes?”

“‘course I do,” Dan finally managed to breathe out, “McGonagall was pissed when she caught us out of bed that late.”

Phil snorted. “I think it was worth a couple detentions, though, to get to spend my birthday with my best friend for the first time.”

Dan felt a wetness suddenly pricking at his eyes. “Shit, Phil. I really miss you… Like, I know I just saw you last month during Christmas break, but I mean… Why’d you have to be a whole year older and graduate before me, again?”

“Hey, I offered to flunk my N.E.W.T.s and stay another year.” Phil chuckled, voice cracking a bit.

“Yeah, I’m sure Kath would have just loved that,” Dan said as he rubbed at his eyes. “And speaking of… What’s she gonna say when you stumble home drunk off your tits tonight?”

“I’m, uh… I’m not going home tonight. I’m staying with PJ and Chris in Brighton for a couple days. I kinda got in an argument with my dad and I’m trying to avoid him for a bit.”

“I mean, I can definitely relate.” Dan laughed, a little darker than he intended. “But you and your dad usually get along mostly fine, what happened?”

He heard Phil sigh deeply. “He bought me, like, proper business-person robes for my birthday.”

“What? Why?”

“Dunno, I guess he thinks it’s time for me to ‘be a man’ and ‘get a proper job’ and all that other adulty stuff.”

“Damn,” Dan replied, twirling his wand between his fingers absentmindedly. “And is that what you want?”

“I dunno. Probably not,” Phil admitted quietly. “I don’t really know what I want to do with my life, I just know I really like making videos, especially with you.”

“And I’m guessing your dad doesn’t really get that?”

“Not at all. Try explaining Youtube to a wizard who’s never even touched a computer.”

“Mine doesn’t really get it, either. I think maybe it’s less a wizard versus Muggle thing and more just a dad thing.”

Phil was silent for a long moment, leading Dan to pull the phone away just to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

“Hey, Dan? Promise me something?”

“Yeah?”

Phil took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Promise me that we’re still gonna move in together next year like we talked about?”

‘“Course we will,” Dan answered with no hesitation. “We’ll probably have a pretty crappy apartment ‘cause it’s all we can afford, but it’s gonna be awesome.”

“And we’ll make videos together?”

“I mean, duh, all the time.” Dan couldn’t wipe the smile from his face if he tried. “Damn, our neighbors are gonna hate us, aren’t they?”

He got a classic Phil laugh in return, and he felt better knowing he put that goofy tongue-biting smile back on the older boy’s face. “That’s fine by me. Dan and Phil versus the world.”

“Always,” Dan answered as he glanced around the empty common room, desperately wishing his best friend wasn’t so far away, and felt tears building up again. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just thinking about how being here without you guys this year sucks major ass.”

“How would you know?”

“What?”

Phil snickered. “How would you know that it sucks ass unless you’ve—”

“Damn!” Dan swiftly interrupted before Phil could finish that thought. “Proper pissed Phil is a cheeky little shit, isn’t he?”

“No,” Phil answered around a yawn, “he’s a sleepy little shit. I kinda wanna just lay down right here on the pavement and take a nap...”

“Phil! You’re not sleeping on some random London street at two in the morning, you’ll get picked up by the Muggle police,” Dan laughed, shifting his phone to the other ear. “Go back inside and find Chris and PJ.”

“‘kay.”

“And make sure at least one of you sobers up a little before anyone tries to Apparate home,” Dan instructed. “I doubt you want to spend the rest of your birthday at St. Mungo’s because you splinched yourself and left an arm behind in the club or something.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll be careful,” Phil assured him as he opened the door to the club and the music suddenly blared into the phone again.

“Text me tomorrow whenever your hangover goes away,” Dan called over the noise.

Phil groaned in reply. “Ugh, don’t remind me of the consequences of my actions! It’s my birthday!”

Dan felt himself grinning like an idiot. “Happy birthday, you dork.”

[wri0thesley]

you've totally turned abba into one of my favorites and i LOVE the way you write him~ could i get a scenario with him drunk texting his crush and having to deal with the aftermath? (with a happy ending because our boy deserves it!!)

i just love my goth cop husband so much?? honestly when i first read part 5 i was like ‘eh’ but now i would fucking DIE for everyone in passione

Leone Abbacchio is a very responsible drunk. All in all, he’s not a very responsible man - responsible men, after all, don’t become police officers only to fall from grace in a spectacular way. Responsible men and police officers don’t take bribes, become known for being corrupt, cause the deaths of innocents. He’s aware of his complete lack of responsibility as a human being (he’s aware that he’s fundamentally a shitbag of one, that is).

He’s intimately familiar with the sweet release of getting black-out drunk, though. Using alcohol to numb out the pains and the heartache of every day, using it to forget quite how badly he’s fucked up during the course of his lifespan.

It takes him a lot to get to that point, now. Officer Leone could have drank a glass of whiskey and been giggly enough to forget what he’d done come the morning, but the gangster Leone Abbacchio takes a couple of bottles of fine stuff with a high alcohol content to get anywhere near that level of forgetting.

