#metal staircase for exterior

[elitetechch]

Exterior Staircase Manufacturer | Elite Tech

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[museumofbuildings]

455 Ash St., Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. Built 1942.

[gobuyussomecoffee]

Outdoor Kitchen - Outdoor Kitchen Ideas for a sizable, transitional backyard kitchen renovation that includes an addition to the roof

[signetringsandpreppythings]

Modern Deck New York Inspiration for a mid-sized, open-air, modern side yard deck remodel

[bookman-dgm]

Mulch Front Yard Baltimore

This is an illustration of a sizable, traditional, mulch garden path in the front yard in full sun.

[helenaperezgarcia]

Backyard Deck Seattle Ideas for a medium-sized, classic backyard deck renovation without a cover

[bonehead-forever]

Deck Uncovered in DC Metro Ideas for a massive, coverless, timeless backyard deck container garden remodel

[crimsonmuzzle]

Front Yard - Beach Style Landscape Photo of a mid-sized coastal full sun front yard brick garden path in spring.

[traitorcas]

Modern Deck New York

Inspiration for a mid-sized, open-air, modern side yard deck remodel

[luveline]

Hi I have a request for zombie Steve! I’d love to hear the story of how they met 🫶🏻

zombie!au —You rescue Steve at the start of the end of the world. fem, 2.4k

The sound of them makes your throat close up. Fear like a knife held too tight in unwilling hands, the heat. It’s the hottest summer Hawkins’ has had for years, and you’re overdressed. You couldn’t fit your favourite hoodie in your bag so you wore it but it doesn’t matter, you lost your bag somewhere in the school gymnasium. You’re lucky you didn’t lose your leg when that thing grabbed you. What were they calling them on the radio? Something starting with G.

Those… things, they can kill people. You saw it just ten minutes ago, your algebra teacher turned to a creature, Maisie Lewinsky from your homeroom stained with gore under her hands.

You press the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle a hot gasp. What are you supposed to do now? The Hawkins station said everyone would be waiting here, a repeat radio message, but by the time you heard it the sun was going down and there was nobody left. No cars, no promised convoy, nobody.

You’re the last living girl left in Hawkins.

You’re gonna die in here.

Terrified of breathing to loud but spooked that staying will seal your fate, you lift yourself up from the floor of the science lab to peer over a high table. There’s no signs of life. No signs of the dead, either. You’d thought this might be a good place to hide, the thick fire door unbreakable, but you can’t stay here. It’ll be dark soon.

You wish you had your stuff. They’ve for sure taken anything worth eating from the cafeteria kitchens and Bradley’s has been empty for days. You aren’t sure where your next meal is coming from. Fuck, you’re already dead—

“Fuck!” a voice echoes, boyish and terrified from somewhere outside of the door. “Fuck! Get the fuck away from me, holy shit!”

He sounds scared but firm at the same time. Your own fear is like the insufferable heat, riding the back of your neck as you creep toward the door. There’s gotta be more of them outside. That must be why whoever it is that’s shouting sounds so depeserate. But fuck, there’s relief too. There’s someone still here.

“Fuck! Jesus, help me!”

“Okay,” you say unsurely.

You wedge open the door to the science lab and poke your head out cautiously. There’s a dull thudding sound somewhere to the left, metallic screeching further down, but the panicked shouting (and now panicked yelping) is coming from outside.

You look around for a weapon. There’s nothing to take.

“Holy fuck I do not wanna die!”

Me neither, you think, sniffling back your worried tears. You don’t wanna die, you just want your bed. You want to be home, and safe, but there’s no one to look after you anymore, and you can’t just let people die ‘cos you’re scared. You run from the science lab to the fire escape door full pelt, arm in sudden hot pain at the collision, but the door gives and swings hard into the adjourning wall. You look around frantically for the source of the shouting as it bounces off of the exterior walls of the school and the stone floor of the courtyard, heart suddenly afloat in your chest.

“Hello?” you shout. “I’m here, I’m–”

“What the fuck!”

It’s said with such horrified anger that you give pause, even as your hands shake, cold sweat wetting your lip and colder in the rare afternoon breeze. You dart toward the shouting a moment later, and maybe you’re too late, you can’t save anybody, your shoes pinch as you race down the few concrete steps that lead to the parking lot.

Snarling curdles the air. Your neck snaps left, away from the cars and open territory and toward the subject of your nightmares these last few days. You’ve seen glimpses of these things, always too scared to stay and help, always too stupid, too weak, and seeing them now cements it.

A group of geeks grab at a boy where he hangs from the bars of a metal staircase leading up to the roof of the building. You run toward it on instinct but stop before they hear you, eyes wide. His hands are white-knuckled, his hair falling down into his face, but you know who it is now you’re close enough to see him. You could recognise Steve Harrington a thousand feet away.

“Hey!” you shout. “Hey! Over here!”

Why did you say that? Why are you yelling? The geeks turn their heads to easier pray and you’re done for —they start to run. You stumble back in terror.

“My bag! Get my bag, get the knife!” Steve shouts.

You swing yourself around in a huge circle. There, further into the lot, lies a bag. Further past it lies a wooden baseball bat spiked with fifty silver nails.

