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fandom-puff · 3 years ago

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Family, Duty, Honour (p2)

Pairing: Tyrion Lannister x reader

Warnings: pregnancy/pregnancy symptoms including vomiting, prejudice towards dwarfism (discussion as to whether Tyrion and YN’s child will inherit his dwarfism; not a widely accepted condition in Westeros), childbirth, details of the death of Joanna Lannister (dying in childbirth/traumatic birth), reference to miscarriage

(Part 1)

Gif creds to owner

“Pardon me, Milord,”

Both Tywin and Tyrion turned around to see a young girl, one of your handmaidens, hurrying towards them, remembering a clumsy curtsey in her haste.

“Speak,” Lord Tywin said sternly, and the girl paled briefly before turning instead to his son.

“It’s Lady YN,” she said, and Tyrion instantly stood up straighter, even more on edge. “She’s… sick, my Lord. Can’t keep anything in her stomach, and just now she fainted,”

“Where is she?” Tyrion asked urgently.

“Her bedchamber, Milord. We got a squire to help her back into bed,”

As Tyrion made to hurry after the girl, Tywin’s hand rested firmly on his shoulder. “I will send the maester. He will prove whether or not you have done your duty to this family,”

***

“YN, my dear, can you hear me?”

Slowly, your heavy eyelids slid open, and you turned your head to the source of the noise. Smiling weakly, you squeezed your husband of two month’s hand.

“Are you alright, my lady wife,” he asked you gently, brushing his lips over your knuckles.

“I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy. Must have stood up too quickly,” you said gently, but you did not soothe Tyrion’s worry.

“Your handmaiden said you’ve been ill?” He prompted, and your cheeks heated slightly.

“It’s probably just… my women’s troubles,” you said quietly, still unused to talking about such delicate matters with anyone other than an old septa.

“Or lack thereof, lady Lannister?” The maester spoke up from the end of your bed and you frowned, about to say there really was no need for all this fuss. “The maids say your linen has been clean since your wedding night,”

Clean linen.

Those two words instantly reminded you of when Cousin Cat came to stay at Riverrun with her brooding husband. She had stayed for over a month, and halfway through her stay, you heard gossip of clean linen as you wandered the corridors of your home. Later on that year, she had birthed another child for Ned Stark.

“Does that mean…” you began.

The wisened maester smiled at your bewilderment. “Potentially. If my Lord and Lady are agreeable, I would like to examine lady Lannister to be certain,”

Tyrion smiled gently and kissed your hand once more. “I will give you some privacy, my dear,” he said, and once you nodded, he left the room to bang on the door to his father’s office.

***

“Have you put a babe in her belly?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes at his father’s callousness. “She is being examined as we speak,”

“Good,” Tywin said, hardly looking up from his paperwork. “You’d best hope she is with child and not ill. There aren’t many noble families willing to pawn off a daughter to us,” Tywin sighed and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit,” he said. “You clearly have something more to say,”

Tyrion was silent for a moment. “I do not want to lose her. She is young. Too young for… this,”

“She is only a few years younger than you. And besides, that didn’t stop you consummating the marriage, did it?”

If anything went on in Casterly rock, Tywin Lannister certainly knew about it within a day.

“No, it didn’t,” Tyrion said. You were nineteen after all, and you had consummated your marriage out of duty to your families.

The night-time visits, on the other hand…

“I’m scared that a baby will… that it will kill her,” Tyrion blurted out, and he could have sworn he saw some semblance of sympathy flash through his father’s eyes. “I am scared that my child will be too much like me. That it will rip her in two and kill her. That it won’t even live in her womb. That it will suffer. That… that she will suffer,”

Tywin stared long and hard at his youngest son, his bastard in all but name as far as he was concerned and sighed. “So am I,” was all he said, before gesturing to the door. And as he left the office, Tyrion knew that Tywin did not care for your suffering, for his suffering, or even for the child’s suffering. He cared only that his legacy remained.

***

Casterly Rock was alive with gossip.

No matter which corridor you walked down, people would stare, both openly and discretely at your belly, which barely showed thanks to the layers you wore (Tyrion insisted you wrapped up warm whenever you walked through the gardens, lest you catch a chill). You could not go a day without the maester inquiring about your general health, and when your swollen ankles were brought to your husband’s attention, he had the cobblers fashion you a pair of comfortable, yet fashionable flat shoes.

***

You were laying in your husband’s bed one night on the sixth moon of your pregnancy, a hand resting on your bump. “Leave the books, husband, and come to bed. I need you to tell your child to stop kicking me so we can all go to sleep. He seems to only listen to you,” Tyrion looked up from his books and sighed, shutting them over and coming to bed, his hand resting over yours. “You’ve gained a sudden interest in midwifery, I see,” you teased, but when he did not smile at your jest, you frowned. “What’s bothering you, husband?” You said gently.

“I…” Tyrion fumbled for the words, his eyes firmly on your belly. “I am frightened, YN,” he said quietly. “That the baby will… will have… will be a little too much like me.”

Of course. You cursed yourself for not even thinking that this could be plaguing your husband. You clasped Tyrion’s hand in yours. “Tyrion… even if the baby is born a dwarf, we will not treat him the way your father treated you,” you insisted, drawing small circles on the back of his hands.

“But what if it kills you like I killed my mother,” your heart ached for him, and you tipped his chin up to face you.

“Then you must promise me to love this child regardless,”

Tyrion’s heart ached. Neither of you had wanted this marriage, yet in the few short months you had been wed he had become fond of you, affectionate. He wanted to protect you from the horrors of a kingdom still reeling from the Rebellion that saw the end of the Mad King. He wanted to see you happy and comfortable and healthy. He would spend all of the gold in Casterly Rock to ensure your safety, despite the fact that your marriage was merely one of strategy arranged by his father and your uncle. You were still his wife, the most precious thing in his life.

But over the past nine months, he could do nothing to alleviate your discomfort. He could only hold back your hair and rub your back as you vomited, the only thing you could seemingly keep in your stomach was dried bread. When you could manage dining anywhere but your chambers, he ordered for the things that turned your stomach to be kept well away. When your legs and feet ached, he could only rub them in hopes of soothing the throbbing. When the baby kicked like mad at night, he rubbed your swollen belly so that you could rest, if only for a few moments at a time.

He watched as the veritable mountain that was your bump sapped you of your energy, and he knew there was nothing he could do to restore it.

And when the time came for you to birth the child, he knew his heart would ache even more as you laboured for hours in agony, with him unable to do anything to take the pain away.

***

You went into labour at night, your sharp gasp of pain as you heaved yourself out of bed waking your husband.

“My dear, are you alright?” He asked urgently, not groggy despite the fact he had been snoring like a boar just thirty seconds prior. As he lit a candle, he saw you grasping onto one of the bedposts, lips pressed together, suppressing your groan. “I will be back in a moment, YN, okay? I’m going to get help,”

“Hurry,”

True to his word, Tyrion returned a few moments later with a few sleepy maids and a septa, who laid fresh linen over the bed and began to send for boiling water. The maester was hot on their heels, scrambling to loop his chains over his neck, before shooing Tyrion and the maids out of the room.

Your groans and cries of pain permeated the walls of your bedchamber and down the hallways of Casterly Rock, and by sunrise, coins were being exchanged on the outcome of your labour. The smallfolk crowded near the walls of the castle, eager to call out prayers in hopes that the rich old lions felt generous after the birth.

Tyrion paced just outside of the room you were in, and every time a maid went in with fresh, boiled water and clean linen or came out with bloodstained cloths and empty bowls, he asked urgently how you were doing, but no one gave him an answer.

The septa left the birthing room, walking straight past the father of your child to… the grandfather. They talked in quick, hushed voices, that could not be heard over your pained cries, but Tyrion caught the two of them looking over their shoulder at him several times.

As the septa went back into the birthing room, Tywin walked over to Tyrion. He seemed to be in no apparent rush, his steps stately. Tyrion resisted the urge to scream at his father, to curse him for tormenting him while you laboured.

“When you were brought into the world,” he began, voice level and low, so Tyrion had to strain to hear what he was saying. “You were born, for lack of a better term, arse first. But then your shoulders got stuck inside the womb, and when you finally emerged, you dragged half of your mother’s womb out with you,”

Both men paled. Not only were they weak stomached when it came to the secretive world of a birthing chamber, but Tywin was plagued with memories from twenty or so years before, and Tyrion was plagued with guilt for killing his mother when he was a newborn, and fear that his child would do the same to you.

Tywin continued. “But the Septa has reported that the child is being born head first, as it should,” Tyrion nodded slowly. Tywin was about to continue when the door opened again.

“Pardon, Milords,” a maid carrying an armful of bloodied linen said. “Lady YN has asked for Lord Tyrion to… support her. The maester has permitted it, so long as Milord stays at the top end of the bed,”

Tyrion was frozen for a moment.

“Go,” Tywin said lowly, giving his son a small shove. “Your lady wife needs you now,”

Tyrion looked over his shoulder, and he was sure he could see a small glimmer of… sympathy in his father’s eye. Kindness even. And it was this look, paired with the shift in the way you screamed that had him running into the birthing chamber.

“Tyrion!” You sobbed, one hand reaching for him, the other reaching above you to grasp at the headboard. One of your trusted hand maids, who you had brought with you from Riverrun was at your other side, pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Tyrion hurried to your other side, just in time for the maester to tell you to push, and the child was at last parted with your body.

All was silent for a tense few moments, until sharp cries filled the room. You could hear the cheering from the corridors.

“A boy, my lady,” the maester called out, and you sobbed for joy. “A healthy son. A little on the delicate side-”

“Is he-”

“No. He is not like you, my Lord. I delivered you and your siblings, and your son is exactly the size your brother was when he was born,”

“Can I hold him?” You whispered, your arms reaching out.

“Of course, my lady. He is your son,”

The child was handed to you, nuzzled against the bare skin of your breasts, his little cries soon petering out to soft snuffles of sleep. The maester left to deliver the good news to the Lord of Casterly Rock, but your world consisted only of Tyrion and your son.

“He’s perfect,” he said, letting out a relieved laugh. “And he’s going to tower over me when he’s a man grown,” You gave a laugh, happy tears streaming down your cheeks as you rested your head on his shoulder. Tyrion pressed his lips to your temple. “You wonderful, wonderful woman, I love you,” he murmured. “I swear to you on the old gods and the new that I will protect you and my son from all harm,”

You rubbed your son’s back gently, not wanted to disturb his sleep and you looked up to your husband. “Thank you,” you whispered. Tyrion, my Lord husband. My love,”

Tags: @sociallyawkward-princess @lazyotakujen @janelongxox @honeyofthegods @lxoxtxtxi @fullmoonshadowwrites

#tyrion lannister imagine #tyrion lannister x you #tyrion x you #Tyrion x reader #Tyrion Lannister x reader #request #2021 #family duty honor #part 2 #got #game of thrones one shot #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine

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butterysalt · 4 years ago

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Fun | Sherlock x platonic!Reader

Pairing: Sherlock x platonic!gender neutral reader

Request ( @a-paper-cut ):

Word Count: 2,202

Contains: Mentions of child abduction, platonic fluffiness and banter :)

A/N: AAAAAAA thank you so much, lovely! This was my first request and I was SUPER excited to write it hehe. I’ve been on a slight creative block lately and I enjoyed writing this so much. I hope this fic does justice for what you wanted and I hope that you are doing amazingly 🧡🧡

It was an early, snowy winter morning in London. You and Sherlock Holmes have been mind-boggled by a puzzling case for the past week. The detective proposed that the two of you go on a walk to allow some fresh air in the brains again. This suggested that even his extensive mind palace and composing weren’t helping the genius. Not that you were complaining about sharing a nice stroll with Sherlock. It had been years after all since you two had spent any casual time together. Like what people normally did in their free time, anyway.

The two of you stepped side by side, feet planting in the thin sheet of snow on the ground in unison. You grinned a little at the matched body language. You and Sherlock always had special ways to subtly communicate with one another. It was like a part of your minds were connected.

“Anything yet?” the tall brunette questioned. Your lip twitched upward. “Don’t rush the process, Sherlock. Just enjoy the moment. Live in it a little.” Sherlock’s long drawl could be heard next to you. His walking strides were growing longer as his patience began to thin out. You could practically hear the subtle gnawing of his teeth.

“We’ve only been walking 5 minutes,” you flouted, “Loosen up a bit.” Sherlock snickered to himself, messing with his gloved hands. “You’re already trying to read me?”

“You’re walking like you’ve got a stick up your arse. It’s clear you’re agitated,” you jested. The curly-haired detective sneered at you and kicked a clump of ice out of the way. “I can’t think, Y/n. We have potential homicide to solve and we��re here drudging in the snow.”

“Remember, this was your idea, genius. Unless you can come up with something else, this is all we’ve got.” Sherlock went silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. His mind wandered to try and come up with something snarky to throw at you. Perhaps a witty comeback that would leave you in doubt. The headache he was dealing with was enough to strike him in his train of thought. He shook it off and his focus returned to the matter of urgency. Unsolved case.

Sherlock lifted his face to the sky, blowing a hot cloud of breath into the chilly London air. He tugged his scarf a little closer to his neck, shoving his gloved hands down into his thick coat. The breath cloud was a common habit of Sherlock’s during cold weather. It mimicked the effect of blowing cigarette smoke, just without the tar and nicotine. Fortunately, the only time the detective abused drugs anymore was when cases had him horribly stumped; thanks to you and John’s efforts, his drug use was much more controlled now.

“Five missing children. All between the ages of 7 and 9. We know that the connection is tied to their private schools. Three different religious private schools within a 10 kilometer radius — so, fairly close together. The parents reported their children coming home with expensive gifts from a mysterious donor shortly before they went missing. They referred to the perpetrator as ‘Ray’. Anyone handing out shiny trinkets to naive children is either a philanthropist or a predator. I’d like to bet on the latter.”

You sighed, mentally reviewing all of the evidence from the case in your head. “But all of the children knew basic safety protocols: don’t talk to strangers, never accept anything from strangers, the whole package. Their parents are terribly traditional. They never would have let any of them see the light if they broke any of those rules. So the chances are near impossible that they would have fallen for such typical child abduction tricks.”

“Near impossible, L/n. That means there’s still a possibility and possible is all we need to screw this up,” Sherlock tutted. He blew another large cloud of air, shaking some light snow off his curls. You frowned, “The suspects. We’ve interrogated the popes, teachers, parents… who are we missing?”

Sherlock stopped walking. You turned to check up on him, finding him with his eyes shut. “Maybe we’re asking the wrong questions…”

“Of course we’re asking the wrong questions! We have all the pieces in our hands but no instructions, Sherlock. We’re running in circles with this case,” you walked over to a public railing, leaning against it and looking out across the long white blanket that stretched to the horizon.

He joined your side shortly after, bending down to pick up some rocks to toss down the snowy hill and watch as they made skinny trails in the frosty powder. Sherlock sighed out, exasperated and worn out. “We’re not getting anywhere by mulling over it, are we?”

You smiled at him and shook your head. You pulled your coat a little tighter around yourself. “That’s why I’m here to keep you in check. It’s good to get some air, you know? Christ knows when’s the last time you did that simply because you wanted to.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow perked up and he faced you with a blank expression. “How do you mean?” Your eyes widened a little, unsure of how you should pick out your next words. “Well… you know, you don’t exactly, uh…” Nervously, your eyes flicked up to his. He was watching your expression very carefully.

“You don’t spend a lot of time for yourself,” you said simply. Sherlock frowned in disagreement. “I spend a lot of time by myself. I thought you knew me better than that,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, leaning your back against the cold railing now, crossing your arms. “In your mind palace, Sherlock. I mean you don’t do things you enjoy.”

“Who said I don’t enjoy things?” he countered your query. You found yourself forming a cold sweat, debating on how to deliver your message. “Hobbies?”

“Violin.”

“Meh. Parties?”

“You disturb me.” Your best friend’s disgust made you cackle. “See, that’s my point! You don’t know how to have fun anymore. What happened to old Sherlock?”

Now this was a personal offense against Sherlock. “What? You don’t think I’m fun?” Sherlock sounded incredibly appalled by your claim. A hot cloud of air rose to the sky when you scoffed.

“Holmes, you are probably the farthest thing when it comes to the definition of fun!”

“Well, probability-wise, that’s highly improbable when Mycroft exists.”

“His poshness makes up for it. You’re just irritating.” Sherlock puffed out his red cheeks, nudging you playfully. “Oh, come on. You must admit that I’m at least an interesting character?”

You pondered in fake thought, scrunching your face together. “Interesting is debatable. Fun? That’s foreign territory, Sherlock.” The tall man grimaced deeply at your bluntness that he clearly had issues with. “What do you mean by ‘Old Sherlock’? What was good about the ‘old me’? I consider myself much more refined in the present day.”

Old memories of the two of you hanging out with one another as teenagers came back to you. A smile melted on your face from the warm feelings of nostalgia, the chilliness from the snowfall leaving your body.

“You used to prank Mycroft all the time. Everything was always a competition with you and me; we would go from racing down the neighborhood to reach my house first or rush to finish homework and claim the telly before the other could. Oh! We would always make up fake cases, too, trying to entertain a mystery that didn’t even exist,” you laughed to yourself, “Look at us now.”

Sherlock grumbled at the reminder of your old shenanigans. He wasn’t always the fondest of his younger self. But he had to admit he was reckless, even as a child. It was a simpler time and kids didn’t have much to fret or fear.

“Now you’re all enigmatic and stoic with your flipped up coat collar and scary cheekbones. The difference is so disappointing, it’s sickening,” you gagged. Sherlock slipped off his glove and jabbed his freezing hand against your neck, making you exclaim at the coldness and shove him backward. He wore a victorious smirk at your suffering. You pointed a hard finger at him, holding back your own laughter to prove a point.

“NO, that’s not being fun, Sherlock. That’s torture- sadism! You’re just an arse!” He threw his arms in the air, tossing his glove in your face. “It’s subjective! I can be fun,” he insisted.

“You’re predictable, Holmes. You don’t remember what good humor is and it shows in your actions. You pick everything up from books and telly. You can’t surprise me anymore,” you declared. Sherlock’s expression contorted into shock as he stared at you in disbelief. You had left the great Sherlock Holmes baffled. The silence was deafening — music to your ears.

When you thought you were winning this argument, a special glint quickly shone in Sherlock’s eyes. Your expression dropped and then you were pushed backward. There was no railing behind you anymore to catch you.

As you were falling, you naturally grasped for something to hold on to. In this case, Sherlock’s coat. The evil smirk on his face was immediately replaced with shock then fear as he was crashing hard into you. Gravity did the rest of the work. With the momentum you had already begun, dragging Sherlock down with you was one of the worst possible outcomes of the situation. A crude curse slipped past his lips and both of you latched onto each other because there was nothing else to brace with.

What was initially meant to be a playful fall down the snowy hill turned into a rolling battle full of frantic thrashing and screaming as both of your bodies thumped and tangled with each other. The two of you occasionally bounced a few inches off the ground and crashed back into the ground, knocking the breath out of both of you. The wild human avalanche down the hill was finally put to a stop when you rolled into a tree. With a loud OOMPH, you and Sherlock flopped into the ground, groaning and croaking in pain. Neither of you moved for the first passing moments, unable to process what just happened.

Your fall was broken when you landed on top of Sherlock, his body sprawled out in the cold snow, rasping heavily. Some snow fell off your form and your arms shook as you propped yourself up, no longer caring about the fact that you applied all the pressure in your friend’s ribs.