Which is why, when he wakes up the next morning with a hangover and a text message from you, he’s confused.

It’s been a long time since he’s been able to drink himself into oblivion, and quite honestly it’s been a long time since he’s felt the need to. He still hates himself - it will take a long time and someone with far more patience than he to make Abbacchio look at himself without wanting to die - but he’s in a better place. With Giorno as Don, Bruno and Narancia and Fugo and Mista are all happy, and Abbacchio cares more about them than he does himself. It takes picking up the phone and seeing the missed call from your phone number and the text you’d sent him for realization to sink in on him like an uncomfortable, itchy old blanket.

He’s used to skirting around his feelings.

He used to be able to funnel all of his devotion into fulfilling jobs that Bruno’s gang got given, on not disappointing his Capo. Giorno, though, has different priorities to the former boss of Passione and Abbacchio has not had very much to concentrate on. This lack of something to focus on has meant he’s started noticing people around him - and you, raised eyebrows and a smile in the corner of your mouth with a voice that sounds like heated up honey, had been one of those who’d fallen under Abbacchio’s gaze.

He hasn’t thought about romance in years. He hasn’t been hit with the desire to pull someone close and learn what they taste like and what they sound like when they say ‘I love you’ since before he even entered the police academy. Abbacchio doesn’t deserve love, doesn’t deserve happiness, doesn’t deserve the warm glow that goes off in his heart every time you so much as smile as him - he hates himself for the way his heart jumps when you lay your hand on his shoulder or when you say his name in that soft, warm voice.

It was getting in the way of his concentration. Even Giorno had noticed that he’d been messing up recently and that he’d seem distracted, watching things out of the corner of his eye instead of paying attention to what he’s supposed to be doing. It’s downright humiliating for Giovanna to be the one to call him out on anything, he’s six years younger than Leone for God’s sake. A child, for all he’d moved in and taken control seamlessly, plucking it with ease from Bruno and then from Diavolo.

Apparently, him with three whiskey bottles in him last night had been bitter about Giorno. Bitter for his concerned voice asking if anything was bothering Abbacchio, bitter from the adoring looks that every fucking member of Passione threw Don Giovanna, bitter that even so much younger than Abbacchio he has shit together when Abbacchio doesn’t.

And he’d thought about how thoughts of you kept him up at night. He’d thought about how you were kind to him (and kind to everyone), about the light in your eyes when you smiled, about the hard glint in your eyes when you thought. He supposes he with three whiskeys in him had thought, ‘a few more for courage’ and lost track of time, and certainly hadn’t been lucid enough to remember what he’d sent in the message . . .

He looks at his sent text messages with disgust curling his lip. He’s not a messy, emotional drunk. At least, he usually isn’t - but the message he’d sent was rife with typos. Even reading it now, he can imagine himself pathetically sniffling as he tapped it out, tears falling onto the glass of his phone screen.

‘m loonely n i love you pleeasee gve me a cjance?/?? i wnt to kissssssssssssssssssssd u’

God.

Of course the only thing he’d spelt right was ‘I love you’, something he hasn’t said to anyone since he was fourteen years old. Of course he’d said he was lonely, of course he’d come off like a desperate teenage boy. A part of him snickers as he imagines that this is the exact kind of text he can imagine Narancia sending to someone pretty, but it’s quickly replaced by a buzzing of fear as he regards the fact that he still has a message from you that he hasn’t read. His brain tells him to delete the message, quit his job and never show his face in public again because there’s no way he’s going to be able to look into your face without wanting to die of shame.

Maybe he can play it off as a stolen phone, or something? He can’t get away with saying he was drunk, that would be too suspicious - they all know he can knock back glasses with the best of them.

He taps on the message with shaking fingers, to be met with a message from you that’s just a line of question marks. He breathes a sigh of relief. He could just pretend this never happened, blank out your questions if you brought it up in public--

Another message beeps through.

‘Hey, I know you just read this message! Any chance of getting an explanation now? :)’

His heart jumps into his throat. Damn this stupid traitorous smart phone that Giorno had insisted they all needed. Damn the ‘read’ receipt that had given the game away. He’s about to type a grovelling apology and crawl back into bed (maybe returning in a month or something when the embarrassment has faded), when his phone begins to vibrate.

It’s not alerting him to a text message, this time; it’s ringing because you’re calling him.

He has an internal panic - put the phone down? Ignore you completely? Answer it and just scream?

He presses the accept call button, and is just about to try and do some damage control, when your voice blurts out;

“Okay look please don’t interrupt me but--” You say in a rush, and then breathe, trying to gather hold of yourself. “I really like you. I thought you didn’t like me at all, and that was alright, but then you sent that text and-- okay. So, maybe you meant to send it to someone else,” fuck that was a good excuse. Why hadn’t Abbacchio thought of that? “But, if not, I’d really.” You swallow and fondness rushes through Abbacchio for you. He’d usually find the nerves frustrating - on you, they’re somehow adorable. “I’d really like to. Take you out on a date or something.”

There’s silence.