You sprint past the bag to the bat and try to grab it while you’re still running, knees grazing hot white fire on the tarmac and hands like acid as you force yourself up again, running further, putting space between you and the too fast footsteps that follow. When you’re sure you’ll have room you swing to see them, their maws dripping gore over white buttoned shirts and once prim blouses. There must be ten of them at least. Only two stay to snap their jaws at Steve Harrington where he attempts to climb up the stairs from the bottom, his foot dangerously close to bloodied teeth.

You pull the bat back as the first of the creatures reaches you. With a grunt more terror than exertion, you force the bat forward, wood arcing through the air, shiny nails catching the light of the setting sun and slamming downward into flesh.

Your eyes flare as wide as they’ve ever been. The geek stops cold and drops, your strangling grip on the bat forcing it up out of the mash of his brains. Another geek leaps over him as you scramble back.

“Run!” Steve yells from the stairs, stress stretching his voice thin and high. “Run away!”

You drop the bat and sprint for your life. Down into the parking lot, past a handful of locked cars and suitcases discarded. This must’ve been where everybody was before they left. There couldn’t have been room. Boxes and trophies, books, magazines and toys, all manner of possessions string like a breadcrumb trail down the road that you have to avoid. You run until your calves are burning over the road that will lead toward Hawkins middle, where you throw yourself into the woods, and hope without any real hope that they’re empty.

Grass folds under your feet. Your panting is as loud as your heart.

When the only shallow breathing you can hear is your own, you circle back to the High School, sticking to the shadows so as not to attract any more attention. A few geeks have collected to join the two you’d left behind, and for a second you’re sure Steve’s succumbed to fatigue and fallen into their blackened clutches, but you spot him balancing dangerously on a handrail between two sets of stairs, leg pulled back in preparation to kick any opposition away.

You sweep up the bat and try to make a plan. You were never going to be able to handle that many people before, not with their new mutations, but you can handle four. Maybe. Probably not.

“Steve, what do I do?” you call. “You have to tell me what to do.”

“You came back!” He swears and shimmies further up the railing as one of his attackers finally manages to traverse the blocked up staircase. “I don’t know what to do! Just hit at them until they die!”

It’s easy for him to say. They’re gruesome creatures, the faces of people you once knew but none of their humanity. They can run as fast as any person can. A human bite has alarming force behind it. The voice on the radio warned you that what you’re trying to do is a bad idea, and yet. You roll the bat in your hand. Your chest aches as hard as your dry throat.

The first geek goes down easy. Unsuspecting, you manage to whack it in the back of the head hard and break through soft skull. The second turns to see you just as you’re lifting the bat again, and it runs hard into it as it comes down, killing itself.

The third is where things get tricky.

“Fuck,” you mumble, lifting your bat to find a sloughing of cartilage and tissue stuck between the spines. “Oh, fuck,” you moan.

“Be careful!” Steve shouts.

You step back and trip, nearly falling. “Stay away from me!”

It snarls in response. Eyes clouded, the geek is a little slower than the others, and it follows you sluggishly away from Steve. The fourth remains, snapping, but you can’t keep watch.

“Stay away from me!” you warn again.

Steve swears on the railing, his cursing followed by a wet thunk.

The geek doesn’t listen, it bites.

You pull your arms to the side, hands wrapped tight around the base of the bat and ready to swing. With a huge, aching cry, you swing the bat to the side and knock the nails clean into its cheek.

It doesn’t die.

Fuck fuck fuck! You throw yourself to the floor by the geek’s feet and out of its reach, on knees, on your feet again, scrambling toward Steve’s bag. You glance over your shoulder as your knees slam down hard into the floor, never so scared in your life, horrified as the bat stays stuck between tendons and the geek takes a running jump toward you.

You pull the knife from Steve’s bag and hold it out in front of you, squeezing your eyes closed in terror.

“Fuck, hey!”

You scream as the weight of the geek lands on top of you. You scream like it’s taking bites of you, until your throat burns and there’s no sound left to make and you choke on it instead. A short, sharp sound.

Then the weight is pulled off of you. Someone lets out a massive gasp.

“Did it get you?”

You blink your eyes open against the glaring white sun where it meets the horizon. If you’re crying, it’s your business, water on your cheek and a dizzy hot feeling everywhere else.

Steve Harrington looks at you like you’re a ghost. “Did it get you? Are you okay?”

You look at your hand and the knife —his knife— where it rests on the tarmac. “I don’t think so. How do you know?”

“They bite! Did it bite you?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Because I’m not exactly uninjured, Steve!”

He frowns at you. Well, he glares. “You’d know if it bit you. Don’t be dense.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know what a bite feels like?”

“Some of us had homework.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Well, yeah. It was supposed to be hilarious.

You look around the parking lot and the school courtyard for any outliers, but the school seems well and truly abandoned now. You can’t hear anymore huffing or screeching, no crying, not even the sound of a radio. Everyone’s been playing them nonstop for weeks, waiting for days like today. Suddenly the raptures here, and you aren’t part of the rescue.

But you saved Steve Harrington, at least. You’re accruing some good karma.

Steve doesn’t hold his hand out, he just grabs you under the arms and pulls you up into a standing position. You’re surprised he can do it, you aren’t light, but you remember his last skins game in the gymnasium and nod to yourself. Of course he can pick you up. Plus, you help, using your legs despite their stiffness to brace yourself on the ground.