“You alright, mate?” you panted, checking up on Sherlock, eyes analyzing him for any serious injuries.

“You take my breath away.” You sputtered and shook your head at his ridiculous humor. “Aren’t you just romantic?” He squinted his eyes and flashed a sarcastic smile but groaned out, “No, really. Please get off my chest.”

“Oh God, sorry,” you scrambled off of him and he rolled over into the snow, gasping for air as he clutched his side in pain. You punched him in the shoulder. “You bloody twat, Sherlock Holmes! Pushing me down a hill by Jove’s sake!”

“I remember it being much more fun when we were younger,” he grunted out, pushing himself onto his forearms. And just then, his eyes burst wide open. His face slack-jawed as his brain computed at top speed. He was onto something.

“Sherlo-”

“FUN, Y/n,” he articulated, scrambling over to you and grabbing you by the shoulders. You stiffened and backed away, startled by his abrupt realization.

“Oh, Y/n, you are brilliant! This is why we work together!”

“What?! What are you-”

“The kids were abducted because they were having fun! ‘Ray’ is Remus Stooge, another private school kid in the area. The Stooge family owns several of the land plots around this corner of London and they’re the ones funding all three schools — The Stooge’s are plenty wealthy. The children were going to Remus’s home, ditching class time to get a personal house tour of his daddy’s money. The fancy car rides, luxurious delights, shiny sneakers and tailored clothing… Who wouldn’t pass up on an opportunity like that? It only makes sense why they were lured in so easily! Their rich best pal Remus has been the one inviting them right into the trap!”

“What- Sherlock! Where is this all coming from?! How do you even-”

“Trust me, Y/n!! I have it figured out- It all makes sense!” he interjected again. The look on your faces was bizarre. You tossed a handful of snow at him as he blocked it with his hands. “NO?? It doesn’t! This is so sudden-”

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, brushing off the powder from his coat and yanking you up. His eyes were gleaming with excitement. “We have to go tell Lestrade, now! Call John and get over to the Stooge’s place!”

“To arrest the kid?!”

“No, the butler!” He grabbed your gloved hand and dragged you up the steep white hill. You shook your head wildly, “Holmes, you better have a bloody good explanation for this in the cab or there will be hell to pay.” Sherlock smirked triumphantly and squeezed your hand.

“Come, L/n! The game is on!”

Requests are open! <3

#bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #bbc sherlock x reader #sherlock fic #reader insert #sherlock fanfic #sherlock x platonic reader #platonic #fluff #humor #request #gnc #gender neutral reader #a-paper-cut #prompt list request

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magalidragon · 4 years ago

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fire on ice | a crackish Jonerys drabble

Soooo... @moggett reblogged this post and well I felt compelled to write a drabble for one of those prompts so I give you this crack fic-- a funeral home meet cute!

I give you....FIRE ON ICE! And this is also partially @youwerenevermine‘s fault, lol, because we literally had same idea for one of the prompts.

“Thank you so much Mr. Snow.”

Jon nodded politely, solemnly, his gray eyes the perfect amount of sympathetic, sad, and he hoped the right amount of ‘normal’— lest people think him a total fucking creep—while he shook the hand of the Greatjon Umber, whose son Smalljon Umber had unfortunately encountered the wrong side of a chainsaw while out trimming trees.

Greatjon began to go into a tale about his son—who by all accounts had been a horrible person—speaking like he was the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror for all his ‘talents’ and ‘successes.’ “Hmm,” he murmured, walking him slowly to the door. “He sounds like quite a man your son, thank you Mr. Umber, we will speak later regarding tomorrow.”

“Of course, thank you again Mr. Snow.”

The door shut loudly behind him, Jon slumping against it, relieved. He glanced at his cousin, who had emerged from the basement, shaking her chopped bob out of its messy little knot atop her head. “He gone?” she demanded.

“Aye.”

“I had half a mind to sew his arm on backwards.”

Jon closed the doors to the viewing room where Smalljon rested in repose until tomorrow when he’d be taken to the Karstark’s castle for the final funeral and ultimate burial in the crypts, as was custom for the Northerners. He clicked his tongue. “Arya, be nice.”

“Remember when his wife died, and he squeezed my arse?”

“Aye, I remember.”

“Thought so.” Arya checked her phone. “Your beloved texted me. We have another on the way. This one fell from the Wall. Ygritte said he’s a fucking mess.”

He made a face; he hated that she referred to his ex-girlfriend as his ‘beloved.’ “Will you stop calling her that?”

“She works for the morgue Jon, what were you thinking?”

“It’s hard to find women in this line of work.” He heard the bell ringing on the other side of the old stone house that served as their place of business and home—the five-floor monstrosity he knew people in town referred to as ‘Castle Black.’ He did wear a lot of black. Came with the territory. He waved off Arya. “Just make sure you finish up with Mr. Lannister before the end of the evening.”

“The rich dude who died on the shitter? Yeah, no thanks, that’s all yours.”

“Do you want to take this one? Where the fuck is Robb anyway?” Robb was the master of this shit, not him. He was better with the dead.

Arya walked away before he even could try to play ‘Dragon, Wolf, Lion’ with her or answer as to where her eldest brother happened to have gone off. Guess it was all him. He caught his reflection in one of the mirrors in the hallway, adjusting his black tie at his neck and raking fingers through his curls. It did nothing to tamp them down. He schooled his expression, solemn, and pushed through the dark wooden doors from the funeral home side of the floor to the entry way. He let them swing back and folded his hands in front of him.

“Welcome to Three Wolves Funeral Home, may I help you?” he asked, voice gentle; you never knew who might be waiting to speak with you on this side of the building. He’d been accused too often in Robb’s post-services discussions of being too cold.

The woman standing in a dark red dress with long black overcoat was not someone who appeared to be in mourning, but then you never really knew, some people were good at masking emotions. Her silver hair was in an elegant, braided knot at the back of her head and she had large black sunglasses folded in her hands, gazing at the table with various brochures for caskets.

She turned, blinking wide violet eyes at him, her lips crimson, face pale. “Good afternoon,” she greeted him, eyebrow arching. “I’m inquiring as to your crematory services.”

“For yourself?” he blurted, before he realized how it sounded.

She smirked, while he flushed, thrown off by her stunning beauty. He tried to school his expression again; she could very well have been there for her husband, boyfriend, or other, he did not need to stumbling through this. He wished Robb was there. “That would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Well, I can assure you I’m not here to burn myself alive, but you know…” She inspected her hand, a couple rings on them glittering gold. She grinned up at him. “I have heard stories my ancestors were immune to flame.”

His throat constricted. “Apologies. Can I help you?”

“Your crematory services?” she wondered again, walking by him and into the showroom, running a finger over an ebony casket.

“Ah…I am afraid Three Wolves does not offer such services. We can, however, assist with selecting one, urns, and preparing a memorial service.” He wondered what she was doing; she was now leaning down to look underneath a massive white casket. No one really cared what the underside looked like. He gestured towards the office. “We can speak in private, if you wish?”

The woman shook her head. “No I’m fine, thank you. Just doing a little bit of research.”

“For a relative?”

“Something like that.” She wore very high heels, which clicked loudly on the hardwood. She glanced sideways; eyes shrewd. “Are you one of the Three Wolves on your sign out front?”

“Yes, Jon Snow, I’m the mortician.” It sounded so creepy like that, but it was the truth. Robb handled the hand shaking, the business side. Arya was their resident makeup artist—she could do wonders with faces practically taking them on and off—but he was the one who handled everything else.

“Hmm, yes I heard of you.” The woman offered her hand. “Dany.”

“Jon,” he repeated, like an idiot. He was put off by her beauty, rather disarming. He swallowed hard again. “Nice to meet you. Is there…”

“This was enlightening Mr. Snow. I’ll be back.” Dany wiggled her fingers, waving, striding out decisively. “See you later.”

What the seven hells was that about? He spun on his heel, about to ask her what else he could help her with, when the front door slammed shut, bell ringing on her exit. He heard the door from the services wing open, Robb walking in. He scowled. “Where were you?”

“Talking with the Umbers, heard it went well, did we have a customer?” Robb adjusted his tie, eagerly seeing dollar signs. “Where are they?”

“They left.”

“Damnit Jon!”

He rolled his eyes, storming by. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“With Tywin Lannister? Better make him look good, the Lannisters are paying through the nose for this.”

“Aye,” he said idly, heading downstairs and to his ‘lair’ as Robb referred to it. He shook his head, preparing in the locker room, putting on scrubs and his protective gear. When he tugged on gloves, walking over to the block of freezer drawers, he rolled his eyes again, making another face. He was better with dead people anyway.

-----

A couple of weeks later, Jon saw the beautiful silver-haired woman again, this time from the front step of the funeral home, while Arya sat on the railing, Robb in shocked horror as the sign went up across the street.

Dracarys Funeral Home and Crematory Services

“How did this happen? We had the run of things here!” Robb exclaimed.

Arya cracked her gum. “Want me to get info?”

The silver haired Dany waved from the front step of her home. “Hello Starks!”

Jon shook his head, appalled. “I thought she was just asking because someone died…like they all do.”

“You didn’t think that she was scoping the competition?” Robb shouted.

“I told you I’m better with the dead than I am the living!”

“Oh leave him alone,” Arya chided. She rubbed Ghost’s ears—his great white wolf—gazing across the street again, shrugging. “Maybe we can make this work. Jon, you were the one who met her, maybe you can get some more info. They do crematory, we don’t. Maybe we can make a deal or something.”

Robb nodded, poking his shoulder. “Go over there, find out more.”

Jon sighed. He really didn’t want to do this. “I have that Wall guy to deal with.”

“Jarl will keep, go find out more.”

He slid away from the column, clicking his tongue for Ghost to follow him, the two of them crossing the street and up to Dracarys. He entered into the front room, seeing that everything was a shade of black and red. He glanced at Ghost, who was scanning the space with his bright ruby eyes, white fluffy tail wagging slowly. “What do you think?” he mumbled.

The walnut wood stairs creaked in the back, drawing him towards the door leading away from the showroom and sitting area. He peeked into another part of the old house, just like how their business was set up, with a viewing room and seating area. He moved to another door, which was open, leading down a set of stairs.

A massive black cat yowled from a sunbeam near the door, hissing at Ghost and running off. Ghost didn’t bark but took off after the cat. He sighed, calling out. “Please don’t kill her cat!”

He went down the stairs and pushed open a set of swinging double doors, pausing at the sight. It was state-of-the art and he scowled at some of the fancy equipment he’d been trying to convince Robb to upgrade to for the last year. He ran his tongue over his teeth, arching a dark brow at the woman who had been wearing head-to-toe designer when he’d met her and now was in black scrubs and protective gear, leaning over a dead man, a kit of makeup and brushes next to her.

“Jon Snow,” she called.

“Daenerys Targaryen.” He used her full name. The proprietress of the competition, he would not refer to her as Dany. “You could have told me you were moving in across the street.”

“And you would have shown me around? I think not.”

He stepped closer, curious at what she was working on. His eyebrows flew to his forehead. “Greyscale, huh?”

“Hmm,” Dany murmured. “Yes.” She looked up, grinning. “I saw you coming over, decided not to stop you from finding me. You’re not squeamish.”

“No I’m not.”

“They call you the King of the Dead.”

It wasn’t the worst thing he’d been called. “And you are?” he retorted.

“The Dragon Queen, I suppose you could call me. Or at least, that’s what they called me at mortician school.” She selected another brush, grinning. “I’m offering a service that your busines does not Jon Snow, that’s all.”

“The North doesn’t burn their dead.”

“I know, but many in the South do. There’s plenty of them moving up here.” Dany stood and pushed the gurney with the greyscale man into the freezer, closing the door. She removed her gloves and gear, walking by him, and began to wash up. She tossed a serene smile over her shoulder. “I think we can make this work Jon Snow. Don’t worry about it.”

“Robb isn’t used to competition.”

“And you?”

He shrugged. “I work better with the dead.”

“So do I.” When she finished, she studied him for a few seconds, which unnerved him. He tore his eyes from her, wondering what she was doing. She approached him, hands on her hips. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

He frowned, nose wrinkling, surprised. “Coffee?”

“A hot beverage, sometimes served with milk and sugar? Other times with various accoutrements like cinnamon or chocolate?” Dany’s smile softened. He saw then how gentle she actually was, how soft. It was comforting and he wasn’t even grieving. She must be very good at her job, he thought. He was numb, unsure how best to reply. She patted his arm, stepping by him. “Come on, I’ve got a lovely blend from Braavos.”

In the kitchen on the third floor of her house, where he assumed, she lived, she prepared the coffee. He wondered where Ghost had gone. “This how you get all the competition?” he managed to get out. “Ply them with coffee?”

“Just you.” Dany sat down across from him at a small bistro table in a large bay window, with a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance. She passed him the mug of coffee and used a small ceramic pitcher to pour milk into her coffee. Lifting it to her lips, she smiled again, warm and eyes dancing. “You intrigue me.”

He sipped his coffee—it was very good—a small smile on his lips. “You are an interesting one, Dany…if that is your real name.”

“Only my friends can call me Dany,” she mouthed.

“And we’re friends?”

“Well I hope we’re not enemies.”

Jon figured he’d have to wait it out and see for certain, but he didn’t think enemies was the best word for it. He was not good at this sort of thing, so he chose to continue drinking his coffee. He set the mug down on the table, sighing and cocking his head, a slight furrow to his brow. “I’m not good at this.”

“I know,” Dany shrugged. “But I am.”

Well that was that then, he figured, smiling at her.

-----

“So where did you two meet?”

Jon wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, as one of Sansa’s friends from King’s Landing had cornered him, trying to get info on Robb. “Where did I meet…?” he echoed, playing dumb.

Margaery Tyrell frowned. “Where did you meet Daenerys? Sansa didn’t tell me. In fact, she’s being really weird about things. Won’t even tell me what Robb does for a living.” Her eyes lit up. “I like a challenge.”

“Um, well…”

His wife of the last two hours emerged at his side, looping her arm through his. “We met at a funeral home,” she said, smiling at Margaery’s wide-eyed, horrified expression. Dany gazed up at him, love shining from her beatific face. “In fact, we contemplated holding the reception there, but figured everyone might think that a little weird.” She smiled even wider. “Also in the future, please keep the Fire on Ice Funereal Services in your thoughts for any funereal needs!”

Jon stifled a snort, glad to be rid of the odd questions. He smiled down at his beloved. “We didn’t actually consider the reception there or…did you?”

“No of course not, I don’t want to mix business and pleasure.”

“Isn’t that exactly what we did?”

“Nah, I came to scope out the competition and this really cute guy who couldn’t look me in the eye without blushing wandered in.” Dany rose on her toes, pecking his cheek. She patted her hand against his chest. She beamed again. “Best decision I ever made. I could have sent Viserys.”

At the mention of her annoying older brother, Jon shivered. He squeezed her close. “Very well then. Let’s at least try to figure out a better story, you’re scaring people.”

“Well it is the truth.”

Jon shook his head, but smiled anyway, his arm around her and hers around him, both of them walking off into the crowd of guests. He even thought that he overheard someone say the King of the Dead had found his queen. He kissed her temple, sighing. He certainly did.

THE END

#jonerys #Jonerys au #Jonerys drabble #worst prompts challenge ACCEPTED #I blame Erika for this one #crack fic totally

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lostandsearching · 3 years ago

Note

Hey

Told you I'd be back

First of all - Did someone hurt you? Because between the endings of 'Piece Of Me' & 'The Abyss Calls' it really seems like you like to kill R off (I know you've turned 'The Abyss Calls' into a series now but still...) Like, are you ok? Do I need to call someone?

'Piece Of Me' - the way you wrote Wanda was so good, all her insecurities (which are valid and made it all the more heartbreaking during my 2nd read through) were incorporated so well

From the beginning you show just how protective R is of Nat with the way she threatens Wanda...

["You're both part of the family now, we protect family"] & ["I'm pretty sure I'd give you anything you asked for"] - oof if Wanda could fall any harder she just did

Wanda and R are so cute

But alas people on this site just like to keep breaking my heart... The continuation of the relationship in Wanda's coma and the inevitable angst ending... I swear I don't have a heart anymore from all the pain from these stories...

I'm still holding out for a part 2 (wishful thinking) for 'Piece Of Me' where R didn't actually die and she was buried in the rubble where Hydra found her first with no memories and they turn her into a weapon (just putting that out there)

'The Abyss Calls' - I liked the way the memories were written into the story and the whole thing... Just so good... It's so beautifully written - the imagery of the heart with the thorns throughout the story and the way you used it at the end - so good... The references to Icarus (even at one point where you compare Wanda and Nat to Aphrodite and Athena to keep in line with the Greek mythology thing you have going) - still just so... good...!

The fact that Wanda is the one who instigates the relationship makes it hurt all that much more when she ends it, R was happy with just having a friendship with her

Wanda breaking R and the downward spiral - ouch.

["The emptiness is a vivid representation of the state of your heart as pain dances within, cloyingly."] & ["...you just want the pain to ripped away from you just as your heart had once been."] &["...she grips you tightly hoping to keep together what’s left of you until she can help you put yourself back together..."] - These lines! So good

I'm expecting the next chapter to start off with something like "but the world is cruel and you not so lucky when you wake up to a room too bright to open your eyes..."

Looking forward to the next chapter

- M

Well....OK this is a lot to unpack and my sleep deprived arse won't let me sleep until I answer this so here we go!

The Abyss Calls was always a series but due to the content of the story I wasn't sure I was gonna release it as one, I already had the 4 songs set for the chapters while I took a break, still stuck on the 5th. If you've got the speed dial to whoever created mankind and can ask them where my sanity went, that would be great!

With 'Piece of Me', the way I see it, this story is set before the Lagos mission and this loss of R was the reason that Nat and Wanda began to rely on each other more and what had established Wanda and Vision's friendship. R may have died but at least they had a each other and a piece of R with them forever. I see that as a win :)

The Abyss Calls, I have a thing for Greek Myth so I wove it into the story lol. If people can tell me about Greek Myth, I think it's hot af.

With chapter 2, It's called The Ghost of Me and the summary is -

"Natasha had found Y/N on the brink of death, rallying to try and save her life. How does she cope with the loss and what does the future have in store for the ex-assassin as she lives with the phantom of her best-friend? Will the ramifications of Y/N’s thoughtless action push Natasha into the depths of despair?"

Make of that what you will hehe.

Most of all, that fact that you read through Piece of Me twice makes me smile and that you enjoyed both fics so much really makes posting them worth it. To know that people enjoy the worlds my mind creates as much as I do is always nice to hear so thank you for the kind words and for sharing your thoughts with me :D

Now I'm off to try to sleep. Thank you for the lovely ask!

#lost's asks #anon m

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natromanxoff · 4 years ago

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Queen live at Hyde Park in London, UK - September 18, 1976 (Part-1)

An interesting bit about the Hyde Park gig (thanks to Jane Palm-Gold): "The white boiler suit Fred wore coming onstage was especially chosen by him so that he could be seen from miles away (because white stands out at a distance) and even better (and this is great but you have to know this place really - a London landmark for many years) it was acquired at Lawrence Corner at Euston (!), a tatty second hand clothes /hire place where a lot of clothes /outfits were hired from for band promo shoots - for instance they had a lot of military stuff there."