Abbacchio’s not used to being propositioned. At least, not by anyone who wasn’t a criminal or a prostitute - even in Passione, people hadn’t wanted much to do with the former cop who’d almost died because he couldn’t remain on the straight and narrow. It’s nice, to be the one asked out on a date. He lets his words spill out before he can chance his mind.

“Yes.”

[saturnaliattxt]

Trail of the Bandit King, Part I

It was near midnight. For the past six days a storm had been brewing above the ring of the Circle Mountains. Now, finally, it had unleashed its fury, and the peaks and surrounding lands bore the full brunt of the relentless wind and rain. A winding path led from the Blank-Faced Monastery at the central peak, met the King’s Road at the base, and proceeded thence into the Iron City; along this route passed a horse and rider, moving with a ferocious speed to match the storm itself.

The rider was soaked, wind-lashed, hunched over the berserk mount, urging it to ever-greater feats of speed.

The horse at last gave way near the fork of the King’s Road at the crossroads town of Merewaith. The rider leapt from the stumbling horse, removed the bag and saddle from the dying animal, and stomped into town.

Merewaith had little business at midnight, and so the rider was unmolested as they made their way to the Inn of the Mere at the town’s heart. They threw open the door, catching the eye of the few boozy patrons in the common room.

“Eh?” said Bartolemew mildly. He ambled from his place at the bar to the counter.

The rider approached and threw back their hood, revealing the face of a comely young woman with a mane of fiery red hair. She drew a few admiring whistles from the bar.

“Need a room?” said Bartolemew, opening his ledger and running a finger down the list.

“No,” said the girl. “A fresh horse.”

Bartolemew raised an eyebrow. “On a night like this? You’d be better off resting until morning, pardon me for saying so.”

The sentence was puncuated by a roar of thunder outside. Defiantly, the girl slapped a heavy pouch of silver on the countertop. “A horse,” she repeated.

Bartolemew tested the weight of the pouch. “As the lady wishes,” he said mildly, “though let it be noted it’s against my better judgement.”

She did not reply. Bartolemew led her from the inn to the stables. In the common room, a scarred man raised an eyebrow at his fellow.

“A well-proportioned lass,” he murmured, “and well-monied too by the looks of it.”

“Alone, too,” his companion replied.

“And yet the weather,” said the first man, tilting an ear to the sounds at the rain-lashed windows.

“Inclement, certainly,” murmured the second man. “Some would say devils create such weather to hide misdeeds.”

“Then it is decided,” said the first man.

They rose, checking that certain objects were well-concealed in their cloaks, and went outside.

These two men happened to be named Yalk and Benfred. Both were hard of face and black of heart. They wore long knives prominently, but their garments concealed many other implements more devious in nature.

They lurked near the stables as the girl and Bartolemew completed their transaction, and moments later had mounted their own steeds and set off down the road. The girl was not difficult to track, as she was the only rider on the road that night, and there were few side-routes once one was on the track to the Iron City. Still, her relentless speed, combined with the heavy rain, made keeping up difficult. Soon they had lost sight of her in the chaos.

But fortune was on the side of the two scoundrels that night, for after nearly an hour during which their course was uncertain, they heard the frightened bray of a horse through the din of the rain, and soon after passed a horse that had fallen on the road. They turned their horses about quickly. Sure enough, the girl’s fresh horse had caught its hoof on the flags and broken its leg. It lay whimpering in the road; the girl had been thrown free of the poor animal, and was now standing clear of its thrashing hooves, looking hesitantly to the saddlebags.

She looked up at the two interlopers. “Pardon me, miss,” bawled Yalk over the storm. “You seem to be in trouble. Perhaps we can help you?”

She looked skeptical for a moment. It was to Yalk and Benfred’s advantage that the storm concealed their features; anyone who saw their scarred, scowling faces would certainly be moved to mistrust. Instead the girl, desperate, conceded that she required aid. “I need that bag,” she called, pointing, “and to reach the Iron City as soon as possible!”

“We’d be happy to help, miss,” Yalk bellowed. Both men dismounted. Benfred hung back while Yalk rummaged in his saddlebags, producing a heavy crossbow; he loaded it and, stopping a few paces shy of the thrashing horse, fired a bolt. It sank into the horse’s throat, and the animal ceased to move at last.

“Thank you,” said the girl with a tone of relief, moving towards the saddlebags. It was at this moment that Benfred, who had taken advantage of the distraction to creep closer, siezed her arms from behind.

She let out a furious shout and, bringing up her legs, landed a hard kick on Benfred’s shin. He roared with pain but kept his grip. Yalk dropped the crossbow and lunged, pulling a cloth sack over the girl’s head.

Even with this disadvantage, the girl put up an admirable struggle. It took the two men working together to wrestle her to the ground and bind her hands and ankles. A moment later they had thrown her over the back of Benfred’s horse. Yalk attached her saddlebag to his own horse, and they set off down the road in the direction of the Iron City.

*

If one were to enter the Iron City through its main gates, one might be struck by a sense of grandeur and scale. The immense spires of the Temple and the Palace stand symmetrically on the horizon; carts, horses, and foot-traffic proceed in orderly lines down the paved street, and one can look down directly upon the Plaza of Saints, with its immaculate gardens and luxurious marketplaces.