“Doesn’t look like it bit you,” he says, quieter now, his hands sliding down to yours briefly before he stands back. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought this was the rendezvous point. I mean, it was, right? We missed it.”

“We missed it.”

“How’d you get here?” you ask.

“Bike. Car chose the worst possible time in the world to die. Not that I could’ve got gas.” He eyes you hopefully. “Tell me you drove here.”

“I biked too, but it’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Tire popped.”

Steve rubs his eyebrows. His hands are clean where yours are caked. You stand unable to mask your heavy breathing now, and when you reach for him to steady yourself, he doesn’t move away.

“Sorry,” you mumble, licking your lips. You’re a map of little pains. “Are you okay?”

Steve’s hand reaches back to cover yours like he’s going to pull it off, though he doesn’t. “Are you alone?” he asks.

You wince. “Yeah.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

“I lost it.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” Your knees hurt. “It’s gonna get dark soon.”

It’s a question. You’re immediately thankful to have found him, because he’s a real living person, and you don’t think you can do this alone. You don’t mean to force him, but you need to know what he’s doing and soon.

“…Better come with me, then,” he says finally.

Steve walks out of your grasp, grabbing up his bag which you’d unfortunately ripped open and shoving the spilled contents back inside. He doesn’t stop to zip it closed, walking straight in the direction of the school.

“Where are we going?”

“Same place as everybody else.” You stumble. Steve, reluctant, frowning hard enough to etch a new wrinkle, holds out his hand to catch you by the elbow. “Where did you think?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you say, half-indignant.

“You ask a lot of stupid questions, you know that?” He looks you up and down. “How’d you do that?” He points at your bleeding knees.

“I ask stupid questions?”

He grabs the bat from near the felled geek and stands tall. “Jesus. Let’s go find a car.”

It’s not as easy as his tone might suggest. You don’t find a car, you never do, and you never stop asking him obvious questions, but Steve says thank you for saving him eventually (nearly an entire year later, with a hand on your cheek).

[love-bitesx]

is it possible for a Hobie X fem reader on her period? Like maybe he swings by her place thru the window, goes in and the first thing he sees is reader lying face flat on the bed or ground, hand clutching her stomach 🤯

: ̗̀➛ JUST NEED YOU. hobie brown x fem!reader

genuine question: do i write hobie too soft?? idk if he's too ooc or not, any feedback would be amazing! thank u for the req !!

summary: hobie comes home to find you curled up on the floor in pain. words: 952 REQUESTS OPEN! warnings: no pronouns are used, but reader is on their period so, apply that as you choose! gn friendly. obviously, mentions of period, no graphic blood description but mentions of bleeding. hobie being a softie, as per usual.

all he could think of is you.

gliding through the streets, his shoulder aching at the joints slightly from swinging all day, his evening consisting of darting around the city and scanning the streets for any mishaps. pulling himself along, his fingers itched for you, needing to be close, smell your scent and kiss your skin.

almost crashing down onto your fire escape, he scaled the staircase to your room, sighing to himself at the familiar orange glow radiating from your window. it was open just an inch, the warmth spilling into the cold london air, and he couldn’t help but smile thinking you’d left it open just for him.

letting the glow swallow him whole, he dragged the window off it’s latch and kicked through to your bedroom, comforted by the familiarity. your laptop was open on the visibly slept-in bed, the duvet ruffled, no longer molded on the mattress. worn clothes discarded onto the carpeted floor, there was all evidence of your presence, but you weren’t anywhere to be seen.

“darlin’?” hobie called out, kicking his boots off and pulling your bedroom door open, met with the darkness of the rest of your apartment, “y/n, it’s hobie, you ‘ere, love?”

a muffled rustle in the bathroom sent a tingle down his spine, and he turned to see the door shut, the gentle white illumination spilling from underneath it. knocking gently, not wanting to alarm you, his brows furrowed at the silence that followed.

“y/n?” voice softer than his usual harsh exterior, apprehension beginning to bundle in his stomach at the lack of response, until he heard a soft, exhausted groan from within, “you okay?”

another groan sounded, and he immediately reached for the handle, shaking it rushedly to check if it was locked. it wasn’t, the door creaking open on it’s hinges, revealing the harsh white light from within. his eyes went straight to you, his heart dropping at the sight.

curled up on the freezing, tiled floor, you clutched at your stomach in pain. crouching to his knees, his cold hands reached to pull you to him, cradling your head to his chest. fingers running along your skin to check for wounds or injuries, he furrowed his brows.

your skin was drained of colour, the subtle bags under your eyes damp from tears. gently, he brushed the hair from your face, the familiarity of his touch melting you like putty in his hands. he was just the comfort you’d been craving.

“what ‘appened, sweetheart?” his hand cupped your face, bringing it up to look at him, your eyes filled with water, “use your words for me.”

“it’s silly,” voice cracking with tears, you pressed your cheek into his hand, the chill of his metal rings a weird solace.