(x)

After the success of A Night At The Opera (and not to mention how the weekly Sounds readers' poll elected the band #1 in the best album, best single, and best band categories), Queen wanted to pay the British fans back for back their loyalty and support over the last few years. Whilst in Japan earlier in the year, they came up with the idea to stage a massive free concert. With the help of record industry entrepreneur Richard Branson (creator of Virgin Records/megastores) they started making plans for the Hyde Park show, which turned into a mini tour along with the Edinburgh and Cardiff shows. It is estimated that between 150-200 thousand people turned up at Hyde Park, which is still a record for the venue to this day. This show cemented their position in the top bracket of rock bands. The stage used was the same stage that was constructed for the Rolling Stones concert at the Knebworth Fair a few weeks earlier.

Queen's first huge show at home brought certain areas of London to a grinding halt, and space on public transportation was at a premium. The concert took place on the anniversary of Jimi Hendrix's death. A banner hung from a tree that read "Hendrix Lives," and at one point in the show Brian May noticed it with much appreciation. The band are seen in the photos above arriving at the venue, where they were joined backstage by Pink Floyd's Roger Waters. Supercharge, Steve Hillage, Rufus, and Kiki Dee (along with a cardboard cut-out of Elton John, who couldn't make it to join her for Don't Go Breaking My Heart) played before Queen (Be-Bop Deluxe and John Miles were supposed to be on the bill as well, but were axed for some reason). A pro-shot video of Steve Hillage's performance exists as well as Queen's. There was a fight in the audience during Hillage's set, during which he played extended trippy versions of It's All Too Much by The Beatles and Hurdy Gurdy Man by Donovan. Also notable is Supercharge's singer Albie Donnelly parodying Freddie Mercury in a white leotard and a half mic stand. The first half of the A Day At The Races overture is aired publicly for the first time (the upcoming album had been partially recorded by this point). The usual Bohemian Rhapsody opening sequence then commences for the last time. The band make their entrance, and everybody near the stage stands up (the audience had been seated on the grass for the opening acts). This angers many fans who are further back (roughly 90% of the audience now cannot see the stage), so they start lobbing cans, bottles, or whatever else that can be thrown. After a few songs, Freddie asks everyone simply to calm down: "I have been requested by the constabulary for you not to throw little things around, tin cans or whatever. So make this a peaceful event, ok? Sit on your arses and listen." Brian, after his solo spot in Brighton Rock (he stutters a bit, revealing that he's still nervous): “From one piece of nonsense to another, I’ve said it before. This is something we wanted to do with the London Philharmonic but they didn’t show up, so we will do the ethnic version of a song called '39." He is seen in a dazzling new outfit tonight, which he'd wear every night through Japan 1979. It would become the outfit he'd change into during the opera section of Bohemian Rhapsody. "Clap along and stuff," he urges the audience, as he plays the intro of what he'd later describe as the first song about Einstein's general theory of relativity. After '39, Freddie audaciously performs the as-of-yet unreleased You Take My Breath Away alone on the piano, even hitting many of the falsetto notes that he'd excise in 1977 versions. He then gets cheeky and introduces The Prophet's Song as "a little shorter number from our album A Night At The Opera." Perhaps he still had You Take My Breath Away in his head, as he begins the a cappella section with what would become the first line of the A Day At The Races ballad instead of the usual "oh, people can you hear me?" bit. He also references Death On Two Legs, as he had done a few times earlier in the year. After Stone Cold Crazy, the band play Keep Yourself Alive and Liar, having dropped Doing All Right and Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon from the set. The combination of these three heavy numbers would prove to be very effective, and they would stick with it for their following North American tour. Liar is a great version, with many great Mercuryisms throughout. Before the last song, Brian coyly says, "This is In The Lap Of The Gods, or something like that." The band play a similar set to the ones they did in Edinburgh and Cardiff, except they drop Doing All Right, Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon and Tie Your Mother Down. They intended to perform their usual encore of Big Spender and Jailhouse Rock, but the show had run a half hour past its scheduled ending time (a curfew strictly enforced by the authorities). The police threatened to arrest the band if they went back on stage, and Freddie was later quoted saying how he would prefer not to be stuck in a jail cell in his leotard. And so, Bob Harris was left with the unenviable task of announcing to the crowd that the show was over. He later recalled how difficult and nerve-wracking it was to tell an audience of this size who had waited for about ten hours that there would be no encore. Now I'm Here was the first encore every night around this time, making this the one time between 1974 and 1986 where the song is not performed. The liner notes of Live Killers suggest that Now I'm Here was dropped from the set for a while, but that is patently untrue. People in one section of the audience chanted "Why are we waiting," all in good fun, knowing full well the show was over. The police soon turned off the main power feed to the park, forcing hundreds of thousands of people to make their way out in sheer darkness. Their reasoning was that it was the only way to "control" such a large number of people who had been rowdy throughout the day. In a 1977 interview with Capital Radio, Brian recalls the day: "It had a great sunny day for it, and everyone had a good time. There were still altercations on the day, and there was a big thing with the powers that be because they wouldn't let us go on and do the encore, about which we were very upset, having worked up for months and prepared for all that. They got very frightened because there were 150,000 people in Hyde Park in the dark, and they thought they were going to get out of hand. But in fact, there was no possible danger happening at all. Everyone was peaceful and having a good time."

This show is what epitomized their popularity in Britain, and when they felt they "had really made it," as Brian would later recall. On another occasion he said, "I think that Hyde Park was one of the most significant gigs in our career. There was a great affection because we'd kind of made it in a lot of countries by that time, but England was still, you know, we weren't really sure if we were really acceptable here. So it was a wonderful feeling to come back and see that crowd and get that response." Despite the fact that the audience had been there all day watching the various opening acts and waiting, the band delayed the show as long as possible just so it could get dark enough for their lighting and various other effects to make their full impact (as demanded by Freddie). Throughout the show, the band's nervousness and excitement for the occasion are evident. Most of the audience couldn't see a thing during Queen's set, since the stage was barely elevated. "The smell of the dry ice and the sound are the only sensory memories I have of this show," recalls Jane Palm-Gold. Here is an article from the day of the show,

and a review from a week later (both were submitted by Boris Arkhangelsky).

Tonight would be the final performances of Flick Of The Wrist, Son And Daughter, and the (almost) full The Prophet's Song. A snippet of The March Of The Black Queen would be performed only once more in 1978, but a different part of the song.

Here is a Virgin Records flyer.

The second pic is the famous overhead shot that appeared in the October 9, 1976 Melody Maker. Pic 5 was submitted by Janneman, and pics 6 and 7 were submitted by Lukáš Bosík.

Fan Stories

“Well, I was 13 years old and had got into Queen through Night At The Opera and THAT video. I'd never been to a gig before and it took a lot of convincing of a sceptical mother to let me go to Hyde Park on my own. After answering the inevitable "no, I won't talk to strange men mum" questions I was allowed to go. The morning came and I was up at 6am, got my packed lunch together (can you imagine going off to a gig now with your sandwiches and orange juice!) and headed off to Hyde Park. I remember getting there so early that I was right by the crash barriers at the front and determined to try and hold my spot all day. As the day progeressed however I ended upmoving backwards slowly as people pushed in. I can remember savouring the whole build up, the support bands, everything. As dusk started to fall, the stage went dark and the dry ice started up. I broke my mums don't talk to strangers bit and a very nice bloke put me up on his shoulders so I could see them come on. I just remember the crash of light and sound as they came on as if it was yesterday (and not 27 years ago!). The rest of the gig was amazing and that was it, I was hooked on Queen and rock music. I saw Queen on every tour they ever did in England (and a few in Europe) after that but nothing compares to that first gig for me.”

- Andy

Part-2

Part-3

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #queen concerts

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fuckyeahharryhart · 4 years ago

Text

PART 3 HARRY HART FAN FICTION Because they better give him a good story for the last Kingsman. In case they don’t, I wrote something myself.

PART 3

FAN FIC

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

MULTI PART SERIES:(My version of Kingsman 3)

Harry Hart x Original Character

Warnings: Reference to violence

Word Count: 5,000

OVERVIEW: After the events of Kingsman, The Golden Circle, Harry, Eggsy and the rest of the survivors rebuild their agency to it’s former level of integrity. A new player arrives unexpectedly, carrying memories of the past that will change the future of Kingsman.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Gwendolyn, having played her last card, shares a drink with Harry and Eggsy while she tells them who she is, where she came from and why she was spying on them.

------

The Black Prince Public House stood on a quiet corner in South London’s, Kensington. The pub dated back to the early 20th century and its name referred to the road where it stood. The wall were painted a dark forest green with black trim. Its name was displayed in gold. It was the place to go, its sign stated, for FINE ALES AND STOUT, but the three patrons inside, seated at one of the booths at the rear, decided that something a little stronger was appropriate after the evening’s turn of events.

Gwendolyn decided this was a drink she was waiting for her whole life and, therefore, if she was going to “celebrate”, was not the right word, perhaps “commemorate the occasion” was a better term, she was going to do it properly. She had acquired a taste for fine scotch and chose accordingly. She was quite sure the two men were slightly taken aback when she ordered three The Macallan 25’s, neat, for the table. She was fairly certain that this warm, friendly, unassuming neighbourhood pub would not carry The Maccallan M Edition, or the Silver Jubilee, or the Dalmore 64. so she didn’t inquire, but even the cost of the three glasses would be relatively extravagant. The price wasn’t a concern of hers and she was sure it wasn’t a concern of the Kingsman, whose coffers went deep. She wasn’t beyond offending any gentlemanly sensibilities this evening. They were beyond chivalry. And she wasn’t about to tolerate either of them possibly ordering for her.

The two men regarded her if she were a new species of female. She probably was. There were female Kingsman agents, but they too, followed Kingsman protocol, regardless of gender. The behaviour, actions, mannerisms of all Kingsman were consistent, familiar, reliable, while she was under no such constraints. If her behaviour this evening was unseemly, “unladylike”, she really couldn’t give a rat’s arse. She was here for a reason and her methods got her job done. Perhaps with less grace and finesse than she was hoping for, but she got her results.

The three short tumblrs of scotch were placed in front of them. It had been a very long time since The Black Black Prince had poured not one, but three from that particular bottle. As it was custom that the host, or hostess for this matter, make a toast and she didn’t yet make a move toward her glass, the two men waited to follow her lead. So now they decide to be polite, she thought.

“Well, then.” she began. She was slightly irritated at their seemingly perfect presentation, at least on Harry’s part. Eggsy was not beyond taking a more relaxed shape and leaned back into the booth. His tie was loosened and his suit coat unbuttoned. His hair slightly mused even though he did not participate in any of the more physical aspects of their evening, as if that was its natural state. He would have shrugged out of his jacket if it weren’t for his shoulder holster.

Harry Hart, returned back to his gentlemanly demeanour, sat straight, but comfortably, his suit and tie still perfectly in place. Even his hair had somehow returned to its initial state, smooth waves brushed back into shape. It made her feel somewhat uncomfortable to see him so poised after the physical contact they had made. She had flipped him over her head, had a knife to his throat, kicked him fairly hard in the shin, and he looked none the worse for wear. Only his expression, equal parts indignant, concerned, and vaguely offended, revealed that anything of interest had occurred.

In contrast, even turning toward him was likely to throw her off balance. A feeling she did not enjoy one bit. Just her quick glance in his direction and she could feel him behind her again, pressing against her, the long line of his legs, the broadness of his chest across her back, the sheer size of him, the smell of his wool suit and the cologne, soap or whatever made him smell so good and she felt a rush of blood rise up to her cheeks. She clenched her jaw and flushed. She was hoping that they would take it for her high emotional state after their confrontation, not the fact that she found herself neatly attracted to a man she only just met and almost twice her age.

His refined manner only made her that much more aware of her own disheveled state. Her hair, a black cloud that had been blown all over, her pedestrian attire, though not unattractive, in no way matched the elegance of their Kingsman suits. No cosmetics, no adornment, not that those elements of her outward appearance were particularly important to her, in the face of their stately masculinity, she felt decidedly unfeminine. And regardless of her feelings, she knew that her looks were as much of a tool for a spy as her words or actions. She convinced herself she wasn’t concerned just because she wanted Harry to find her attractive.

Her personal feelings seeped into her professional persona. She reeled back her thoughts and replaced them with a cool, calm, collected mindset with a specific objective. If she kept her personal feelings at bay now, she could let it all out after her mission was accomplished. She drilled into her brain, be smart now, feel later.

Until she felt differently, she approached this as she would any other meeting of an asset or target. What she needed from the relationship and how could she get them to do what she wanted was just as much about finding out what they needed, and how to make it seem she was giving them what they wanted. Almost every relationship was based on a desire to be heard and understood. Wants and needs were always self-revealed, unwittingly or intently. She just had to listen.

Unfortunately, for this first meeting, she would be the one doing most of the talking. She knew being genuine, sincere, and honest, would be in her best interest. The more and better we are heard and understood, she thought, the more we are willing to and want to engage and respond. The sensation of being listened to was a powerful motivator and feeling enhancer to all people, it was human nature. It was why we befriended those that listened to us, worked for those that heard us, and fell in love with those that understood us.

——

“Well” she repeated, refocusing. She shifted her posture, drew her shoulders back, lifted her head a little higher, and held the space around her. Composing herself just as she would with any new asset would put her back on target. Remember your training.

“I’m sure you have many questions.” She opened up the table.

Harry, as direct as she, got right to the point.

“How are we to trust that you are really Merlin’s daughter? He never spoke of family.”

He folded his hands together, looking stern with a slight narrowing of his eyes, his brow with just a hint of a furrow.

Harry’s eyes roved over her, her posture, hands, the angles of her face. He listened to the inflections of her voice, searching for any tells that might indicate she was being less than honest. He looked for any hint of the tall Scotsman in this young woman. The loss of Merlin was still a wound that was raw. For both he and Eggsy. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone using his death as an excuse, no matter the reason, but especially if it was a false one.

“He wouldn’t have.” She replied bluntly. “

“ How much did you know of Hamish?” She asked.

She emphasised the pronunciation of his given name. Hay-mish.

“That is, before he came to Kingsman.”

The two men glanced at each other, but did not speak. Admittedly, they did not know of Merlin’s past. He never offered, and as gentleman, they never asked. They both knew that spies usually became spies because of something dark and fucked up from their past, and Harry had no doubt this was the same for Merlin. Hence, he never questioned his unwillingness to disclose his life prior to Kingsman. Harry was the same, just as unwilling to divulge his own personal information.

Eggsy, “That doesn’t mean anything. Anyone can say that.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, emphasising the importance of his words. They were low and sharp.

“If you really are who you say you are, then you know that his loss is one that we still feel every day.”

He shot a glance toward Eggsy, who more than anyone, felt the weight of his death.

“We will not condone anyone using his name for their own motives. Have you proof?”

She surveyed them for a moment. She considered her words and chose them with care. Her words were all she had and they carried a heavy weight. They had to be strong enough to deliver the message she was about to send. He eyes moved to her drink, still untouched. Mindfulness was key. As was paying attention to their responses, observing them with the intent to understand. Through her words, she would see how they felt, what they were thinking, and most of all, what they wanted or needed.

She cleared her throat. She met one pair of eyes and then the other. She poised herself to say something that, to her, held the utmost honour and importance. She took a deep breath in. At the end of her exhalation, she spoke. Her voice was low as well. Her words were even more powerful for her lack of emotion.

“My father’s favorite song was ‘Country Roads.’ by John Denver.”

The entire room seemed to suddenly quiet with stupefaction.

“My father was singing it, when he stepped off of a land mine to save both of your lives. And to save your mission. For my father, the mission always came first.”

For the two men, this was an impossible statement. No one, set aside Eggsy and himself had that knowledge. Not even other Kingsman.

Harry spoke, this time with frank disbelief. He wasn’t even questioning her. He was asking himself. Out loud. Without his familiar strength and surety.

“That is impossible. There is no possible way you could know that.”

With the same poise, the same simplicity, she explained.

“I was there when he died.” Observing their state of bewilderment, she clarified. “Via satellite and reconnaissance drones.” Which didn’t ease their confusion.

“If you worked with my father, you knew he was a brilliant strategist. He wasn’t merely good, he was gifted. He had the talent of an artist. Some of that talent filtered down to me. I’ll never be as good as he was, but I was good enough to hack the communication band that Statesman had in place for reconnaissance and I had access to audio and visual of the events that led to, and after his death.”

Impossible would never have the same meaning for them again. Because this young woman’s story was utterly impossible. Yet, here it was, an impossible situation.

She turned slightly toward Eggsy and held his blue eyes with her grey. Her voice took on an undefinable emotion, “I know that he took your place on a land mine, Eggsy.”

And with that confession, he was forced to drop his gaze. Is this how Harry felt when he had to tell him that it was due to Harry’s own mistake that Eggy’s father died? Guilt was physical. It was a crushing weight on his chest that made it hard to breathe.

“I know that he died in the way that he wanted.”

She added with a note of empathy and understanding to slightly ease their guilt and their shock.

“He was able to give his life for those close to him.”

Neither of the men could think of anything to say. Harry Hart, who was never at a loss for words, found himself unable to find a single word that would be appropriate for a time and situation like this.

Gwendolyn sighed internally. At least now she had their full attention. She was quite certain that she would not be interrupted this time around.

“Perhaps,” she said. Her voice now carried a softer note. It was not the voice of an agent. It was the voice of a daughter.

“Perhaps, I should start at the beginning”.

“But first.” she paused and picked up her glass, holding her arm out toward the men, the glass in her hand.

Harry and Eggsy, first exchanging a look in the other’s direction, followed suit. Each man took a glass and waited, with the warm golden liquid breaking up the lines of dim light that hovered over their table.

She suddenly felt overcome once more, as she had been when she first stepped off the train and onto the concourse on her arrival. She channeled that emotion into her toast, which was brief and heartbreaking in its simplicity.

Holding up her glass, “To my father, Hamish Mycroft.” She paused. “And to Merlin.”

Each of them held the gaze of the other two as their glasses touched with a light, crisp ring. Each drank back its contents.

——

As three glasses hit the hardwood of the table. Gwendolyn began to speak. Her story was a long and complicated one. And unfortunately, the two men could tell, it would be a sad one. An unknown daughter of a colleague that you’ve known for most of your adult life doesn’t suddenly appear after his death with good news.

“My father, whose given name was Hamish Mycroft, was married. He had three children. Two boys and a girl. I was the youngest.”

The slightly blank, yet confused faces made it seem like she had already given them more information than they could process. She paused, gestured to the barkeep for another round. The scotch would do good to kick in soon, because her story was not going to get any easier.

“Before he had a family, he worked with far east intelligence, recruited after his time in the army, where he had been stationed in Tibet, Bhutan, and other East Asian territories.”

She nodded her thanks to the barman, who delivered their second round of drinks. The scotch should have been savoured, but she felt at the time, a tip back for her father was right, even though he would have been horrified to see her shoot back a scotch of such high quality. This one however, she would sip.

“While he was working as a field operative at the station in Bhutan, he met a very beautiful Bhutanese woman, Evelyn, my mother, who was also working intelligence, but as a handler. Based on their skill assessment, they were assigned to work as a team. They would run missions together. My father as the operative. My mother, his handler. Hence, I myself am half Scottish, half Bhutanese. If you’ve had difficulty pinpointing my ethnicity. It’s not a common pairing.”

“Even though the agency opposed ‘close and continuing’, inter-agency relationships and relationships in general, Hamish believed that he could live a normal life. That he could have a wife and family despite working in intelligence. They were an example of having a successful home life in addition to a successful career and they were very happy for a long time.”