But those who are not new to the city, and who know what sort of thing they like, might veer off the main road and instead enter a maze of narrow alleys, passing into the district known as the Shallows. Here shanty-like dwellings are stacked eight high, and the noisy markets sell decidedly less wholesome goods.

If one has been here before, he will pass by the melee of Pebble Street and the muggers of the Drowned Plaza, turning left at the Sunken Crossroads until he comes to the crooked building with the ancient sign that reads THE TAVERN OF THE DESOLATION. Throwing open the door, such a man will find everything he desires: cheap beer, wanton women, and drunken sailors eager for a brawl.

At night in the Iron City, there is no place more lively that the Tavern of the Desolation. In the morning, there is no place so apocalyptic. While workers tend to the mess with expressions of resignation, men stumble home, filled with regret and covered in wounds whose origins they do not remember.

It is in such a state that Roland of Cairt found himself that morning. His clothes had been shabby before, but each night made them shabbier; they had been patched so often that little of the original garment remained. His purse was empty. He had a throbbing bruise above his left eye and bite-marks on his right arm. Best of all, he had no memory of what had happened, apart from a vague notion that a ship-captain from Indvel had insulted him.

He hauled himself out of the gutter and set to meandering through the mazing streets of the Shallows. He passed a few brigands, who kept out of his way, rightly judging that he carried nothing of value and anyway would not be worth the trouble. A few ragged children jeered at him, but lost interest when he failed to respond. A few passing women turned up their noses at the odour emanating from him.

He came to a shambles of a boarding-house at the corner of Winse and Pale, and, knocking open the door, slumped in the common room and demanded soup. The pinch-faced matron of the place put a bowl in front of him and said: “You owe me fifty crowns, sir. This is the last bowl unless you pay up.”

Roland of Cairt winced as the matron’s shrill voice wreaked havoc on his throbbing head. “Of course, of course,” he mumbled.

The soup was thin and tasted faintly of excrement. He ate it all anyway. As he was standing to go, he saw a figure in the door.

“Going somewhere, Roland?” said the man.

Roland looked him up and down. The man was tall, wearing a long coat that had probably once been fine but now looked rather shabby. His beard, greying, was impeccably tended.

“Luther,” Roland groaned.

“The same,” said the man. “Let me guess: you spent all of last night’s coin on drink.”

“Not just on drink,” Roland protested.

“Mm.” Luther looked unimpressed. “Now, destitute, you mean to ask me for another loan.”

“Only as I fear the madame intends to evict me,” said Roland.

“Why bother?” said Luther. “You never spend the night here anyway. The moment any coin comes into your pocket, it drains out that very evening.”

“Mm,” said Roland. “And why do you suppose that is, you old bastard?”

“Because you’re a drunk old fool, I’d wager.”

“It’s because I’m bored, Luther,” Roland snapped. “It’s been weeks since anything exciting has happened. There’s no work here these days: everyone only wants rats killed or debts collected, or stuff of that nature. We should go to Pandassa. I’ve heard there’s a plague of goat-men there that need killing.”

Luther slapped Roland on the back, prompting another grimace. “Chin up, old boy,” said Luther. “Look what I’ve got.”

He thrust a scrap of paper into Roland’s hands. Roland stared at it for a long moment. “What’s this?” he said.

“A notice,” said Luther.

“It’s all blurring together,” said Roland.

“You drunk idiot,” said Luther. He snatched the page back. “It reads: ‘The Duke of Trast offers a reward of one thousand crowns to anyone bringing him the head of the brigand Kund, whose band of scoundrels have plagued the King’s Road for too long. An additional reward of two hundred fifty crowns each will be awarded for the heads of his lieutenants, Gatz and Ulver. Be warned that the brigands are believed to have orc-blood, and to be prone to a ferocity sufficient to shrivel the hearts of men. Report to the office of Trast, with the intact head, to claim your reward. Those offering false heads shall be whipped, etc.’ What do you think?”

“More brigands,” Roland grumbled.

“What, the infamous Kund?” said Luther. “I’ve heard he’s killed at least a hundred men, and stolen enough gold to pave half the King’s Road with coins. It sounds like a worthy task to me.”

“It sound boring,” said Roland.

“Get yourself together, you idiot,” Luther snapped. “It’s the best job you’ve had all year, and maybe the best in five, if you can count that high, you dunce. Sober up and fetch your sword. If we’re going to collect this reward, we’d best be started soon.”

*

In the upper spires of the Grand Palace sat Vizier Makel. His face was twisted in his customary grimace.

From the height of the Prince’s Tower he could look down upon the sprawling gardens of the Palace, or extend his sight a bit further to look upon the filth and wealth of the entire Iron City. A glance to one side, and he could see the parapets of the spire of the Temple.

None of these sights appeared to impress him. He was brooding.

Someone came up the steps. A beautiful woman in flowing purple robes, her hair raven-black, her eyes pits of coal: Illuvia the Arch-Wizard. She was nearly one hundred and twenty years old, Makel knew, but vanity (and perhaps cunning) caused her to disguise her true age. A perceptive onlooker would not place her at more than thirty years.