“tell me, i can help,” a kiss to your forehead cracked a soft smile on your lips.

tearfully you begun, “i just, i woke up and- and i was bleeding…you know,” your cheeks warmed in an innate wash of embarassment, “the cramps just, they hurt so much and i didn’t know what to do.”

he’d be lying if he said he didn’t panic a little bit. not that he was uncomfortable with periods, he was never conservative about that kind of thing, but the feeling of helplessness created a conflict within him. in almost every situation, he lived to save you, it was part of his humanity, his purpose in the world. this felt like something he couldn’t save you from, it unsettled him.

“what do you need?” he spoke against your hairline, thumb caressing your plush cheek.

bringing your hands to his vest, you pulled him impossibly close, breathing in the scent of him and nuzzling into his chest, “just need you.”

melting, his chilled heart turned soft at your words, chest spreading with warmth at the feeling of you, small in his embrace. something itched at him, he was a compassionate man, but prided himself in his cool, harsh exterior at times – until you came about. a spring of safety in his dangerous conscience.

“come on, darlin’,” he muttered, securing his strength underneath you and picking you up from the inhospitable bathroom tiles. you clung to his neck, arms fluid against the sharp collar.

carrying you through to the bedroom, he placed you softly on the mattress, kissing your cheek delicately on the cheek before stepping away, “’ll be back in a sec, love.”

left without him, you tucked yourself under the covers, wincing as a wave of aching pains split your lower abdomen in half – a tear falling down your flushed face. shooting up your spine and fuzzing your head, you barely noticed when hobie stepped back into the room.

opening your eyes at the weighted feeling of hobie sitting on the bed beside you, you’re met with a fresh glass of water and painkillers, hobie shrugging off his vest and jewellery to climb in beside you.

“you didn’t have to get all that,” you smiled gingerly, sipping the liquid and sighing at the feeling.

“’course i did,” he kicked off his jeans and pulled the comforter over you both, snaking his bare arms around your waist, careful not to put pressure on your abdomen, burying his face in your neck, “need to look after you. love you too much.”

“i love you, too, hobie.”

[elitetechch]

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[darth-mortem]

Here is the lil fic I wrote for my Friend, in which 09 Ghost and Roach have an important mission, and Captain MacTavish disagrees with this fact. 729 words.

“Three ahead.” Ghost reported.

“Roger that.” Roach replied, and they darted off in different directions.

Riley burst into a supply room and shut the door behind him, hiding among the brooms and mops. Sanderson found himself in a more vulnerable position: he ducked into an open hall and fell behind a couch. The two soldiers sitting on it didn’t notice anything, occupied with watching the news on an old television.

“All clear.” Ghost reported a few minutes later, and they both quietly left their hiding spots and moved on.

The target for the two members of TF 141 was a specific office on the fourth floor of the building. Both had considerable experience in such covert infiltrations, so they navigated the military base and entered the building without any issues. Now, they only had to reach the stairs and ascend to the desired floor. Ghost wasn’t thrilled about it; he would have preferred to climb the building's exterior, but Roach firmly objected.

“A whole crowd ahead.” Riley hissed, and this time he and Gary found themselves in the same hideout—in a restroom near the staircase exit.

Locking the door from the inside, both operatives pressed against it, listening to what was happening outside.

“What are we going to do if his office is locked?” Roach whispered. “Are we going to pick the lock?”

“Negative.” Ghost replied. “I have a key.”

“What? Where from?!” Gary stared at the lieutenant, trying to catch a glimpse of his emotions through the eyehole of his skull-patterned balaclava.

“We'll talk about that later.” Simon said irritably. “All clear, go, go, go!”

The timing of the infiltration was spot on. At this hour, the fourth floor was empty and dark, so upon arriving, the two TF 141 members relaxed a bit and approached the door they needed without rushing. Ghost pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked it, and they both slipped inside.

“So, where’s our target?” Roach asked.

“In his desk.” Ghost replied. “Keep watch while I search.”

It didn’t take him long. Within a minute, Riley was already triumphantly waving a long, rectangular metal box in the air.

“Now let’s get the hell out of here!” Roach whispered urgently, and they hurried to leave the room, locking the door behind them.

***

Captain MacTavish was furious. He was certain he had left his cigar case with cigars in his office desk, but when he arrived there, he found nothing. Of course, he had cigarettes as well, but he didn't want those right now; he wanted to enjoy a cigar. Frustrated and lost in thought, he headed downstairs towards the living quarters, trying to remember where else he could have left his cigar case.

“Hey, MacTavish!” He heard, and turning his head, he saw Riley and Sanderson sitting on a bench in the smoking area, puffing away on cigars.

“Where th' hell did ye get those?” Soap frowned, squinting his eye.

“Roach won them in a poker game from those guys in K9.” Ghost explained flatly, pulling a cigar from Roach’s pocket. “Want one, Captain?”

They smoked in silence. Gary, casting a significant glance at Simon, soon slipped away, citing urgent matters. Ghost and Soap remained in the smoking area together, and then Johnny, shaking his head, chuckled softly.

“Ye’re quite th’ scumbag, Riley.” He said, exhaling fragrant smoke with pleasure. “Did ye pure think ah wouldn’t figure oot they wur mah bloody cigars?”

“I was hoping you would, sir.” Ghost replied cheekily, his voice devoid of respect.

MacTavish stood up and pushed the lieutenant against the wall. He squirmed but did not resist, even when the captain pulled off his balaclava, revealing his scarred face; only Simon's eyes became frightened and like cornered animal ones.