Merlin as a husband and father were the farthest roles that Harry and Eggsy could imagine him in. The brusk, often testy, disagreeable scotsman, with all the warmth of a potato, with a wife and children.

Gwendolyn continued with her story. Pausing after a long stretch for a sip of her scotch, but for the most part, continuously and without any interruption from the two men. They were both a bit stupefied that one of their closest, most respected and trusted colleagues had an entire past of which they had no knowledge.

—

Hamish was smitten at first glance. On Evelyn’s side, it was more appropriate to say that she tolerated his presence . And even that was putting things kindly. Eventually, he was able to win her over with his rough Scottish brogue, his biting sense of humour and dry wit. Underneath the sarcasm and abrupt, even gruff personality, she sensed a very kind soul who possessed a good heart. It was simply being protected by a shield designed to keep people at arms length.

Though as handler and operative, there could be no shields. There could not be even a hairs breadth distance between a team, let alone an arms length. The operative’s life was literally in the hands of the handler. If they weren’t working, existing, breathing as one, it would be only a matter of time until the operative would find himself in a position where he needed his handler, but the handler wouldn’t be able to provide. Or the agent, not fully trusting his handler, withheld crucial information, therefore setting up his handler to fail in the case where he needs life threatening assistance. These relationships often ended in the death of the operative, as he had to fully entrust not only the capability of his handler, but also fully trust the person behind his earpiece. The relationship had to be based, on not only on professional compatibility, but on a personal and emotional connection as well. Whatever jesting nature, or standoffish front either of them first presented to each other dissolved when they were on mission. The trust was profound. It was scary to know the circumstances they had been through together and how much each of them put their lives in the hands of the other.

Their relationship was highly personal, intense, and emotional. The nature of their relationship was a powerful force behind their choice to be together and to devote their loyalties to a single agency, with a singular mission, to preserve life and to protect the innocent. However, this often resulted in taking out some very bad, very large, very powerful players off the world’s stage. When they both proved themselves more than capable individually, and even beyond exceptional as a team, they were brought on to the Maximum Threat, Maximum Risk Special Operations Division, or MTMR.

The MTMR, only dealt with the worst of the worst, and then the unthinkable of the worst. These were the terrorists, the warlords, those with enough power and influence to bypass almost any law, any treaty and any world decree. Those who would violate human rights and the rules of engagement. They were the worst of the worst, but also the lowest of the low. In their eyes, life was a commodity to be traded, abused or without value and discarded at will. This is what happened when psychopaths achieved power. Without empathy, without a conscious, without a sense of right or wrong or any moral accountability, without any value of life. These were the most dangerous and most difficult enemies to engage. Not only could they commit the most horrible atrocities, they were usually narcissists as well, dynamic, charismatic, even charming. Therefore, their inner circle was comprised of sycophants who provided his narcissistic supply. They eliminated those that were either immune to their charms, or were beginning to understand the true nature of their personality, which was that of a very highly functioning psychopath.

In this division, Hamish did not operate in the field, but joined Evelyn in strategic planning and outcomes. They worked as a team. Hamish, with his knowledge of the field as a Special Operations Officer, possessed the skills to operate weapons and explosives, to take on missions to gather intelligence and destroy targets in hostile environments. He knew the dangers, the variables, the best strategies.

Evelyn provided critical thinking. She had the ability to predict outcomes, to make the most difficult life and death decisions without hesitation and be a leader to her team . The pair became an invaluable asset to the division. It was proof to them, when the agency acknowledged their value, not as separate agents, not as a handler and operative, but as a team, that they could be in the world of espionage as husband and wife with a family. The agency saw that their success was based on not only their expertise, but BECAUSE of, not despite their relationship. The closeness, the sheer absolute trust that they had in each other, and their love kept them committed to each other and their work. They experienced both a fulfilling family life and successful professional life for longer than anyone could hope for in their line of work.

During their successful tenure in the MTMR Special Ops, one operation took precedence over all others. They were both actively involved, not only in gathering intel, but in the entire intelligence cycle. First, with planning, identifying possible threats and what they needed to know about the threat with world leaders and decision makers. Collection, which was the division they both began in, the physical collection of target information through operations. Analysis, examining the new information, looking for connections, key points, new developments, and combining it with what they already knew, creating useful and actionable intelligence. Lastly, was Dissemination, where the new intelligence was discussed with politicians and decision makers who then decided whether to take action or if more information was needed.

It was during one of these cycles, where Evelyn and Hamish were assigned as head officers of a mission. It was a mission that resulted from intel that their team had collected, analysed and produced. The target was an international underground world leader, not of any established or recognised government. He threatened to destabilise society. Not through government or any means of authority. He wasn’t targeting positions of leadership. He wasn’t engaging in the trickle down theory. He was starting at the bottom. First, was taking out crops, tainting water supplies, poisoning livestock. He did not bother with small areas. He targeted the largest ones. Locations with the most impact and the widest effect. Civil unrest was next. Which turned into peaceful demonstrations. Then came active protest. Followed by violent protest. Then it was rioting, looting. And when fear took hold, it was domestic terrorism. He was using the countries own people to destabilise the structure, the foundation of civilisation, which was based on people working together.

Apparently, he was not one to follow the saying, “The fish rots from the head down.” Meaning that without sound leadership, the people will eventually turn bad and die off. When in actuality, the guts, the contents of the fish begins to rot first. Perhaps the warlord followed this philosophy. Corrupt the innovators, the providers, the creators of sustenance, essentially the life givers, and civilised society will begin to rot from, not the head down, but from the inside out.

In conjunction with the US, the British Armed Forces and other key international allies, they were able to coordinate an airstrike. It was successful in so much that they destroyed their enemies home base, their world HQ and well as almost all of their high level leadership. However, they missed their main target. Also on the strike list, was the home of Azal Aamon, which was where he was supposed to be at the time of the strike. His family, wife and two children were to be collateral damage. Unfortunate, but sometimes unavoidable in times of war. But after reviewing the DNA evidence to confirm the targets as deceased, his family was identified, but Aamon’s DNA was not found. No one had knowledge of how he was able to avoid or survive the attack. The last piece of intel that they had verified, was his location at the time of fire.

———

Inside the Black Prince, Gwendolyn paused. She reached for her drink, lifted the glass to her lips, and took a small sip. Harry saw her jaw working as she let the scotch rest on her palate, allowing it to reach all the areas of her tongue so she could appreciate its aromatic notes before she swallowed. It was a gesture he was familiar with, one that he made every time he enjoyed his own drink, but it was especially interesting to see this decidedly, he was not a sexist in any way, shape or form, but this particularly male gesture take shape on her extremely feminine and delicate face. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. So he simply took her lead and followed suit with a swallow of his own. As did Eggsy, who was leaning forward at this point, his elbows on the table and his tie even more undone, as were the few top buttons of his shirt. Harry as always, remained properly attired.

She looked at both of them, her eyes inquiring, silently asking if they had any questions, if they needed any clarifications, to see if they understood. To confirm that they believed her.

Harry was particularly intrigued. Out of all the coincidences that seemed to be happening, he knew precisely, the mission she was referring to. The British Armed Forces did take part in the Aamon mission and he knew this because he was part of the BAF at that time. He had been directly involved in the operations side of the mission. How was it possible that he had this experience in common with Merlin and it never came up in conversation? He thought back to the rare times where they would share stories, sometimes while waiting out a mission, or after a successful one, over a drink just like this. He recalled sharing a few stories from his time in the military, but thinking back, could not recall a single instance that Merlin even mentioned his time in the army, or anything really prior his employment with Kingsman. Harry only knew that he had been military. Out of all the possible connections that they had, one of the biggest ones that they shared remained unknown until after his death.

Gwendoyn was regarding him thoughtfully, knowing that he had made some kind of connection or realisation, but she didn’t mention it and he was grateful. He tipped his head, asking her to please continue.

“As you can imagine, this was seen as a failed mission on paper, since they did not terminate their main target. But in many ways it was a huge success. An operation of this scale, with multiple targets on the board, with international military and intelligence coordination, with minimal collateral damage, is typically unheard of, and my parents were honoured to have lead their intelligence division. I’m not sure if Kingsman participates in this particular tradition, but after high risk missions of this nature, officers and operatives, if it is feasible, are offered time off, mostly to decompress. The agency is aware that if their officers and operatives work at that level of intensity for prolonged periods of time, they will burn out. It’s not possible to sustain that level of stress at length without a chance to wind down.”

It was quiet. Gwendolyn has stopped speaking. Harry could see that she was taking time to collect her thoughts again. He wasn’t sure why she needed to. She was recalling a very complicated and personal story with an eloquence, a clarity and a dignity that he respected very much. She wasn’t just reminiscing about a story, reciting history, or a past event. Their comprehension was important to her. This wasn’t about her “getting something off of her chest”. He had the feeling that she could be very happy never having to say any of these words ever again. She wasn’t looking for support or understanding. She was making sure that THEY understood her story. It wasn’t sympathy for her that she wanted. She was looking for absorbtion Particularly from Harry. Most likely because he had the longest relationship with Merlin. But she was fixing him with a very intense gaze that he was not quite sure what to do with.

Harry already felt a particular sadness. He knew where this story was heading. He might not know the specifics yet, but you didn’t need to be a spy to know there was no happy ending for her. Out of a family that was once a mother, a father, and two brothers, this woman was the only one sitting in front of them. His respect for her was growing with each moment. He was feeling quite sorry now, for treating her so roughly.

She picked up her story, dusted it a little, found where she left off and resumed. Her voice became detached once again, but her words never faltered.

“We were all on break. Because they both got time off, that meant the whole family was on break. It was very rare for us. For the family, for me, those times were very special. I don’t remember many other times we had that kind of chance. Of course, outings were still agency outings. I was really too small at the time, six, but that was our life. I didn’t know any different then. But my parents, because of their positions, were at high risk for retaliation and we always had protection with us. My brothers and I had protocol, even back then. No speaking to strangers, at all. Never speaking about my parents, never offering any personal information. Never giving out my name. If we were ever to get lost, we were never to ask for them or speak their names. We had one number to call and it was not even theirs. It was the agency’s number, created just for us to have in case of an emergency. There was actually a person whose job it was to be prepared if they ever received a call from us. Very few people, and only those with high security clearance, had information about our family. We were referred to as assets. Not by our names.”

As she continued, The more emotion left her voice, the more matter of fact she became, as she became more composed, more stoic, Harry felt his sadness slowly turn into inevitable dread. He was also aware of the second mission that followed up the first air strike. He was also assigned operations support for the BAF’s involvement. He had heard stories about what had happened at intelligence HQ, but never anything confirmed. If she had been involved in that, it was worse than he thought.

------

Look for future posts :) If you made it this far, thanks for reading! Feedback, likes and reblogs are always helpful and much appreciated. If you have a chance, would love to hear your thoughts!

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lastbluetardis · 4 years ago

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The Real Story of How They Got Engaged

Summary: There are some stories that aren’t fit to be shared with the general public, but are fun memories to have nevertheless. Ten x Rose AU. 2100 words. Rated E. @doctorroseprompts

Prompt: voyeurism

As always, if you enjoy my fics, consider buying me a coffee?

AO3

Rose doesn’t mean to interrupt this, er, private moment. Honestly, she doesn’t. Her plan is to use the toilet, check on the baby, then make coffee and enjoy a lazy Sunday morning with her family. The baby’d had her and James up all night, thanks to teething and a recent bout of sleep regression; she’s sure James will appreciate a lazy morning cuddle on the couch. She can nurse the baby and he can make breakfast, then maybe they can play a video game or catch up on one of the thousand shows or films they’re behind on.

The clank of pipes and the water heater tells her that her partner is taking a shower, but she thinks nothing of it as she opens the door. Over the past three years of living together, they’ve seen each other utterly naked hundreds of times; it’s not uncommon for one of them to use the toilet while the other is showering.

Because of this, it takes Rose a few seconds to register what she’s seeing and hearing. A plume of steam greets her, as does the sound of pattering water and the vent fan. The frosted glass of the shower door is steamed up, but she can still see the lanky outline of James standing beneath the spray.

He has his head tipped back—not an unusual position for someone taking a shower. However, what catches her attention is the rest of his body. Specifically his arm, which is moving rather rhythmically in front of his hips. This is when her ears finally hear past the spray of water to pick up the muffled grunts and groans, noises she is all too familiar with.

Heat prickles across her skin, swooping low through her belly. She should turn around, let him have his privacy. But she’s rooted to the spot, her feet like lead weights holding her at the doorway to their bathroom.

His arm is moving faster now, and she can see it clearly in her mind’s eye. She can see the way he’s stroking himself, the way he adjusts his grip as his hand moves up and down, the way he gives the head a tight squeeze on the upstroke.

Her blood pounds between her legs, a delicious tingle she wants to address.

James lets out a curse and a moan, and Rose can’t hold back anymore. She has never moved so fast in her life, tugging off her sleep shirt and her knickers before she yanks open the shower door.

He lets out an unholy yelp, and, comically, grabs the flannel and holds it in front of his crotch. As though she’s never seen his cock before. As though she hasn’t spent the past minute watching and listening to him have a wank.

“Rose,” he squeaks, his voice several octaves higher than normal. He clears his throat but it doesn’t help. “What- what- what are you doing?”

“Sounded like my boyfriend was havin’ a bit too much fun without me,” she replies. “I didn’t want to miss out.”

She doesn't give him a chance to respond; she loops her arms around his neck and crashes her mouth to his. God, they need to do this more often, snog in the shower. The slick drag of his body against hers sets her nerves aflame with pleasure and desire and a desperation to be touched.

The wet thwack of the flannel hitting the shower floor is followed by his arms wrapping around her waist, hauling her closer. He is so hard at her belly, where he grinds helplessly against her.

“S-sorry,” he pants. “Didn’t mean to… I would’ve stayed in bed with you… fuck, but I woke up so hard and you were sound asleep.”

The sheer need in his voice sends a shiver down her spine, and she clamps her thighs together for any modicum of relief. And for as much as she wants to reprimand him, to tell him he could’ve woken her, she knows she probably would have refused his advances. With how little sleep she’s running on, she would’ve been furious with him for waking her.

“I wanna come,” he croaks, his hands a vice around her arse as he drags his hips up and down, in and out, pleasuring himself against her.

“Were you close?” she asks unnecessarily. With the sounds he’d been making and the somewhat frantic rhythm of his hips, she knows he was.

Still, he breathes, “God, yes.”

He lets out the most pathetic whimper she’s ever heard when she places her hands on his chest and gives him a small nudge. But he dutifully responds, and takes a step back. The heat and steam of the shower have nothing to do with the crimson tinge of his cheeks and neck.

He clenches his hands into fists as his toes grip the shower floor; she can almost see his body vibrating with tension, with the need to touch or be touched.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” she drawls when he stands there, unmoving.

He blinks and cocks his head to the side. “I don’t understand. Don’t you want…?”

He gestures vaguely between his crotch and hers, and she swallows down a giggle. Instead, she explains, “Remember I nearly broke my arse the last time we tried to shag—properly shag—in the shower.”

“You didn’t break your arse,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes, but one of his hands has migrated between his legs to give attention to his hard, throbbing length.

“Nearly broke my arse,” she insists. “‘Cos you dropped me.”

“I didn’t drop you!” he splutters.

She bites her lip around a grin. Really, it had been entirely her fault, the incident she’s referring to. She had come so hard around him that when she arched her hips, her shoulders had had the leverage of the shower wall, and she’d accidentally pushed him off balance. They both overcompensated in an attempt to break their fall, but it had been no use. Though they each went crashing to the floor, she had higher to fall, thanks to him having been holding her up. Her tailbone had been bruised for weeks, and it took months for either of them to share a shower again.

But she loves teasing him about it, because he gets so adorably indignant. If you think about it, though, he was the one who had made her come so hard in the first place, which was what catalyzed the accident. So really, it was all his fault.

“Sure, love,” she says, blowing him a kiss. “Now, weren’t you in the middle of something?”

“Oh, yes,” he groans, and she can’t tell if it’s in response to her question, or the fact that his hand is moving up and down his cock again.

He moans, his eyelids fluttering shut as his hand works himself harder and faster. His chest heaves with his unsteady breaths, and he reaches out to brace his other hand against the wall. He’s hunched over now, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw hanging open as he pants for breath.

God, he’s beautiful. She loves watching him lose himself in his pleasure. He so often makes sure to finish her off first before he comes that she almost always gets the chance to see him come undone.

“My James,” she whispers.

Slowly, she steps closer to him, not wanting to startle him or throw him off his rhythm, but wanting to touch him.

“Rose,” he rasps, the muscles of his throat working as his breathing stutters.

She wraps her arm around his waist, pressing herself into his side. She can feel the rhythm of his hand as he brushes against her stomach.

He pulls his other arm away from the wall to wrap around her waist. His fingers dig into her skin as he drops his forehead to her shoulder. She shivers as his breath tickles her damp skin.

Not much longer now, she thinks as his hand speeds up and the noises he’s making turn more urgent.

She bites her lip around an echoing moan when he cries out and comes against her belly. He’s shaking in her arms, gripping her so tightly as though she’s the only thing in the world keeping him upright.

She strokes any part of him that she can reach as he slowly comes down from his high, letting out involuntary sighs and shudders as he does. He is in no hurry to move, and in fact wraps both arms around her waist to hold her closer, keeping his face tucked into the side of her neck.

“I love you,” he mumbles, swaying them slowly from side to side. “Thank you. This was really nice… thank you.”

“Anytime,” she says, giving his waist a squeeze. “My turn?”

She can feel him smile into her neck. “Your turn. Do I get to watch?”

“‘Course.”

James pulls his face away from her neck and then slots his lips over hers. The kiss is soft and sweet, and though she would prefer something harder and more demanding, the brush of his mouth against hers his enough to stoke the fire swelling deep in her core.

But just as Rose is about to let her hand dip between her legs, she manages to hear a far-off wail. Groaning in frustration, she drops her head onto James’s chest.

“Babies. Such a cock block,” he quips. He kisses the top of her head. “I’ll take care of her. You finish your shower. And, er, finish yourself off too, if you’d like.”

“Oh, I was plannin’ on it.” What with how intensely she is throbbing with desire, there is no way she’s leaving this shower without an orgasm, thank you very much. “But you’re gonna miss the show.”

“I’m sure I can catch the encore later on,” he says with an over-the-top wink.

“If you’re lucky.” She leans up to press a firm, parting kiss to his lips. “Go on. Get the baby. And put the coffee on, would you?”

He snaps off a sharp salute. “Yessir.”

“That’s a good boyfriend,” she coos. “I’ve got you all trained up, don’t I?”

He grimaces. “I hate that word. Boyfriend. Makes it sound like we’re thirteen.”

“Well what else would you prefer me to call you?” Rose asks, a little impatiently. Their daughter was only getting louder, and she was still aroused beyond belief; staring at her soaking-wet gorgeous boyfriend was not helping. “Partner? Lover? Father of my child?”

“Well, husband seems like the next logical step,” he says.

And he’s said it so casually, it takes her brain a moment to catch up. Rose blinks once. Twice. But James is simply staring nervously at her.

“You did not just propose to me like that,” she says in disbelief.

“Well, if you don’t want to marry me, that's all you had to say,” he mutters, a little playfully but also a bit wounded.