“Makel,” said Illuvia.

The Vizier turned. Though half her age, he always felt old and decrepit in the Arch-Wizard’s presence. He was aware of the bags under his eyes and of his comparatively drab garments.

“Illuvia,” he said.

“Where is your messenger?”

Makel looked mournfully at the winding serpent that was the main road of the city. It spiraled northward, passing through the Grand Gates and becoming the King’s Road. There was no end of traffic on the road.

“Hasn’t come,” he said.

“Isn’t that a bad sign?”

“Yes.”

He gave the wizard a sidelong glance. “The storm last night. Was that of natural origin?”

“Yes, of course.” Illuvia waved a dismissive hand. “But villains are happy enough to take advantage of such natural events. I fear our messenger has been waylaid.”

“We must send someone,” said Makel.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Illuvia. “I require only your seal, and I will send my best man.”

“Who is that?”

“Does it matter to you?” Illuvia cast him a look of scorn. “You will only continue to sit here in your tower, doing nothing, regardless of who I send.”

“Staying here is to my political advantage,” said Makel mildly, “and to yours. Who will you send?”

She sighed. “Medvek the magus,” she said. “He is an adept in the arcane arts and with the curved blade. If your messenger has been waylaid by brigands, he will quickly set the matter straight.”

“In that case, you have my official approval.”

She produced a document from her robes; he set the Vizier’s seal to the page. The magic ink hissed, producing a hardly-visible shower of sparks.

As he placed the seal, he scanned the words of the document. His eyes landed on a rather large figure, given in gold pieces.

“This Medvek is expensive,” he observed.

“The best always are,” said Illuvia. “We both know how important this matter is.”

“Of course.”

She turned to go. Halfway down the steps she paused to add: “Not to tell you your business, Makel, but next time you might want to appoint a more competent messenger.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Makel.

*

The messenger’s name was Lat.

She woke, groaning. Her head was throbbing.

She could not see.

She was conscious of being bound. Her wrists behind her back; her ankles together. A noose held the sack firmly in place on her head.

She was lying on the floor. The biting cold on her skin told her that she was naked.

“Mmmf,” she said.

There was a gag in her mouth.

It was not a good situation.

“She’s awake,” said a cheerful voice.

“Thank the gods,” said a second voice. “I thought she might be dead. That would certainly be a disappointment.”

She recognized the voices as those of Yalk and Benfred, the two brigands who had waylaid her on the road. She assumed that had been the previous night.

Yalk’s voice was closer to her ear: “Sorry about that knock on the head. You put up such a fuss, we had no choice.”

“Ask her about the thing,” said Benfred.

“Good idea,” said Yalk. “Shall we have a chat?”

He fiddled with the knots for a moment, then pulled the bag off her head. Looking directly into his scarred face, Lat wondered how she’d ever trusted him.

They were in some sort of cave. Light streamed through openings in the walls. Benfred was hunched over the remains of a cookfire.

Her saddlebag had been torn open, and its contents were spread across the floor. Benfred was picking through them.

“I’m going to take the gag out,” Yalk said. “Go ahead and make a racket; there’s no one around to hear except us, and you’ll only make us angry. Based on your position, I assume you find that undesirable.”

He took out the gag. Lat spat out a mouthful of sawdust.

“You’ll be worth more undamaged,” Yalk informed her, “but I’m not above causing a little bit of subtle harm. Keep that in mind as I ask you questions. What’s this?”

He pushed a bundle in front of her face. It had been packed at the very bottom of her saddlebag, concealed amongst various knickknacks of no consequence. The brigands were certainly thorough.

“Give me back my clothes,” said Lat.

Yalk surveyed her naked body.

“I’d rather not,” he said.

“That object will kill you if you tamper with it,” she said. “Give me back my clothes and let me go, and I’ll tell you how to use it.”

She had no intention of letting them have the object, but was desperate to improve her position. She thought she would feel better bargaining if she were dressed and untied.

“A generous offer,” said Yalk. “Here’s my counter-offer.”

He held up a thick chunk of wood. It was knobbled and vaguely tube-shaped.

“Tell me what it is,” he said, “or I’ll jam this into your asshole.”

Lat considered the offer.

“All right,” she said. “It’s a metathaumograph.”

Benfred was paying close attention now.

“Explain,” said Yalk.

“A metathaumograph,” said Lat. “It’s used to measure levels of magic. Go ahead, open it.”

Yalk unwrapped the bundle. The object within was made of some sort of polished metal; it had a faint green gleam to it. It was carved in the shape of a human head, eyeless and with a gaping mouth. It was small enough to fit in the palm of the hand.

“Aim the mouth at yourself,” she said, “and speak a command word, and it will tell you if you have any magical tendencies.”

Yalk laughed.

“I already know I have none,” he said. “Do you have any magical tendencies?”

He aimed the head at her. She flinched involuntarily.

“Hm,” said Yalk. “I begin to think you lied to me. Had I spoken the command word just then, would you have been evaporated?”

“I’m not sure,” Lat admitted.

“What’s the command word?” He pointed the head at the floor.

“I don’t dare say it.”