“Oh no, no need tae be scared, luv.” Johnny whispered gently, then, tilting his head, he carefully pressed his lips against Riley's. “Ye know ye could have just asked, ‘n’ I would have treated both o’ ye?”

“I know.” Ghost nodded, flicking the ash off his cigar and placing his hands on his captain’s shoulders. “But that wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting, would it?” “That’s why I love ye.” MacTavish sighed, pulling Riley close and drawing him into another kiss—this time long, passionate, and sweet, with the taste of expensive Cuban cigars that were kept in the captain’s silver cigar case in his office desk.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1990 home in Philadelphia, PA looks like some sort of factory conversion, and it's right on the sidewalk, but, it's very private and you'd never believe how the inside looks. Actually, I kind of like the exterior. It has 3bds, 3ba, and they're asking $2.999M.

They don't show the front door entrance, this is the foyer in the courtyard. It appears that, if anything, they enter the house thru the garage.

But, check out this living room. Stone walls, a modern staircase and a fireplace with a big metal exhaust hood.

There's a patterned ceiling and a wall of lighted display shelving.

And, this looks like a front entrance with the closets and umbrella holder, but it's not the front. So, I'm thinking that they go around the back of the house, but I'm confused.

The living room is quite large and also has a view of the courtyard.

The dining room may be open, but they partitioned it off with a Soji screen. It also has a view of the courtyard.

This is interesting. Here, in the kitchen, which is kind of a small corner by the stairs, you'll notice that the stairs are very different from the living room. These are more of a traditional Victorian style.

Gorgeous powder room. The mosaic tiles sparkle, the wood on the floating vanity is amazing, and the toilet is so cool.

The primary bedroom is incredibly beautiful. Stone walls, that huge clock, and gorgeous fireplace is part of a built-in closet, everything is built-in.

This is a continuation of the fireplace- it's a hallway of closet storage.

The marble in the bath matches the fireplace.

There's also a cute private terrace.

Here's a lovely guest room.

Large home office with shelving.

Look at this beautiful hallway with a glass wall and ceiling along the courtyard.

The gardens in the courtyard are incredibly beautiful.

It looks like a botanical garden.

The garage looks like it has the old bedroom built-ins. Very classy.

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Mr Bell, come out and play PT2

ADDITION TO MY DADLER AND GRAVESSON AU

Chapter 2: The past haunts you

Summary:

The girls are fighting! AKA Bell and Adler sort their shit out with VIOLENCE at least they think they will :)

“Phillip. Come here.” Adler's voice cuts through the room, his voice stern and commanding, Phillip jolts slightly, eyes wide, Phillip stands on shaky legs and waddles over to his father. Adler quickly grasps Phillip's shoulder and pushes himself in front of the child protecting him.

Bell simply leans back gun still secured in his hand a sly smile hidden beneath his balaclava for as long as Bell knew Adler if the fucked up situationship he had with his former CO could be called knowing. But hidden under Adler's tense exterior there was a flicker of fear, a sliver of true and disturbed fear, and Bell revealed it. 

“Phillip, go to your room,” Adler demands glancing down at his son, concern etched into his face, his anxious eyes hidden under his shades. 

Phillip, oblivious to the tension boiling in the room, simply nods holding his drawing to his chest  “Okay daddy…bye Mister Bell!” he yells walking towards the staircase in the hallway Bell smiles “Bye kiddo.” He says adjusting his grip on the gun in his lap and leaning forward. 

Adler then speaks up his voice sharp and cutting “How the fuck are you alive?” Adel's tone almost made Bell flinch, the keyword. In any other situation, Bell would have been scared but right now? He had the upper hand and he had a gun, Adler did not. Bell was finally in control for once. 

Bell stands up turning over the gun in his hand “Well Adler you might want to start practicing what you preach. After all, when you shoot an enemy you better make sure they're dead.” 

Bell says reaching up and pulling off the balaclava revealing a large scar cutting across Bell’s cheek and taking a large chunk out of his ear “Make sure they aren’t playing dead.” Bell’s eyes bore into Adlers and if looks could kill Adler would be six feet deep and decaying by now. 

Adler's face is twisted and angry, his fists clenched at his sides, loathing boiling in his eyes “If you lay a finger on Phillip's head-” Bell cuts Adler off by cocking the gun back “If I wanted to harm your son I would have done it adler. But I'm not a monster. Despite what you think, I will not orphan your son. You can't say the same, can you? The harrows had a daughter you know.” Bell says, lowering the gun back to his side.

At that motion, Adler takes that opportunity to lunge forward, grabbing Bell's wrist and slamming the ex-CIA agent to the floor. 

Bell’s head smacks against the carpet hard pain splintering in the back of his skull, adler ‘s head snaps to the side as Bell's fist connects to his cheek splintering his sunglasses and smacking them off of his face, blood dripping from his nose. Now splayed out on the floor the gun would make or break the fight. Fists were thrown, bruises were made and wounds reopened. 

The gun flew from Bell’s hand and both Adlers’ and Bell’s eyes were drawn to the cool sleek metal weapon. Their eyes meet for a brief moment before both lunge forward their arms desperately reaching for the gun.

Bell was closer but Adler was quicker.  