They’ve discussed marriage before, plenty of times. And it was something they both agreed they probably wanted. But it has been well over a year since they last had the discussion, when they panicked that maybe they ought to get married before the baby came. They never really spoke about it so bluntly, though; it was usually the casual idea that they would end up married.

“James, you know I want to marry you,” Rose says, grabbing his arm before he can flee the room. “Of course I want to marry you. It’s something we always said we’d do, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, a small smile curving his lips. “So… does this mean we’re engaged?”

“No,” she says, and before his face can fall, she adds, “I want a proper proposal so I can actually tell people the story.”

“Well, this would make a funny story, wouldn’t it?” he muses.

She snorts. “How exactly would you like me to tell it? “Hi, Mum! Guess what? James proposed? Oh, how did it happen? Well, you see, I was visiting the toilet and heard him havin’ a wank so I joined him, and when we were finished, he popped the question. So romantic, isn’t it?” Yeah, I’m gonna pass on that.”

James lets out a laugh and admits, “Okay, yeah, that’s probably not the best story to share with our friends and family. Oh all right, Rose Tyler. You win. Guess I’ll save the ring for a later date.”

He winks at her and exits the shower, closing the frosted glass door behind him. He has already wrapped a towel around his hips and is walking out of the bathroom by the time the words sink in.

Horniness be damned, Rose yanks open the shower door and shrieks, “You have a ring?!”

#doctorroseprompts #ficandchips #dwfic #doctor who #ten x rose #ten x rose au #my fic #lemons #the real story of how they got engaged

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katrandomwrites · 5 years ago

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Wierdly Human

Alternate title was "Jon the Archivist is Kinda Hot"

Little in between snippets from the assistants and their impressions of Jonathan Sims.

I declare this a fluff and humor only zone! Episode 160 can kiss my butt.

You can also find this on AO3 under the same title.

I got the inspiration for this from a tumblr post about Jon being a clean boy despite crawling through hell and back but I think the writer deleted it because I spent forever looking for it and couldn't find it :n: Also 2 Drink Jon is a reference to 2 other fics I've read so his wild ass is not mine.

Supplemental Headcanons at the end.

Pre-Show

There was somebody new at the Institute.

He was short and dark with black hair neatly trimmed and styled. A pair of browline glasses perched in front of wide brown eyes that seemed to absorb everything around him.

“Hey, uh, Tim,” Martin whispered as he leaned over to where his coworker was digging through a drawer, “Who’s that?”

“Hm?” Tim’s eyes widened as he looked up, “Oh shit, he’s cute.”

“Not helpful, Tim.”

“Um, I think he might be Daniel’s replacement. I think his name is Joe or something,” Tim swallowed, “I wonder what modeling agency Bouchard raided for him.”

Martin elbowed him in the ribs hard, his face going as red as his hair, “Shut up!”

“But look at him, Martin! He has to have a skincare routine an hour long and don’t tell me you didn’t notice that those trousers are bloody tailored. I see you looking at his arse!”

“SHUT UP!”

”What are you two fighting about now?”

Both researchers jumped away from each other as Sasha popped up behind them.

“Hot new guy,” Tim said, earning another jab and a hiss.

Sasha looked at Martin and grinned, “Short, scrawny, Persian, and angry?”

“He’s Persian?” Martin stuttered before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Yeah, I got to talk to him during his follow up interview. Smart guy but kind of grumpy and super awkward. We got talking about foriegn food and he offered to give me his grandma’s recipe for chelow kababs,” Sasha said.

“What’s his name.” Tim asked, looking back at where the new guy was glaring at a row of filing cabinets with several drawers ajar.

“Jonathan Sims.”

Pre Episode 44

Basira watched as Sims limped away with the tape clutched to his chest like a lifeline before sighing and heading out to the car where Daisy was waiting.

“Well?” Daisy asked, “How’s our favorite murderer?”

Basira swatted her feet off the dash, “He looks like he hasn’t slept in 3 weeks and recently got hit by a car.”

“I wasn’t asking about his nasty, worm-eaten face, Basira,” Daisy said, “Does he know we’re watching him?”

“I don’t think so -put your seatbelt on- it seems like he’s more invested in what’s on those tapes for now. I get the feeling he’s more worried about watching the people he works with than us.”

“What a sad little librarian. I’m looking forward to how he managed to kill Robinsen without getting his ass whipped.”

“She was old.”

“Yeah, but Sims looks like he’d get knocked out by a light breeze even before he got munched on by some nasty fucking bugs. Did you see the surveillance from Robinsen’s initial investigation? I went back through to track Sims and watched him struggle move a box that was in front of a filing cabinet for a solid twenty minutes; the big ginger guy had to move it for him.”

“That’s-” Basira snorted, “That’s pathetic.”

Daisy grinned, “He has to be one manipulative bastard to get anything done.”

“Is that your theory?”

“I mean look at you.”

“What about me?”

“He gives you the puppy eyes once and now you’re smuggling him tapes from the evidence locker? I have never known the great Basira Hussain to ever cave to a suspect’s wishes in my life- and don’t say it’s to keep a closer eye on him. We have less illegal tactics for that.”

Basira opened her mouth to argue but found that Daisy had a point. She really only gave into suspects if the circumstances were dire. This was technically classed as a low priority case.

What was going on here?

Post Episode 76

Melanie flopped dramatically onto Georgie's couch and let out a long winded sigh.

"Oh?" Georgie asked from the kitchen door.

Melanie sat up slightly to let her sit down before plopping her head down on Georgie's thigh, "I had to go talk to Sims at the Institute again."

"How's Jon?"

"A fucking bastard is what he is."

"Well I knew that," Georgie laughed, gently beginning to brush through Melanie's hair with her fingers.

"I don't know, he's was wierdly defensive and I think he was trying to gaslight me about one of his new assistants."

Georgie paused her brushing, "I haven't seen Jon in a while but that seems… out of character for him. He's a grump, sure, but I've never known him to be a bully -on purpose that is."

"Yeah, well…"

The pair lapsed into a tense silence.

"Would it make you feel better if I show you a picture of Jon in university that he is very embarrassed about," Georgie ventured after a few minutes, "He's still mad I have it.~"

Melanie twisted her head back and grinned, instantly breaking the tension and sitting up to look at the phone screen presented to her.

On it was a picture of Jon passed out, mouth wide open and drooling, on the ugliest couch she'd ever seen.

"He still owns that couch by the way," Georgie said. Melanie waved a hand in her face to silence her as she took in the details.

Jon was in a pink crop top that Melanie was sure she'd seen in Georgie's closet, union jack boxers, gladiator sandals, and The Admiral was planted square on his chest, though he was about half the size of the fluffball that roamed the flat now. Surrounding them where piles of papers and books on the paranormal.

Melanie began to cackle.

"Our friend group used to call him '2 Drink Jon' and this was after he'd done four shots in the kitchen and decided to lecture us on how ghosts are bullshit and he could beat one in a fist fight," Georgie elaborated, "I'm still not sure when he ended up in that outfit but honestly, if we had recorded his rant he probably could have used it for his Masters thesis."

Melanie wheezed into her shoulder as tears began to stream down her face.

"2 Drink Jon was actually a lot more charismatic than sober Jon. This one time he almost had us convinced that he could talk to plants after two gin and tonics, granted we were also drunk but-,"

"Stop, please," Melanie wheezed, "I'm dying."

"Gosh, one of these days I'll have to tell you about tequila and the alien conspiracy. Randall could almost recite the whole speech from memory."

Melanie fell off the couch.

Post Episode 109

Julia and Trevor exchanged a look as the Archivist powered through the spiciest Thai food they could find without even breaking a sweat.

It was supposed to be a joke, spiking Jon's food, the cashier had even given them a panicked look at the restaurant and Trevor's eyes had been watering the whole way back to the safe house. They'd even waited by the door in case Jon tried to make a break for the case of water bottles in the car but he just unwrapped the plastic fork and dug in without even asking for a drink.

Julia picked at her own food but couldn't quite manage to eat it and glanced back at Jon, "Are you sure you don't need a water or anything?"

Jon looked up for a moment, his eyes were more alive than they had been all day and practically sparkled in the shitty fluorescent light. He shook his head and instead reached for another packet of chili sauce to add to his food.

"What the hell is he," Trevor whispered to Julia in horror.

"I don't know but he's definitely not normal."

During Episode 132

Daisy had misjudged Jon. She'd grossly misjudged him.

She flexed her fingers around his, ignoring the way the sand dug into her skin, and gently pulled him closer. The man she'd called prey gave her a soft smile and compiled, pressing against her side like she'd never held a knife to his throat, like she hadn't just admitted to planning his murder before she was trapped here.

Daisy turned her head awkwardly and dug her face into his shoulder savoring the human contact, her tears soaking into his shirt.

The Hunt in her blood tried to sing, tried to fight the Buried, "Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect", it echoed faintly.

Jon said something and began to move, pulling Daisy forward along with him.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

Hours past as they shimmied through the coffin, the pain of being scraped and crushed was overpowered by the sheer ecstasy of moving more than an inch every few days.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

There was a door, Jon tucked himself under her arm and pulled her up the stairs to the blinding lights of the institute. She ducked her head down to his shoulder again and grimaced as her joints popped and groaned.

"Jon, you stupid idiot! What did you think-"

Daisy looked up to the person she thought she’d never see again and smiled.

"Hi."

Post Episode 132

Martin had horrible timing really. He just needed to pee, was that really too much to ask?

Of course it was. The universe hated him.

So instead of slipping into the private bathroom upstairs which was magically broken, he had to go down a level and walk in on Jon shaking dirt out of his clothes.

Martin was going to die here but at least he'd die happy.

Jon didn't even seem to register that someone else had joined him (thank the Lonely) so Martin took a second to sneak a guilty look before darting back out and hiding for 40 years.

Jon was painfully thin. Martin got the idea that he could count every vertebrae and rib if he was allowed and even at a glance he could spot the sunken area where at least one rib was now missing.

Worm scars and burns were peppered up his back along with a few moles and freckles. Little red marks circled his chest in a way that Martin immediately recognized as being from the black fabric crumpled at Jon's feet.

And to top it all off, much to Martin's delight, were a set of three black gears tattooed down Jon's right shoulder blade. Sasha had mentioned once that she had gone out for drinks with Jon when he first started and they'd managed to get on the topic of tattoos. Tim had spent months trying to get Jon to show it to him before 'giving up'.

Martin stepped out and stood in the hall for a moment, red faced and giddy, before stumbling off in search of another bathroom.

Somewhere between Episode 132-154

"Hey, guys?" Melanie called.

Daisy and Basira glanced up to see Melanie holding a giant plate of the best smelling food they'd seen in weeks. Steam wafted up into her very confused face.

"Did either of you make this? I went to ask Martin and I can't find him."

"I didn't make it," Basira said, "Daisy?"

"I once made spaghetti and lit it on fire.

Basira grimaced and walked up to Melanie, "Kebabs, Tahdig rice, flat bread, and jam cookies. Those are Iranian dishes, or Middle Eastern at least.”

Daisy looked at Basira, "How do you know that?"

"Took a foreign cuisine course focused on middle eastern food a few years ago," Basira said as she made her way to the kitchen area with the group in tow.

Sitting on the table were three more huge plates of food and two empty plates sitting in the sink. Martin was standing next to the table with pure confusion on his face.

"Did you make this?"

Martin jumped and looked at the group, "Uh, no? I really only do pastas… this is a little outside my skill set. I think-"

"It could be a trap," Daisy interrupted, "Maybe it's laced with something?"

"No, I'm pretty sure-"

"Could be, but who would go to this effort, the Web?" Basira said.

"Guys, it was probably-"

"It was the Archivist!" Helen exclaimed from behind them, somehow having opened her door without making a sound and scaring the shit out of them, "He is an excellent cook."

"Bullshit," Melanie wheezed, setting her plate down before she dropped it.

"No, she right," Martin sighed, "Jon actually cooked something similar a few years ago for a company thing. He gave this whole speech about how grandparents immigrated here from Iran, well Persia at the time, and his grandma made him learn to cook what she called 'real food'."

"You mean to tell me that Jonathan Sims, the skinniest guy I have ever met, can cook like this," Basira said in disbelief before cautiously sitting down at the table with the rest following suit.

"He called it his grandmother's curse," Helen provided cheerfully, "He said that no matter what he does, he always makes far more than he needs and never has people around to give it to. So he just never cooks."

"You talked to him?" Melanie asked. Daisy began to pick at a plate and made a sound of confusion and delight at the taste.

"Oh yes, he even let me help by getting things off high shelves!"

"This is amazing," Daisy said in disbelief before grabbing a fork and beginning to eat in earnest.

"It is! Jon and I had a lovely chat and I'm not much for 'real' food these days but he really convinced me!" Helen declared, spinning back around to re enter her door, "And I must say it was delightful."

"Huh," Basira shrugged and began to eat.

Not bad.

Post Episode 159

For the second time since he woke up, Martin pinched himself. He had to be dreaming, the smaller body smooshed up against his chest and the boney limbs clinging to him had to be a figment of his imagination.

Jon huffed in his sleep and burrowed deeper into Martin before settling again. A few stray rays of the morning sun slipped through the blinds highlighting Jon’s gray hairs and the raised edges of scars that trailed along his skin.

Gently, Martin carded his hand through the wild mess of hair, marveling at how soft it was despite everything. Jon sighed, leaning into the touch without stirring.

He could stay like this forever, with Jon safe in his arms and the dangers of the world outside, away from his happiness.

"Wha' time?" Jon mumbled, stretching before re-draping himself over Martin. He looked up and the light caught his eyes in a way that Martin could see all the blue heterochromatic spots in Jon's left eye through dark, heavy lashes.

"Doesn't matter," Martin whispered as he pulled him closer, "We have all the time in the world."

Supplemental Headcanons: - Jon is a 3rd gen Persian/Iranian immigrant. His grandparents on his dad's side moved to England post WWII. (Persia became Iran in 1979) They took the last name Sims during immigration. - His mother was full blooded English. - He can out cook 87% of the local grandma's when he really gets into it - He built an unnaturally high tolerance to salt and spice as a kid to keep people from taking his lunch or trying to mess with his food and now thoroughly enjoys spicy foods. - Jon does care a lot but his grandma never taught him to show it in any other way but tolerance and mute acceptance. It's hard to know where you stand with Jon because of this. - Was a runner while in school. - Was forced to take violin lessons as a kid and Georgie taught him some piano in University. - Jon is and always has been feral little man though he is more bark than bite (unless he's under the influence of something). He learned it from his grandma. - He's one of those drunks that often wanders/ runs away from his drinking group. He has strong drunk college girl tendencies. - He changed his middle name to Ulysses when he got his first name legally changed because he’s a nerd. - Jon has had the same pen pal since he was 10. They are one of the few points of normalcy he has left. - Jon and Daisy are trans mlm and wlw solidarity. Fight me.

Fun Fact: Sims means "the Listener" which seems almost too on the nose.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #jon sims #martin blackwood #daisy tonner #basira hussain #melanie king #georgie barker #my writing #fanfiction #jonmartin #spoilers #dasira #what the girlfriends

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itachi-uchiha-deserved-better · 4 years ago

Note

Fun Meta asks: 3. 4. 5. 11. 17. 20. 23. 25. -Sorry for asking so many. Curiosities of one writer to another. Feel free to omit any of these.

3) What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

I have this scene in my head between Itachi and my OC. She’s chasing him down against orders after his massacre of the Uchiha clan because she refuses to believe that things are what they look like. And when she manages to catch him, she’s able to use her mind prison jutsu to stop him from leaving and tells him about how no matter what anyone says, She refuses to believe that he is the monster the village wants to paint him as. As she’s trying to convince him to come back to the village with her, her body is weakening more and more from the chakra poisoning caused by using her jutsu. Eventually he gives her something, a sort of vague acknowledgment that she might not be wrong. He tells her that he may need her help if Sasuke wavers from the path Itachi has set for him but he can’t risk her remembering anything, so he uses Tsukyomi on her, leaving her near death in the forest for her Anbu teammates to find.

4) Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

We know the details of the war. We are unfailingly familiar with the facts. Michael led the nine choirs against Lucifer and his followers. We know that Lucifer’s assault on heaven was swift and viscous, striking for every advantage, exploiting the weakness to be found in soldiers hesitant to lash out against those who once were called brother. We know that in the heat of the battle, Michael called the seven remaining arch angels together. Among the cacophony of blades and bloodshed the seven marched and behind them a solemn silence followed. Together they marched and they struck at the dragon. “Beloved,” they cried, “Why, beloved Lucifer? Why have you done this? You were the first in God’s eyes.” We know that the seven cried as they pierced the dragon’s hide and brought to bear on him the full force of the power of heaven. We know that our father lost the war, but we know in the way a student knows the facts of history. They may sit and memorize the hows and the whys of history, but they are at their core, disconnected from it. So it is for us. We know what happened during our father’s rebellion. We understand the nature of our father’s sin, the sin which we share by our shared blood. We lack the intimacy of memory. We know, but these events are no more than words on the pages of our minds.

I wrote this as an intro to a WIP called Children of the Damned, a story that was supposed to be about a group of angels who hadn’t fallen from grace but were cast out of heaven because they were the children of lucifer. They were supposed to be a neutral force, something between demons and angels who’s job was to protect all of humanity- the good and the bad. The project never really went anywhere but I still have the intro draft sitting in my WIP folder.

5) What character that you’re writing do you most identify with?

I have a character called Zero (she was originally from a DnD campaign that ended up falling apart.) and her whole shtick is that she is a researcher for the Arcanum- basically an orphan who managed to get into the big magic school of the setting and is now a glorified grad student researching for her thesis and has to bounty hunt to fund her research. She is socially awkward, painfully shy, very disenchanted with the world but fascinated with her chosen field of study and constantly stressed out by budgets and deadlines. And since I’m an eternally stressed out grad student I relate to her pretty hard.

11) What do you envy in other writers?

The ability to see and work towards an overarching plot. I can do drabbles pretty well because my brain works in scenes, but I have a really hard time stringing those individual scenes together into something coherent with an ultimate end goal.

17) Do you think readers perceive your work - or you - differently to you? What do you think would surprise your readers about your writing or your motivations?

Absolutely I think that people perceive my writing differently than I do. I mean, all of my writing is ultimately informed by my own life experiences and ultimately no one else has experienced my life, so I’m sure that readers are viewing my work through the lenses of their own experience. As for me? Probably? Idk I am pretty vague with my online presence so I really have no idea what people perceive about me. As for surprising people about my motivation....Honestly I really don’t know. My motivation to write is usually because I have a scene in my head that wont leave me be until I put it on paper and sometimes that leads to a larger idea and sometimes I just leave it at that.

20) Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

So Idk that it’s something most people pick up on, but I am a percussionist at heart and so Cadence in writing is a big thing for me. One of the things they teach you when you learn, say, snare drum for instance, is to use words to identify certain rhythmic patterns. Well my brain took that and sort of applied it to all language. There are things, feelings that you can evoke just by substituting a short word for a longer word. For example- Pain, Hiss, Break: these are all short, sharp words. And using them in a sentence will provoke a different sort of sensation or feeling than words like agony, mournful, shattered, breath which are longer more lyrical words. Idk if it makes any sense to other people, but that kind of cadence drives the imagery in a lot of my writing. I have an essay about it (or did at one point).

23) What’s the story idea you’ve had in your head for the longest?