Yalk waved the knob of wood.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Very,” she said. “If I said it now, we’d all be destroyed.”

“Is it some sort of death-ray?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the sort of answer that gets you a block of wood in your asshole,” said Yalk.

“I really don’t know,” she pleaded. The block of wood was looking larger every second, and she was not liking the trend of the conversation. “I was told to deliver it, and that it was horribly dangerous, but nothing else.”

“Then how do you know about the command word?”

“I made up the stuff about the command word.”

“You’re a very inconsistent liar,” said Yalk. “The upshot is that I don’t trust you at all. Our compatriots won’t be here for a while - perhaps we should give you some time to think.”

[idornaseminary]

Chapter Eleven: Enzo and Beatrice

“Black or red?” Enzo heard Andre call behind him. “Girls like mystery, so black. But red will make me stand out, no?”

“Like a sore thumb,” Enzo replied, his voice hardly above a gruff whisper.

His focus was planted in his new Potions textbook. Every year, new information would be accessed through classes, and every year, for the first few weeks, at least, Enzo could do nothing but read through. He knew most of it, of course, but there were always cliff-notes scrawled into the sides of the books by older students. It was fascinating to read about. One that stuck out to him in particular was from a woman named “Tilly” who wrote of a Potion that could make an entire family line switch genes with another. Enzo dog-eared the page for later.

“What are you wearing?” Andre finally asked, deciding on the red shirt.

Enzo flipped another page, trying to not concern himself with the questionable stains. “Boxers and an old tee-shirt.”

“Huh?”

“I am not going.”

Andre tossed his head back, groaning. “Not again. I thought we were beyond all this.” Enzo didn’t respond, simply shaking his head, pretending he didn’t hear. “Every year it’s the same shit with you. You fight, I fight, and we eventually end up getting hammered and wake up somewhere near Lake Gler. C’mon, stop fighting it.”

‘Fyrsta tunglið’ was celebrated on the first full moon of every school year. It just so happened that this year’s fell on the first Friday back. There would hardly be a soul from Idorna that would not be in Old Aroon tonight.

“Andre...”

“Enzo,” Andre said, doing his best mock-French accent. It was horrid. “Mel is most likely going to be there.”

Enzo furrowed his eyebrows. “Why does that matter? I haven’t spoke to her in… some time...”

“I know, and she’s the last girl you ever spoke to, it seems,” Andre said, raising an eyebrow. “Why can’t you two be friends? It was five years ago. I liked her.”

“She had breasts,” Enzo muttered. “Of course you liked her.”

“Why do you say ‘breasts’ as if they’re from a foreign planet? They’re tits, man. And had? What, are they magically gone now…? Well, I suppose that’s a possibility...”

Unlike Enzo, Andre had been living in North America since he graduated from Durmstrang. His accent was nearly gone at the this point, unless he was drunk. Enzo still struggled with English, though. He was never the biggest fan of the language when growing up, but his father forced him to learn it. Maxime knew that when Enzo took over Oasis, he would need to communicate with a predominantly English audience.  

“If I go, will you shut up?” Enzo finally said, closing the textbook.

“Doubtful, but I’ll stop pestering you.”

Beatrice wriggled her nose side to side in annoyance as she looked herself over in the floor length bathroom mirror, not entirely satisfied with her appearance. Maybe she should try the white crop top with the red maxi skirt again? Pursing her dark red lips, she ran her fingers through her dark curls and sighed, glancing at Halina in the mirror. “What?” she asked, batting her eyelashes innocently, lips curling up into a slight smile.

“Nothing. Can’t I just appreciate beauty when I see it?” she teased, swishing her white tulle skirt with yellow roses on it back and forth as she checked out her roommate’s profile. “You look good, what’s the matter?” she asked, tugging on her teal stilettos prepared with a cushioning charm. “It just doesn’t feel right. Like something’s missing,” she explained, twirling her wand around in her fingers while she tried to figure out what it was. Halina stepped forward and hummed softly, gently twirling one of the black curls around her dark finger. A smile quickly grew on her face, showing her dazzling white teeth that matched the immaculate white halter top she was wearing. “Okay, I know you’re gonna say no, but before you do, don’t,” she said, nearly bouncing up and down in excitement if it weren’t for the heels.

Beatrice slowly turned around and narrowed her eyes at the mischevious woman before her, arms crossing over her chest protectively. “What?” “Lemme charm the ends of your hair blonde!” “No!” She pouted and pointed a finger at her. “I told you not to say that!” Bea turned back around and pursed her lips, mulling it over in her mind. “Okay, fine,” she relented, rolling her eyes as her roommate pulled her wand from the waistband of her midi skirt. “But, if it should get stuck like that, I get to dye your hair green,” she said, holding her hand out to shake on it. Halina chuckled and shook her head, her large gold hoop earrings swaying back and forth with the motion. “Yeah, whatever. Just stay still,” she order, beginning to mutter the spell under her breath.