In a split second, Adler grabbed the gun’s muzzle and swung connecting the handle of the pistol with Bell's temple, sending him back grasping his forehead. Dreading the probable goose egg that is if he makes it out alive. 

Adler then stands readjusting the gun in his hand looming over Bell’s fallen form, adler then levels the barrel of the gun to Bell’s temple his shattered glasses and bloody nose and mouth would make him seem even more intimidating to anyone else. But Bell was not anyone else. He was second in command to Perseus, a former puppet of the CIA and a madman. 

Both Adler and Bell are breathing heavily, Adler's finger pressing against the pistol trigger prepared to finally end it. To end this man this monster who threatens his family threatens his son.  

“Daddy?” a small voice speaks up from the stairwell and Bell fucking smiles.

[yallthemwitches]

“Though,” he hums, “Now that we are on the subject, what did you ask for for Christmas?” It’s clear he means it to be playful—to get a cheeky remark out of her, but her heart is beating so hard she worries he can feel it.  “More confidence.” He laughs, a sharp, happy sound that she has begun to yearn for. The heat of his encroaching proximity emanates off of him in waves and mixed with the smell of him, it lulls her away like a trance. Meanwhile, Marlene’s words from earlier seep through the walls like a gelatinous ooze: better get in quick— “Oh?” he tilts his head and a bit of hair falls into his glasses, “Care to share what for?” “For—“ but she cuts herself off, hands lurching off the edge of the desk and into the cords of his sweater, slanting her mouth against his.

(Read on AO3 or under cut!)

“You came.”

It’s not the voice she expects to hear but Peter Pettigrew’s, shuffled off in the corner of the curling front porch with a fag hanging from his lips.

“I was invited, wasn’t I?”

She ignores the small smile wrapping around the filter, a twinkle in his eye that all of the boys in James’ little crew have adopted like they’ve inherited it from each other.

“Don’t be like that, Evans. I’m just saying it’s nice to see you. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.”

He’s right, he hasn’t because she hasn’t, and she doesn’t like the way his tone insinuates that maybe she would have a reason to give Potter house visits.

Her eyes lower into speculative slits and the hair on Peter's neck starts to bristle.   

“He’s your mate, that’s all,” he stammers, “Well, thought so anyway. He told me he’s been writing to you...”

“Did he?” Her voice sounds more lethal than she had intended.  With a gulp, Peter’s eyes become more watery than normal. 

“I mean—yeah. I mean–that’s what mate’s do right? Write to each other? Wait, fuck—is it queer to write to my mates?”

“Very.”

She strides past, letting him parse out for himself if she was being sarcastic or not. The ornate knocker is a metal cast of a hand which, when Lily reaches out to touch it, places a static finger upwards before ringing three solid melodic raps into the cold air. 

She’s never seen a home like this. She knew James came from money—before holiday, she overheard Amelia and Lilas twittering with their invitations at the lunch table about how far his family’s new money had gone, but she didn’t really know what to expect. 

The door opened on its own, leading to an entrance room that looked more cozy than the imposing exterior of the manor let on. A staircase that cut through the middle of the room was flanked with exotic plants, bar carts filled with bubbling, multi-color liquids and books wedged in the spaces between. A large painting of a woman, practically nude besides a gossamer sheet, holds up a sizzling vial of green liquid and looks down at her with a wink, gesturing her eyes up the staircase where Lily can hear music wafting. 

Following the woman’s gaze, she mounts the steps, stopping every so often to read out the titles of nearby books: Satanic Witchcraft: Muggle Histeria and Women’s Liberation…The Cosmic Antidote: a Potioneer’s Encyclopedia…The Final Form: A Meditation on Animagus.

“Well, can’t say I saw this one coming.”

Lily tears her eyes away from the books. At the top of the staircase, Sirius leans against the bannister, looking as carelessly handsome as ever despite wearing a rather frumpy looking Christmas jumper with a dog on it. 

“Does an actual Potter live here or am I still working my way through the welcome committee?” 

Sirius just smiles back, swirling the tumbler in his hand so the liquid forms a vortex at the bottom of the glass.

“Sorry to disappoint. I'm on door duty since they are all otherwise indisposed. Poor Prongs has been getting his cheeks pinched all evening—and I don’t necessarily mean his face.”

It makes Lily crack a smile, the image of James trying and failing to use his lithe quidditch reflexes to ward off straying hands of old biddies. 

“I gotta be honest with you Evans, when I saw Mary show up without you we figured you weren’t coming.”

Thank God, Mary’s here. Just the thought of an ally in this otherwise alien environment makes Lily’s shoulders drop. 

“Well sorry to disappoint—-though I haven’t quite made it to the party yet so there’s still time for me to leave…”

Sirius throws his head back in a laugh, his earring tinkling against itself. 

“No way, Evans. Now that you’re here the night might actually be interesting.”

* * * * *

The sitting room (if you can call it that) is packed with people. Lily recognizes some as students from school, clumping themselves in groups around the outskirts of the space while others who are much older command the room as though their own, floating from person to person under an enchanted ceiling that rains down fluffy tufts of snow and disappears before it can melt.