The Ichor Blade. Three characters- Matthias, an older man, a healer who’s formed a deal with some kind of dark entity and uses the power of the dark magic he has gained to heal people at the expense of his own life. Zero- an arcane acolyte from the arcana consortum, she is a very adept mage, but clinical in her approach to magic and tasked with hunting down rogue magic users as part of the agreement that funds her research. And Illomenn (I-LL-OMENN), a creature of supernatural origin known as a Hex which are essentially manifestations off all things that trouble the world. Illomenn is a minor hex, the manifestation of bad luck. They are brought together by chance after Matthias and Zero encounter several Major Hex’s- plague, malice, and war. Zero is affected by plague and cannot use most of her magic without it destroying her body. Matthias is trying to help her undo the curse and in the process they find Illomenn and recruit his help in using a relic called the Ichor Blade to destroy the curse and to seal away the hexes from the world.

25) What part of writing is the most fun?

Honestly? Watching people read what I wrote and listening to their thoughts afterwards. Its kind of like cooking for me. The actual process of making something is fun, but the most satisfying part is knowing that other people enjoyed it.

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headcanonsandmore · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter Nine, ‘A Peculiar Engagement’

After Ron and Hermione (finally) confessed their feelings for each other, one big question remained unanswered: how to break the news to everyone else. And how will the assorted family members respond to the news? Read on, dear readers, and find out...

Warning: The following contains non-explicit references to s*x.

Special thanks to my amazing beta reader @smile-cuz-life-is-beautiful, whose support and encouragement has been phenomenal; thank you so much, mate!

~~~~~~~~~~

Read on FFN. Read on AO3.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tagging: @burgundydahlia (who’s suggestion started off this entire series in the first place) @allaboutromione and @benedettabeby

~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione Granger woke up, feeling in a very good mood. She was immediately aware that she was naked, but that wasn’t a bad thing. As she was currently lying in the arms of an also-naked Ron Weasley. The bushy-haired witch smiled to herself.

A particular part of Ron (which Hermione was now far more knowledgeable about than she had been previously) was pressing softly against her arse. One of his wonderfully adept hands was resting on her hip, and she could feel the bicep of his other arm underneath her head.

There were worse ways to wake up in the morning. This was a wonderful feeling; lying there, with Ron softly surrounding her, his heart beating steadily against her.

‘Mmmm…. ‘Mione…’

Delicious shivers went up Hermione’s spine, as Ron gently cupped her hips. His mouth was very close to her head, sending goosebumps along her neck.

Hermione turned over onto her other side, so that she was staring Ron in the face. The redheads eyes were half-open, wrinkling slightly at the edges. His signature lopsided grin was tugging at his lips.

And that wasn’t even mentioning the rest of his gorgeous physicality.

‘Good morning, handsome,’ Hermione said, shyly tracing a line down his side. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Oh, definitely,’ Ron purred, causing Hermione’s stomach to flip over. ‘You know, I had the most amazing dream.’

‘Do tell.’

‘I finally confessed my feelings to the woman I love, and we spent the rest of the night enjoying each other’s bodies.’

‘Sounds very similar to the dream I had.’

‘You have a wonderful mind.’

Hermione tried not to giggle. But it was rather difficult not to, when Ron was now gently squeezing her arse again. He seemed to have picked up a habit of doing that, although she wasn’t complaining.

Ron leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. Hermione felt herself moan softly against him as he pulled away. Chuckling to himself, the redhead tucked a strand of Hermione’s bushy locks behind her ear.

‘You know…’

‘What?’

‘Nah, it’s silly.’

‘No. What were you going to say?’

‘I’m gonna be honest, ‘Mione,’ Ron said, a saucy glint appearing in his eyes. ‘I never thought I’d hear you say “Ron” the way you did last night⸺’

‘Oh, god!’ Hermione exclaimed, feeling her face burn. ‘Oh, god…’

‘I seem to remember you saying that a lot as well,’ Ron continued, biting down on his lower lip.

‘Stop it!’ Hermione laughed, slapping him softly on the chest. ‘You’re impossible!’

‘You weren’t complaining.’ Ron chuckled, tracing a line up Hermione’s thigh and causing the flames to start burning inside her again. ‘In fact, you kept saying that I shouldn’t ever stop⸺’

‘Oh, no!’

Hermione put her face in her hands. Ron’s arms enveloped her, still chuckling as he held her.

‘I’m just messing, ‘Mione. Last night was amazing.’

Hermione giggled.

‘You didn’t have to tell me that, Ron,’ ⸺Hermione pressed her chest softly against his, and felt vindicated at the clear reaction it caused⸺ ‘I was there.’

‘Yeah, you were,’ Ron grinned, cupping her arse with one hand.

The redhead leant forward and kissed Hermione sweetly on the lips. Despite his clear passion, his lips were gentle. The juxtaposition was rather intoxicating.

Hermione would have dearly liked to have stayed like that all morning, but sadly, she could not. Reluctantly, the bushy-haired witch pulled away from Ron, before swinging her legs softly off the bed, and began to pull on her pyjama top.

‘‘Mione, we’ve got ages until breakfast.’

‘I know. I need to have a shower. I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but I’m rather sweaty.’

Ron didn’t answer, but instead sat up behind her, enveloping his arms softly around her waist.

‘Don’t care,’ the redhead said, nuzzling into her neck. ‘Come on, let’s have a lie in…’

God, that did sound like a wonderful idea. But Hermione knew fully well that it wouldn’t just be a lie-in. And she was very sweaty as it was.

‘As much as I love that idea, I do need to have a wash. I won’t be long.’

‘Oh, alright,’ Ron mumbled into her hair, before pecking her on the cheek. ‘Be back soon. Love you.’

That did it. All thoughts of the shower promptly disappeared from Hermione’s mind. Turning, she launched herself at Ron, pressing her lips against his. Her hands roamed over his torso, and she could feel her chest heaving against his own.

Once again, Hermione found herself straddling Ron’s lap, and -once again- she could feel a certain part of the redhead throbbing against her. One of Ron’s hands found its way onto her bare arse, giving it a squeeze that she was rapidly becoming accustomed to.

‘Merlin, ‘Mione…’ Ron breathed, his eyes sparkling as she began to undo the buttons of her pyjama top. ‘Didn’t realise you were this passionate.’

‘Well, get used to it, Ron.’ Hermione said, peppering his neck with kisses. ‘I’m not stopping anytime soon.’

‘Oh, I intend to, love,’ he replied, as the bushy-haired witch threw aside her silk top. His mouth grew into an awed smile, his eyes taking in her naked form once again. ‘I very much intend to…’

~~~~~~~~~

Quite a long time later, Hermione emerged from Ron’s bedroom, wearing one set of rumpled silk pyjamas and a very satisfied smile.

Upon reaching the bathroom, she was slightly shocked by the sight that greeted her in the mirror. Her hair was –even by her standards- a complete mess of tangles. Her lips were tender to the touch, and rather inflamed (although a cooling charm soon solved that). And she was very aware of the various parts of her body that were now tingling from lots of rather intense fondling.

Trying not to smile too much at the memories of how those tingles had got there, Hermione brushed her teeth, removed her pyjamas, and stepped into the shower.

It was funny, actually. As a teenager, she had always felt a little weird about sharing the same bathroom as Ron during her stays over at the Burrow. Especially when the bathroom smelled of that curious smell that she had always connected to Ron’s hair. It had resulted in many a shower getting cut short, as she hurriedly turned the water from hot to cold.

About ten minutes later, Hermione was standing in front of the mirror, trying to get a tangle out of her hair. She was no longer covered in sweat, but she still felt rather odd. But she had heard that most people felt different after their first⸺

KNOCK. KNOCK.

‘S-sorry!’ Hermione exclaimed, pulling her mind of its recollections of the last few wonderful hours. ‘I’m in here.’

‘Yes, I know that, ‘Mione.’

Hermione almost dropped the shampoo bottle she was holding.

‘R-Ron?’

‘Well, it’s certainly not gonna be anyone-else, is it?’

Hermione heard the sounds of the door opening, and (a shiver went through her body) locking as Ron closed it.

‘Thought I’d brush my teeth. Hope you don’t mind?’

‘Oh, n-no, that’s fine!’ Hermione stammered, very aware that she was only wearing a thin towel.

‘Shame I couldn’t have joined you for a shower.’

The thought sent a shiver through her being, but Hermione continued working on the long tangle in her bushy locks.

‘Sorry. Too late. I can’t have two showers in a row.’

Ron stepped closer to her. Stroking a finger softly up her side, he leaned close to her ear.

‘What a shame…’ he breathed, sending more shivers up her neck. ‘I’ve been told I’m rather good with my hands. I’m sure I’d be great at helping you get nice and clean…’

Hermione giggled.

The flames –already glimmering- began to burn with earnest.

God, that prospect sounded rather inviting. But she had already had a wash…

‘There’s nothing wrong with taking a second shower, ‘Mione,’ Ron purred into her ear, one of his hands now tracing lines around her décolletage. ‘I mean, it is still very early in the morning, after all…’

Hermione’s chest was now heaving as her heartrate escalated. God, when had Ron turned into such a smooth talker? Not that she was complaining, but there was confidence and then there was…

With a gentle swoosh, Hermione’s towel descended to the floor. Oh, who was she kidding?

‘I suppose we could work something out,’ Hermione breathed, as Ron’s mouth began to work its way up her neck. ‘Just while it’s still early, of course…’

‘Of course…’

‘And we have got ages until breakfast anyway…’

‘Ages and ages…’

Hermione bit down on her lower lip, as Ron’s capable hands hoisted her up against the door behind them.

So much for early starts. But she wasn’t complaining.

~~~~~~~

Quite a long time later, Ron and Hermione walked down to breakfast. Both of them were giggling, and kept nudging each-other. Hermione’s hair was still wet from her (rather hurried) shower.

‘Hello dears,’ Mrs Weasley said, as they entered the kitchen. ‘Did you two sleep well?’

Hermione tried not to giggle as she exchanged a look with Ron.

‘Not too bad. Thank you, Molly.’

‘That bed’s lovely and soft, mum. You were right; much better than that old camp bed.’

The bushy-haired witch felt her cheeks glow once again, as the two of them sat down at the kitchen table. Mr Weasley -the only other person already seated- gave them both a friendly smile. Ron pulled a plate of toast towards him, and started loading their two plates. He then grabbed the butter, and began to spread it over Hermione’s share of toast.

‘Ron, I can do my own breakfast.’

‘I know,’ the redhead smiled at her, his cheeks dimpling. ‘But this is a first for us, isn’t it? Start as you mean to go on, right?’

Hermione felt her heart stutter.

Oh, god. To an outsider, they would have assumed it was Ron not thinking she could do anything for herself. But Hermione knew it wasn’t that at all. This was Ron’s own little way of showing his intentions. It wasn’t so much about the toast itself, but the idea that he would be there for her no matter what.

The two of them shared a smile.

The table gradually got busier around them, as more and more people arrived for breakfast.

As they had started eating earlier, Ron and Hermione were two of the first to finish. Hermione collected their empty plates, and dropped them into the washing-up bowl, which began to clean them with a charmed brush.

‘Ouch.’

‘You okay?’

Ron was stood next to her.

‘Yes. It’s a small cut; must have caught my finger on a sharp plate edge.’

‘Hang on, I got a trick…’

Kneeling down in front of her, Ron took her cut finger in his hand, and gently kissed it.

‘Mum used to do that whenever we got a cut. Bit silly, but⸺ ‘Mione, you okay?’

Hermione’s mouth had fallen open slightly, and her eyes were filled with such tenderness that it looked like she had kissed him.

‘Y-yes,’ the bushy-haired witch stammered, her cheeks glowing as she smiled. ‘T-thank you, Ron.’

‘Anytime, ‘Mione.’

Nearby, Harry and Ginny were staring, a dawning sense of understanding appearing on their faces.

Muriel narrowed her eyes.

‘Ronald, you and Miss Granger seem much closer today than yesterday.’

As one, Ron and Hermione turned bright red, giggling heavily as their eyes met again.

‘W-well, you see, Muriel….’ Ron said, now looking very flustered. ‘We… that is, me and ‘Mione, we…’

Ron stammered and blustered into silence, completely at a loss of how to explain the situation. And -very unusually for her- Hermione had no idea what to say either.

However, as the two of them continued to stammer under Muriel’s confused gaze, an excited squeal from the breakfast table broke the tension.

‘You two finally confessed your feelings!’

Luna Lovegood appeared, throwing her arms around Ron and Hermione, and pulling them into a tight hug.

‘What?⸺’

‘How did you?⸺’

Luna let out a chuckle. As she let go of them, the blonde was smiling intently.

‘Oh, just your expressions.’

Muriel was looking more and more confused by the second.

‘Miss Lovegood, what on earth do you mean⸺?’

At that moment, the old buzzard was drowned out by the cacophonous noises of celebration that erupted in the kitchen around her. The entire Weasley family (plus their various partners) had exploded into cheers and applause, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small room.

Ron and Hermione found themselves surrounded by a flurry of faces, grinning eagerly and all exclaiming their congratulations.

‘Mates, I’m so happy for you both!⸺’

‘You two finally got it together!⸺’

‘Took you long enough, little brother⸺’

‘Oh, dears, I’m so proud⸺’

‘Congratulations to you both⸺’

After what felt like several hours of excited exclamations, Molly finally stepped back.

‘Okay, dears, let’s let Ron and Hermione explain themselves, shall we?’

The Weasleys gradually stepped back from the couple, and Ron and Hermione found themselves in Muriel’s beady gaze once again.

‘Mrs… Mrs Prewitt, we’re sorry for lying to you. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have⸺’

‘No, Muriel; it’s my fault. Hermione was just trying to cover up for me⸺’

Muriel raised a hand, causing Ron and Hermione to fall silent.

‘Well, are you a couple now?’

Without thinking, Ron and Hermione looked at each other (and at their joined hands). Shy smiles appeared on their faces, as their cheeks continued to glow.

‘Yeah, I guess we are.’

Before Hermione knew quite what she was doing, she had flung her arms around Ron’s neck, and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron responded with such glee that he lifted her off her feet, his arms around her waist.

Around them, the kitchen once again erupted in cheers.

As she pulled away, Hermione felt her cheeks glowing stronger than ever, but found it difficult to complain, given the way Ron was still holding her around the waist.

However, there was one person that didn’t seem that happy; a slight frown was emerging on Muriel’s face.

‘As much as I’m happy for you both, Ronald, this doesn’t solve the issue.’ The elderly witch said, drawing the collected attention of all those present. ‘One of the Weasleys still has to marry Miss Lovegood.’

There was a giggle from nearby, and everyone turned.

Luna was biting her cheek in an attempt not to smile too much.

‘Luna?’ Ron asked, looking as perplexed as Hermione felt. ‘What’s up?’

Smiling to herself, Luna pulled out her wand.

‘Expecto Patronum.’

A silvery hare erupted into life, cantering around the crowded kitchen, before standing in front of the blonde witch.

‘It’s time. We’re ready; let’s tell them.’

The patronus whinnied, before flying through the window, and disappearing into nothing.

‘Luna?’ Molly asked, looking baffled. ‘What was that about? Who did you⸺?’

The fire roared into life, emitting green flames, and a figure stepped out. Their skin was of a beautiful dark-brown, their hair was of a vivid red, and every inch of flesh was covered with a smattering of freckles. They were wearing thick boots.

‘Hi, I’m Rolf Scamander. Parents were hoping for a boy, and the name stuck.’

‘Rolf!’

Luna threw her arms around the strangers’ neck, and kissed her sweetly on the lips. There was the collective sound of confusion throughout the packed kitchen, but Luna took no notice.

Standing next to the woman, she intertwined their fingers.

‘Apparently, Charlie met her in Romania on a Dragon Reserve. She’s technically a distant cousin of the Weasleys.’

‘You couldn’t have fooled me,’ Bill said, looking surprised. ‘Check out that hair and freckles. Classic Weasley.’

‘I don’t notice things like that,’ Charlie said, shrugging. ‘How you been, mate?’

‘Not bad, Charlie.’ Rolf replied, grinning across the room. ‘Not bad.’

‘Luna, I don’t understand,’ Hermione said. ‘How does this solve the engagement problem?’

‘Well….’ Luna smiled giddily, going a little red. ‘Me and Rolf were talking about this a little while ago… that’s why I popped round to see Ron and Hermione on the day Mrs Prewitt was there, you see….me and Rolf are getting married.’

Those assembled in the kitchen let out a shocked gasp. With the sole exceptions of Charlie and Ron, whose hand Hermione squeezed, drawing his attention to her.

‘Did you know about this?’ Hermione asked him

‘Yeah, Luna mentioned it in passing when we arrived yesterday. Didn’t get much of a chance to talk about it, though.’

‘Well, I’ve never been happier for such a sudden announcement,’ Muriel said, looking rather pleased. ‘I suppose that does solve the issue. Really, Miss Lovegood, your relatives should have told me this when I originally suggested you getting engaged to Ronald.’

‘My apologies, Mrs Prewitt,’ Luna said, smiling happily to herself. ‘I suppose it slipped their minds.’

The Weasleys clambered around Luna and Rolf, shaking hands and exclaiming their congratulations. As Hermione gave Luna a hug, Ron extended a freckled hand to Rolf.

‘You must be Ron, then?’ Rolf said, shaking the redheads’ hand.

‘That’s me.’

‘The famous Ron?’

‘Famous? Nah, mate, that’s Harry.’

‘Not from the way Luna used to talk about you.’ Rolf replied, and Hermione was startled to see a blush appear on Luna’s usually-calm face. ‘By the sounds of it, she has a thing for redheads.’

Ron blinked, his eyes flicking in confusion between Rolf and the now-flustered Luna.

‘Wait, what?’

Hermione squeezed Ron’s hand protectively. Although she couldn’t blame Luna for the blondes brief attraction to Ron. After all, he was Ron. Who wouldn’t find him attractive?

Luna –still looking rather embarrassed and avoiding Ron’s eyes- hurriedly started up a conversation with Charlie.

Hermione pulled on Ron’s hand, and the two extradited themselves from the crowded kitchen. Leading Ron towards the stairs, they found an isolated landing several floors up. Ron leaned against the wall, his mouth still hanging half-open in shock.

‘Wait… so Luna…? No way…’

‘Ron, how can you be so oblivious to these things?’

‘Oh, that’s rich coming from you.’

‘Okay, I’ll give you that. But seriously⸺’

‘How was I supposed to know she fancied me?’ ⸺Ron’s face was lined with worry.⸺ ‘Do you think I upset her by never noticing? I should apologise⸺’

‘There’s no need,’ Hermione said, putting a hand firmly on Ron’s chest to prevent him moving away. ‘Luna told me that it was similar to my feelings for Professor Lockhart in second year.’

‘Still, I should⸺’

‘Ron, stop being so wonderful, and kiss me, okay?’

Ron stared at her for a second –apparently shocked by her boldness- before laughing. He gently wrapped an arm around her waist.

‘That does sound rather lovely. Just let me know if I ever have another woman pining after me, will you?’

Hermione chuckled, fiddling with a stray thread of his jumper.

‘I’ll try. But I’ve done rather enough pining to be going along with. I’d prefer to focus on the two of us for the time being.’

Ron stroked Hermione’s chin with his free hand.

‘Oh, I agree, ‘Mione…’ he said, a wonderfully tender look appearing in his eyes. ‘I definitely agree…’

~~~~~~~~

-July-

‘Ron…’

‘‘Mione…’

As was often the case nowadays, Ron and Hermione were snogging.