Glad for the warm air in the last few days of summer as the seasons began to shift, Beatrice slowed her pace as they arrived at the line of carriages, instinctively tightening her grip on Halina’s arm as they arrived, noticing a few early birds waiting for the rest of the crowd going into Old Aroon tonight. “So, game plan tonight or winging it?” she asked her roommate, glancing over at her friend’s dark face only to see her eyeing up some guy who looked as if he could care less about being there. “Oh I’ve got a game plan tonight,” she purred, running her tongue over her upper lip, tugging Beatrice further down the hill towards the carriages.

Bea glanced down at her black and white polka dotted dress with the plunging neckline and skirt that stopped mid-thigh, hoping that it wasn’t too daring. During the summer, it was one of her favorite dresses as it was easy enough to take on and off that she used it as a bathing suit cover up. Taking in a deep breath, she blinked steadily and continued on her way, head held high so the fading light of day highlighted her black and blonde ombre hairstyle. She had to give it to Halina, she really did come through this time.

The night air brushed against Enzo’s face, cooling him after rushing downstairs with Andre. He didn’t have much time to get ready, so after a quick shower and attempting to comb his lion’s mane into submission, he tossed on a pair of jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt before leaving the room.  

“Shot?” Andre whispered from beside him once they reached the line leading to the carriages. He shook a small, silver flask in his pocket, filled with firewhiskey.

“I would rather not be expelled,” Enzo quipped backed. “Can you not just wait until we get there to drink?”

“Where’s the fun in that, eh?”

Once they reached the front of the line, the goblin, reaching Enzo’s midsection, stretched out his hand. “Pay,” he simply sputtered.

Goblins reminded Enzo of larger, fatter House Elves. Enzo thought back to the one who served his family in Chateau Bellerose. She was a nice Elf, and he often spoke with her when he was a child and she was cleaning his room. Goblins were not so pleasant.

“You get this one,” Andre said, patting Enzo’s arm. “I’ll grab the next.”

“If I had a sickle for every time you said that, I would be able to afford a thousand trips to Aroon.”

Nevertheless, Enzo reached into his pocket, picking out eleven sickles and placing them in the Goblins shriveled hand.

“Only two?” it spat at him.

“Yes, ple -”

“Wait up,” Andre said, cutting him off. “Hey, ladies,” he called behind. “Want a free ride? They seat four. I’m paying.”

Enzo clenched his jaw, wanting nothing more than to punch Andre, but he turned anyway. Behind him were two women. They were well dressed, and Enzo felt as he if recognized the one with dark skin and the flowered skirt. What house are they from? He slowly rolled down his sleeves from where they rested at his elbows, covering the burn mark on his left wrist. It didn’t cover the bits on his hand, but he’d rather avoid conversation about it.

Beatrice looked over at Halina who gave her the same knowing look, sharing a smile before turning to them and nodding. “If it’s not too much of an imposition,” she said softly, unconsciously picking up on the tension between the two men though she refused to let the knowledge slip through her facade. Halina grinned toothily and looked over Enzo first before turning her attention to Andre. “I’d hate to be a burden,” she said, letting go of her roommate’s arm, slowly sliding her long, slender fingers around his elbow.

Beatrice looked down to hide the way she rolled her eyes at her friend’s flirtatious antics, happy at least to know that she was just practice for the real hunt. I wish I had it that easy to catch a man’s eye. She tucked a stray curl that had fallen into her face behind her ear, making an effort to ensure it didn’t get caught in her large, thin hoops, looking up and settling her gaze on the other man behind her friend’s unwitting prey. He was handsome, to be sure, but there was something melancholy about him that wasn’t quite off putting nor was it inviting.

Enzo huffed, plastering on a somewhat convincing smile before turning and boarding the carriage, shuffling himself into the corner as he watched Andre all-too-happily escort his lady friend up, as well. Her friend, the one with the dark hair dyed blonde at the tips, still behind. Andre and the flower girl took the far side, leaving only the seat beside Enzo open.

Swallowing tightly, Beatrice climbed inside and sat beside the man with the black ringlets of hair and the bit of scruff on his jaw. She offered him a small, friendly smile and crossed her legs, her skirt sliding farther up her toned, tan legs.

“I don’t think we’ve ever properly been introduced,” she started off, eyes twinkling in the darkness of the carriage. “I’m Beatrice. Call me Bea or Trixie, if you want,” she said, offering him her hand. “And this is my best friend, Halina,” she added, gesturing to the woman sitting opposite her, curled up next to his friend.

Of course, Enzo thought. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat, taking her hand in his and shaking it gently. “Enzo,” he said tightly.

“The one and only,” Andre chimed up, looking extremely comfortable. “I’m Andre, by the by.”

As soon as he spoke, the carriage began to move. To Enzo, it looked as if it were charmed to move through the path on its own, circling the Gladur forest towards Old Aroon. However, he knew it was hauled by two thestrals. He wondered if any of his companions were able to see them.