It’s overwhelming and yet It doesn’t take much to find him–these days her eyes like magnets towards the unruly head of black hair and perpetually easygoing gaze. James stands at the center of the fray, looking disdainful as an older witch with smoky eyes shoves her hands through his hair, trying to tame the tangle and laughing to another woman when her attempt only makes the dishevelment worse. When his eyes flick over to where her and Sirius stand, she watches them grow in real time.

It’s all for show, you know. He had written in his last letter. I could be the Minister of Magic and I’d still act like a bloody child sometimes. 

Cheeks turning ruddy, he raises his hand from his side and gives a small wave from the middle of his chest, mouthing a timid hi . At the time she hadn’t understood what he had meant in his letter, but watching him stand there uncharacteristically awkward while his mother doted on him it all started to make sense. 

It did something awful to her heart rate. 

She mouths it back, mirroring his tiny wave in an attempt to seem playful and a grin breaks out on his face as vibrant as the crackling fireplace behind him. 

“ Soo..” Sirius sings beside her and she realizes she's been holding eye contact with James and smiling for god knows how long while the world turned without them. 

“A drink? Or do you prefer snogging blokes in front of their parents cold turkey?”

“Fuck off, Black,” she scoffs, unable to hide a flush on her cheeks from being caught. 

It shouldn’t affect her as much as it does, really. They are friends— a fact that James has had no problem repeating to anyone who will listen—-and it has been nice really: studying together deep in the stacks, getting distracted by the contagion of his laugh when she reaches across his space to write cheeky comments on the margins of his homework. And (as much as she would deny it) his letters over the holiday have been a saving grace: his loping elegant script making her heart swoop the second the owl lands on her window-sill holding pages of doodles and rambling banter to make up for the silence that comes with his absence. 

But those were normal feelings to have towards friends, right?

“Wait—fuck someone’s at the door,” Sirius says, expression alert though Lily hadn’t heard anything. “Drinks are over there,” he gestures to a far corner where many people are congregating.“Mary’s over there,” pointing to a group of girls talking near a wide christmas tree, “And, well, I think you already know where James is.” 

He flashes her a sly smile which she ignores and disappears back the way they came, leaving her to fend for herself. 

She wades through the clusters of people, finding a large elaborate bar in which the drinks make themselves as guests call out their order. She asks for a gin and tonic then wanders towards the group of girls, happy to find some semblance of familiarity. Mary, Emmeline, Marlene, and Sofia form a semi-circle, looking into the vast crowd while taking turns to lean in and giggle out observations. As Lily walks up, Mary pulls her into a one armed hug, clinking their glasses with a wink.

“Everyone said you weren’t gonna show,” Mary says, giving her a smug smile. “Curiosity got the best of you like the rest of us then?”

“Yeah, something like that—“ Lily mutters, taking a long sip of her drink. Across the room, James continues to be heralded from stately couple to stately couple, eyes darting around for some sort of saviour that never seems to come.

“Could really get used to this,” Emmeline pipes up with a giggle, “fit and filthy rich? If only Potter would catch my drift once in a while, I could be the next lady of the house.” 

A sharp stab hits Lily right in the stomach and she holds back the urge to spit out a less than savory comment about Emmeline’s lack of class.

“You could always go for Black—he’s available,” teases Marlene.“ Besides, we all know Potter’s been making shag eyes at Sofia for the better half of the term.”

Lily can’t help but rear her head back in incredulity. In all four classes she shares with James and Sofia she has never once noticed him making anything remotely resembling ‘shag eyes’ in her direction, but by the way Sofia gives a cheeky shrug and purses her lips perhaps she had missed something vital.

“We’ve been talking,” Sofia says simply, giving a sly look.

Talking? Talking like writing over holiday? Lily feels heat rise to her forehead, becoming a bit woozy. It wouldn’t be insane if James was writing to other girls besides her—-they were friends after all, but something inside her ached. She had wanted, had hoped that maybe his letters to her were special. Special in what way? He probably equates your letters to the likes of Peter or Remus at this point…

“Well,” Marlene clicks her tongue, raising her eyebrow suggestively, “Better get in quick—ever since Brown confirmed he has more talent with his tongue then just talking, there’s been a decent queue of girls waiting to—-“

“Anyone know where the loo is?” Lily cut in. Her stomach had started to turn, the slow burn in her chest only getting worse the longer she stood there. 

Without guidance, she wanders away, heading towards a lit hallway that looks promising off the side of the room. On her way, she sees no sign of Sirius or Peter, only giving one last glance to James who is still busy entertaining his parents’ guests before slipping out of sight. 

She would have thought she had gone the wrong way if not for the fact that the hall was brightly decorated with charmed icicles that glowed a soft blue and grew longer along the wall. Chandeliers like golden arms hold out candlesticks, leading her down past what felt like too many doors for a family of three to own on just a single floor. 

Timid, she jiggles the handles, peeking into unlocked rooms in hopes to find the bathroom. Nearing the end of the hall, she gives an ajar door a hopeful push. Inside is a lush bedroom with a large mahogany bed adorned with red and gold quilts. Muggle rock bands with static stares are flanked by zooming quidditch players who seem to be playing a match just amongst the collection of posters tacked together.