Not that either of them were unhappy about that. It was early in the morning, and neither of them were especially interested in getting up just yet.

Hermione’s nightmares about the war had completely disappeared. With some gentle encouragement from Ron, she had agreed to start seeing the wizarding equivalent of a psychiatrist; funnily enough, they turned out to be a relative of the Patil twins. After several months of therapy, there had been a noticeable improvement in Hermione’s sleep. There were no more nightmares. Having said that, she still found it best sleeping next to Ron, although she knew that was more of a comfort thing.

Nowadays, they tended to sleep in whoever’s’ bed they ended up in. It was a pattern they had fallen into over the seven months since that fateful night at the Burrow. Sometimes they found themselves in Ron’s room, sometimes it was Hermione’s. It didn’t matter much to either of them, although Hermione rather liked being surrounded by Ron’s signature scent in his bed. She was starting to think that his smell was acting like an aphrodisiac for her.

Which seemed very true at that particular moment. As was often the case, she had ended up straddling Ron’s lap as she continued to roam her lips over his. Her stomach fizzed as their chests pressed together.

‘Are you growing a beard?’ she asked, pulling away slightly to inspect his face.

Ron looked a little bashful.

‘Well, you mentioned it when we were at Luna’s wedding. Thought it was time for a change. You like it?’

Hermione grinned, stroking the coppery hairs already growing on his cheek.

‘Very. It suits you.’

It had been a wonderful wedding. As was often the case with Luna, it had been rather unusual, but in a really lovely way. The wedding had taken place in early spring, just as the first signs of warmth were appearing. Luna and Rolf had insisted on an outdoor wedding, meaning that everyone had ended up wearing walking boots. Hermione hadn’t minded (she didn’t much enjoy high heels), and it had been rather nice to see Ron in his rustic attire.

‘You really did look wonderful in that flannel shirt.’

Ron’s ears went red.

‘Well, I try.’ He mumbled. ‘But I couldn’t hold a candle to you; those dungarees suited you so well.’

Hermione blushed.

‘Oh, stop it. I looked like a toddler.’

‘Not from where I was standing, love,’ Ron purred, into her ear. ‘In fact, I’d say you looked very adult indeed… and rather delicious too…’

Hermione giggled. She loved it when Ron’s voice got husky like that.

‘I like your beard, by the way. Lovely and smooth.’

‘You don’t think it’s too scratchy?’

‘Not at all. Very sexy….’

Ron gently cupped her face in his hand, and brought their lips together again.

Knock. Knock.

‘Er, mates?’

Hermione let out a groan. Of course. She had forgotten Harry was still living in the flat as well. But at least he was knocking this time. What had happened the previous week had presumably mentally scarred him from ever barging in without knocking. Thank god. Hermione didn’t think she could handle a repeat of… that.

‘Yeah, Harry?’ Ron replied, as Hermione climbed off his lap and sat next to him under the covers.

‘Are you two decent? I don’t want a repeat of last time I barged in without knocking⸺’

‘Y-yes, we’re both decent!’ Hermione squeaked.

Ron chuckled, and pecked her on the cheek, just as Harry entered the room.

‘Just wanted to know whether you two want anything from the shops while I’m there?’

‘Nah, we’re okay, mate.’ Ron said. ‘Besides, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’m gonna be feasting on before we even get to breakfast⸺’

‘First of all; ew,’ Harry said, wrinkling his nose and looking like he was trying not to retch. ‘Second of all; that’s not even biologically accurate.’

Hermione felt her cheeks glow, and giggled as she leant into Ron’s side.

‘You two really have got the “domestic bliss” thing going on, haven’t you?’ Harry asked, chuckling slightly to himself. ‘Maybe I should suggest to Ginny that I move in with her.’

‘That would be great, actually.’ Ron replied, putting his arm around Hermione, giving her side a gentle squeeze. ‘Then we wouldn’t have to worry about you walking in when we’re trying to⸺’

‘Yes, I’m sure Ginny would love to have you move in with her,’ Hermione said loudly, as Harry rolled his eyes at Ron. ‘You two have been dating long enough.’

‘I’m sure she would. Even if it did mean leaving you alone with her horn-dog of a brother.’

‘Horn-dog?’ Ron said, with an expression of mock-outrage. ‘‘Mione, you don’t think I’m too forward, do you?’

Oh, as if Hermione could ever complain about Ron’s passion. Giggling, she shook her head, her cheeks glowing.

‘Didn’t think so.’

Harry rolled his eyes again. But his expression softened, as he stared at his two friends.

‘Seriously, though; I am glad you two finally got things together.’

‘Me too, mate.’ Ron said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us…’

Ron hoisted Hermione onto his lap once again.

‘‘Mione and I have some unfinished business to complete this morning.’

Hermione was glad that she couldn’t see Harry’s face, as she heard him let out an enormous groan.

‘I take it back; you two are gross.’

‘Love you too, mate.’ Ron replied. ‘Consider it payback for all those times you snogged my sister in front of me.’

Now sounding completely exasperated, Harry beat a hasty retreat through the door.

Hermione traced a soft line down Ron’s chest.

‘You don’t think we’re being too sappy, do you?’

‘Well, maybe a little.’ The redhead replied, stroking her back gently. ‘But we’ve got a lot of time to make up for, haven’t we?’

Hermione giggled.

‘That is true. About a decades worth.’

‘Agreed. So let’s continue making up for it.’

Hermione leaned forward and kissed Ron again on the lips. She had done this countless times since they had gotten together, but her stomach still exploded with butterflies on every occasion.

Hermione felt Ron stir underneath her, and grinned as he pressed their bodies closer together.

‘Not gonna lie, ‘Mione,’ Ron purred against her lips. ‘I’m rather enjoying this “making up for lost time” thing; I hope we never completely catch up…’

The bushy-haired witch giggled, as Ron began to suck on her lower lip, his other hand now sliding underneath her pyjama top. At his touch, the flames began to ignite once again.

Hermione pulled away from his lips, and began playing coyly with the lobe of his right ear.

‘Ron, I was wondering….’

‘Mmmm?’

‘Do you…. still have that oil you used for that massage?’

Ron’s eyes twinkled, as a knowing look came across his face. His mouth stretched into that wonderful lopsided grin she loved.

‘Thought you’d never ask, ‘Mione…’

~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you so much for reading, everyone! Don’t worry, this isn’t the final chapter! I’m planning on publishing a short epilogue on 31st December; hope you like it!

#'a peculiar engagement'#harry potter fanfiction #romione fanfiction #romione fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #background hinny #romione #ronmione #saucy #lemon #warning- strong language

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malenkayacherepakha · 6 years ago

Note

PROMPTSSSSSSSSSSSSSS FROM THE AMAZINGGGGG RACHELLLLLLL😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱 how about Draco who somehow can't find any normal jeans anymore and thus shows up to work in super tight leather trousers meant for clubbing/shorts/a skirt from pansy/a dress (whatever you prefer) and Harry NOT handling it well