Beatrice glanced out the window of the carriage and smiled softly at the dark, skeleton like thestrals that pulled it away from the school and towards the town down the road. Ever since her grandfather died during her fourth summer in Samoa, she’d been able to see them. It was a shock to see them pulling the carriages when she returned to Hogwarts that fall, as they looked quite scary. When she realized they were harmless, she found them to be a lot like her: quiet and gentle, fond of darkness, but full of kindness. Glancing over at Enzo, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was the same way. Halina raised an eyebrow as she tore her gaze away from Andre’s sharp features for a minute and looked at Bea slyly checking out the other incredibly handsome man in the carriage, a smirk playing on her pink lips. “So, Enzo, are you single?” she asked, gleefully noticing the way her friend’s eyes went wide with panic.

As soon as the girl beside Andre - Halina, he remembered - spoke, Enzo’s stomach twisted into a knot. He looked at Andre, his eyes daggers. I am going to murder you. He hoped Andre got the message, and judging by Andre’s smirk, he did.

“I, uhm..” Enzo cleared his throat. “Oui - erm, yes. Yes, I am.”

I am going to murder you, Andre, if it’s the last thing I do.

‘Please, please, please, Merlin don’t let Halina do what I think she’s going to do,’ Beatrice thought, resisting the urge to chew on her bottom lip, knowing that the lipstick would stain her immaculate teeth. Fate would never be that kind to her though, could it? The dark skinned woman grinned mischievously and winked at her friend who was starting to shake her head, hoping that Enzo wouldn’t see her.

“Well, so am I,” Halina said, lightly placing her ebony hand on her traveling companion’s knee in a playful matter. “What about you, Andre?” she purred, taking the heat off of the unfortunate duo across from them, but only for a moment.

Enzo’s shoulders felt as if they may shatter from flexing them so hard. He let out a slow breath from his nostrils, trying to be as quiet as possible while gnawing on the inside of his cheek. His knuckles burned white from gripping the underside of his seat so tight, the wood slightly groaning under his grasp.

Andre, on the other hand, was more than happy to make conversation as the carriage rounded the bend of the Gladur. Old Aroon was less than five minutes away at this point. “On and off here and there,” Andre murmured, his eyes darting between both girls. “But I’m chain-free tonight… What about you, Trixie?”

A bright blush crept up the back of Beatrice’s neck, staining her cheeks a brilliant cherry red as she nodded. “Yes, yes I am,” she admitted a little shyly, sneaking a quick glance over at Enzo before looking out the window at the town fast approaching, wishing they would get there faster so this line of questioning could come to a speedy halt. Halina looked up at Andre and gestured at the their roommates with a suggestive glance. “Well, I think, if it’s alright with you, I’m going to take a stroll with Andre here,” she said, placing a hand gently on the man’s chest, shooting him a coy look. “Perhaps the two of you could keep each other’s company and meet up with us at Rodrick’s Pub in an hour when the party starts?” Beatrice narrowed her eyes and shot daggers at her friend, hands clenching into fists. Our first night back here properly and you’re going to ditch me to make out with some guy at Lake Gler? You’ve got it coming girl.

Enzo could almost taste blood in his mouth from biting his cheek so hard. “I… I have to pick up a few things around Aroon before the party begins.” His foot tapped against the floor of the carriage lightly. “Personal items.” Don’t dig yourself into a hole, Enzo.

Luckily, the carriage finally came to a halt in front of the wrought-iron gates of Old Aroon. Another Goblin, this one female, ‘welcomed’ them by almost snapping the door off of the carriage and yelping, “out.” The four obeyed, stepping out of their carriage before it turned away and headed back to Idorna.

Enzo folded his arms over his chest once his feet crunched into the dead leaves on the soil. “I will meet you all at Rodrick’s, though. Promise.”

Andre sighed, an arm around Halina’s waist. Enzo could tell he was already buzzed. “Sure, sure. This guy’s always running off for one reason or another. I’m holding you to that promise, Bellerose.”

“Mhm,” Enzo simply murmured back. “It was nice to meet you both.”   

Though the brush off stung, Beatrice forced a small smile and nodded, shifting the weight of her purse on her shoulder. “Lovely to meet you too,” she said, not blinking as her roommate dragged Andre off towards the lake, sliding her hand into his back pocket once they were a safe distance from the carriage drop off. She rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair, glad to be on her own again for at least an hour before the party. Meant that she had some time to Blaster’s Bountiful Sweets and Treats and pick up some sugar quills and pumpkin pasties while she was in town. “See ya later,” she quipped, saluting Enzo with two fingers before walking away, her dress swaying slightly as she sashayed away.

Enzo watched Beatrice leave, feeling a small twinge of guilt, but he ignored it. He knew that he’d combust he if were forced to make conversation with a stranger for an hour. What would they talk about? He had half a mind to slip a Polyjuice Potion into Andre’s tea tonight. He was sure his cat, Fleur, would let him borrow a strand or two of her fur.

Nevertheless, he shook his head and made his way into Old Aroon, the gates swinging open on their own as he neared. His feet left soil and soon hit cobblestone, giving him a sense of familiarity. The walkway was similar to that of the estate back home. He hadn’t been home in some time, but he assumed not much had changed.

As he walked into Old Aroon, he passed a few notable shops, but turned into Tricko’s for a scoop of sea-salt ice cream, hoping that he would be able to keep to himself as long as possible before Andre inevitably swooped in to drag him to Rodrick’s.