Looking behind to see if anyone is coming, she steps in, edging towards a large postal desk that looks like it should have been in some museum rather than a teenager's bedroom. Along the surface, books are splayed open, James’ unmistakably curled handwriting cramping the margins of some while others have bits of parchment sticking out as place holders. A quill sits on top of an opened parchment at the corner of the desk, a letter abandoned in mid script: 

Dear Lily,

I know I already wrote today, but, thick as I am, I forgot to ask (please don’t take the piss out of me for overworking the owls—mum overfeeds them so they need the exercise anyways).

I know I made a laugh of it when I gave you your invitation, but I really hope you come to the party. Knowing my parents, I’ll be swamped with old bats wanting to chide me on my ‘waste of a potions legacy’’ (their words) but you’re presence would make it all the more—-

“I think you might be a little lost, Miss Evans.”

Lily spins around, hitting her hip against the desk. James leans against the doorway, looking like he has been there for a while, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Sorry—just looking for the loo.” She can feel a flush crawling down her neck.

“Ah,” James steps in with his hands in his pockets, obviously amused. “And you found a room that looked remotely like mine and figured it was as good a toilet as any?”

Lily stammers, trying to come up with a response, but James cuts her off with a laugh, walking into the room.

“I’m just taking the piss, Evans. You enjoying the party? Haven’t been able to pull myself away from my mum’s friends the whole night—-Sirius and Peter are probably furious...”

His eyes drop to the desk. Seeing his note left open, he quickly rips it away, balling it up with a red tinge forming under his glasses.

“Uh, just got here actually,” Lily murmurs, not sure if she should admit to snooping around his room. “You have a—beautiful home.”

James snorts, leaning against the side of the desk. “A bit much I think.”

He runs a hand through his hair and Lily notices that he has a matching jumper to Sirius, though his has a reindeer on it with a pair of glasses that match his own.

“Nice jumper—you and Sirius knit them together?”

James looks down like he’s just noticing it, pulling at the ends so the reindeer’s face gets contorted with a stretch. 

“Yeah well– I got him a flying motorbike and he repays me with this ugly thing, the sod.” 

She can’t help but laugh, but not at the reason he expects. A flying motorbike—-he got his mate a flying motorbike. Lily could count on her hand the things she had received in her life that were as meaningful and complicated and perfect as what James had gotten for his friend. A whoosh of air soared through her chest, unraveling any of the painful knots that had formed from her chat with the girls. 

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m afraid I didn’t get you anything,” Lily says, somewhat sheepish. She had spent a good evening debating whether they were close enough to warrant gifts, but in the end was too cowardly. 

“No worries, Evans,” he turns to her, a slight blush forming. “Let's be honest, I wouldn’t have deserved it anyway.”

She can feel static in the air. Downstairs, the music changes: a slow ballad that probably has couples grabbing each other's hands and swaying close. She wonders if Sofia is looking for James, hoping to finally get her shot.

He leans in and she can smell the faint scent of spice mixed with earth–a scent she has come to know too well from their times spent shoulder to shoulder in the library.

“Though,” he hums, “now that we are on the subject, what did you ask for for Christmas?” It’s clear he means it to be playful—to get a cheeky remark out of her, but her heart is beating so hard she worries he can feel it. 

“Father Christmas isn’t real, did no one tell you.”

“C’mon Evans. Play along.” His eyes glint with mirth, the gold coming out in the flicker of the dim candlelight. 

“More confidence.”

He laughs, a sharp happy sound that she has begun to yearn for. The heat of his encroaching proximity emanates off of him in waves, and mixed with the smell of him, it lulls her away like a trance. Meanwhile, Marlene’s words from earlier seep through the walls like a gelatinous ooze: better get in quick—

“Oh?” he tilts his head and a bit of hair falls into his glasses, “Care to share what for?”

“For—“ but she cuts herself off, hands lurching off the edge of the desk and into the cords of his sweater, slanting her mouth against his. 

The kiss was so fleeting, it could have been a hallucination if not for the lingering softness of his lips and the instant flesh memory of his breath against her cheek. When she pulls away, his eyes look clouded and dark, a small oh escaping his lips.

JAMES!

The sound of beating footsteps echo down the hall and the door slams wide open. A huffing Peter keels over still holding the knob.

“Your parents need you. They are— oh fuck,” he stops mid sentence, finally clocking how close Lily and James are to one another. 

“Ah, fuck mate—uhm…your mum and dad are trying to do a speech or something…and Sirius is out smoking. Uh, Merlin, wow, this is awkward.”

If it weren’t for the fact that he had just stormed in on perhaps the most embarrassing moment of her life, Lily would have found Peter’s floundering funny, but James hadn’t even turned to his mate, eyes roaming around her face like two flying pixies. 

“A minute, Pete,” James calls, still with his back to him. 

Peter shifts his weight, looking more anxious by the second.

“Uh, your mum said now—”

“A minute, bloody hell.”

All the stabbing pain from earlier flies back into Lily’s chest. Instead of grabbing hold of her, pulling her close and maybe even ( merlin can you imagine) kissing her again, James continues to stand stock still, his features completely unreadable besides a confused, searching look in his eye. 

“I have to go, but don’t leave before we can talk again,” he says in a stern voice. For some reason it reminds her of being chastised like a child.

“Please Lily. I’ll be back. Just… enjoy the party and I’ll come find you.”

He turns on his heel, walking out the door without a second glance and leaves Lily to fall back against the desk. Her lips still vibrate with the warmth of his own.