Thank you for such a great prompt! I changed it a little bit but I hope you enjoy ❤️❤️❤️

~~~

Harry had coped with a lot since he and Draco had been paired up together at work.

On the one hand, working with an unspeakable as talented and clever as Draco had made his life at work a lot easier, and his case solve rate had increased significantly since they became partners.

On the other hand, Draco could be a complete nightmare at times.

Draco was a genius, yes, but he was scattered, his mind racing a million miles ahead of Harry’s and his desk always covered in piles of notes and reference books. He always stole the food Harry bought from the shop down the road from the Ministry, even when he said he didn’t want Harry to get him anything. He had also developed a disregard for rules that managed to shock even Harry, who wasn’t exactly well-known for being a rule follower himself. Draco would happily bend the rules if it helped them solve a case, and would regularly rock up to work hours after their agreed upon start time, giving Harry only a cursory explanation for his delay.

But he was brilliant, so Harry put up with it all.

He didn’t say anything about the mess, just subtly pushed it off his desk when it began to encroach on his space. He started to order extra food when he went out, slightly changing his usual orders to take into account Draco’s preferences. And he never said anything about the late starts, knowing that Draco worked hard enough that he deserved to take a few hours back here and there.

And yes, maybe Harry was being overly lenient. Maybe if his partner had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have excused those behaviours.

But his partner wasn’t any old Unspeakable; it was Draco.

And if Harry was being really honest with himself, at this point, Harry would let Draco get away with anything.

But that didn’t make it okay when Draco turned up to the office one day in sinfully tight leather trousers, his eyes outlined ever so subtly with black kohl.

Harry nearly choked on his tongue when Draco walked in, earning him a raised eyebrow from Draco.

‘Please don’t choke, Potter, I’ve only just started to cope with having you as my partner, and I’d really rather not start again with another unbearable Auror,’ Draco drawled.

‘What on earth are you wearing?’ Harry managed to croak out between coughs.

‘Clothes, obviously.’

‘But why those clothes? Not really your usual style,’ Harry joked weakly, the sight of Draco’s long legs wrapped in such tight leather playing havoc with his ability to come up with witty comebacks.

‘Have you actually forgotten, Potter? This a new low, even for your terrible memory.’

‘Forgotten what?’ Harry was racking his brain but for the life of him couldn’t come up with a reason for Draco to come to work looking like that.

‘Oh, Merlin, I don’t know if I can deal with this.’ Draco sighed, exaggeratedly rubbing his temples as if to dispel a Harry-induced headache. ‘The raid, Potter. The raid we’re going on tonight. To catch the potions dealers we’ve been after for months. Please tell me you haven’t forgotten all about it?’

Oh. The raid. Harry remembered now.

They’d been working on a case focusing on illegal potions for months now. Whoever was making the potions had somehow managed to mimic the effects of hard Muggle drugs, including their addictive nature, and the potions were flooding the Wizarding club scene. After weeks and weeks with no breakthroughs, Harry and Draco had finally managed to convince their bosses that they needed to go undercover to try and make contact with a dealer, and hope that they would then provide them with a lead that could help them track down the mastermind of the scheme.

They’d agreed that tonight would be their first attempt at making contact with a dealer. Harry fully blamed Draco’s outfit and the way that the eyeliner made his grey eyes even more striking for his momentary forgetfulness.

‘Now you’re all caught up, shall we go through the final plan? Can’t have you cocking this up at the last minute because you’ve forgotten the details, can we?’ Draco said pointedly.

They spent the rest of the day going over the plan for the raid with a fine-toothed comb, discussing how they would respond to a variety of situations and clarifying exactly what they were going to say to the dealer to avoid letting it slip that they were undercover.

Normally Harry would be brimming with excitement in the hours leading up to a raid. He was much happier out actively chasing the bad guys than being stuck behind a desk, so he was usually chomping at the bit to go undercover.

Today though, his mind was all over the place. The sight of Draco looking like that, like he belonged in a dark club, all eyes on him as he danced rather than in a stuffy Ministry office was doing strange things to Harry’s insides.

The feelings that he usually managed to control so well in Draco’s presence were bubbling up to the surface, breaking free from the cage that Harry usually kept them in, locked away until late at night when he could leisurely explore them on his own.

It only got worse when Draco began pacing around their office as he often did when trying to puzzle out a case. The sight of his long legs striding around was too much for Harry on its own, but then Draco reached the end of the office and had to turn round to pace back to his desk, and then all Harry could see was Draco’s arse, so clearly defined in the tight leather.

Merlin.

Harry wanted to drop his head down on to the desk and scream, the desire building in him almost too much to bear. Draco was going to kill him. They hadn’t even got to the club yet; Merlin only knew how much worse it was going to be when Harry had to watch Draco dance dressed like that. There was no way he was going to be able to concentrate on the mission.

At one point, it all became too much for Harry.

Not even caring about the strange look Draco gave him when he croaked out ‘Be right back, bathroom,’ he dashed out of the office and down the corridor to the loos.

Once he was safely locked in a stall, he sank down on to the closed seat and dropped his head into his hands. He’d thought he had these feelings under control. Thought that he could just keep working with Draco as if nothing was different, keeping his inconvenient little crush tucked out of sight. But clearly things were getting out of hand. He didn’t know how Draco hadn’t noticed anything, considering how weirdly he’d been behaving all day.

He needed to pull himself together. Just get through the raid tonight and then he could have a breakdown in the privacy of his own home.

‘Get it together, Harry, for God’s sake,’ he muttered to himself as he splashed his face with cold water.

He returned to their office to find Draco still pacing, leafing through papers detailing their plans for the evening.

‘There you are, Potter. Where have you been? It’s time to get ready to go,’ Draco said in one breath, a sure sign that he was getting psyched up for the coming raid.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Harry said, deflecting the question about his whereabouts. ‘I’m ready to go when you are.’

‘You most definitely are not ready to go,’ replied Draco. At Harry’s questioning look he continued. ‘We’re going to a club, Potter, not a bad clothes convention. You can’t go looking like that, they’ll spot us coming a mile off.’

And then, completely ignoring Harry’s spluttered protests, Draco pulled out his wand and began casting spells at Harry. He could feel his clothes shifting, changing fabrics and tightening in various places as Draco worked. Harry stopped complaining and let Draco get on with it, knowing that nothing Harry could say would convince Draco that he didn’t need this makeover. And, Harry grudgingly admitted, Draco was probably right. Harry was definitely not dressed for clubbing.

Harry fell into a sort of trance as Draco worked, letting the feel of Draco’s magic wash over him, each spell making his skin tingle and the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Soon, too soon really, Draco was done.

Harry opened his eyes as he felt the magic dancing across his skin disappear. He looked up to see Draco standing just a few feet away from him, a strange look on his face.

‘What?’ Harry said, worried that he must look stupid. He never could pull off fashionable clothes, and definitely not as well as Draco could.

‘Nothing,’ Draco said, shaking himself out of whatever weird mindset he was in. ‘It’s just strange seeing you look like that.’

‘Look like what?’ Harry asked, unsure whether that was a compliment or not.

‘Like- like-’ Draco said, uncharacteristically stuck for words. ‘Like someone you’d see out and want to pick up,’ he said finally.

Harry’s heart flipped at the words. Could that mean what he thought it did?

‘Ah, thanks,’ he said hesitantly, and then, taking a deep breath, he decided to take a risk. ‘So do you.’

For a long moment they just looked at each other. Harry’s heart was thundering in his chest as he watched Draco, waiting with bated breath for his response.

Just as Harry was about to turn away, his heart sinking in his stomach, Draco stepped forwards.

‘Harry,’ he said as he closed the distance between them. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘No,’ Harry said honestly, letting Draco see how scared he was that this could go wrong, that everything could change between them, ‘but I want it anyway.’

And with that, Harry reached out, eliminating any space left between them. He revelled in the feel of that soft leather finally under his fingers as he pulled Draco against him, as he leaned in and gently kissed Draco.

Butterflies flooded Harry’s stomach and desire pumped through his veins at the feeling of Draco’s soft lips on his, at the sensation of Draco’s lean body pressed against his. It was better than he could have ever dreamed.

They kissed for what felt like hours but surely could only have been minutes, lost in the feel of each other.

When they finally pulled apart Harry was panting, trying to catch his breath, and Draco’s hair was mussed up from Harry running his fingers through it.

‘Fuck,’ Harry laughed weakly.

‘Yeah,’ Draco said, a stark contrast to his usually wordy self.

Harry leant in again, dropping small kisses on Draco’s lips and nose, unable to believe that he could actually do this.

Finally, Harry pulled back properly, resting his forehead against Draco’s as their breathing gradually evened out.

‘We should go,’ Draco said.

‘Go where?’ Harry said, mind filling with visions of Draco taking him back to his flat.

‘The raid?’ Draco said incredulously. ‘Have you seriously forgotten about it again?’

Harry really had forgotten about it, all the planning for the upcoming mission completely wiped from his mind by the amazing kisses they had shared, a fact that Draco was still laughing about as they got ready to leave the office.

‘It’s all your fault that I forgot, you know. You and those damn leather trousers.’

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #drarry squad #draco x harry #fanfiction #my writing

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mymelodyheart · 4 years ago

Text

Forget Me Not Chapter 5 ~Cours de Français~

Why is Jamie staring at my mouth like that?

He reminded Claire of a ravenous lion looking at his first meal in days, and herself as the sacrificial lamb waiting to be gobbled. She wondered if he could hear the snap and crackle in her chest and the pop of her exploding ovaries. Watching Jamie's head lowered closer to her face, his gaze still centred on her lips, Claire's heart gave a little kick. A maelstrom of mixed emotions battled its way to the surface, the echo of their childhood seemingly incongruous to what was transpiring. Summoning the memory of the sweet boy she once knew was in vain, and instead, reality had put in its place a man she barely recognised; rugged, masculine, and oh so seductive.

"I'll be damned if I allowed Frank to be yer first kiss," Jamie muttered, before grazing his tongue between her lips, forever, irrevocably blurring the lines of their relationship.

Jesus H.Roosevelt Christ! She refused to close her eyes, watching in fascination as he closed his. It was a mistake when her world spun upside down, and her equilibrium went off-kilter, making Jamie's face blur into two, before fusing back together. Oh Lord ! She was quite sure his heavy breathing had left condensation in her contact lenses or perhaps it had slid to the back of her eyeballs, causing the hazy focus.

He paused for a heartbeat, waiting for her to pull away. And when she didn't, with one large hand at her waist and the other cradling the back of her head, he drew her to him, his tongue gently urging her mouth to part before brushing his across hers in an achingly slow, feather-like sweep. Jamie tasted her the way he ate when he took a bite of the first French dessert he ever made, Coeur à la Crème ; a leisurely, savouring mouthful followed by a rapturous groan.

Hot! Hot! Hot! His work-roughened fingers were creating tiny sparks of fireworks on her skin as images began to form in her head. Visions of daffodils blooming in fast forward motion, choir boys at the village church singing Hallelujah as the organ struck a high note and fire hydrants erupting aerated water in the air, were floating in her mind. This was better than the chick flicks she used to watch, where "boy kisses girl" scenes had made her sigh dreamily.

Oh, dear God, what the hell is happening! First, Frank wanted to kiss her after their coffee date earlier, and now Jamie was enlightening her in the art of French kissing.

Shut up, Beauchamp! You've always wanted this- two former popular blokes from your school want you... so what are you complaining about?

That was back in school. And Jamie is my brother!

Where does that say he's your brother?

There's an unwritten rule...

Yeah, unwritten rule my arse! It's one that you made up. Just enjoy the kiss!

Claire wanted to act sophisticated, cool and dispassionate, unlike the bumbling, awkward geek she was often referred to when she was in school. Closing her eyes for the first time, she tried to relax in Jamie's arms, but it was proving to be a difficult feat when he was making all sorts of sounds at the back of his throat. She opened her mouth more, shyly kissing him back and to her surprise, Jamie's chest heaved, and his body trembled. He must have liked that! Feeling emboldened, Claire mimicked his movements, gliding her tongue over his, as her hands clutched at his shoulders and fingers dug into his muscles. Her audacity made Jame pull her harder against him, whooshing the breath out of her lungs. Her heart was pounding like mad as blood rushed through her ears, her legs turning into the consistency of Jamie's Sherry trifle when not fully set.

With Claire's response, Jamie's kiss became more demanding, as he slid his fingers through her hair, angling her head so he could run his tongue along her jawline. "Ye want me to stop, Sassenach?" he gritted his voice sounding like as though he'd been a month without a drink.

No don't stop! Claire could only shake her head. Jamie walked her backward until her back met the wall, shifting her awareness to his taut, solid muscles and arousal. She nearly giggled as his hard, giant appendage pressed against her belly, reminding her of Jenny's wooden rolling pin. Oh, sweet Lord! Stop thinking and keep up! Stop contemplating about his size, or all the practising it took to hone that perfect kiss or what the sounds behind his throat meant.

She was kissing back and shamelessly enjoying it, but how had she gotten here and why is Jamie kissing her? She hadn't expected to be kissed today, but here we are - first Frank making a move and now Jamie. Was it written on her forehead, "wants to be kissed" ? So many questions but they were all being swallowed up by riots of sensations that was alien to her. Not that she was totally naive - definitely not! Not after being introduced to Carter, Geillis' vibrator and soft porn, once again thanks to Geillis' collection from her internet browser's bookmarks.

Claire understood quite well the mechanics of kissing and what it can lead up to, but objectivity had no place in the present when her blood felt like bubbling sugar syrup. Maybe it had something to do with how Jamie looked at her, his eyes a peculiar hue of dark and intensity, and his jaws clenched and taut as a bowstring. How many girls had he looked at the way he was looking at her? Suddenly, she felt a pang of jealousy hit her with full blow in the abdomen and hated the thought of him looking at someone else like that, now that she had been on the receiving end. For crying out loud, Beauchamp, get a grip!

"Claire are you up there?" Bloody fucking hell, speaking of rolling pins, it's Jenny! When did she come home?

Their movements stilled, their lips parted as the spell cast between them broke.

"Coming!" Claire called out without taking her eyes off Jamie. She was surprised to discover Jamie's breath was laboured and harsh as hers; moreover, she was able to find her voice after the intensity of their kiss. Well, today was undoubtedly full of surprises. Whatever next?

"It's Frank! He says you dropped your phone in the parking lot!" Jenny shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

Oh, bummer... just what I needed! "Thanks, Jenny, will be there in a sec," she replied, hoping she sounded steadier than she felt. Her nerve endings still tingled, and there was a throbbing pulsing between her thighs. Claire needed to put a name to what she was feeling, but it can wait...Frank was downstairs.

Not trusting herself to speak, she made a move towards the door, but Jamie stopped her, grabbing her elbow as he pulled her to him once more for a brief, yet lingering kiss. When he finally released her, he stroked her cheeks. "Remember this when you talk to Frank," he murmured, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

Oh, sweet Lord! Without saying a word, she staggered back, slamming her shoulders on the edge of the door frame before shuffling away.

..........

Frank was stood in the main doorway looking out, hands stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. He spun around as soon as he heard Claire approach. How rude of Jenny not to let him in!

"Hello, love, you dropped this as you got into the car," he said, waving her iPhone. "You reversed so quick, you probably didn't hear me call after you."

Claire knew well why she was trying to make a fast get-away from Frank earlier. He had wanted to kiss her, and she had retreated hastily in panic. Before she could reply, she heard Jamie coming down the stairs. Oh shite, I'm in a pickle! "Thanks for stopping by," was all she could say, trying to sound calm as she took her phone back from Frank.

"Are you alright? Your face looks a bit flush. I hope you're not coming down with something." Frank's one hand reached out to touch her forehead as a look of concern crossed his face.

"No...I'm alright. No, actually, I have this blasted headache. Maybe I just need to lie down," Claire explained, one hand reaching out to touch her head for emphasis. She wasn't fibbing this time as she felt Jamie stand behind her, one arm resting on the door above her head.

"Hey, Jamie...I just stopped by to drop Claire's phone."

"How are ye, pal, ages since I've seen ye...we ought to go for a couple of pints and catch up one of these days before the hotel opens," Jamie greeted his friend, his voice sounding absurdly normal, if not a bit too cheerful as if the kiss never happened. Looking down at the top of Claire's head, he smiled. "Claire's headache must be from the rigorous French lessons I've been giving her."

Claire choked on the air she inhaled, her face reddening over again.

"French lessons?" Frank's brow furrowed watching Claire fail miserably in suppressing a cough. He reached out to thump her on the back, but Jaime's hand got there first, massaging the area between her shoulder blades. "Well, Jamie's the man for anything French. He worked there for many years...blimey Claire, get yourself some hot toddy and go to bed..."

"No, really...I'm alright," she gasped, blinking away her watery eyes. Bloody hell Jamie! "But I think I will lie down before going out tonight..." Claire couldn't stand there any longer and have a normal conversation with Jamie and Frank. She knew her face was like an open book, and any second now, she will reveal what just ensued upstairs. What she needed was a few moments to herself to gather her thoughts.

"French lessons?" Jenny chimed in as she came out of the dining room and walked towards them with a box of empty bottles to be recycled. She placed them on the floor by the entrance, before straightening up. "Jamie, lad...I could do with some French lessons...maybe I'd join Claire during one of yer sessions."

This time it was Jamie's turn to choke, and this time it was Claire's turn to slap him on the back.

Taking it as her cue to leave and head for the safety of her bedroom, Claire gave Frank a quick peck on the cheek. "Right I'm off for a nap. See you, Saturday!" She didn't wait for a reply and hurried up the stairs. Once in her room, she locked the door, replaying Jamie's kiss over and over in her head, her date on Saturday already totally forgotten.

..........

Jamie looked at his watch...still ample of time to chop more woods before dinner in the Italian restaurant. He flipped off the split wood he was chopping on a tree stump and placed a new block. There were enough firewoods for the coming winter, but he needed to exorcise all the pent up energy that had accumulated after kissing Claire. Using a heavy sharp tool while being so epically predisposed to having a hard-on, coupled with the fast diminishing daylight, is quite a dangerous thing, and may result in an injury.

That possibility should have been enough to ease the pressure in his cock, but after that kiss, he knew there was no relief. Every time he allowed his mind to wander, it always returned to Claire. Sure, he was in love with her and always had been, but this is now a totally different ballgame. He was no longer a boy, and it was no longer enough just to hold her hand and be content to have her by his side. He wanted more, but there was Frank too. He surmised Claire was a virgin after that little detail of not having been kissed slipped out. The thought of Frank taking her innocence made his stomach churn. They might be good friends, but he'd been an utter idiot back in their school days, and Claire could never fault him.

Years of self-imposed restraint, it all came to a tipping point when he walked in on Geillis and Claire about to kiss. Two women kissing each other should have been a sensual experience to watch. Instead, it made him feel as though his skin was too tight like he was on the verge of combusting. The idea of anyone touching Claire, man or woman, especially Frank, didn't sit well with him. He didn't want anyone else to lay a finger on her. Except for him.

On the other hand, the idea seemed so preposterous as she considered him as her brother. Surely not, after that kiss? Back in their school days, no one even gave her a second look nor noticed her more exceptional qualities. It had been him who appreciated her adorable and funny side. It had been him who was there when she needed someone most. Generous to a fault, and despite disappointments in her school life, Claire always had a smile for everyone. Except, the kids in school chose to ignore her. It was a good thing there was Willie and him watching over; otherwise, she would have been bullied out of Scotland. Now that she was back for good, everyone was noticing. Oh hell yes, they are noticing alright...damn them all! He knew because he overheard people talking about her at the construction site in their hotel. She was no longer the awkward orphaned child. They mentioned her now by her name...instead of referring to her as the Fraser foster kid. Now she was the girl next door who had decided to fulfil every man's naughty fantasy, and all Claire ever did to achieve that effect was to grow up nicely. Not even Frank was immune to her charms who tend to gravitate more towards blonde women, and now he had his eyes on her too. Damn ye, Frank!

And there was the kiss. Jamie had kissed girls before, and he knew there was nothing sisterly the way Claire had responded to him. She was hesitant initially, quite reasonably as he had taken her by surprise. In fact, he had taken himself by surprise. It was never his intention to kiss, but damn, the sight of her lips parted, and eyes closed waiting for Geillis, did it for him. When Claire responded to his kisses, there was this urgency crowding him. To take as much as he could and memorised her taste. Never before had anyone kissed like her, honest and unrestrained and with so much trust. No way was he allowing Frank to get a taste of that, not if he could help it!

Jamie knew if he was to pursue the idea of being with Claire, he needed to talk to her first and then his family after. He'd watched her for far too long looked at another boy with lovestruck eyes. Although Jamie was lusting after her, all he could think of right now was how much he wanted her heart more than anything. Jamie needed to know if it's still Frank she wanted after all these years. Until he knows, he needed to keep his hands away from her or someone could get badly hurt.

#melodyheart #forgetmenot #Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser #outlanderfanfic

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yespolkadotkitty · 5 years ago

Text

The Angel’s Share, pt 7

Written with the super talented @hopelessromanticspoonie

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

It was late, so late that the night had almost folded over into morning.

Thomas sat in the drawing room - one of the only downstairs rooms of his father’s to have been kept pristine in the selling of possessions to keep the wolves from the door in the lean times - with a snifter of Crimson Peak in his hand, staring out of the window, looking without seeing.

He missed his wolfhound. Baskerville had been a good boy; friendly, loyal. Thomas remembered curling up in front of the fire, sprawled over the giant dog’s belly, his little hands curled in the dog’s thick, warm-smelling fur.

Baskerville’s death by his father’s hand had been one of the darkest days of Thomas’ young life.

He was drawn from his miserable reverie - how most of his reveries went these days - by the creak of a floorboard.

“Gid? You’d better not be out of bed,” he called from his chair. The only light in the room came from the small lamp on the corner of the desk. The hallway and the remainder of the room sat in shades of grey.

Silence, then Kate’s voice.

“I didn’t know you had a curfew for guests, Fabio.”

He felt a smile spread across his face. “Sneaking about, are we?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Brooding, are we? It works better if you frown more, maybe narrow your eyes a bit. Curse God under your breath. You know.”

“Touche.” He had to work hard not to laugh. God, she elevated his mood. “Still, you might do well to remember that Allerdale is rumoured to be haunted.”

She stepped into the doorway silently. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder. Her feet were bare, the nails painted a bright blue. She wore jogging bottoms and a t-shirt that proclaimed ‘I AM FUCKING MAGNIFICENT’. With the moon shining a halo around her from the big hallway window, catching the lines of her delicate features and the curve of her lush hips, Thomas couldn’t disagree.

“Can I tempt you?” he asked, lifting the decanter of whiskey he’d placed on his father’s wide mahogany desk.

Her eyes narrowed a second, and he prepared for more snark. But instead she yawned, and then shrugged in agreement, crossing the room to drop on to the chair opposite his. Thomas loved the wingtip chairs, old as they were. In the good times, his father used to read to him, both of them cuddled up in these big chairs, and Thomas had felt happy and loved and secure on his father’s knee. The older man had smelled faintly of pipe smoke and mint. The scents still made Thomas melancholy to this day.

He poured Kate a small measure and handed her the glass. When she took it, their fingers brushed momentarily. He felt the electric contact. The fire leaping between them. If he ever took her to bed, he knew instantly that they’d set the sheets alight.

If I ever take her to bed. No one took Katherine Adams anywhere. You didn’t prepare for a woman like Kate, you simply buckled in and enjoyed the ride.

“Thanks,” she murmured, inhaling the spirit. “And to answer your question, I couldn’t sleep. Too quiet. I’m used to ambulances roaring past at all hours. Don’t suppose you could do me a favour and round up a couple of drunks to fight outside? That’d definitely send me off.”

“City girl,” he teased, rolling his eyes.

“Country toff.”

Their gazes met and held for a second, and Thomas felt that fire crackle between them again. Fuck, he wanted her.

“If we’ve learned anything over the last few days, surely it’s that appearances can be deceptive,” he said mildly.

Kate lifted her glass in a toast. “I agree, and yet you did insist on bringing me out here to see your frankly magnificent mansion in the middle of nowhere. You could have shown me a picture? Even a little video on your phone? But no. You wanted me to be here. In the country. To see the huge house. And what is probably a garden the size of a football pitch. So, toff.”

Thomas sipped his whiskey thoughtfully. “Maybe I just wanted you, Kate. Maybe it was never about the whiskey. You ever think about that?”

She coughed in surprise, a little of the spirit going down the wrong way. As she spluttered he abandoned his own drink and shot from his chair, rubbing a hand over her back to soothe and encourage her breathing. “There, darling. That’s it. Just breathe.”

Kate glared at him as she sucked in a breath. “You can sit down now, Dr McCoy. I’m hardly dying.”

He grinned. “And a Star Trek reference. Be still my beating heart, she’s back.”

*****

The combination of the whiskey burning down her throat and his hand searing through her thin t-shirt where it came to rest between her shoulder blades had a different heat coiling low in her belly. This close, with him hovering over her with such concern, the warm glow of the lamp catching on the angles of his face, it was all too much.

She ducked her chin to cough into her elbow, shaking her head as she cleared her throat. “You’re just lucky that I can’t breathe well enough to really lay into you, Sharpe.”

His hair created a curtain around them as he leaned over her, lending more intimacy to his gaze as it fell to her parted lips. “I look forward to that day, Katherine.”

The sound of her name in his rich baritone, full of dark promises, sent a shiver down her spine that he had to have felt with his hand still on her back. She needed to create space between them, and quickly, before her curiosity got the better of her. Her hand pushed lightly on his chest, the deep burgundy jumper deliciously soft beneath her fingertips. With the space she made, she could stand up and move over to the window. She felt she could breathe again without the heady cloud of citrus and bergamot that perfumed his skin surrounding her. She caught his heavy sigh at her retreat, but ignored it.

Searching frantically for a change of subject in the dark woods, she tapped the crystal in her hand with her fingertips. Her eyes caught on the twinkling of stars through the clouds, a sight she had been hoping to see since she had agreed to the journey. “The one benefit to being out here in the middle of nowhere is the sky. I’ve never seen so many stars before…”

The floorboards creaked and felt the heat of his body against her back as he came to a stop behind her. “Have you ever been to the countryside before, Katherine?”

Maybe it was the whiskey lowering her inhibitions, or the fact that her back was to him, or the stillness of the night begging for her to break the overwhelming quiet. Maybe it was his soft, imploring tone, genuinely wanting to know the answer to the question. Whatever it was, she opened up, just a bit, her face tilted up to the cool blue moonlight.

“Mum says that my biological dad, the glorified sperm donor, has a house out in the country somewhere. Lots of land, estate older than dirt, like this place. Something only someone with old money or who profited off the backs of others can afford.” She took a sip of her drink, relishing the bracing smokey alcohol scorching her throat even as her knuckles whitened to still the shake in her hands.

“He took her there, once, before he dropped her on her arse for having the gall to get pregnant with me - as if he had no part in it. He claimed she was chasing him for his money, his status in society, that she was just American trash looking for a way to lock him down.” Her humorless laugh tasted bitter on her tongue. “He still sent her money, even after all those accusations. Sends me the money now that I’m an adult. Neither of us have taken a pound of it. But raising a child alone in London is hard, expensive. There wasn’t really money to just take a trip anywhere, even a little cabin in the countryside. Maybe somewhere farther up north, with a fireplace and feet of snow all around…”

His hand settled on her upper arm, and she didn’t pull away. It was comforting, warm and large, anchoring her to the moment so that she couldn’t slide back into the darkness of her memories. She turned to him, resting her hip against the cool window as she regarded him thoughtfully.

Standing there, watching her with the same protective concern he had earlier on the stairs, he was beautiful. His crimson jumper seemed to infuse more color into his face, even with the dark gray button down underneath that just peeked out the top of the jumper’s neckline. Even when relaxing in his own home, he was well-dressed, a product of his privileged childhood through and through.

She felt like a gremlin in comparison with her hair mussed and bare feet peeking out from her pajama bottoms. She was common, nothing like him, and she never would be. She knew better than to let him get this close. The last time she had fallen for such a well-mannered, handsome package with expensive clothing, her heart had been torn to ribbons.

Some days, she felt like she still hadn’t collected all the pieces.

She couldn’t let that happen again, no matter how much she longed to know if Thomas’ lips would taste like the bittersweet whiskey on his breath as he gazed down at her. Her heart hammered in her eardrums when he shifted closer to her, his chest brushing against hers. The same look of desire that she had seen earlier before dinner flashed in his eyes. Sooty lashes touched his cheeks as his head tilted towards her. “Kate…”

Oh no. No no no. Panic raised its ugly head as her heart fluttered in her chest, desire warring with fear. Not fear of Thomas, but fear of heartbreak. Fear that loving the wrong man one more time would destroy her, throw her into a hole she’d never truly climb out from.

She pressed her back against the window, placing her free hand on his stomach to still his approach. It took every bit of willpower she had not to stroke the muscles there that clenched beneath her touch. “I… I should go back to bed. You promised me a tour of the grounds tomorrow, and I’ll need my rest to keep up with those long legs of yours, GQ.”

Ignoring the look of disappointment that pulled the curve of his lips downward, she retreated back to her designated room, still gripping onto her drink for dear life.

That was too close.

*****

The next morning, Kate was only mildly disoriented when she woke up to the sound of, well, nothing, besides her alarm blaring loudly in her ear. Pushing the frizzy mane of her hair out of her face, she stumbled out of bed, the previous night heavy on her mind as she went about her morning routine.

She had let him get too familiar, giving him an insight into her past when he hadn’t asked for it. It was foolish of her. His earnest demeanor and charming ease had pulled her in, hook, line, and sinker. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Tugging on her scuffed boots after she had finished dressing - today in a thin sweatshirt that read THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE and some denim cut offs - she left her room, braiding her hair over her shoulder as she trotted downstairs to find Thomas and get the day started. Maybe she could hurry him along and she wouldn’t have to stay another night. If she was lucky, she’d be on her little sofa by six pm, Netflix on and a fish and chip dinner on her lap.

“Sir Thomas Sharpe? Where you hiding? Let’s get going, Fabio!” she called down the hallway.

Gideon poked his dark head out from the dining room. “Missus Kate! Hello!”

Charmed, Kate stopped and smiled at him. “Hi there.”

“Looking for Uncle Thomas?”

“I sure am.”

Gideon offered his hand. “I’ll take you. He’s in the stables. Do you want breakfast first? Or coffee? Adults always seem to want coffee but it’s disgusting,” he added, scowling.

Kate had to laugh. She loved kids. They had no filter and hardly ever lied, at Gideon’s age anyway. “I would love some coffee. But I’ll make it, shall I?”

“Already done,” a voice from the kitchen called. Kate recognised Lucille’s dulcet tones and steeled herself for the perfectly presented Englishwoman. She’d already prepared herself to feel like a troll around Thomas’ regal sister.

Lucille didn’t disappoint today, her hair coiffed in a neat bun, dressed in darkwash, immaculate jeans and a sleek navy gillet. “Good morning.” She handed Kate a mug. “Black?”

“Perfect.” Kate sipped the inky black brew gratefully as Gideon tugged her hand.

“Come on! You’re missing the morning! Let’s go see the horses already!”

“Gideon,” Lucille cautioned, but Kate smiled and shrugged her shoulders dismissively.

“It’s really fine. I should be on a train back later anyway, so it’s good to get a jump on the day. I guess I’ll see you later.”

Lucille only smiled politely and went back to making breakfast - looked like some sort of bircher muesli concoction or something equally healthy and pretentious. Kate herself preferred pig in a bun of a weekend morning. She’d try and choke down some muesli later, maybe after another coffee. For now, she let Gideon lead her out of the house and down to where Thomas would be.

Permanent taglist: @arch-venus25 @amarisyousei @just-the-hiddles @brokenthelovely @wiczer @myoxisbroken @vodka-and-some-sass @nonsensicalobsessions

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